Baja Florida (8 page)

Charlie brought the plane in low and made a quick loop around Walker's Cay before putting down.

Over the centuries, all kinds of characters have dropped anchor at Walker's Cay. Ponce de Leon visited the island during his search for the Fountain of Youth. Confederate blockade runners sought haven in the Civil War. And a long pro cession of treasure salvors have scoured the nearby shoals for sunken ships and hoards of gold.

A fellow by the name of Bob Abplanalp bought the entire seventy-acre island back in the 1960s after he made the first of many, many millions from his most famous invention—the aerosol nozzle, the little thing that goes “sssssssst” on top of a spray can. Abplanalp was drawn here mainly for the fishing. More than a dozen world record catches have come from waters within just a few minutes of Walker's Cay.

Abplanalp spruced up the place, built the Walker's Cay Hotel & Marina, and turned it into a favorite haunt not only for sportfishermen but those who wanted to kick back and enjoy themselves well removed from the public eye. One of Abplanalp's pals, Richard Nixon, made several trips to Walker's during his presidency.

After Bob Abplanalp died, his family continued to run their little fiefdom as it had always been run, a gracious, low-key hideout for those who could afford it. Then came 2004 and the double whammy of hurricanes Frances and Jeanne. Walker's Cay never recovered. The island was up for sale. Reported asking price—$20 million.

In pre-Barbara days, I tallied my share of good times at Walker's Cay. I'd caught bonefish in the flats, lost marlin in the deep water, and bunked down with more than one temporary sweetheart in a cottage overlooking the green-and-turquoise waters.

Broke my heart to see the place now.

Docks where sleek boats once lined up gunwale to gunwale during big money fishing tournaments had long since surrendered to the sea. Weeds and creeping vines had taken over paths that once wound through well-manicured grounds. A big portion of the roof on the resort's main house had collapsed. And none of the cottages were without broken windows or crumbling porches.

But the runway was clear, the asphalt in fairly good repair. And the blue, yellow, and black Bahamian flag fluttered above the glorified shack that passed for the customs house.

Charlie apologized for the slightly bumpy landing.

“Still getting used to the way this baby handles,” he said.

Our greeting party consisted of a half-dozen or so land crabs. The black variety, not the white. They observed us defiantly from the edge of the runway, their crimson claws raised, ready to repel any attack.

Land crabs are a delicacy in the Bahamas. Andros Island, to the south, has vast crab colonies in its piney wood interior, and Androsian bush cowboys round them up by the thousands each May for the annual Crab Fest. I attended it one year with Barbara, who was a judge in the culinary competition. Crab 'n' rice. Stuffed crab backs. Crab dumplings. Spicy crab soup with whole scotch bonnets floating in the bowl.

The crabs must have noticed the gustatory gleam in my eyes. They skittered into the high grass as we walked from the plane.

A short, stocky fiftyish man appeared in the doorway of the customs office. He had the fair features and sun-blotched skin common among many white Bahamians. They trace their lineage to British Loyalists who fled the colonies during the American Revolution.

The man was smoothing back his reddish hair and tucking the tail of his white shirt into his black pants, doing his best to look official. He put on a pair of glasses and peered out at us.

“Catch you napping, Mr. Bethel?” Charlie said.

“You supposed to radio, say you coming in.”

“Tried that. Didn't get an answer.”

“Shoulda kept trying,” Mr. Bethel said.

He turned away from the door. By the time we stepped inside he was sitting behind a gray metal desk. A boxy old computer occupied one end of the desk. Next to it a worn, black ledger book. And next to it, an assortment of rubber stamps and ink pads.

On the wall behind him was a framed photograph of the prime minister of the Bahamas, a nautical chart of the Abacos, and a framed print of Queen Elizabeth that might have been hanging there since shortly after her coronation. Poor gal looked old even back then.

“How's your family, Mr. Bethel?” Charlie asked. “They doing alright?”

“They doing.”

A real bundle of good cheer and hospitality, Mr. Bethel.

He stuck out a hand. Charlie gave him our passports and papers. For the next several minutes no one said anything as Mr. Bethel dutifully eyed everything there was to eye and then eyed it again. Occasionally, he would reach for a rubber stamp, ink it up, and give one of the documents an authoritative pounding.

On the immigration papers, the line where it asks the purpose of your visit, Boggy and I had each checked the box for business rather than vacation. Mr. Bethel looked at me over the top of his glasses.

“You Mr. Chasteen?”

I nodded.

He looked at Boggy's passport, then at Boggy.

“And you're Mr. Boggatonna…”

He gave up.

“Baugtanaxata,” Boggy said.

Mr. Bethel studied both of us some more. He looked at our papers again.

“What is the nature of your business in the Bahamas?”

I said, “We're looking for someone.”

Mr. Bethel absorbed the information. It seemed to sour his stomach.

“That's your business? Looking for someone?”

“On this trip it is,” I said.

“And this someone you're looking for, you think they're here on Walker's?”

“No, but I'm thinking maybe they passed through here. Thought you might help me.”

“Help you how?”

“Find out if the person we are looking for cleared customs here.” I nodded at the computer. “Might be in your records somewhere.”

“What's this person's name?”

“Jennifer Ryser. R-y-s-e-r. She'd be in her early twenties. Would have arrived within the last month or so on a boat called the
Chasin' Molly
. Nice boat, a fifty-four-footer.”

If it registered with Mr. Bethel, he didn't show it.

“The immigration registry is a restricted government document and not open to public inspection,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I know and respect that,” I said. “I was just hoping you might see fit to make an exception in this case.”

“And why would I do that?”

“This girl we're looking for, her father is dying. It's urgent that we find her and take her to him.”

“You need to go through Nassau,” he said.

“Tried that,” I said.

Mr. Bethel studied my face for a long moment. Then he went back to examining our papers. He stamped our passports and handed them to us.

He looked at his watch.

He said, “About this time each day I step outside, walk down to where the docks used to be, and have a smoke.”

He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights.

He said, “Sometimes I have a couple of smokes. Depends. But I'm never gone more than half an hour.”

He stood up from the desk.

I reached for my wallet. I plucked out a hundred-dollar bill and slipped it under one of the ink pads.

Mr. Bethel looked at it. Just the slightest hint of regret in his eyes.

“You can put that back in your wallet,” he said.

I gave him a look: You sure?

He said, “I didn't know that's why he was looking for that young woman.”

“He?”

“Man came through here day before yesterday,” Mr. Bethel said. He glanced at the hundred again. “Wasn't quite so generous.”

“This man, he was looking for the same person?”

Mr. Bethel nodded.

“Only, he didn't know the name of the boat she was on.”

“You remember his name?”

“Don't recall.”

“His name somewhere in your records?”

Mr. Bethel shook his head.

“No, he cleared customs at the airport in Marsh Harbour. Came up here by boat.”

“What did he look like?”

“Big, tough-looking. Said he was some kind of cop.”

“He say he was a cop? Or did he say he was a detective?”

“What's the difference? He looked like what ever he said he was.”

Mr. Bethel shook loose a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and headed for the door. He turned around just before he reached it.

“That computer, the government sent it up here almost seven years ago now. I haven't ever turned it on, not once,” he said. “Like doing things the old way.”

He glanced at the black ledger book. Then he stepped out the door.

It didn't take me long to find what I was looking for. Only a few entries had been made in the ledger book since Jen Ryser's arrival.

I went down the list of names of those aboard the
Chasin' Molly
. Charlie looked over my shoulder. Boggy wasn't interested. He left the office to wander around outside.

“According to this they arrived eight days ago.”

“Six of them on board,” Charlie said.

Jen's name was at the top, listed as captain/owner. It showed her date of birth—she was twenty-two—and listed her passport number.

I found a pencil and paper in one of the desk drawers and wrote down names and pertinent information for the five other people on board: Justin Hatchitt, 28; Torrey Kealing, 25; Karen Breakell, 23; Will Moody, 22; and Pete Crumrine, 22.

Below the list of names, Mr. Bethel had duly noted that Jen Ryser paid $300 in cash for a cruising permit good for three months, including departure tax.

And below that was the notation: “Benelli: M4-L38777634 and M4-L38777704 (4 boxes/24 per).”

I said, “Who's Benelli?”

“Not a who, it's a what,” Charlie said. “Shotgun. Italian made. Kind of a chi-chi designer gun. Run about two thousand dollars each and up.”

I looked at Charlie.

“How do you know these things?”

He shrugged.

“Some things need knowing,” he said.

“So they have one of these Benellis on board?”

“Two of them, actually.”

“And that's legal?”

Charlie nodded.

“It's OK to bring guns into the Bahamas on a boat, but you have to declare them, give the serial number, and show exactly how much ammunition you have on board. You also have to keep any weapons under lock and key at all times. If authorities board the vessel somewhere down the line, they can ask you to produce the ammunition. And if it's not all there, then you better have a good explanation.”

I looked at him.

“You got a gun on the plane?”

“Zack-o, please. If I had a gun, I would have declared it, wouldn't I?”

I waited.

“Like I told you, some things need knowing,” he said. “And some don't.”

I don't like guns. I don't carry any guns on my boats. But I could understand why some people did, especially young women setting out on long cruises.

I scanned other pages in the ledger, but there was nothing that jumped out or looked as if it would be helpful in leading me to Jen Ryser.

I put the ledger back where it had been sitting on Mr. Bethel's desk. We stepped outside.

Charlie looked down the runway, toward a sprinkling of small islands across a channel to the east.

“I'm thinking we ought to hop over to Miner Cay,” Charlie said.

“See if Cutie knows anything?”

Charlie nodded.

“Cutie knows all,” he said.

I looked around but Mr. Bethel was nowhere to be seen. I didn't think it would hurt his feelings if we didn't give him a formal good-bye.

Heading for the plane, we spotted Boggy in a ditch that ran the length of the runway. It looked as if the ditch had been backhoed fairly recently, probably to help drain the runway.

The walls of the ditch exposed layers of crumbly shell and soft limestone. The bottom of the ditch was mud soup. Boggy knelt in the mud, his knife in one hand. It's more dagger than knife really, a short, well-honed piece of steel with a bone handle. Boggy used the knife like a pick, chopping away at the ditch walls. Then he would pluck out pieces of this and that, examine them, toss some pieces away, and put others in one of the leather pouches he always carried with him.

“Yo, Louis B. Leakey,” I said. “Time to go.”

Boggy finished extracting something from the ditch wall—looked like a dark rock of some kind—and stuck it in the pouch.

He climbed out of the ditch. His shoes and pants were covered in mud. There were splotches of mud on his shirt and splotches of mud on his face and in his hair. The overall effect was Neanderthalic.

Charlie said, “Afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to clean that crap off before you climb into that new plane of mine.”

Boggy looked himself over, as if he was only in that moment realizing exactly what a mess he was.

He kicked off his shoes, dropped his pants, took off his shirt. All he had on was a cowskin knife holster that hung between his shoulder blades from a piece of rawhide worn around his neck. He put his knife in the holster and walked bare-assed through a break in the mangroves, squatting by the water to scrub his clothes.

We stood there watching him.

Charlie said, “Think you'll ever figure him out?”

“Stopped trying years ago,” I said.

“Chasin' Molly
? Oh yah, mon. I remember her for sure.”

We were sitting in Cutie's Place, talking to Cutie.

While the double hurricanes had spelled the end for Walker's Cay, at least for the time being, they had created a windfall, so to speak, for Quentin Taylor “Cutie” Pattison.

Legions of hard-core anglers, scuba divers, and sailors still made regular treks to the tiny islands of the northern Abacos. They needed a place to eat, drink, bunk down, or tie up their boats. With the marina and resort closed on Walker's, that left Cutie's as the only option.

We had flown low over the channel separating Walker's from Miner Cay and set down in the water just beyond Cutie's brand-new docks. Seven minutes from takeoff to landing.

Most of the slips at Cutie's were filled—sportfishing boats primarily, with a few trawlers and sailboats mixed in. A cluster of new rental cottages sat just back from the dock. And the bar/restaurant had a new addition.

It had been a few years since I'd seen Cutie, and he'd become a walking billboard for his prosperity. He carried an extra fifty pounds on an already considerable frame, along with plenty of bling—a gold pendant, flashy wristwatch, and a couple of sparkly rings, one with a big “Q” in diamonds.

As Miner Cay's most prominent citizen, Cutie was the de facto mayor/godfather of the island and its three hundred or so residents. Nothing happened on Miner Cay without Cutie knowing about it.

“Hard to forget that boat,” Cutie was telling us. “Women having at it like that. Never seen such a catfight.”

“A fight?” I said. “Between who?”

“Between all three of the women on that boat, mon. Going at each other's throats. Couldn't tell who was scratching at who. All three of them with blond hair, long and leggity.”

“Leggity?”

“Tall, good-looking women. Couldn't tell 'em apart, hardly. 'Specially when they was all in a ball fighting like that.”

We had ordered food. One of Cutie's daughters brought us plates of fried snapper, peas 'n' rice, and some mixed vegetables that had come from a can. Fresh provisions can be scarce on Miner Cay.

I said, “They were fighting on the boat?”

“Started on the boat. Heard 'em yelling and screaming all the way up here. Then it continued onto the dock, getting louder and louder, them cussing each other. Then they came in here to the restaurant, sat down at this very table, and before they even had a chance to order they were going to it. One of them went after another one and then they were all three into it. Knocked the table right over,” Cutie said. “The men, there was three of them as I remember, they got 'em split up and quieted down. But it was something to watch, I tell you.”

I said, “You ever figure out why they were fighting?”

Cutie shook his head.

“No, and I knew better than to stick my nose in it and ask,” he said. “But I've seen it happen before. People on a crossing like that, spend a few days at sea and they find out they just don't get along. Something's gonna pop.”

“How long were they here?”

“One night was all. They wanted to stay longer but I asked them to move along,” Cutie said. “One of 'em though, she didn't want any more of it. She got her things off the boat, rented one of my cottages. When that boat sailed off in the morning, she wasn't on it.”

“Which one was that?”

Cutie shook his head.

“Don't recall her name. Like I said, they was all the same to me. But I could call over to the office, look it up. I ran her credit card.”

“Yeah, if you don't mind…”

Cutie pulled out his cell phone and made a call. He spoke to someone on the other end and told them what he wanted.

While we were waiting, Cutie's daughter brought us banana pudding. Charlie said he didn't want his, so I took half of it and Boggy took the rest. It was good banana pudding. The pudding might have come from a box but that didn't really matter. Whoever made it had let the bananas get nice and ripe first and that made all the difference. Make banana pudding before the bananas start going brown and mushy and you might as well not even make it.

There were a few other people in Cutie's Place. A table full of guys wearing Tarponwear in various hues, fishermen over from Florida. A table of men and women, all of them wearing identical white polo shirts that bore an image of the big trawler they were traveling on and the words “Seventh Annual Bahamas Spring Fling.” A few locals were taking turns at the pool table that sat at the far end of the room.

Everyone was drinking Kaliks or gin 'n' tonics or something cool and soothing. Something cool and soothing sounded nice. But if I started drinking now, then I wouldn't want to do anything else and there was lots that needed doing.

Cutie said something into the phone, then clicked it off and put it away.

“Woman's name was Karen Breakell,” Cutie said. “Stayed here four nights.”

“Musta liked it here,” I said.

“Wasn't so much like it as she didn't have a choice. No regular air service out of here and she didn't want to charter a boat or a plane. She was waiting on the mail boat, comes around every week. Planned to take it to Nassau, then go from there to wherever,” Cutie said. “But she wound up getting herself another ride.”

“Another ride?”

“Yeah, another big sailboat coming from up north somewhere to charter out of Marsh Harbour. Crew was transporting it down, a big trimaran,” Cutie said. “But one of them, the cook, pulled up bad sick and they had to medevac him over to Miami. So this Karen woman, she told them she could cook, and she signed on with them.”

“You remember the name of that boat?”

Cutie thought about it.

“Yeah,” he said. “It's called the
Trifecta.
”