Everglades (17 page)

The busiest of tourist times in Florida is a week or two before Easter. Even so, the lodge wasn’t crowded. At the most expensive clubs, hefty yearly dues ensure lots of personal room, lots of personal attention.

Members and their guests were getting it here. There was a steady luncheon business out on the veranda, a couple more tables occupied inside, but there was only one person at the bar when we sat. A distinguished-looking man with white hair, pleated shirt and slacks. He was peering reflectively into a heavy Scotch glass, but turned long enough to allow us a pleasant nod.

We ordered drinks and lunch; talked among ourselves for a while before DeAntoni attempted to coax conversation out of the bartender. Talked about sports, asked him about the fishing, how was business, how were tips, before he finally mentioned Minster.

The question seemed to surprise the bartender, though he recovered quickly. Bartenders become expert at masking emotion or they don’t last long in what is a tough, tough business. He was as muscular as the guard in the pith helmet, but older: clean-cut, tan face beaming as he towel-dried glasses in his white shirt and black vest, with a name tag that read: KURT—LINCOLN, MASS.

But there was something aloof in Kurt’s dark eyes, as if he were an actor too good for the role he’d been assigned, and knew it. He and the guard possessed a similar, polite facade that implied a well-hidden contempt.

We listened to the bartender tell us how interesting Minster was, what a loss it was to the club, before DeAntoni said, “The three of us are all friends of his wife, Sally. You ever meet her?”

“No, sir. I don’t think I had the pleasure. You’re guests of Mrs. Minster?”

“That’s right. We’re friends of Geoff, too. We
were
his friends. Crummy luck, huh? Falling off the ass-end of a boat. Geoff was one smart operator. He was the guy behind developing this place, which you probably know. Right here where you’re working. Sawgrass. Him and some weird religious guru, but Geoff was the real brains—”

For just an instant, the mask slipped a little as the bartender interrupted with exaggerated civility. “Excuse me, sir. Bhagwan Shiva is not some
weird
religious guru. He’s a gifted and enlightened individual. A very great man. Shiva comes here often, and we’re honored that Shiva has chosen Sawgrass as his personal ashram. In fact, he’ll be here this afternoon.”

DeAntoni said, “Ashram,” in a blank tone that said he didn’t know what Kurt was talking about.

“An ashram is a place for spiritual retreat. Like a church, only more than that. At Sawgrass, we have an indoor ashram for meditation, religious instruction. We also have a much larger outdoor ashram, which is at the end of the nature trail. Cypress Ashram. It’s an amphitheater beneath a really pretty cypress dome. It’s beautiful; seats nearly a thousand. Some people say they find grace and tranquillity if they just sit there alone for a few minutes. I suggest you visit it.”

It was a subtle cut that DeAntoni missed. He replied, “Yeah, Geoff was into that stuff, too, meditation, religion—” but the bartender had already turned away, ending the conversation, walking off, telling us that he’d go check with the kitchen because our food should be up soon.

When Kurt was gone, the white-haired man cleared his throat, a mild smile on his face, looking at us with eyes that were bleary, seemed a little sad. “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you gentlemen were friends of Geoff. I knew him well. A wonderful guy.” The man had the genial southern accent that I associate with moneyed people from Charleston society or, perhaps, old Atlanta.

DeAntoni said too quickly, “Oh yeah, the best. Geoff was a real peach.”

“Quite a raconteur,” the man said. “Told the funniest stories.”

“Hilarious,” DeAntoni said. “Made your sides ache when he really got going.”

My antennae were up. A lot of little warning bells were going off. I sensed we were being manipulated, even tested, as the white-haired man continued, “So you really did
know
our old colleague. I’m surprised I didn’t see y’all at the memorial service.”

Tomlinson, typically, had already perceived what I was just beginning to suspect, because he spoke before DeAntoni or I could reply, saying, “My brothers, I think we have badly misjudged our drinking neighbor. Sir”—he turned on his stool to face the older man—“we deceived the bartender. Flat-out lied on purpose. He’s a young spirit, an inexperienced soul. But not you. So the truth is, we didn’t know Mr. Minster. I met him once—and he wasn’t impressed. But we
are
friends of his wife, Sally. Mind if I ask how you knew we were lying?”

The man was swirling the whiskey in his glass, staring into it. I realized that he was already well on his way to being drunk, only an hour past noon.

He said, “The way I know is, I’ve spent my life starting companies, overseeing corporations, sniffing every kind of man you can imagine. It takes balls the size of pit bulls to be successful in American business—especially these days. So an ol’ boy also has to have a finely developed, built-in bullshit detector.”

His mild smile broadened as he added, “And you, gentlemen, set off my bullshit detector the moment you walked through the door. The moment your large friend opened his New York mouth”—he used his chin to indicate DeAntoni—“I knew he was full of manure. Besides that, Geoff Minster never told a funny story in his life. I don’t think the man knew how to laugh. Although, he was maybe trying to
learn
toward the end.”

I expected DeAntoni to bristle. Instead, he stood and held out his hand. He waited as the older man thought for a moment, then finally shook it. “You got good judgment, Mac. The kind of guy who says what’s on his mind, which I respect. Truth is, I’m a private investigator trying to help Mrs. Minster. She doesn’t think her husband’s dead. Neither do I. Which is why I’m down here askin’ questions.”

The white-haired man considered that through two delicate sips of his drink. His expression read:
Interesting.
Finally, he stood, pausing another moment to be certain of his balance. Then he said, “I’m going to find a corner table—away from that little Nazi of a Yankee bartender. Interested in joining me?”

When DeAntoni said yes, the man told him, “Excellent. ’Far as I’m concerned, the only bad thing about drinking alone is that a fine Scotch never gets the time it deserves to breathe.”

“Conversation,” Tomlinson replied agreeably, “can be the secret to getting a whiskey binge off to a good start.”

“‘Conversation’?” the man said. “Son, I don’t waste my time with conversation. No businessman worth a damn talks for pleasure. If I open my mouth, it’s either to take a drink or to negotiate. Sometimes, it’s to barter. Which is what we’re doing now. I’m drinking thirty-four-year-old Blackadder Single Malt. Staff has it flown in special from Ben Nevis at a price that’s obscene. If I’m talking, you’re buying. That’s the agreement. So I hope you brought a walletful of cash.”

 

 

The white-haired man, who introduced himself as Carter McRae, said to us, “Before we sit down and get real comfy-like, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. Does Miz Sally want to find out if Geoff’s dead ’cause she misses him? Or is it ’cause she’s worried about losing the insurance money?”

I answered. “Neither. She wants to give most of the money to her church. Ethically, she can’t do that if her husband’s still alive.”

The older man nodded, apparently pleased. “That there’s the only answer I’d have believed. Okay, so now I’d appreciate it if you’d haul out one of those cell phones ev’body carries these days and dial up the lady. Sally knows me. Not well, but she knows who I am. If you’re such old and good friends, you won’t have to bother lookin’ up her number now, will you?”

We were dealing with one tough, shrewd old guy.

DeAntoni had a phone and the number. After he’d dialed, McRae held his hand out, put the phone to his ear, pushed open the double doors, and walked out onto the veranda. I watched him through the glass. As he spoke into the phone, he maintained the same mild smile, but his sad eyes brightened slightly. Beyond and below him were cypress trees knee-deep in water; Spanish moss draped over limbs like blue mist.

“Something’s wrong with him,” Tomlinson said softly, looking through the window. “Something happened to hurt him recently.”

DeAntoni said, “What makes you think that? The guy’s ballsy. He likes his whiskey, but there’s nothing in the world wrong with a man liking his whiskey.”

“It’s pure pain. I can see it.” Tomlinson started to add something, but stopped because McRae was coming back into the room. As he handed DeAntoni the phone, the older man looked at me, saying, “You’re Ford. Sally says you two’ve been friends since you were kids. Talks about you like you ought to be wearin’ shining armor and a halo”—his eyes narrowed slightly as he finished—“but I’d bet a good pointer dog she’s wrong about that. The halo part. Which is just fine by me. I don’t like saints. Righteousness—that’s for people who don’t have the spine to live like men.”

I told him, “Your dog would be perfectly safe. I’ve known Sally a long time. She’s a good one. A nice person.”

“I couldn’t agree more, son. Which is why you gave the only answer that was gonna keep me sitting here, drinking your whiskey. I met the lady six, seven times and, each time, I liked her better. Gwendie—my wife—she felt the same. Which is why I’ll be happy to talk a spell. You’ve met those couples who just never seemed to fit? Where you think the wife’s got way too much spunk and class and pure built-in funny for the husband? Or just the opposite: The wife’s a dud, and the husband’s got all the star quality?”

“Sure. Too often.”

“Damn right, son, way too often. They got an unhappiness about them that seeps across a room. My point being that I could never picture Sally with Geoff. We ran in the same circles, belonged to the same clubs. To me, what they seemed to be was two strangers who always arrived in the same car. Not like those good couples you meet every now and again. A man and woman who can be at opposite ends of a big party, but’re still right there together. Partners joined at the heart.”

Tomlinson said gently, “Like you and Gwendie.” McRae seemed to look deeper into his Scotch glass before downing it in a gulp. He was about to reply when the bartender reappeared, carrying our food. Kurt was visibly surprised to see the four of us at the same table. When he asked, “Is everything okay here, Mr. McRae?” he was really asking if the older man wanted him to get rid of us.

“Fine, Kurt, just fine. Turns out, these gentlemen and I have some old mutual friends. Hell of a coincidence, runnin’ into ’em here.”

As he walked away, McRae said in a low voice, “One of the choirboys. That’s what I call ’em. The Church of Ashram staffs this place with their own people—which is why he got so pissed off when you made that remark about Jerry.”

DeAntoni said, “Jerry?”

“Jerry Singh, the head guru. Shiva, the big shot who calls himself Bhagwan. The
weirdo
you were talking about. Only here, we call him by his real name ’cause he found out damn quick that men with enough money to afford membership aren’t going to tolerate all his religious nonsense. So he pretends to be just one of the boys. Actually seems to enjoy it.”

I asked, “Then why do you tolerate his people as staff?”

McRae said, “Why? Because they’re superb, that’s why. Because they’re the best I’ve ever seen at what they do. Remember that recluse a few years back, one of the world’s richest men? He only hired members from this one particularly strict religion. They did everything for him, cooking, all the secretarial stuff, even took charge of his gambling interests out there in Nevada.

“It didn’t make sense to me at the time ’til I spent a few weeks at Sawgrass. Same principle applies here. Jerry’s people—the choirboys, his choirgirls—really believe in what he says. They don’t drink or smoke, and they sure as hell aren’t going to steal. They’re not employees; they’re
disciples.
To them, he’s a kind’a God, so they treat us the same way, ’cause that’s what he’s commanded. Which means they follow orders, no questions asked. You ever see Jerry on stage? Attend one of his services?”

Tomlinson said, “I’ve read about them.”

McRae said, “You won’t see a better show in Vegas. Who’s the famous magician, the one with the long hair? Lots of smoke and dramatic lighting? Jerry’s shows are just as good or better. The man’s a hell of an actor. He’s got a great sense of dramatic timing. He’s fun to watch, and I think that’s one reason his followers do exactly whatever he tells them to do.”

McRae added, “They work their asses off. They’re always on time, always polite. They keep the grounds just like they keep the kitchen—immaculate. Cleanliness is one of the Ashram’s tenets. So’re obedience and hard work. They’re as efficient as little robots. See Kurt? He’s bringing me another Blackadder right now. The glass’ll be spotless, and it’ll be filled with a good, full pour. Never had to say a word. I never do.”

McRae paused as the bartender served. Waited patiently until he was gone, then continued, “You can ask ’em to do anything you want—literally almost
anything
—they’ll do it. If I tell Kurt, call security and have you gentlemen escorted out, they’d do it so quick and smooth, people slurping soup out on the veranda would never know there was trouble. I wouldn’t have to tell them why, give them a reason, say another damn word. Once they got you off alone, from what I’ve heard, you three’d never
risk
coming back again, either.”

He paused, thinking about it, holding his Scotch to the light, seeming to take pleasure in its amber flush. He said, “People like me, men who fought hard to make their fortunes in the world, we
like
that. Unquestioned obedience. Hell, we demand it, but it’s getting harder ’n’ harder to find with all the damn do-gooders out there, and bullshit laws.” McRae leaned toward me, focusing on me with his sad, old eyes, “There’s only one thing you can’t expect of staff here.”