coincidence." The question had thrown her. He'd been way back on the fringe of the conversation, then suddenly he was at the heart of it. "The key to what? You mean they could have been faulty boats and sunk?"
He said, "But you're just doing the interviews. Someone else is doing the investigation."
"Well. .. yes and no . . . but back to the three boats—"
"What did Gatrell tell you?"
"He didn't say anything about the boats."
"About anything else, I mean."
"I know, but—"
"Did you go down there, talk to him in person?"
"No. I talked to him on the phone, a preinterview, trying to set up an appointment. He didn't tell me much."
Ford said, "I never found a way to make Tuck shut up." Already, he was dropping back from the topic. In and out, Walker thought, like a mongoose.
Walker said, "Oh, he talked. But not about what I wanted. He just rambled. He's . . . kind of charming in an odd sort of way. He talked about himself, the way old people like to do. Perhaps exaggerating a little—not that I minded."
Ford said, "Only a little?"
"He told me he had invented some kind of fishing—stone crabbing?"
Ford said, "That's true. Back in the fifties, he and his partner— an Indian named Joseph Egret—experimented until they found an effective trap. They supplied a Miami restaurant called Stone Crab Joe's."
"He told me that he had discovered shrimp fishing, too."
"At night, that's what he meant. He was one of the first to figure out that shrimp came out of their burrows at night. Shrimpers have fished at night ever since. He wasn't lying there."
Agent Walker was beginning to sense a small rapport growing, built around questions about Tucker Gatrell. She said, "He told me he'd poached those pretty birds, egrets, and alligators. That one night he'd shot and skinned more than three hundred—"
"Only Tuck would brag about that."
"And that he was part of the reason so many Cubans had migrated to Miami. He'd supplied Castro with guns."
Ford said, "He ran guns."
"And rum."
"From Cuba and Nassau. All true. During Prohibition back when he was in his teens."
"And that he'd worked for the man who built the road across the Everglades, but it was a failure because the equipment kept sinking in the mud, and it was his idea to use a—what did he call it?"
"I don't know what he called it, but it was a floating dredge. A dredge on a barge that dug its own canal and floated along behind. The fill created the roadbed. Tuck was a boy, a water boy for a man named Barron Collier, and supposedly he said—"
Walker said, "Yeah, it was something funny—"
"Tuck says a lot of funny things."
The woman finished the story for him. "He said, 'Jesus Christ, Barron, man only makes two things that float, shit and boats. And you can hire yourself another boy if you think I'm walking through shit clear to Miami.' "
Ford said nothing, listening to her. The woman had a nice low laugh; let a little bit of the girl show through, but Ford could see what she was doing, trying to build a working intimacy. Pretty good at it, too.
Behind them, on the slick water, was a roiled trail, like a brown comet's tail, showing the path of the nets. He shut down the engine, cranked the outriggers up, swung the nets over the culling table, and spilled the contents. A whole world of sea life gushed out: filefish, pinfish, sea horses, parrot fish, tunicates, grasses, comb jellies, spider crabs, blue crabs, a calico crab, a couple of horseshoe crabs, and flopping rays. For a moment, sorting the specimens, he forgot that the woman was there, but then she said,
"He told me this other story, too, about how Disney World got started up there in Orlando."
"Tuck's not shy about taking credit—"
"But it wasn't Walt Disney, or anybody like that, it was this other man—"
Ford said, "Dick Pope. That's Tuck's Dick Pope story, about how he was the one who got theme parks started in Florida. Tuck used to take Mr. Pope fishing, the guy who started Cypress Gardens—it was
He said, "But you're just doing the interviews. Someone else is doing the investigation."
"Well. .. yes and no . . . but back to the three boats—"
"What did Gatrell tell you?"
"He didn't say anything about the boats."
"About anything else, I mean."
"I know, but—"
"Did you go down there, talk to him in person?"
"No. I talked to him on the phone, a preinterview, trying to set up an appointment. He didn't tell me much."
Ford said, "I never found a way to make Tuck shut up." Already, he was dropping back from the topic. In and out, Walker thought, like a mongoose.
Walker said, "Oh, he talked. But not about what I wanted. He just rambled. He's . . . kind of charming in an odd sort of way. He talked about himself, the way old people like to do. Perhaps exaggerating a little—not that I minded."
Ford said, "Only a little?"
"He told me he had invented some kind of fishing—stone crabbing?"
Ford said, "That's true. Back in the fifties, he and his partner— an Indian named Joseph Egret—experimented until they found an effective trap. They supplied a Miami restaurant called Stone Crab Joe's."
"He told me that he had discovered shrimp fishing, too."
"At night, that's what he meant. He was one of the first to figure out that shrimp came out of their burrows at night. Shrimpers have fished at night ever since. He wasn't lying there."
Agent Walker was beginning to sense a small rapport growing, built around questions about Tucker Gatrell. She said, "He told me he'd poached those pretty birds, egrets, and alligators. That one night he'd shot and skinned more than three hundred—"
"Only Tuck would brag about that."
"And that he was part of the reason so many Cubans had migrated to Miami. He'd supplied Castro with guns."
Ford said, "He ran guns."
"And rum."
"From Cuba and Nassau. All true. During Prohibition back when he was in his teens."
"And that he'd worked for the man who built the road across the Everglades, but it was a failure because the equipment kept sinking in the mud, and it was his idea to use a—what did he call it?"
"I don't know what he called it, but it was a floating dredge. A dredge on a barge that dug its own canal and floated along behind. The fill created the roadbed. Tuck was a boy, a water boy for a man named Barron Collier, and supposedly he said—"
Walker said, "Yeah, it was something funny—"
"Tuck says a lot of funny things."
The woman finished the story for him. "He said, 'Jesus Christ, Barron, man only makes two things that float, shit and boats. And you can hire yourself another boy if you think I'm walking through shit clear to Miami.' "
Ford said nothing, listening to her. The woman had a nice low laugh; let a little bit of the girl show through, but Ford could see what she was doing, trying to build a working intimacy. Pretty good at it, too.
Behind them, on the slick water, was a roiled trail, like a brown comet's tail, showing the path of the nets. He shut down the engine, cranked the outriggers up, swung the nets over the culling table, and spilled the contents. A whole world of sea life gushed out: filefish, pinfish, sea horses, parrot fish, tunicates, grasses, comb jellies, spider crabs, blue crabs, a calico crab, a couple of horseshoe crabs, and flopping rays. For a moment, sorting the specimens, he forgot that the woman was there, but then she said,
"He told me this other story, too, about how Disney World got started up there in Orlando."
"Tuck's not shy about taking credit—"
"But it wasn't Walt Disney, or anybody like that, it was this other man—"
Ford said, "Dick Pope. That's Tuck's Dick Pope story, about how he was the one who got theme parks started in Florida. Tuck used to take Mr. Pope fishing, the guy who started Cypress Gardens—it was