Everglades, page 15
The woman’s expression said, Is this a joke? but she told him, “Across the street at the Grab Bag, they sell mouthwash. Maybe try that.”
“Mouthwash, hum . . . I’ve tried that under different circumstances, but—I don’t want to be indelicate here—mouthwash tends to give my urine an unnatural odor. A little too minty fresh. I’m a traditionalist. Can’t help it. So, what I think I’ll have is”—he held up an index finger to signal his decision—“I think I’ll have a double vodka martini. Stoli, if you have it. And pop in a couple of jalapeno olives. No . . . bleu cheese olives. That should counteract it. Make me right as rain.”
The woman’s expression said: What the hell are you talking about?
As Tomlinson talked, I’d heard chairs scooching on the floor behind us, and now someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see three men. One wore a sweat-shaped cowboy hat, a straw roper. The other two had their black hair slicked back. Men of size. Wide-shouldered, wrangler-hipped.
One of them, the man wearing the straw Stetson, said, “Maybe somebody forgot to tell you at Sawgrass, but we don’t appreciate you staff people coming in this bar. Isn’t that right, Jenny?”
The man didn’t sound like a bully; just the opposite. Seemed as if he were uneasy having to confront us, even a little shy about it. Kept tugging at the brim of his hat, which was frayed by a couple of years of sweat and sun.
The big woman said, “That sure is right. Your goons have busted enough people’s heads in here. We don’t want no more fighting, no more trouble. So management up the road said we stay away from your place, you keep out of ours. That’s the deal we made.”
DeAntoni said, “What? You think we work for those pin-heads at Sawgrass. No way. Jeez, Mac, give us some credit.”
The man doing the talking turned toward the window, looking outside. “Then why’re you driving one of their golf carts? It says SAWGRASS SECURITY on the side. Those’re the people we’ve had all the problems with. The ones who dress in black; carry clubs and stun guns, and they don’t hold back usin’ them. Which is why the people who live here don’t want you around no more.”
Tomlinson stood and opened his purple Hawaiian shirt. There were two tiny black burn marks on his chest. “Man, you don’t have to tell us about stun guns. Wasn’t twenty minutes ago they shot me. There I was flopping around in the dirt like a tuna on the gymnasium floor. They’re quick on the draw, those Sawgrass guys.” He waited, people staring at his bony chest. “Hey—think if we went back, they’d shoot me again?”
The man doing the talking seemed to relax a little. He took off his cowboy hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Why’d they shoot you?”
“Trespassing. That’s what they said. Only we weren’t—not after we made it to the bar, anyway.”
“How’d you get the golf cart?”
DeAntoni told him, “We borrowed it. But we don’t plan to take it back, so help yourself. If it ends up in a canal, I’m not gonna shed any tears. Enjoy.”
The man looked at his two friends, then the woman bartender, then the waitress—a lean, attractive woman with braided hair and a Plains Indian nose. He’d begun to smile. “Guess we ought to show ’em, huh?”
He and the man to his right unbuttoned their shirts, then pointed to similar twin scars on their chest, spaced as if they’d been struck by the fangs of the same large snake. “It was one of the damnedest feelings I’ve ever had. Your muscles start twitching and there’s nothing you can do. I felt sick for about a week after that.”
As Tomlinson said, “Really? You mean you didn’t like it?” the waitress, who’d moved closer to the window said, “James. James, they’re here. The Sawgrass people. Call the sheriff, Jenny. Call nine-one-one right now or they’re gonna do it to us again.”
I was off my stool, trying to get a look through the door, when the man doing the talking, James, said, “I guess they must’a come looking for their golf cart.”
He meant the white Chevy van outside, doors open, a half-dozen men climbing out, all dressed in black, SECURITY printed in big gold letters on their T-shirts, carrying saps and stun guns. No firearms in the holsters, though—probably paying scrupulous attention to the law because they were anticipating trouble.
Pith helmet hadn’t made the trip. But black hat, the tall, lean one, was among them, although he was markedly smaller than the guards in this new bunch. They could have been a group of linebackers from a small-college football team. Clean-cut-looking bunch, hair squared off at the back, a couple of jock-looking women among them.
Hanging up the phone, Jenny said to the room, “Just like always. The sheriff’s dispatcher said it’d take ’em forty minutes, maybe an hour, to get a deputy here from Homestead.”
Walking toward the door, his friends beside him, James said, “We already talked about this, what we’re gonna do. We’re not going to let them come through this door, no matter what. It’s gotta stop. It’s gonna stop now.”
DeAntoni continued to impress me. The local men, seven or eight of them, had moved outside, forming a human barrier between the white van and the entrance to Gator Bill’s. There were James and his friends, a couple more Indians and two or three sun-darkened Anglos, Western hats angled back on their heads.
They looked like working cowboys awaiting a rodeo. It would’ve been easy enough for us to stay behind them, let these two bands of locals battle out their problems.
But not DeAntoni. He edged his way through the group, me trailing along, until we were both at the front, standing on gravel in the April heat, facing the security people from Sawgrass. They were standing in a loose V-formation—a tactical grouping that suggested they’d had some training.
Black hat pointed, saying, “There they are, the ones that stole the cart. Those two, plus the hippie in the back. The short, stocky dude, he’s the one who slapped Corey around.” Black hat was now pointing at DeAntoni and me, but not getting too close.
One of them asked, “The one with the shaved head?”
“Yeah, Mr. Clean. The one who looks like the fake wrestlers on TV. He got lucky with Corey. I think he hurt him pretty bad.”
Expressions on the faces of the guards reminded me of cops who’d just heard the call “Officer down!” Pissed off, united.
Not even a little nervous, like he’d been through this many times before, DeAntoni said, “Sonny, did you just call me short?”
“Yeah, so what? You are short. Bald and short. You got a problem with the truth?”
DeAntoni said, “Maybe I’ll seem a little taller once I shove your head up your ass—give you a different perspective” as, from behind, James was telling them, “You men are on private property and we want you to leave. Jenny in there owns the place. Her and Bill—we all want you off this property.”
The guard at the front of the group was not the biggest of the men, but he had an administrative cool that indicated he was in charge. Pointing at us, he said, “These men stole one of our golf carts. Do you want to be a party to that, James? How about you, Bobbie Lee? Grand theft; a felony. Do you really want to help these guys? Maybe spend another couple nights in jail?”
DeAntoni began to walk toward the guards, saying, “They didn’t steal your damn cart; no one stole it. I borrowed it. Which reminds me: I’ve got a complaint for management. The damn thing stops at every bar we come to. I think your golf cart has an alcohol problem.”
Which got a nervous laugh from the locals, but tightened the expression on the faces of the guards.
DeAntoni continued to walk as he talked. Didn’t stop until he was standing toe-to-toe with the head guard, looking up at the taller man, the kind of physical tension spreading among the group that you sense in pack dogs just before they begin to fight. DeAntoni’s voice had gotten softer, more intense, forcing everyone to listen as he said to the man, “Tell me something: Are you the guy in charge of this bunch of candy-ass rent-a-cops?”
The guard was trying to force a professional calm into his voice. “You need to back away, sir. Get back. I’m not going to tell you twice . . .”
DeAntoni took two tiny steps closer so that he was, for a moment, standing on the tips of the taller man’s shoes. “I’ve got a proposition for you—sonny. Pick out any three of your guys. Let’s fight it out. My pal, the professor, here—”
Without breaking eye contact with the guard, he used his head to indicate me. “—we’ll take on all four of you. Tag team, if you want. No clubs, no tasers, just bare fists. You got the balls?”
The guard laughed nervously. I noticed a crisp trickle of sweat begin to river down his cheek. Behind him, a couple of his men were whispering, Do it, Jason; let’s kick their asses. Have a little fun, but Jason said, “Four of us against two of you? You can’t be that stupid. It wouldn’t be fair.”
DeAntoni edged up onto the man’s toes again, his chin nearly touching the guard’s chin. “You’re right, sonny boy. It wouldn’t be fair. Okay, here’s my last offer. You can have five guys. You and any other four you want. There. Like those odds better?”
From behind me, I heard James say, “That’s the thing about these guys. Without their weapons, they’re cowards.”
From the group of guards, a woman’s voice said, “Fucking drunken Indian better shut his mouth,” but Jason was still in charge, maintaining control, backing away from DeAntoni, telling him, “We’re not on the playground. We don’t negotiate with thieves. You’re gonna have to come with us so we can turn you over to law enforcement.”
DeAntoni told him, “Mac, you’re dreaming. Not a chance,” as I felt Tomlinson trying to push past me. I turned to see him using his fingers to comb his long hair back as he called to the head guard, “Jason? Jason. Arrest me—I took the cart. I mean it.”
I grabbed his arm, “I’m not going to let them dart you again, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
“They won’t touch me,” he said, trying to pull free. “You’ve never taken me seriously, but I’ve told you that I’m a master of t’ai chi—a completely passive, defensive martial art. Give me a chance.”
Looking toward us, DeAntoni said, “Stay where you are, Tinkerbell.” Then, turning back to Jason, he said, “So what about it, sonny boy? You candy-ass rent-a-cops take a hike right now—leave with the golf cart. Or let’s you and me roll around on the ground awhile. Unless maybe you want to go crying to the guru geek who pays all you little robots.”
That did it.
Three or four of the largest security staff came pushing forward. They’d apparently been talking among themselves; had already decided what they were going to do. They walked toward DeAntoni as a group. As they did, they unbuckled their tactical belts, to which were affixed handcuffs, saps, taser guns and empty holsters.
They handed the belts carefully to their friends, as the largest of them—a huge, black-haired man with winglike trapezoid muscles connecting shoulders and neck—said in a heavy German accent, “Bare fists, yah! Just like you said. Before I am done, you will be saying the name of His Holiness, Bhagwan Shiva, with respect. You will be begging me to let you say his name.”
DeAntoni was backing away, giving himself some room, causing a small human ring to form around him. He looked at me, and said, “If they double-team me, I expect you to bust a couple of heads.”
Staring at Jason, I lifted my hand and pointed as if my thumb and index finger were a gun. Speaking loud enough, I said, “I’ll start with him.”
I expected it to degenerate into a small riot. It didn’t—but only because DeAntoni immediately took command.
The German came out with his big fists held high, dancing and pawing at Frank, doing what appeared to be a clumsy imitation of a professional prizefighter. The other guards yelled encouragement—“Knock him on his ass, Yan!”—while the locals stood focused, not saying much, not yet willing to risk an alliance with losers, but interested.
Beside me, Tomlinson said, “Keep an eye on the muscle-bound guard. The guy with the biceps. He’s trying to sneak around behind us.”
He was, too: broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, black hat turned backward, biceps stretching the sleeves of his T-shirt. I watched him move slowly around the back of the little crowd, nonchalant, trying not to draw attention to himself.
Watching him from the corner of my eye, I began to move in his direction, still watching DeAntoni, too.
The German began to throw a fusillade of punches, swinging from the hips. DeAntoni got his arms up over his ears to absorb the first few blows, but, suddenly, he was no longer there to be hit. He ducked under the big man’s elbow, then used his open palms to clap the man’s ears, cymbal-like—a seemingly harmless slap that, in fact, was excruciating because both eardrums ruptured, judging from the blood that began to trickle down the man’s neck.
The German gave a throaty woof of pain and tried to turn, but couldn’t. From behind, DeAntoni had already laced an arm around the man’s throat, another up between his crotch. He lifted the German off the ground, and then dropped him—not hard—spine-first across his knee, and held him there, immobile, in one of the most dangerous of all submission holds.
To myself, I thought, They’re going to rush him now.
But the guards didn’t.
They wanted to. Adrenaline had taken over. But DeAntoni stopped them in their tracks, saying in a loud voice, “If you assholes take another step, I’ll snap his neck. You’ll take him home in a wheelchair. Kapeesh?”
After a micro-moment of silence, the guards still thinking about it, DeAntoni added, “Ask your big buddy what he wants you to do.”
The German, feeling the pressure on his spine, helpless, called to them, “Yah! Yah! No closer. We are done. We are done fighting! We take the golf cart and go, yah!”
I thought that was it. The end of it.
It wasn’t.
I’d lost track of the guard with the biceps. But he hadn’t lost track of me. I felt movement close to me; heard Tomlinson yell, “Doc! He’s behind you!” and I then felt a sickening blow just above my right ear.
chapter sixteen
Biceps had hit me on the side of the head with a sap. It could have knocked me out, or killed me.
Instead, it sent me jackknifing to the ground, the backs of my eyes strobing with firework colors, cascading reds, greens, golds, my brain deafened by the boom of leather on bone. For an instant, I teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.
There is an ancient mammalian instinct which my forebrain inspected, then rejected: When overpowered by someone or something unknown, play dead. Remain motionless. Maybe it’ll go away. Opossums are more strongly coded, but that survival instinct remains within most vertebrates.
As if through a tube, I could hear Tomlinson’s voice saying, “Doc . . . Doc . . . are you okay?” And to biceps: “You idiot! Why’d you hit him so damn hard!”
Then I was on my knees, eyes open, watching biceps swing the sap at Tomlinson who, to my surprise, parried the blow with a delicate, dancelike movement of his hands. I watched him deflect a second, then a third attack, using biceps’ own momentum to turn him away.
I remembered Tomlinson saying something about being a master of t’ai chi—but he was not sufficiently masterful, because biceps finally caught him with a solid blow to the shoulder that sent Tomlinson backpedaling into the little group of onlookers.
James, the cowboy local, caught him, and stepped toward biceps, fists up, ready to fight. But I was already in full stride, driving hard toward the man, making an odd guttural noise that did not seem to originate within me.
It was then that I experienced an internal transformation that I’ve experienced before. I’ve come to despise the transformation . . . and to fear it.
In the human brain is a tiny region called the amygdala, a section of cerebral matter so ancient that some scientists refer to it as our “lizard brain.” Its purpose is to ensure survival, and all the complicated emotions and behaviors that survival implies. It is here that our basest of instincts thrive: sex, fury, flight—the earliest markers of more than a hundred million years of adaptation and survival. It is here that our atavistic dread of snakes is passed from generation to generation. In this small, dark place lives the killer that is in us all.
The modern portion of our brain has built up around that lizard brain, like a walnut cloaking a seed. However, when sufficiently stimulated, there can be an electrical transfer of behavioral control from the modern, rational brain to the cave-dwelling primate that hides within.
That’s what happened to me now.
I felt a gathering, energized chill move through my body; my objective became so pure, so focused, that the progression of events unfolded before my eyes as if in slow motion. I could have been looking through a rifle scope—I could see nothing but the big-shouldered man with the biceps, yet I was aware of everything around me . . . everything but sound.
It was as if my auditory canal had been severed from my brain. There was no external volume. None. In lucid detail, I could see the people I shoved to the side, their mouths moving, but no words escaping, as I pursued biceps in a silence created by a surflike roaring in my own head. Nor was there any color. The world had been drained of pigment, leaving a portrait of blacks and grays.
Many animals, as we know, cannot distinguish color.
Yet my vision was acute, even with my glasses now hanging by fishing line around my neck. I could see biceps’ eyes squenched in surprise as I caught him from behind, then pivoted him toward me.
I could see his expression with such feral clarity that I knew what he was feeling without having to process my own patterns of induction and thought. He was surprised I was back on my feet . . . he was confident that I was hurt badly enough that he could put me down again without much effort. Then, as I grabbed him, controlling his hands, at first, then his arms, then his entire body, he began to feel consternation, then fear and panic . . . then he began to feel terror.
