Gator Country, page 19
I should ask around and find out what happened, Jeff thought.
* * *
“You dodged a bullet if you ask me,” Wayne said. Squinting up his rifle barrel, he swiveled, searching for the doves that had taken flight with the report of his shot. He let off another. Pop! “If I were you, I’d stay away from that Robert guy,” Wayne went on.
They stood out in front of Jeff’s camper, Jeff with a beer in hand and Wayne with his stationed at his feet as he tried to take down the doves. Wayne had gotten into the habit of coming around Sunshine just to hang out with Jeff and drink his beer, libations that Jeff purchased for that specific purpose, but Wayne didn’t need to know that. Jeff enjoyed his company. That was what mattered.
“Why?” Jeff asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Oh, his whole crew is trouble,” Wayne said. “I’ve heard all kinds of stories about him.”
“Are we talking about the same Robert?” Jeff said. “He seems so upstanding.”
Wayne raised an eyebrow and smiled knowingly. “Really, Jeff,” he chided. “You should worry about them the most.” He fired a shot into the sky.
Ridiculous, Jeff thought. Wayne’s opinion of Robert didn’t seem backed up by fact. Sure, Robert may have thought he was too good for Jeff, but Jeff couldn’t read the man’s mind. He didn’t know, and he probably never would. He’d given up on hearing from him ever again. Even if he saw Robert at the hardware store, he probably wouldn’t stop to chat. Why bother?
That seemed to be the general consensus others held for Jeff, though: Why bother?
In fact, no one he’d given his card to at the meeting called, and no one called him back, either. But then, on a hot summer afternoon at Sunshine Alligator Farm, Jeff’s cell phone started ringing. This was it, finally. The big break he was waiting for, breathing on the other side of the line. He’d known it was coming. He’d put in the work. The only thing that surprised him was the name on his caller ID. It was the last person he would have expected: Robert.
12
THE FIRST EGG HUNT
“I want to apologize for missing you at the meeting,” Robert said over the phone.
Missing me, huh? Jeff thought. It was the day after the meeting, and Jeff was still smarting from Robert’s snub.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Robert went on. “I had other things on my mind.”
Rumor had it that one of those other things was a falling-out with Brother Parker. Left without a job and a steady source of income, Robert had been hustling to get someone else to partner with him—and he had failed.
“Sure, I know how it is,” Jeff said, trying to sound magnanimous.
“Hey, what are you doing next week?” Robert asked. “I’d like to come talk to you.”
* * *
The season was awakening, and the wild things were coming alive from that brief respite that is springtime in Florida. With mating season over, the female gators had already begun to dig their nests and lay their eggs.
Jeff went to Robert’s house, where Robert proposed the idea of a business partnership. They would collect alligator eggs from the wild, and Robert would use Jeff’s farm facilities for hatching, updating the farm as he saw appropriate. In return, Robert offered to guide and educate Jeff on the alligator industry.
If Jeff had been Jeff Babauta, he might have turned Robert away. As Blackledge, he wanted to chalk their previous missed connections up to misunderstandings. Plus, he needed a way in, desperately—and here it was.
Nonetheless, he sat on it, as if considering the proposal, but really he just didn’t want to seem overly eager.
Afterward, Jeff called Lieutenant Wilson at the agency.
“Man, I don’t know what this guy’s doing,” Jeff said, “but I think I just got into an agreement to collect eggs.”
“Fantastic,” Lieutenant Wilson said. “With who?”
Jeff told him about Robert and the rumors swirling around him. “He seems like a decent enough guy though,” Jeff said. “What can it hurt?”
“Let it ride,” Lieutenant Wilson said. “See what he offers.”
* * *
By May 20, Jeff’s birthday, Robert had stood Jeff up then called again, and they bartered back and forth for close to a month before it seemed the time had come to lay their deal out on paper. He met with Robert and his wife, Robin, at a gas station on the corner of two desolate country roads.
“So it’s all settled,” Robert said. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know about raising alligators. All you need to do is let us use your facility. We’ll even update it for you, make the place state of the art.”
“All of that sounds great, but—” Jeff said.
“But?”
“My accountant didn’t like what he saw of our agreement,” Jeff said. “I am running a business after all. I need to make money. So you can’t use the place for free.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be for free,” Robert said. “I would fence in that pond of yours, and I’d transfer in some adult alligators.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Jeff said. “You can do that. And you also need to pay me.” What I’m asking of you is normal, Jeff thought. Don’t balk at this. Jeff was afraid of scaring him away, but at a certain point he risked coming across as a pushover.
“How about $5,000?” Robert asked. “To use your farm for the season.”
That’s it? Jeff thought. But he nodded. “All right,” he said. “That sounds fair.” Except it didn’t.
“We’ll give you half up front and half after the harvest,” Robert said.
“It’s a deal,” Jeff said. They shook hands.
Cars sped by under the live oaks.
Robert took out a set of FWC forms and explained them to Jeff, which made Jeff chuckle in his head. But Robert knew his stuff.
“Can I see your farm license?” Robert asked. “I need to take a picture of it.” He did that while Jeff signed the forms. Robert explained how the private lands application would allow him to transfer alligator eggs harvested from the wild to Sunshine Alligator Farm.
“I’ll send all this stuff to Florida Fish and Wildlife,” Robert said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
He further explained that Jeff would only be accepting eggs and not hatchlings or adult alligators. “That’s what our permits are for,” Robert added. “Eggs only, understand?”
“Eggs only,” Jeff said. “I gotcha.”
See? Everything to the letter of the law, Jeff thought. I don’t know what the heck Wayne was talking about. These are good people. They got nothing to hide.
After they both signed the egg-collecting application, with Robin witnessing, they said their farewells and started toward their trucks.
That was when Jeff glanced back and saw Robin had done the same. She was glaring at him.
She’s giving me the evil eye, Jeff thought. Once she’d turned around again, Jeff reasoned with himself. Maybe I’m just imagining things.
* * *
In June, Jeff absconded to the mountains of North Carolina, a brief and much-needed family camping trip that he covered up with the lie of visiting his girlfriend’s parents. By the end of the weekend, Jeff knew he had to hurry back to work. Throughout the drive back down to Florida, his phone rang incessantly. The thing gave off every beep and buzz in its arsenal, texts, emails, the whole bit. He glanced at them as he drove. It was Robert sending him paperwork—permits in Curtis Blackledge’s name, all ready to go.
I didn’t apply for any of this, Jeff thought. Did Robert just hijack my damn farm?
It was all happening too fast. That set off an alarm in Jeff’s head. Something wasn’t right.
Jeff decided to let Robert keep going.
Let’s just see how far this gets, Jeff thought.
He hadn’t talked to Robert between May and June 7, when Robert asked for his Social Security number to fill out yet another form. After he got back from the mountains, Jeff drove to Robert’s house unannounced. Inside, all his planning and paperwork sprawled across the dining room table.
“I’ve been putting in a lot of work while you’ve been gone,” Robert said.
“I can tell,” Jeff said. “I’m impressed.
They discussed when they were going to start collecting eggs, what machines they required, which ones they had that needed to be cleaned or serviced—Robert acting like he wanted Jeff’s input when they both knew he was just using Jeff for the farm.
In the coming weeks, Robert threw money around. He bought dozens of large plastic crates for transporting eggs. He purchased equipment large and small, from thermometers and cleaning supplies to an entire airboat.
Where is he getting all of this money? Jeff wondered.
“We got so lucky with this,” Lieutenant Wilson said on the phone later. “He took over your farm. He’s doing all the work, and now he’s buying all this stuff for you? It’s a windfall.”
Jeff’s feelings, however, were more muddled than that. The case finally felt like it was opening up for him. And yet he couldn’t help but feel slighted. All the hard work that he’d put into the farm, and here Robert just came in and took over and brushed him aside. It seemed like everything was once again in a whirlwind around him while he was standing still.
* * *
Later, Robert and Robin paid a visit to the farm. They pulled up to the barn’s back loading door, and, seeing Jeff, Robert announced, “I got some eggs.”
“Where’d you get them?” Jeff asked as he helped Robert carry a cooler into the barn.
“We collected them last night from the Seminole Reservation,” Robert said.
Jeff lifted the cooler lid to peek inside. Rows of dirty white ovals nestled in a mulch of mud and bark.
“They’ll be all right where they are,” Robert said, handing him the transfer document. With that, Robin and Robert left, saying they would be back in a few days.
* * *
As the investigation progressed, a tragedy was unfolding back at Jeff’s home. A few days earlier, Sandy had told Jeff that his K-9, Mack, had been acting lethargic. Sandy had sensed something was wrong. At first, she thought that Mack just had the blues. He missed his patrol partner. Maybe he missed his feeling of purpose, too. He would watch the front door with the other dogs, waiting for Jeff to return. While the others kept up their patient and faithful routine with unflagging earnestness, Mack seemed to fade. Sandy told Jeff she was taking Mack to the vet. Jeff worried, as was his way, but he assumed as Sandy did that the Goldador was only suffering from the kind of homesickness we feel when separated too long from the people we love. Heartache though it was, they believed it one with an easy cure. So with effort, he put the dog out of his mind and continued with his farm work.
Later, under the cover of darkness, Jeff removed his personal phone from its secret compartment. A message from Sandy asked him to call when he got the chance. He did and listened to the ringer with a growing sense of dread.
Sandy told him that she had bad news. Mack had a tumor on his heart, and they had to decide what to do. The vet believed that surgery would do more harm than good. There was only one option, really.
“We have to put him down,” Jeff said, a lump forming in his throat. He told Sandy that he wanted to be there. He loved that dog. He didn’t want Mack to go through that without him. “I have to get permission to leave, but I’m coming even if they say no.”
Sandy agreed that she would wait for him, and after he hung up, Jeff took a moment to breathe. The life he had shared with Mack flashed before his eyes. Their days on patrol stretched out through the pinewoods, hours of quiet punctuated by sudden moments of fear and excitement. “It’s time to go to work!” Jeff would say when those moments came. He loved how much Mack would perk up. The eager look in his brown eyes would say, Yes! I’m ready. Mack could sniff out anything. Fast on a scent, he would race through the forest, his golden tail alert and rippling like a feather plume. Mack always found his mark. Mack could heel at attention, as poised as a soldier, then at home he would frolic, carefree as any other dog.
The agency had the compassion to let Jeff go. No need to explain to wildlife officers why an animal meant so much to him.
Jeff drove home, tucked his unmarked vehicle away, and went to the vet with Sandy. There, he placed a hand on Mack’s soft head. “There’s a good boy,” Jeff said. “Daddy’s here.” Mack licked his wrist, but that spark of energy that once propelled him through the woods had faded. Jeff knew that this was the right thing to do. He would save his friend so much pain. That didn’t make it hurt any less for him.
Jeff stroked Mack while it happened, reminding him that he was such a very good dog.
He couldn’t leave the farm unattended for too long. After it was over, Jeff had to go back. The whole drive, that same lump that caught in his throat remained there, and he tried not to think about how much he was missing by not being at home. The truth was, he’d missed nearly a year in his dog’s life. He feared that he was missing more—of his wife, his son, his mother, his siblings, their kids—than he would ever know.
No matter how important this mission was supposed to be, it meant losing time with the people he loved. Jeff could never get this time back. Mack’s death reminded him that he had so much more to lose. There was no telling what bad news might come on Sandy’s next call, or if someone would call about her. All this worry and heartache had built up over the past year. It made him feel worn thin and old, and so ready for this job to be over. He couldn’t wait to go home, his real home.
He pulled into the farm’s driveway and shut the gate in the glare of his headlights, those feelings still building up, straining against his will not to let them go. He parked in front of his camper, went inside, and locked the door. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, but it wouldn’t give way. This loss of time was so much more of a sacrifice than he ever anticipated making. The heartbreak overtook him.
That was my baby, he thought, and he let the tears flow.
* * *
On the last day of June, Jeff and Robert met up with a pilot at the Arcadia Airport, a small municipal airstrip that sat abreast of farmland and trailer parks on the edge of town. The three of them climbed into a helicopter, donned their headsets, and zipped up into the air.
Jeff was no stranger to helicopters. After the Florida Game and Freshwater Fish Commission had merged with Florida Marine Patrol, the new superagency owned more aircraft than any other law enforcement agency in the state. They used them for search-and-rescue missions, flora and fauna counts, spotting covert marijuana growers, and, of course, chasing down poachers. To ignite controlled burns, fire technicians would drop Ping-Pong balls of combustion chemicals from the aircraft. When they made contact with the forest floor, they would burst. A thousand acres of brush could go up in less than a day. On the night detail, they would shine spotlights down through the overgrowth, trying to spy hunters, hideouts, a cache of illicit wares.
Jeff had trained his dog Mack to ride in helicopters, for assignments on barrier islands or other places almost no other vehicle could reach. Mack had enjoyed flying about as much as Jeff did—which was not much.
This helicopter was smaller than the ones Jeff was used to. The smaller the aircraft, the more dramatic its movements feel. It had no doors, so the wind whipped at his hair. It felt like being in a tornado. After a couple of hours, Jeff felt nauseous. He toughed it out. They flew over Avon Park bombing range with its enormous bull’s-eyes painted like surreal earthworks over the swamp. The helicopter swooped down close enough to spy the dark mounds of alligator nests. They stood out against the lushness of all that green. Later, they would return on foot to make their harvest.
A few days later, back at the farm, the sound of Jeff’s cell phone ringing beside his bed startled him awake. He swore under his breath and swiped at it. He grabbed it and read the screen, its glare washing over his squinting face like he was driving into oncoming traffic. It was about 4 AM. The caller ID said ROBERT. Annoyed and weary, and most of all tired as hell, Jeff answered and mumbled a salutation.
“Hey,” Robert said. Then, without much preamble, he launched into his business. “We’re going to collect tomorrow,” he said.
Collect, Jeff thought, his brain still feeling liquid from sleep. Collect! He means gator eggs! He’d been waiting more than a year for this. Sure, Jeff had collected eggs on his own already. But now he was finally getting to learn how a real operation was done. The lightning strike of this opportunity woke Jeff up in an awful hurry.
“I’m interested,” Jeff said.
“Get something to eat and head over here to the house,” Robert said.
Jeff threw some clothes on, stuffed breakfast in his mouth, and was at Robert’s homestead within the hour. The place fluttered with activity, every porchlight aglow, dogs barking, the crew Robert had amassed chatting with excitement. Jeff jumped in to help and found himself in the middle of the fray. Everyone was wired with a purposeful energy. Everyone seemed to have something to do, to be bent on a task and hurtling toward it with conviction; but that’s all it was, dramatic energy and forward motion. No one seemed to know what was going on except Robert, who attended to his disarray of papers spread from the head of his dining room table all the way down to its foot.
As Jeff tried to help, he wondered if this uninformed chaos was by design. Keeping people on their toes by denying them necessary information was a well-known manipulation tactic. Jeff paused to study Robert for a moment. It was as if the man stood inside a hurricane’s eye, untouched by the tension and nervous energy around him. If this was manipulation, it was good. Well, good for Robert. Effective. Bad for Jeff. Not only did it obscure any possible wrongdoing behind a flurry of activity, but it also meant that he was onto something. Had he sensed something was off about Jeff? Are you cunning or just disorganized? Jeff wondered. Robert was more of an enigma to him than ever.
