Circuit Court Judge Anthony Antoon, Civil Part, Volusia County, Florida, pushed his bifocals toward the end of a long thin nose, carefully pulled open the Ziplock baggie on his desk and gingerly withdrew Plaintiff's Exhibit F from its bubble wrapping. Slowly he raised it toward the recessed lights high above in the vaulted ceiling. With a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand, he spun it around twice clockwise, then stopped, turned it the other way. Still with the one hand, he flipped it end for end and spun it around once more. "What in hell is this?" he growled finally. Nolin and the other lawyers behind the railing in the brand-new, faux 19th-century courtroom slunk even lower and buried themselves in suddenly fascinating legal briefs. No one dared a smile, let alone a laugh. Judge Antoon held a powerful sense of decorum about Judge Antoon's courtroom. Judge Antoon also held a grudge. The lawyers on the other side of the rail weren't so fortunate. They looked at each other helplessly. Finally the plaintiff's attorney cleared his throat. It was, there was no getting around it, his exhibit. "An egg, Your Honor." A couple of snickers erupted from the rear of the gallery. Antoon extinguished them with a death glare. "Counselor, Justice may be blind, but I'm not. Why is it in my courtroom?" Nolin bit his tongue, bit hard, until he tasted blood. His case was next, his client an irredeemable weasel, but a rich irredeemable weasel. One he couldn't afford to lose. And Antoon was still mad at him from a case a month ago. If his stony mask crumbled, he was finished. "Well, sir," the plaintiff's lawyer began again. "It's one of 1,559 eggs found this morning at 36 sites between the Seabreeze Boulevard and Raceway Avenue access ramps in Daytona Beach. That's the portion of the beach we maintain has suffered the most adverse impact from beach driving, sir. Where the traffic volume and the associated pollutants, motor oil, antifreeze --" "I've heard it before, counselor," Antoon intoned heavily. "Automobile traffic on the sandy beach has curtailed the nesting of green, hawksbill and leatherback sea turtles on Volusia County's shore, blah, blah, blah, in contravention to the federal Endangered Species Act, yaddah, yaddah. Such is your client's position. So how do you explain 36 nests in the most heavily driven strip of beach?" "I apologize, Your Honor. I was returning to the coincidence of 36 so-called nests, where none has been found for the last dozen years, appearing just in time for today's hearing." "Vile subterfuge. So you allege." Antoon lifted the egg toward the light again. "And how do you know that 36 actual turtles didn't crawl up the sand last night and lay them?" "They couldn't have, Your Honor. What you have in your hand is a chicken egg. Actual turtle eggs are smaller, like ping-pong balls, and have a leathery shell. In addition, sir, whoever planted the eggs didn't know that turtles drag themselves along the sand and leave a long trench. These nests all had prints leading to and from the water, sir. My biologist examined them and determined they came from the front paws of a five- to six-foot male alligator." Antoon's brow visibly darkened, a gathering storm. "They brought an alligator to the beach?" "No, Your Honor. Just its paws. Just its front paws." Nolin looked up. This was a new one, even by Daytona standards. He allowed himself a smile. "It appears that the perpetrators of this hoax didn't do their homework, sir," the plaintiff's lawyer said, more confident now. "I guess they figured eggs were eggs." Antoon stared down the plaintiff's lawyer until he had stopped beaming and dropped his eyes to the floor. "I find no humor in perpetrating a hoax on this court, counselor. Do you?" "No, Your Honor." The plaintiff's lawyer retreated to the safety of his table where he shuffled some papers. Antoon turned toward the defendant's table. "And I assume Volusia County has no knowledge of any of this? That the County Attorney, working hand-in-glove with the Hotel-Motel Association, the Tourism Board, the Chamber of Commerce and Daytona Raceway, has no earthly idea how a thousand chicken eggs show up on the beach?" Nolin heard a muffled gasp behind him, saw a pale, bearded man in dark glasses slouch into the collar of a plaid sportcoat. He turned back to watch the County Attorney shift his weight from one foot to the other. "For the record, Your Honor, it's more like sixteen hundred eggs," the plaintiff's lawyer offered helpfully before catching Antoon's glare again. Within a few seconds, though, his eyes had returned to the defense table. The County Attorney could stall no longer. "Your Honor makes an excellent point," he began cautiously in a thick, North Florida drawl. "A purposeful effort to subvert the will of this court would indeed be a terrible and dishonorable thing. Something that my office, indeed, the entire County would condemn in the strongest possible terms. But might I suggest, Your Honor, that there is a perfectly plausible explanation for the, ah, seemingly implausible situation with the eggs. To wit, sir, upon information and belief, there may have been, and in an abundance of caution, I want to emphasize 'may have been.' we're still working to confirm this: There may have been a group of poultry farmers traveling from a convention in Fort Lauderdale back to their homes in Georgia, and at least some of the hens may have escaped and, confronted with unfamiliar...." This time Nolin bit his lip, but couldn't keep his stomach muscles from convulsing. On the bench, Antoon hadn't blinked, but his tongue started moving inside his mouth, as if trying to escape a foul taste. The County Attorney glanced up, recognized the look and scrambled for an escape. "But of course, Your Honor doesn't want to deal in conjecture, but in hard, cold facts. Let me assure you that my office and I will work hand-in-glove with the Beach Patrol, with plaintiff's counsel and Save Our Turtles, and with any and all appropriate authorities to make certain that something like this never --" "Counselor." "Yes, Your Honor." "Shut up." "Of course, Your Honor." Nolin wiped the smirk away and sat up straight. His case, he reminded himself, was next. "We've already wasted more time on this ... chickenshit than we should have." Antoon leaned over the desk toward his stenographer. "Strike 'chickenshit' from the record, would you, Sandy dear?" Sandy nodded, tapped at her keypad. "The next time I see you two, you will be prepared to pick a jury and proceed. I've blocked out two days for this trial. It won't go a minute longer. Is that clear?" Both tables nodded enthusiastically. "Good. Now, as to the chicken and egg question." Antoon chuckled to himself. The lawyers looked at each other, nervously began grins. "The matter will be noted in the record without prejudice to either side. But let me add here for the County Attorney's benefit: Yes, it's true I've grown up right here in Daytona Beach. I've raced hot-rods on this beach. I've screwed girls in the back seat of my car on this beach. I happen to like driving on the beach. But if someone fucks with my court again, I'll rule this beach a state conservation area and clear all cars and all humans, and that includes tourists foolish enough to come here instead of a decent beach, from every inch of shoreline between Cape Canaveral and the Flagler line. I hope I make myself clear." He banged his gavel on his desk, then leaned over it again. "Sandy, strike 'screw' and 'fuck' from the record, if you would, please. Next case." Both tables hurriedly packed up their papers
as the bailiff called out "Emerson versus Emerson."
Nolin stood, heard the courtroom door slam shut behind him. He
glanced back, noticed idly that the man in the plaid jacket was
gone. The diver kicked his feet slowly, giving a slight boost to the propulsion pack he held before him. As usual the visibility was lousy, about 20 feet, tops, and he suppressed a wave of panic that he'd missed it. Steady, steady; anxiety sped up the heart. That would increase respiration and therefore cut bottom time. He looked over the compass on the console and kept kicking. He'd measured it all out: with the pack on low speed and a slow kick, he moved at three knots. He'd entered the water exactly one nautical mile away, so it would take him 20 minutes. He had been swimming for 18. Unless there was a cross-current.... He forced himself to count breaths. Long, slow inhale. Long, slow exhale until, there: Dead ahead, out of the gloom, he saw it. He flicked off the propulsion pack and released it. Because he had balanced it that morning for a 15-foot depth, it stayed right where he left it, neutrally buoyant. He glided over the shiny box, sliding his fingers over the rubber seam between sides and lid. Perfect: no leaks. He swam around to the shoreward side and gently untwisted the plastic tie he'd used to hold the coils of wire together overnight. It was gossamer thin, and he had worried it would break if subjected that long to waves and tide. Breaking wasn't an option. It had to work perfectly. Hence the long, risky underwater swim to set it. From the pocket of his buoyancy compensator he pulled a small, Styrofoam ball and gently pushed two feet of wire through its center. Where it emerged, he twisted the tip into a loose knot until he was satisfied it wouldn't pull back through. Then he let the ball drift upward, pulling out loops of wire as it went, until finally it was within a foot of the surface. It undulated with the waves, but never broke the surface. The wire itself would be invisible from shore. He had tested that himself, using high-powered binoculars. Satisfied with the placement, he retied the remaining coils of wire, checked dive watch and pressure gauge. Twenty-six minutes and more than half a tank remaining. Right on the money. He patted the box once and swam over to the propulsion pack. He flicked it on, checked his heading and began kicking. All that was left was to stow his gear on the bottom, swim back to shore, change and then hang around the beach for a few hours. That would be distasteful, what with the cars and the music and the butt-thong-clad groupies and the crowd.... Still it would be worth it, in the end. He
noticed a shadow, turned to see a pair of blacktips swimming
in formation. Mouths slightly agape, tails swishing silently
through the water. Simple perfection. With luck they'd be around
in a few hours. The more the merrier. Sweat beaded Madame Rosa Castilla Murdo as she hunched over her glass ball, peering intently through at the black "antiqued" table beneath. Once again the air conditioning was on the fritz, and, though only February, the fans were no match for the heat. "Maybe you should take off your shawl, Rosa," Barbie offered. Rosa looked up with a glare before letting loose a Spanish-tinged tirade. "Meesez Van Horne, thees is how my mother taught me, and her mother before her taught her. Thees is how we do it in Andalusia. Maybe you like somebody else? Maybe someone with the incense and the music and the lee-tle crystals? Maybe you like that?" Barbie sighed. Rosa had long ago copped an attitude about the New Age psychics at Cassadaga. Dilettantes, they were. Unschooled. Ill-mannered. Crooks. "No, Rosa, of course not. It's just that, well, it's hot." She pulled at her green tank top. "Even I'm hot, and I'm only wearing this." Rosa leaned back. A woolen shawl covered jet-black hair. Another draped over her shoulders. Beneath it she wore a long, sequined red gown. From Sevilla, she had told her. Like all her clothes. "Pardon me for saying, but where I come from, Meesez Van Horne, ladies do not go out in public wearing..." she waved a long, red-nailed finger at Barbie's chest, "... that. It is indecent. But, your ways are deeferent. So. Tell me again your troubles. Today, I have the deeficulty seeing into your eyes." Barbie studied Rosa's eyes. They were a bright blue, all the more stunning because of the dark skin and black, black hair. She looked around at the dingy walls, decorated with the trappings of classical Spain, or at least the sort of kitschy Spain that sold for inflated prices at Epcot. Scarves, castanets, a matador's cloak, a bullfighter's killing sword. Someday she'd travel to Spain, travel the back roads, visit the quaint fishing villages, climb the rugged Pyrenees. Someday. Someday when she had her act together, figured out who she was, where she was going and how she would get there. Yet thoughts of the indeterminate future invariably brought up the recent past, replete with foolish choices and wasted time. How many years had she lost? Four? Five? Six, depending on how you counted? And for what: to change him? Make him grow up? Against her better instincts, she wished again now as she frequently did that she'd taken the money and run. She had, after all, earned every penny. He'd been a jerk, but a rich jerk, and she could have taken what she needed and left him with enough that he'd never have thought to complain. Instead she'd sworn to make it on her own. To prove to him, to all of them, what she was made of. Well, here she was: on the edge of depression, with nothing left but an unpopular, costly crusade that she could no longer afford but didn't have the heart to abandon. Even her morning in court, her best shot at victory, her lawyer had promised, had withered to nothing when the judge decided the other side would not be punished. "Tell me about the turtles again, Rosa," she asked finally. "Ah, las tortugas, si." Rosa leaned back suddenly in her straight-backed chair, her extra chins shuddering from the jolt. Her eyes fell closed. "It is as I told you, Meesez Van Horne. You, and the turtles, you are familia. Many years ago, in many previous memories, you swim in the deep, blue sea. And every other spring, you climb up on the beach and lay your babies in the sand, and crawl back to Mother Ocean. Thees is you, Meesez Van Horne. Thees is your soul. As free and wonderful as the mother turtle. And also as full of love and duty. Why, Meesez Van Horne? Why do you ask Rosa?" Barbie sighed again. "Because, Rosa. I tried to help them. But it wasn't enough." "You help them plenty, Meesez Van Horne." Rosa said quickly, wondering what the hell Barbie was talking about. "You help them plenty. And they know, and they love you." "But it's not going to be enough, is it? And now that they really need my help, I'm going to have to give up." Barbie lay her long, bony hands on the table. "So tell me, Rosa. What happens to them? And what happens to me?" Rosa swallowed softly, cupped her hands over the crystal ball and closed her eyes. "I see hardship, Meesez Van Horne. Much hardship and much sorrow. But, in the end, I see much joy. And in the end, you will prevail." Barbie looked at Rosa hopefully. "So I'll find another lawyer?" "Another lawyer?" Rosa blinked slowly,
then stared straight into Barbie's pale green eyes for a long
minute. "Si! A very good lawyer. He will be
everything you need." J. Robert "Nick" Van Horne III leaned back against the wall, hands thrust in his trouser pockets, chin on chest. It was his usual pose of excruciating boredom as he waited for Joanna's attention to fall, eventually, finally, his way. "J.R., does this midnight blue work?" She held a slinky, full-length evening gown against a no-longer slinky figure. "Or is this better?" It was a curse, being born a Van Horne. The richest family in stock car racing, the apex of the Daytona Beach social pyramid, yet still snubbed by the old money in Long Island, Charleston, even Palm Beach. Sure, they owned cottages in all three places. But they couldn't make the "A" list. Not even, frankly, the "B" list, and it made his stepmother crazy. He smiled to himself, remembering the previous summer when Joanna had decided to crash the Worthingtons' ball in East Hampton. Because it was a charity affair, no one had thrown them out. But no one had talked to them either. He had cheered inwardly when they finally left after an hour of standing by themselves next to a Greek statue. She had replaced the blue gown with a shorter, strapless black dress. She turned her back to Nick and alternated dresses before the three-part ceiling-to-floor mirror. "Black gets so tiresome. Don't you think? Perhaps I have time for a quickie down to Palm Beach. Oh, I do get tired of living in a town without a Lord and Taylor's." Nick groaned. It had become her favorite complaint: the trials of holding a formal in a town so gauche that men actually wore rented tuxedos. He had come to dread talking to her. A lecture or a scolding, it was always one or the other, and that only after a prolonged recounting of her latest tribulation. He wondered again what it might've been like to have been born a normal guy with a normal job -- timeshare salesman, or maybe a strip-joint manager. He'd have done great at either, he knew. And then he remembered the little Lotus coupe in the garage and the way the expensive, high-class debs fawned over him. Being the grandson of James Van Horne, nee Jim Bob Horn, he had to admit, did have its advantages. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" he whined finally. She kept her attention on the mirrors. "Of course I have, dear. The judge was very upset about the chicken eggs. Explain again, dear, why you used them? I'm still having a little trouble with that." He swallowed hard. It was a subject he'd hoped to avoid. He decided to go on the offensive. "Chrissakes, Joanna, how the hell were we supposed to know? I mean, did you know turtle eggs don't look like chicken eggs? Gimme a break!" He spoke to the back of her neck. "What were we supposed to do? You said make turtle nests. You didn't tell us where to get turtle eggs." "Do you read at all? Ever? It's in the paper just about every day. There are thousands of sea-turtle nests south of the Brevard County line, thousands of sea-turtle nests north of the Flagler line. That's why your slut wife is suing our county, remember?" Joanna peeled the straps of her sundress off her shoulders and pushed the black gown up to her chest, draping strands of bleached blonde hair down over the fabric. "Now. If there were thousands of sea turtle eggs a few miles north, thousands more a few miles south, explain why it seemed a good idea to use chicken eggs. Is my hair too light for this dress?" "You didn't tell me any of that yesterday," Nick complained. He continued addressing the back of her head. "The judge knows we did it, Joanna! He's gonna rule against us!" She hung both gowns on the rack, smoothed the yellow sundress and walked to the edge of her bed. The pink sheets crinkled as she sat down and crossed her legs, pointed a perfectly pedicured big toe at her stepson. "How many times, Robert, have I told you never to call me Joanna?" Nick groaned. "Come on, Joanna, I feel stupid calling you Mom. You're younger than me." She nodded. "A technicality. It's also a technicality that I control your father's trust fund, and the foundation, and the business. So, technically, if I wanted you to call me the Queen of Sheba, it technically would be in your interest to do so." She smiled brightly. "Don't you agree?" Nick dropped his head and sighed. "Yes ... Mom." Joanna wagged her bare foot, admiring the bright red nail polish. "So explain. Tell me why you picked chicken eggs, although I suppose I should count my blessings you didn't use ostrich eggs or robin eggs or Egg McMuffins. After all, I didn't tell you not to use any of those, either." More than anything, he loathed the smug sarcasm. "Me and the Ramseys got way behind schedule when that turtle bit off Tony's little finger." Joanna didn't even flinch. "Of course. What turtle would that be?" "We needed to make tracks. You know, from the nests down to the water? So we needed a turtle. So Tony and Toby and me drove up to Reptile Kingdom in St. Augustine." Nick lowered his eyes. "I told them not to take a snapper. Anyway, by the time we got out of the emergency room, it was almost light. It was too late to find a turtle, so we figured we could make do with gator tracks, seeing as how we already had those gator-claw back scratchers in the office." Joanna continued wagging her foot. "Of course. Gator back scratchers." "You remember," he sniffed. "The Chamber sent them out as publicity for Crother's airboat rides?" Joanna cocked her head 45 degrees, as if a fresh angle might clarify everything. "And you made alligator tracks leading to sea-turtle nests because...." "Geez, Joanna, how the hell were we supposed to know they'd have such different feet? The Ramseys saw this sign at Reptile Kingdom that said gators and turtles were cousins." Nick pouted. "Sure, it's easy to criticize now, in hindsight. You weren't there...." "We keep coming back to the Ramseys. The Ramseys this. The Ramseys that. Perhaps you've forgotten? The Ramseys are half-wits? We employ them to stack heavy things on top of other heavy things? And even then they need close direction? Yet now they're reptile experts?" She sighed, shook her sadly. "Go on." "So they figured out they weren't real turtle nests when some kids got into an egg fight this morning. Some smart-ass tourist looked at one and called the lifeguard. The lifeguard called the Beach Patrol, the Beach Patrol called Barbie." Joanna stared icily, and Nick shuddered. For a short, on-the-dumpy-side, middle-aged lady with rounded cheeks, too much makeup and platinum hair, Joanna had a terrible stare. It gave him the willies. "This isn't what I had in mind." Nick snorted. "No shit, Jo--" She lunged forward with an open hand. "You watch your mouth. A gentleman doesn't use that kind of language." Nick opened his mouth to argue, saw her glare, shut it again. She stood and walked back to continue her inspection of her closet. "Do you have the slightest idea what I had to go through to take us public? Do you know what's involved in lining up state funding for a project this size? We won't see a penny of it if this turtle nonsense continues. John Robert, I've devoted too much time and energy to this to let Barbie screw it up." Nick swallowed. "Yes, Mom." "We need to move to the next level, Robert." "Yes, Mom," he said automatically while wondering: What next level? Joanna slid gown after gown down the rack, stopped at a spaghetti-strapped creation of purple crepe. "We need to stop this lawsuit at the source." "We already tried the lawyer, Mom. There was nothing there. The bastard pays his taxes, cuts his lawn, doesn't cheat on his wife or beat his dog." Joanna passed on the purple and flipped more rapidly. "I said at the source, Robert." Nick's eyes brightened. "You mean I can divorce her?" She turned, aghast. "At the start of the spring season? How would that look? And with the public offering next month. No, I said the source." He looked at her helplessly. "I don't follow...." Joanna picked out a shimmering, semi-sheer, ankle-length gown. "You remember that lunch with the Teasdales, a couple of months ago? It was right after they took Floyd away?" He thought back to the lunch, a three-hour ordeal with all of Joanna's gossipy friends to leak word about Raceway Enterprises' coming public offering. Their news had been overshadowed by the arrest of Floyd Chappel, of Chappel Chevrolet Buick, for hiring his gardener to kill his wife. A dimmer switch slowly turned inside Nick's head. "You mean I should ... kill her?" he whispered. "Gentlemen don't kill their wives," Joanna said, untying the strap to her sundress and stepping out of it. She lifted the shimmering gown over her head and tugged it downward over various bulges. "Gentlemen have them killed. Quietly." She turned back to the mirror. "Can you
see my underthings through this?" She pulled the fabric
tight over her breasts. "I might have to wear it without
them." Amee Mosher sipped her drink and watched the cue ball bounce off the cushion and roll across the table before coming to a stop. Perfect, right in front of her Joe. She put down her drink, picked up the chalk and, though she still had no idea why, rubbed it purposefully onto the end of her cuestick. She sashayed around to the cueball, squeezed between the table and the T-shirted tourist who held the other stick. He had pressed himself flat against the wall, but she made sure to brush heavily against him as she passed. "Excuse me," she smiled, then leaned over the table, unnaturally and unnecessarily lifting one leg to knock the cue ball against the solid blue while simultaneously providing her opponent an opportunity to inspect the strip of swimsuit that ran between her thighs. The blue fell into the corner pocket and the cue ball came to a stop directly across the table from her Joe: her other favorite position. She wandered around the table, sipped her drink and bent over, leisurely lining up her shot while giving her customer a nice, long view down her cleavage. She jiggled a little to swing in unison, then shot her opponent a smile and the eight ball into the side pocket. Game. The T-shirted tourist laid down the cuestick and rooted through his day-glo orange fanny pack for a $5 bill. "You shoot a nice game of pool," he said with a strong mid-western accent. Amee took the five and stuck it in her own fanny pack, cherry red to match the triangles of Lyra covering her nipples and groin. In the back were just thin red strings. "You shoot a good game yourself, Fred. Maybe you'll come back for another before you head home to Akron?" "How about right now?" He dug a pudgy hand back into the fanny pack. "I'm goin' to the time trials tomorrow, and the wife wants to do Disney on Wednesday." Amee smiled broadly, big white teeth gleaming despite the pool hall's dingy fluorescent tubes. "Can't right now, sport. Gotta take a break. But I'll be here all afternoon." She smiled at him again, studied his sunburned features. Oh, what the hell. He'd dropped $25 on her in just over 20 minutes. She stood on tip-toe to kiss him on the cheek. "You come back to say 'bye' before you leave Daytona," she warned as he stumbled through the door. "And bring your wife, next time." She walked through the passageway into the bar, where another Rum Runner awaited in a big plastic tumbler. "Thanks, Rick," she called out as she popped herself on a stool, leaned forward to take a big slug from the tumbler. It was a Chamber of Commerce giveaway with drawings of large-bosomed women playing beach volleyball on one side and stock cars on the other. The slogan "Daytona is My Beach" ran all the way around it. "Havin' a good day, Cherry?" Rick had returned from the back room and was clearing empties off the bar. "Same old, same old," Amee said between gulps of the bubblegum-colored drink. She unzipped her fanny-pack, pulled out a fistful of bills and began sorting: two $20s, one $10 and three $5s. And it was barely noon. She would do even better come evening, when passersby on the Boardwalk could see in through the plate-glass windows and watch her dance around the pool table wearing only a thong, an ankle bracelet and a navel ring. She usually took in $100 to $150 a night, more during the prime tourist season of Speed Week, Bike Week and Spring Break, though the college students were notoriously tight with tips. Her game had actually gotten pretty good, and she could usually polish off a Joe within five minutes. She would always break: Ladies first, she would tell them. Sometimes she would run the table without the customer ever getting a shot. At $5 a game -- she was always a player; the rare win by the customer only earned him the right to an immediate rematch -- it was pretty easy money. A hell of a lot easier than the street stuff she'd done in her younger years, back when she still called herself "Cherry on Top," back before that November five years earlier when she'd finally hitched her way down from Erie. Now, at age 19 with chest and hips fully filled in, Amee Mosher had hit her prime in a town that fully appreciated her talents. She struck a match from one of the cardboard books at the end of the bar and lit a crumpled cigarette from her fanny-pack. "Gimme another, Ricky-Boy," she called. Rick poured a pink mixture into the blender, splashed in some Bacardi and flipped the switch. "You'd better watch yourself with all that cash," he warned, nodding at the pile of bills on the bar. "People here kill for less." She nodded and smiled. "I know. Isn't
this a great town?" It was the lunch hour, the most likely time for customers until the true tourist season began, yet not even a single window-shopper roamed the street. Barbie Baxter laid the library book on the migratory patterns of green and leatherback turtles on the counter, wedged open the front door and moved onto the sidewalk to smile at passersby. With her runway-model legs and exotic bone structure, she was Harmonic Age's best advertisement, and she certainly wasn't bringing in any customers sitting on a stool behind the cash register. She stood with the model's permanent half-smile, but continued worrying about finances. Without $50,000 to pay her lawyer, he would drop the case just as it was going to trial. Not that she could blame him. His business had suffered already for taking on such an unpopular cause. Daytona was known the world over as the place you could drive on the beach, and here she was trying to get rid of it. But she was right and she knew it. Ancient species that scientists knew almost nothing about were going extinct before her eyes. How many hatchlings had been crushed under the wheels of cars cruising the sand? How many more had been poisoned by motor oil and antifreeze drippings? The county didn't know. Because they were in Joanna Van Horne's pocket, they didn't care, either. She sighed, wished again she'd cleaned out half the joint account when she'd had the chance. That would have paid the legal fees and then some. But no, she'd had her pride, and had wanted to walk away with no more than she'd brought in. The decision had cost her dearly. The store that had done so well when New Age was the latest fad now barely held its own. She'd been late a couple of times on the mortgage, and the bank had threatened to call the note, which, if they'd followed through, would have finished her. And all of that was before she founded Save Our Turtles and took on the city, the county, the Van Hornes and pretty much everybody else that mattered in northeast Florida. She sighed again and crossed the sidewalk to lean against the lamp post. The unseasonably warm February sun was generating a sea breeze off the cool Atlantic four blocks away, and Barbie rubbed her upper arms to smooth away the goose bumps. She'd always been sensitive to the cold, and two decades in Florida had thinned her blood even further. She would have preferred a sweater over the white cotton minidress and sneakers instead of the white leather sandals, but she didn't sell sweaters and she didn't sell sneakers. If customers liked what they saw on her, and they most always did, then she wanted to be sure they could find it on her racks. Today she had chosen a white coral necklace and matching bracelets and earrings to complete the ensemble. With her golden complexion and long brown hair, the effect was, as intended, stunning. She turned west toward the river and noticed a Bohemian couple strolling hand-in-hand. Both were decked out in the latest salute to the seventies: tie-dyed shirts, neckerchiefs, Birkenstocks. Barbie flashed them her best smile and smoothed out her dress. The long-haired boy grinned back sheepishly, while the short-haired girl dragged him to the window display of amethyst jewelry. Barbie always put out that month's birthstone in a prominent location, and the display usually brought in more than its share of customers. She was about to ask if she could help them find anything when the girl tugged the boy's hand and started down the street again, telling him they had to hurry or they wouldn't get a good spot for the race. The boy raised his eyebrows and smiled at Barbie -- you know how women are! -- and let himself be dragged away. Bewildered, Barbie could only shake her head. Since when did kids who dressed like hippies care about Jet-Skis, for God's sake? She watched them as they walked away and noticed the glint of gold around the girl's ankle. She examined her own unadorned feet and wondered whether she should finally give in and start wearing an ankle bracelet. She'd always considered them the mark of wild teenagers and horny divorcees, the sign of a true slut, willing to do just about anything with just about anyone. Lately, though, she'd noticed them on all kinds of women: lawyers, dental assistants and bank officers as well as the waitresses, hotel managers and sales clerks who had worn them for years. Maybe they were more respectable now. Or maybe they were only respectable in Daytona. Maybe, she sighed, it was time she learned to go along to get along. She stepped back through the doorway and noticed the crystal wall clock was almost at 1, almost time for the races. With no customers in sight, and as much as she hated to, she realized she might as well head down to the beach. She needed to keep current, and in a town that lived and breathed racing, that meant knowing who won and why. She grabbed her book and keys, flipped the
OPEN sign to CLOSED and stepped back outside to lock up.
The radio blasted out "Fun, fun, fun" and Nick snapped his fingers to the beat. Ordinarily he would have switched stations on subject matter alone, but nothing could dampen his day now. Not even the fact that he was driving the hideous green Monte Carlo he hated but had to pretend to love because Chevrolet had given it to him and Chevrolet was a major sponsor. It had bugged him for years. Why the hell couldn't Ferrari be a NASCAR sponsor? Or Aston-Martin? James Bond didn't have to drive a Monte Carlo; why the hell did he? Yet even that chronic complaint was set aside for the moment as he savored his good fortune: He would be free! And no long, drawn-out divorce, no papers, no alimony! Just a quick, one-time payment and that was that. Joanna had simply cut him a $50,000 check and told him to take care of it! He came to a stop and returned the wave from the car beside him. He had no idea who the man was. A banker maybe. Or insurance agent. One of the many smarmy hangers-on who made their living off his inheritance. Someday, it occurred to him, when he was running things, he might have to pay attention to names and faces and the like. He glanced back at the vaguely familiar face and decided: No, he wouldn't. No, he was going to be so damn rich that he'd be as rude and inconsiderate as he wanted and people would still have to be nice to him. The light turned green, Nick pushed the accelerator and the Monte Carlo surged forward as Nick held the wheel steady. Big, dumb, American muscle car. Wanted to go anywhere but straight. Ah, the hell with it. When he was boss, he would end the stupid charade and buy himself a Beemer. If GM and Ford didn't like it, well they could go piss up a tree. They could go find some other car racing circuit with NASCAR's numbers. Come to think of it, he might even sell the whole works and live off the proceeds. That would be nice: no more pre-dawn Rotary breakfasts, no more interminable Halifax Club lunches, no more mind-numbing trips to Talladega or Bristol or Darlington. Best of all, no more races! Ever! No more obligatory visits to the grimy pits, no more ringing in his ears for hours afterward, no more inane conversations with backwoods drivers. Nick sighed in anticipation. Patience. All that would have to wait. First things first: find someone to do Barbie. He smiled again at the $50,000 in his pocket, equal to half his yearly allowance. In fact, he'd never had so much money on him in his life. The thought made him dizzy, and without warning the light in his head came on, full and dazzlingly bright: Why did he have to spend it all on Barbie? Surely it wouldn't require the entire fifty grand! Whatever was left could go straight into his pocket, and Joanna would never be the wiser. He smiled to himself, wondering how to spend a $25,000 windfall. Or $35,000. Or $45,000. God, he wished now he'd paid more attention when Floyd Chappel had been arrested for hiring his gardener. How much had Floyd paid? Surely not more than $10,000. And was that all up front? Or half now, half on delivery? What if the guy failed? Was there a refund? And what about weapons? Was that the responsibility of the customer? Or the contractor? So many questions.... We wished he could talk to Floyd. Well, maybe he could! Maybe he could run down to the county jail and visit him, ask him about how he'd gone about looking for someone, how he'd settled on his gardener, if he had any advice.... In a flash, Nick's smile vanished. Floyd was in jail! He had killed his wife, and now he would fry in the electric chair! Christ, what the hell was he thinking? Visiting him? He slowed down, took a deep breath and calmed himself. Lots of guys had their wives killed. It was on the news all the time. Only the dumb ones got caught. He wouldn't be dumb, that's all. And on second thought, he didn't care what Floyd did. Floyd got caught. Floyd was dumb. Floyd was not a good person to emulate. He would be careful, Nick decided. He would wear his disguise when he met with prospects. He would never use his real name. Besides. Most guys who had their wives killed
didn't have the local police chief in their pocket. The smile
returned. Nick turned up the radio and stepped on the gas.
Out on the river a flotilla of sailboats headed south, foresails flying in the afternoon breeze. The lead boat was a classic old yawl with a long, graceful sheer, with a middle-aged woman moving forward to remove the mainsail cover. Long black hair shimmered in the bright sun as she peeled off the blue canvas and walked barefoot back to the cockpit. Nolin sighed and pulled himself from the window. The view only depressed him, and too many briefs lay piled on his desk awaiting his attention. He locked his eyes onto the top page of the top folder, but his mind wandered back to the yawl and her crew. Middle-aged, he'd thought when he saw her. Middle-aged, with long thin legs, a terrific tan and able to wear shorts and a T-shirt every day. Middle-aged. But then what the hell was he? A year away from 40, never married, no children. In another few years or two or one, he'd be middle-aged, too, and what would he have accomplished? A struggling law practice in a tawdry little town, that's what. A tawdry little town he'd sworn he'd leave as soon as his old man died, when there would be nothing left tying him down. That had been three years ago and, wonder of wonders, here he was still. He stood and walked back to the big, wood-framed window looking out on the river. There had been a time when the house itself kept his attention. Big and old, with enough space for a two-room office in front and three bedrooms, kitchen and den around and above. He'd loved restoring it, replacing rotten timbers, installing new wiring, painting, staining, polishing. And then it was done, and he'd spent an ever increasing amount of time gazing at his dock that jutted out into the Halifax, with the little Boston Whaler that sat tied to the end. He'd though perhaps it was the location that was driving him antsy, and he'd sunk a good year's profits into a ramshackle beach house not far north of the inlet. The energy had returned as he went back to work with hammer and crowbar. He'd come to realize, though, that the only thing that would change was his view. Instead of looking out across the river at the other shore, he would look out across the ocean and think of Africa. The last of the boats disappeared beyond the bend in the channel and he returned to his chair, once more picking up the brief at the top of the pile and throwing his long legs over the corner of the desk, the only patch remaining uncluttered by paper. Oh, what the hell. He had most of the drywall up and had already bought the tile; he might as well finish. It was grunt work, but he enjoyed it. And he knew he could sell the finished product for at least twice what he'd paid. It really wasn't a bad gig: one house to live in, one to fix up. Meanwhile, the occasional divorce case paid the bills. Behind him he heard the car pull into the driveway that connected Riverside with 10th. He dropped the file back on top of the pile, waited for the doorbell and rose to answer it. A soft, doughy face peered through the glass panels beside the door. Short arms rose to adjust a tie. Nolin pulled the door open, and the visitor quickly stepped past him into the foyer. "Big fancy lawyer answering his own door now?" Nolin remembered the face, but couldn't attach the name. "I'm between receptionists," he answered pleasantly. He glanced at the necktie, noticed the red and white stock cars and it came to him. "What can I help you with, Mr. Van Horne?" Nick looked out from under lazy eyelids. "You find anything yet?" The details came to Nolin as he ushered Nick into his reading room, stacked on three walls with the usual, floor-to-ceiling shelves of law books. "Your estranged wife, correct? The one you're thinking of divorcing?" Nick spread himself unceremoniously into the easy chair. "You were gonna find out if she's spending my money. Is she?" Nolin snapped his fingers and moved to the oak filing cabinet on the fourth wall. He pulled out a file and leafed through it for a moment before sitting on the couch. "You understand, Mr. Van Horne, that I have no power of subpoena, not until there is an actual petition filed and we are in the discovery process. And as you know, bank records are not public. We were only able to make some discreet inquiries. We don't know, for example, where exactly she's spending her money." Nick crossed and uncrossed his legs, spun his fingers in circles. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. So what do you got?" "Barbara Baxter Van Horne. Age 34. Married. Owns a single-family residential dwelling on State Road A1A, assessed vale $177,000. Claims a homestead exemption. Current on her taxes. One car registered in her name, a 1989 Volkswagen, fully paid. Seems to be using a single account at Barnett Bank for all her expenses." "That's it? The Barnett account?" "So it seems." "She's not getting anything out of First Volusia?" "Apparently not. Isn't the account at First Volusia in your name?" "Yeah. But we're still married, so doesn't she get access or anything?" "No, sir. It has to be a joint account for her to have access. And you closed the only joint account you had, correct?" Nick hung his head, dejected. "So where's she getting all the money?" Nolin flipped a page in the thin folder. "As far as I can tell, Mr. Van Horne, it doesn't seem to be that much money. Besides, she does have the boutique on Seabreeze." "No way," Nick shook his head. "No way that stupid place pays for everything." Nolin closed the folder and dropped it on the coffee table. "I don't know what else to tell you." Nick stood, stuck his hands in his pockets to jingle his coins. "You don't have to tell me nothing. All you lawyers; you're all the same. Well, I gotta get going. I'm already late for the Jet-Skis. I don't need any more information, alright? So I don't want you spending any more of my money on this." Nolin lifted an eyebrow. "You're telling me, then, that you don't need representation in a matrimonial?" Nick scowled. "Matri...." "A divorce." "Oh." Nick considered the question a moment. "Uh, not at the moment, no. But I'm not ruling it out in the future, you understand." He thought that over, liked the sound of it. "In fact, yeah. I do want a divorce, just not right now. Okay?" Nolin shrugged. "Whatever you say." "In the meantime, I hope you realize how sensitive a situation this is." Nolin didn't have the foggiest. "Absolutely." "With my family's standing in town and all, you know how damaging any publicity would be." Now Nolin understood, and suppressed a smile. "I can appreciate your concern, Mr. Van Horne. As you know, an attorney-client relationship is strictly confidential. Our dealings are absolutely private." Nick's eyes opened a fraction. "Yeah," he nodded. "And don't you forget it. Unless you want the bar association to yank your license. And don't think I can't have it done. I have some, shall we say, influential friends in Tallahassee." Nick opened the door for himself and got into
his brand new green Monte Carlo. Nolin waited for it to turn
the corner before he started laughing. Jamie Hotchkiss stuck his grimy feet into a pair of Nike sandals, strung the credentials around his neck and grabbed the camera off the passenger seat. The beach was already getting crowded, and he needed to hurry. He walked toward the water's edge, crossed two lanes of traffic at the high-water mark and weaved through a menagerie of tourists in bright shorts, businessmen in loafers and housewives with toddlers to find the racers, their machines and, most important, their fans. Yessir, the babes were flocking, just like he figured. Despite the chilly breeze off the greenish-brown water, the Jet-Ski groupies bravely sported their thong bikinis. By the dozens, firm young buttocks faced shoreward, tanned and goose bumped. Jamie adjusted his press badges. He'd spent hours smudging the date so no one would realize he'd dug them from the trash following the last race three months earlier. Then he adjusted the zoom lens of the Nikon he'd found on some tourist's blanket two days earlier. Carefully he half-pressed the shutter until, with a sudden whir, a trio of bare bottoms came into stark focus. He snapped off a couple of frames, put on his best salesman's smile and walked up behind the girls. "Beautiful day, ain't it?" he asked after a while. At just under six feet, with dirty blond hair and a dimple, they would have looked at him anyway. With the credentials and camera, they were as good as his. "Nice enough," said the shortest of the three, a long-haired brunette. "You a photographer?" Jamie affected a blush. It was a trick he'd lived off of for years. "Well, I shoot freelance for Personal Watercraft magazine." They looked at him blankly. "You know. Jet-Skis. Waverunners." "Oh yeah," the tallest girl nodded. "I get that once in a while. You know, just to see what's new." "Sure," Jamie agreed. "You've probably seen some of my work. Remember the issue with the South Beach race? I shot most of that." He smiled broadly and extended his hand. "Jamie Hotchkiss." One by one, the girls shook his hand and introduced themselves: Tiffany, Monica and Kristin. It was Monica, the tall one, who asked him what he'd been waiting to hear. "So, Jamie, you ever take pictures of other things? Or just Jet-Skis?" Jamie smiled again and went to work.
No matter how he adjusted them, the blasted headphones chafed his ears. He had no idea how teenagers spent blissful hours in them, whole days in them. Within minutes of donning them, he wanted to tear them off, fling them into the surf. Outwardly he maintained a Zen-like calm, sitting cross-legged on his towel, invisible in the dark shades, headphones and Walkman clipped to his shorts. Casually he checked his watch for the fiftieth time and, for the fiftieth time, cursed inwardly. Those damn Van Hornes! Where the hell were they? They didn't even have the courtesy to be on time for their own stupid party! He looked again out at the race course: three orange buoys set in a large triangle, with two of the markers forming a line parallel to the beach. If he'd done his homework properly, the tank was just about halfway between the southern mark and the eastern one. But if they didn't start soon, it would all be for naught. The race had been scheduled for low tide, to maximize spectator room on the beach, and that's what he'd set his float for. It was already an hour past low and rising quickly. True, there were always at least a few people in the water even before the race. He could set it off now.... But then the only targets would be the acolytes tuning their masters' machines and a few of the bikini set who were wading in and out of water to their knees. He had no particular love for the bikini bimbos, and the racers' helpers were certainly Jet-Ski operators themselves and therefore fair game. But the statement he wanted was best made with some actual, wet-suited racers. Live on ESPN, for the entire world to witness via satellite. No, he would wait. It would be worth it. He scanned the crowd again. The miserable matriarch, Joanna Van Horne, had finally arrived on the VIP platform in a bright yellow miniskirt, white blouse and a white jacket. She was only about 20 years too old for that look, but that had never stopped her before, he remembered. Even she was looking anxiously toward the street. Obviously it was the moron son holding things up now. He turned quickly as a high-pitched whine cut through the buzz of the crowd and the rumble of the surf. One of the racers sped straight out to sea, turned around and sped back. Who knew why? Perhaps to impress the girls, who were starting to look bored as they stood in groups and gossiped. Three of them lounged unnaturally on a Jet-Ski for a photographer, who darted like a puppy from side to side, taking pictures of as much up-turned and thrust-out flesh as he could manage. From behind him a cheer went up, and he turned to see the pudgy form of J. Robert Van Horne climb the platform steps and lamely hug his stepmother. A high-pitched squeal from the loudspeakers preceded her voice, welcoming everyone to the World's Most Famous Beach for the First Annual Daytona Offshore 100. He smiled to himself and adjusted his Walkman.
It was going to work out after all. Nick grimaced, wished yet again he'd remembered to bring what he never went to the Raceway without: earplugs. Because yet again the pack rounded the far marker and shrieked back toward the beach. What the hell was he doing here, anyway? The turtle trial was supposed to start the following week. He only had seven days to work with. He should be out interviewing killers, not standing around watching a bunch of dumb Jet-Skis. Murder-for-hire was among Daytona's favorite pastimes, with at least one arrest every other month. Still, he had no idea where to begin. He tried to remember the newspaper headlines, the TV reports from the county jail or the scene of the crime. In almost every one, it seemed, the hitman was someone known to both customer and victim. Who did he know who could pull off something like that? Certainly not the twins. They'd be lucky not to kill each other by accident. Besides, having somebody you knew do it seemed almost as bad as doing it yourself. That's the first place the cops would start asking questions. There was probably a limit to how much friends in high places could do if it was obvious even to the greenest rookie that your pool guy had knocked off your wife. No, there had to be a better way.... He'd taken the last gulp from his glass when the old light bulb came shining through again. He smiled as he confirmed to himself once more that he'd always go far because he was always one step ahead, always one notch smarter than the crowd. The fact that every murder-for-hire he'd seen on the news had been committed by a friend of the family proved absolutely that that was the wrong way to go. Hah! Every single one of those cases was a failure, with the murderer going to prison or worse. No, thank you. He would find an outsider.
Somebody with no ties to either him or Barbie. Preferably someone
with no ties even to Daytona. Someone who visited town but rarely,
didn't know anybody here and was prone to violence and easy money.
Someone, he smiled again, like a biker. And he knew just where
to look. And as soon as this blasted race was over, that's just
what he'd do. Once again, the horde of banshees rounded the mark and headed away from the beach. Once again, he pushed the "Play" button on his Walkman. And once again, nothing happened. God damn it, he swore to himself. God damn it all. He'd waited too long. The water was too high now. The aerial was completely submerged, and it wasn't going to happen. All that time and money and planning. Wasted. All because of that lard-ass Van Horne showing up an hour late. Damn him to hell. He bit back his anger and thought. There was
still a chance. He'd have to time it with a trough of the wave,
when a bit of wire was most likely to stick out above the surface.
It was a long shot, but at this point, it was better than nothing.
All he could do was try. Nick winced again. It wasn't that they were particularly loud. They weren't, at least not compared to stock cars. They were just annoying, with a ridiculous high-pitched whine that lessened only for a blissful moment as the riders slowed to round a buoy. A swarm of mosquitos. That's what they were. Just as persistent, just as irritating. He swigged the rest of his vodka martini and turned to the table to make another, glancing sideways to see if his stepmother would notice. As usual, she was feigning total absorption in the race: standing upright in white pumps and miniskirt, eyes straight ahead, hands cupped around her wineglass. He had to admit, grudgingly, that she still cut a decent figure, for a woman of 46. Back when his dad had taken up with her, she'd been downright spectacular. He'd had trouble sleeping at nights, thinking about her swimming in the pool or sitting in the kitchen in her purple kimono. Much of that unnerving attraction was gone, thankfully, now that he'd learned to parlay his name and bank account into an active social life. The Daytona Debs hung on his every word, breaking dates and rearranging vacations to accompany him somewhere. Alas, they weren't much fun. Plus they were so expensive. With money of their own at home, it took real gold and real diamonds to impress. And, eventually, they wanted the whole thing: a ring, a big wedding, the name. Not like his little Cherry, whose heart he'd won with a $24.99 ankle bracelet. She wore it all the time, he'd noticed, and usually not much else. That was the nice thing about Boardwalk babes: they never expected much. A decent $15 meal and a couple of six-packs of beer would get you everything you wanted. He recalled again the previous week, when she'd invited one of her girlfriends along. The three of them had split a magnum of champagne when the girlfriend and Cherry started getting friendly. It had rattled him, and he'd remembered an important appointment and escaped. He'd been able to think of little else since. Next time, he swore, he wasn't going to freak out. Next time, he'd do them both, and have plenty left to spare. In fact, he wondered if she wasn't there now, on the beach. He picked up the binoculars and started scanning bimbo row along the water's edge. Quickly he settled on two possible sets of butt cheeks. Both were darkly tanned, firm and perky. Both were bisected by a bright red strip of fabric. Now as soon as they turned a little bit.... But they didn't turn, and instead kept their eyes locked on the racers. Damn them! What the hell was so interesting about a bunch of cretins riding Jet-Skis that they couldn't look away even for a minute? Hell, he'd met some of the racers. They weren't even rich! He couldn't understand the fascination with drivers, either, but at least some of them took home hundreds of thousands of dollars every race. He darted the binoculars between the red-thonged girls for a while longer. Neither turned around, and out of sheer boredom he lifted the glasses toward the Jet-Skis. Rounding the southern mark, they were, bouncing through the small chop out toward the seaward mark. A guy in a yellow wetsuit and blue helmet was in the lead, followed closely by a guy in a green wetsuit and red helmet. Or maybe Green Wetsuit was about to lap Yellow Wetsuit. Who knew? Who cared? He followed Yellow Wetsuit up to the far mark.... Well, that was odd. The water around the orange buoy seemed darker than everywhere else, almost purple instead of green. Yellow Wetsuit slowed to take the turn, leaning toward the beach and sticking his left leg out to pivot around.... And he was gone. Nick blinked, dropped the binoculars to see the whole picture. Sure enough, Yellow Wetsuit's Jet-Ski sat in the water next to the buoy, but Yellow Wetsuit himself had disappeared. Within moments, Green Wetsuit was right on top of the idle Jet-Ski, turning around it, trailing his leg when the water exploded in front of him, fell over him, swallowed him. And he was gone, too. But he wasn't, completely. The crowd saw it the same moment Nick did, and as a group stepped back from the water's edge. A woman screamed, then another, as the phalanx of mechanics and gofers stood motionless by their trailers and corporate tents. Because still attached to the throttle of the little fuchsia water scooter, still driving it in ever widening, manic circles, was Green Wetsuit's forearm, the thin spiral kill-switch cord still strapped to the wrist. Nick watched with dropped jaw as the single-handed Jet-Ski bounced off one boat, then another, knocking their riders into the now frenzied water before ramming a third racer head on. Both boats stopped dead for a moment before erupting in an orange ball of flame. The remaining racers slowed to an idle, then saw why the water around the buoy was so turbulent: dark fins, more than a dozen, surrounding the riderless Jet-Skis, slicing through the purple murk. Without warning, another wave exploded over Green Wetsuit's Jet-Ski, shook the big plastic machine, then, amazingly, dragged it underwater. The crowd screamed as one when, a few moments later, the boat popped back through the surface and settled low in the water. Green Wetsuit's forearm was gone. Nick watched in stunned rapture. Five abandoned Jet-Skis sat near the far buoy in various states of disrepair. The remaining dozen were back on the beach, their riders gesturing wildly at the water. The crowd of spectators murmured uncertainly, not knowing exactly what to expect next or even exactly what had happened. And everywhere, Jet-Ski bimbos clung to boyfriends, strangers, each other. Slowly it dawned on Nick what a wonderful, beautiful thing had just occurred. There would be no yellow caution flag, no prolonged delay as crews cleared wreckage and soaked up spilled oil from the track. That was it. The race was finished. He could go home.
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