pleasant playmates.”
“I won’t mention you, then,” I promised.
“No, I don’t want to hold you to that,” he insisted. “Play it by ear.” He forked an uneaten pancake onto a napkin. “Kaiser loves these things.”
We went out to the car where Kaiser proved him right. I was sure Robin Ford hadn’t seen me. “Are you going back to your office?” I asked Jed.
He looked at his watch. “Not till this afternoon. I’m havin’ a get-together with a couple at the other end of the county. Object: sale of real estate. Catch me at the office later. Or at the house. You know where it is?”
I shook my head and he told me how to find it. I dropped him off at his car before driving out to the swamp. The place he had described wasn’t hard to find; 2.1 miles on the odometer brought me to the bait and tackle for rent sign. I sat in the car and looked at it. Fifty yards beyond it was another sign: airboat for hire. My first time around in Hudson an airboat had played a very prominent part in my getting out of town alive.
I got out of the car after letting Kaiser out. The heat of the day was increasing steadily. Kaiser located the dirt path Jed had mentioned. After a glance over his shoulder to see that I was following, the shepherd trotted along it in front of me. The path led away from the two signs. Evidently neither was Casey Deakin’s operation.
My footsteps were muffled on the dusty earth. The only sounds were the occasional whizzing-past rush of a car on the road and the lapping of water at a dilapidated-looking wooden dock seen hazily through head-high weeds. In the distance buzzards wheeled in huge circles over some dead thing in the swamp.
The path rounded a corner and I found myself confronting a shack. It was such a decrepit-looking structure I couldn’t believe anyone would be living in it. Sagging, splintered boards were inadequately shielded from the Florida sun by strips of tarpaper which showed residual traces of bubbling-action from continual exposure. There was a dank odor that didn’t come entirely from the swamp.
Kaiser bounded into the center of the small scruffy-looking clearing. The dog advanced upon a dirt-encrusted caricature of a beach umbrella set up in a corner of the clearing over a broken-out, cane-bottomed chair which had one leg shorter than the others.
A man was sitting in the lopsided chair, watching me. Kaiser circled his chair rapidly, then returned to sit on his haunches where I was standing. The man wore a frowsy growth of gray beard, and the state of his hair indicated that a comb hadn’t touched it in days. His big frame appeared shrunken in its slumped posture in the tilted chair.
“Mr. Deakin?” I said tentatively, walking toward him. Kaiser moved forward with me.
“Used to be,” the man said in a high-pitched voice that creaked with disuse or a throat impairment.
At closer range I could see that something was wrong with his face. It was odd-shaped; out of symmetry. He’d had plastic surgery after a beating, but not enough. His eyes were the strangest thing about his broken face. Even while looking right at me they appeared to be fixed inwardly in meditative contemplation.
“I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Deakin.”
He cleared his throat heavily. “I don’t want any of what you’re sellin’, an’ couldn’t afford it if I did.” He folded his hands in his lap. His gaze appeared to be directed indifferently somewhere over my left shoulder.
I moved closer to him. He made no overt movement, but I detected an involuntary shrinking-back. A flash of apprehension in the eyes told the story graphically. Some men can take a physical beating and rebound, fueled by their rage and hatred. Others are never the same. I placed a hand on my face, calling Deakin’s attention to my plastic-surgery-repaired features. “I’ve been that route, too,” I assured him.
For a moment he appeared not to catch the implication. Then his eyes narrowed as though focusing upon
“I won’t mention you, then,” I promised.
“No, I don’t want to hold you to that,” he insisted. “Play it by ear.” He forked an uneaten pancake onto a napkin. “Kaiser loves these things.”
We went out to the car where Kaiser proved him right. I was sure Robin Ford hadn’t seen me. “Are you going back to your office?” I asked Jed.
He looked at his watch. “Not till this afternoon. I’m havin’ a get-together with a couple at the other end of the county. Object: sale of real estate. Catch me at the office later. Or at the house. You know where it is?”
I shook my head and he told me how to find it. I dropped him off at his car before driving out to the swamp. The place he had described wasn’t hard to find; 2.1 miles on the odometer brought me to the bait and tackle for rent sign. I sat in the car and looked at it. Fifty yards beyond it was another sign: airboat for hire. My first time around in Hudson an airboat had played a very prominent part in my getting out of town alive.
I got out of the car after letting Kaiser out. The heat of the day was increasing steadily. Kaiser located the dirt path Jed had mentioned. After a glance over his shoulder to see that I was following, the shepherd trotted along it in front of me. The path led away from the two signs. Evidently neither was Casey Deakin’s operation.
My footsteps were muffled on the dusty earth. The only sounds were the occasional whizzing-past rush of a car on the road and the lapping of water at a dilapidated-looking wooden dock seen hazily through head-high weeds. In the distance buzzards wheeled in huge circles over some dead thing in the swamp.
The path rounded a corner and I found myself confronting a shack. It was such a decrepit-looking structure I couldn’t believe anyone would be living in it. Sagging, splintered boards were inadequately shielded from the Florida sun by strips of tarpaper which showed residual traces of bubbling-action from continual exposure. There was a dank odor that didn’t come entirely from the swamp.
Kaiser bounded into the center of the small scruffy-looking clearing. The dog advanced upon a dirt-encrusted caricature of a beach umbrella set up in a corner of the clearing over a broken-out, cane-bottomed chair which had one leg shorter than the others.
A man was sitting in the lopsided chair, watching me. Kaiser circled his chair rapidly, then returned to sit on his haunches where I was standing. The man wore a frowsy growth of gray beard, and the state of his hair indicated that a comb hadn’t touched it in days. His big frame appeared shrunken in its slumped posture in the tilted chair.
“Mr. Deakin?” I said tentatively, walking toward him. Kaiser moved forward with me.
“Used to be,” the man said in a high-pitched voice that creaked with disuse or a throat impairment.
At closer range I could see that something was wrong with his face. It was odd-shaped; out of symmetry. He’d had plastic surgery after a beating, but not enough. His eyes were the strangest thing about his broken face. Even while looking right at me they appeared to be fixed inwardly in meditative contemplation.
“I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Deakin.”
He cleared his throat heavily. “I don’t want any of what you’re sellin’, an’ couldn’t afford it if I did.” He folded his hands in his lap. His gaze appeared to be directed indifferently somewhere over my left shoulder.
I moved closer to him. He made no overt movement, but I detected an involuntary shrinking-back. A flash of apprehension in the eyes told the story graphically. Some men can take a physical beating and rebound, fueled by their rage and hatred. Others are never the same. I placed a hand on my face, calling Deakin’s attention to my plastic-surgery-repaired features. “I’ve been that route, too,” I assured him.
For a moment he appeared not to catch the implication. Then his eyes narrowed as though focusing upon
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