out.
Stoat turned and cupped a hand to his ear. Willie motioned him closer. Stoat cursed sharply under his breath and walked back.
“It’s about the name,” said Willie, dropping his voice.
“What about it?”
“Didn’t you see the name? In the House budget item.”
Palmer Stoat said, “I don’t read the House budget word for word, Willie. I don’t read the Miami phone book word for word, either. So help me out here, OK?”
“The name should be the same in the Senate version. That’s all I’m saying.”
Stoat had an urge to snatch Willie’s three iron and wrap it around his blotched sweaty neck. “What name,” he said thinly, “would you like me to put in the Senate bill?”
“The Willie Vasquez-Washington Community Outreach Center.”
“Done,” said Stoat. Once again he turned for the clubhouse.
“Shouldn’t you maybe write it down?”
“No, I’ll remember.” Stoat thinking: Community
Outreach
Center? Willie’s not reaching out, he’s just reaching.
“Hey, Palmer, what about your new bridge?”
“I’ll fax you the draft language. And it’s not
my
bridge.” Stoat was moving away briskly now; long purposeful strides.
“What I meant, is it gonna be named after somebody in particular?” Willie called after him. “You want, I could name it after the governor. Or maybe even you!”
“No thanks!” Palmer Stoat shouted pleasantly, but he kept his back to the man and continued walking. “Maggot,” he grumbled. “Another greedy little maggot on the make.”
The human population of Toad Island was 217 and in decline. Repeated efforts had been made to develop the place, and many of its remaining inhabitants were casualties of those doomed enterprises. The unofficial mayor was Nils Fishback, former landscape architect of an ambitious project that had promised three high-rise beachfront condominiums, a total of 660 units, called the Towers of Tarpon Island. (Everyone who sought to develop Toad Island renamed it as the first order of business. In addition to Tarpon Island, it had been incorporated fleetingly as Snook Island, Dolphin Island, Blue Heron Island, White Heron Island, Little Spoonbill Island, Big Spoonbill Island, Sandpiper Key, Sandpiper Cay, Sandpiper Isle and Sandpiper Shoals. The circumstances of failure varied from one busted scheme to the next, but a cheerlessly detailed history was available for scrutiny in the bankruptcy files of the federal courthouse at Gainesville.)
Resistance to the latest Toad Island makeover came from a small core of embittered landholders masquerading as environmentalists. In protest they had begun circulating an impassioned, Thoreau-quoting petition, the true purpose of which was not to protect pristine shores from despoliation but to extort more money from the builders. Among the private-property owners it was strongly felt that Robert Clapley was being stingy about buying them out, and that he could easily afford to overpay for their property, just as previous developers had overpaid previous Toad Island inhabitants. The petition strategy had worked well before, stirring up legitimate conservation organizations and luring big-city editorial writers and columnists to Toad Island’s cause. Lacerated by headlines, the developers usually caved in and doubled their offers. There was no reason to believe Clapley wouldn’t do the same, to expedite groundbreaking on his luxury resort community.
Fame and seniority handed Nils Fishback the lead role in the anti–Shearwater Island petition drive. He’d bought thirty-three lots there, having invested his life savings—unwisely, it had turned out—during the euphoric first gush of hype for what was then Tarpon Island. It had been Fishback’s fantasy to escape Miami and retire to a placid Gulf Coast paradise, surrounded by water. He planned to keep four of the most scenic lots and, using his landscaping earnings from the high-rise project, build a grand plantation-style estate house for
Stoat turned and cupped a hand to his ear. Willie motioned him closer. Stoat cursed sharply under his breath and walked back.
“It’s about the name,” said Willie, dropping his voice.
“What about it?”
“Didn’t you see the name? In the House budget item.”
Palmer Stoat said, “I don’t read the House budget word for word, Willie. I don’t read the Miami phone book word for word, either. So help me out here, OK?”
“The name should be the same in the Senate version. That’s all I’m saying.”
Stoat had an urge to snatch Willie’s three iron and wrap it around his blotched sweaty neck. “What name,” he said thinly, “would you like me to put in the Senate bill?”
“The Willie Vasquez-Washington Community Outreach Center.”
“Done,” said Stoat. Once again he turned for the clubhouse.
“Shouldn’t you maybe write it down?”
“No, I’ll remember.” Stoat thinking: Community
Outreach
Center? Willie’s not reaching out, he’s just reaching.
“Hey, Palmer, what about your new bridge?”
“I’ll fax you the draft language. And it’s not
my
bridge.” Stoat was moving away briskly now; long purposeful strides.
“What I meant, is it gonna be named after somebody in particular?” Willie called after him. “You want, I could name it after the governor. Or maybe even you!”
“No thanks!” Palmer Stoat shouted pleasantly, but he kept his back to the man and continued walking. “Maggot,” he grumbled. “Another greedy little maggot on the make.”
The human population of Toad Island was 217 and in decline. Repeated efforts had been made to develop the place, and many of its remaining inhabitants were casualties of those doomed enterprises. The unofficial mayor was Nils Fishback, former landscape architect of an ambitious project that had promised three high-rise beachfront condominiums, a total of 660 units, called the Towers of Tarpon Island. (Everyone who sought to develop Toad Island renamed it as the first order of business. In addition to Tarpon Island, it had been incorporated fleetingly as Snook Island, Dolphin Island, Blue Heron Island, White Heron Island, Little Spoonbill Island, Big Spoonbill Island, Sandpiper Key, Sandpiper Cay, Sandpiper Isle and Sandpiper Shoals. The circumstances of failure varied from one busted scheme to the next, but a cheerlessly detailed history was available for scrutiny in the bankruptcy files of the federal courthouse at Gainesville.)
Resistance to the latest Toad Island makeover came from a small core of embittered landholders masquerading as environmentalists. In protest they had begun circulating an impassioned, Thoreau-quoting petition, the true purpose of which was not to protect pristine shores from despoliation but to extort more money from the builders. Among the private-property owners it was strongly felt that Robert Clapley was being stingy about buying them out, and that he could easily afford to overpay for their property, just as previous developers had overpaid previous Toad Island inhabitants. The petition strategy had worked well before, stirring up legitimate conservation organizations and luring big-city editorial writers and columnists to Toad Island’s cause. Lacerated by headlines, the developers usually caved in and doubled their offers. There was no reason to believe Clapley wouldn’t do the same, to expedite groundbreaking on his luxury resort community.
Fame and seniority handed Nils Fishback the lead role in the anti–Shearwater Island petition drive. He’d bought thirty-three lots there, having invested his life savings—unwisely, it had turned out—during the euphoric first gush of hype for what was then Tarpon Island. It had been Fishback’s fantasy to escape Miami and retire to a placid Gulf Coast paradise, surrounded by water. He planned to keep four of the most scenic lots and, using his landscaping earnings from the high-rise project, build a grand plantation-style estate house for
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