and there’d be nothing left for the TV people to film. On the other hand, if he intervened too swiftly, the toad infestation would remain substantially undiminished, with the spring breeding season only weeks away.
Fishback stood up and dusted off the seat of his tattered cutoffs. He jerked two beers from the cooler; one he opened, the other he tucked under an arm. Then he ambled down the hill into the trees, where one of the big yellow bulldozers was being refueled. Fishback handed the unopened beer to the driver and said, “How long you boys gonna be at it?”
The driver grunted. “Years, pop. Get used to it.”
“No,” Fishback said, “I mean this part here.” He waved a hand, as bony and gnarled as driftwood. “Buryin’ all these damn toads.”
The driver’s gaze narrowed. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Check out your boots, jocko. That’s toad guts, if I’m not mistaken.”
The driver stepped back, wiping his soles across the pine needles. “You’re fuckin’ nuts,” he said to the old man.
Fishback sighed impatiently. “Fine. There’s no happy hoppers around here. Not a one. So just tell me how long it’ll take.”
The bulldozer driver glanced appreciatively at the cold beer in his hand. Hell, he thought, the old fart seems harmless enough. Probably just the racket he cares about.
“One week,” the driver said to Fishback. “That’s what the work order says.”
“Perfect.” Fishback pointed into the woods. “There’s a freshwater pond a quarter mile or so down that path. Be a good place to dump some dirt. I mean lotsa dirt.”
“Yeah?” The driver sounded interested.
Nils Fishback offered a conspiratorial wink. “Oh yeah,” he said. “We’re talking Toad Central, partner.”
5
In the week that followed, a conference committee of the Florida Legislature agreed to appropriate $9.2 million for a neighborhood development project in southwest Miami called the Willie Vasquez-Washington Community Outreach Center. The same committee approved $27.7 million in transportation funds toward the design and construction of an elevated four-lane concrete bridge to replace the creaky two-lane wooden span that connected Toad Island to the mainland. Governor Dick Artemus declared his strong support for both projects, and praised lawmakers for their “bipartisan commitment to progress.”
A few days later, as the last of the oak toads were being plowed under, Nils Fishback and twenty-two other signatories of the anti—;Shearwater Island petition met with Robert Clapley and his attorneys in a private dining salon at a fashionable Cuban restaurant in Ybor City. A deal was reached in which Clapley would purchase Fishback’s seventeen vacant lots for $19,000 each, which was $16,500 more than Fishback originally had paid for them. The other Toad Island “protesters” received, and eagerly accepted, comparable offers. They were flown home on a Gulfstream jet, and the next morning Nils Fishback called a press conference at the foot of the old wooden bridge. With a handful of local reporters present, “the mayor” announced he was terminating the petition drive because the Shearwater Island Company had “caved in to virtually all our demands.” Wielding a sheath of legal-sized papers, Fishback revealed that Robert Clapley had promised in writing to preserve the natural character of the barrier island, and had agreed to provide on-site biologists, botanists and hydrologists to supervise all phases of construction. In addition, Clapley had endorsed an ambitious mitigation program that required replanting three acres of new trees for each acre sacrificed to development. What Nils Fishback didn’t tell the press was that Clapley legally was not compelled to revegetate Toad Island itself, and that the new trees could be put anywhere else in Florida—including faraway Putnam County, where Clapley happened to own nine hundred acres of fresh-cut timberland that needed replanting.
The
Fishback stood up and dusted off the seat of his tattered cutoffs. He jerked two beers from the cooler; one he opened, the other he tucked under an arm. Then he ambled down the hill into the trees, where one of the big yellow bulldozers was being refueled. Fishback handed the unopened beer to the driver and said, “How long you boys gonna be at it?”
The driver grunted. “Years, pop. Get used to it.”
“No,” Fishback said, “I mean this part here.” He waved a hand, as bony and gnarled as driftwood. “Buryin’ all these damn toads.”
The driver’s gaze narrowed. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Check out your boots, jocko. That’s toad guts, if I’m not mistaken.”
The driver stepped back, wiping his soles across the pine needles. “You’re fuckin’ nuts,” he said to the old man.
Fishback sighed impatiently. “Fine. There’s no happy hoppers around here. Not a one. So just tell me how long it’ll take.”
The bulldozer driver glanced appreciatively at the cold beer in his hand. Hell, he thought, the old fart seems harmless enough. Probably just the racket he cares about.
“One week,” the driver said to Fishback. “That’s what the work order says.”
“Perfect.” Fishback pointed into the woods. “There’s a freshwater pond a quarter mile or so down that path. Be a good place to dump some dirt. I mean lotsa dirt.”
“Yeah?” The driver sounded interested.
Nils Fishback offered a conspiratorial wink. “Oh yeah,” he said. “We’re talking Toad Central, partner.”
5
In the week that followed, a conference committee of the Florida Legislature agreed to appropriate $9.2 million for a neighborhood development project in southwest Miami called the Willie Vasquez-Washington Community Outreach Center. The same committee approved $27.7 million in transportation funds toward the design and construction of an elevated four-lane concrete bridge to replace the creaky two-lane wooden span that connected Toad Island to the mainland. Governor Dick Artemus declared his strong support for both projects, and praised lawmakers for their “bipartisan commitment to progress.”
A few days later, as the last of the oak toads were being plowed under, Nils Fishback and twenty-two other signatories of the anti—;Shearwater Island petition met with Robert Clapley and his attorneys in a private dining salon at a fashionable Cuban restaurant in Ybor City. A deal was reached in which Clapley would purchase Fishback’s seventeen vacant lots for $19,000 each, which was $16,500 more than Fishback originally had paid for them. The other Toad Island “protesters” received, and eagerly accepted, comparable offers. They were flown home on a Gulfstream jet, and the next morning Nils Fishback called a press conference at the foot of the old wooden bridge. With a handful of local reporters present, “the mayor” announced he was terminating the petition drive because the Shearwater Island Company had “caved in to virtually all our demands.” Wielding a sheath of legal-sized papers, Fishback revealed that Robert Clapley had promised in writing to preserve the natural character of the barrier island, and had agreed to provide on-site biologists, botanists and hydrologists to supervise all phases of construction. In addition, Clapley had endorsed an ambitious mitigation program that required replanting three acres of new trees for each acre sacrificed to development. What Nils Fishback didn’t tell the press was that Clapley legally was not compelled to revegetate Toad Island itself, and that the new trees could be put anywhere else in Florida—including faraway Putnam County, where Clapley happened to own nine hundred acres of fresh-cut timberland that needed replanting.
The
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