The old man fumbled his pen. “Ma’am, is the boat fer fishin’ or divin’ or what azackly? How fur you gone take it?”
JoLayne said, “I was thinking Borneo.”
“Now, don’t you get huffy. It’s jest the boss owner makes me do all this shit paperwork.”
“I understand.” Tacked to a wall of the shack was a marine chart of Florida Bay. JoLayne surreptitiously scanned it and said: “Cotton Key. That’s as far as I’m going.”
The dock guy looked disappointed as he wrote it down on the rental form. “They’s a grouper hole out there. I guess the whole damn world knows.”
JoLayne said, “Well, they won’t hear it from me.” The cat jumped from her arms. She opened her purse. “How about a tide table,” she asked, “and one of those maps?”
The dock guy seemed pleasantly surprised by the request, as if most yahoo tourists never thought to ask. JoLayne could see his estimation of her rise meteorically. In his scarlet-rimmed eyes appeared a glimmer of hope that the motel’s precious sixteen-foot skiff might actually be returned in one piece.
“Here go, young lady.” He handed her the chart and the tide card.
“Hey, thanks. Could you warm up the boat for me? I’ll be there in a jiff—I’ve got ice and food out in the car.”
The dock guy said OK, which was a good thing because JoLayne didn’t know how to start a cold outboard. The old man had it purring by the time she stepped aboard with the grocery bags. He even held the lid of the cooler while she stocked it. Then he said, ” ‘Member. Back by sunset.”
“Gotcha.” JoLayne examined the controls, trying to recall what Tom had told her about working the throttle. The old guy hobbled out of the boat and, with a creaky grunt, pushed it away from the pilings. JoLayne levered the stick forward.
The man stood on the dock, eyeing her like a bony old stork. “Sunset!” he called out.
JoLaync gave him the thumbs-up as she motored slowly away, aiming the bow down a marked channel. She heard the dock guy call to her once more. A funereal droop had come to his shoulders.
“Hey!” he cried.
JoLayne waved; the robotic sort of wave you got from the girl on the homecoming float.
“Hey, what about some b-bait!”
JoLayne waved some more.
“The hell you gone catch fish without no bait?” he shouted at her. “Or even a damn rod and reel?”
She smiled and tapped a forefinger to her temple. The old guy sucked in his liver-colored cheeks and stomped into the shack. JoLayne accelerated as much as she dared in the bumpy chop and then concentrated on not crashing. The chief hazards were other recreational vessels, a large percentage of which seemed to be piloted by lobotomized young men holding beer cans. They regarded JoLayne as if she were an exotic squid, causing her to conclude that not many African-American women were seen alone on the waters of the Florida Keys. One witty lad even sang out: “Are you lost? Nassau’s thatawayl” JoLayne congratulated herself for not flipping him the finger.
To avoid being noticed by Bodean Gazzer, Tom had arranged to meet a safe distance from the gravel ramp where the pickup truck was parked. He’d pointed out a break in the mangroves, a bare gash of rocky shoreline on the ocean side of the highway. A deepwater cut strung with red-and-blue lobster buoys would help JoLayne locate the place.
She navigated with excessive precision, cleaving two of the bright Styrofoam balls on her way in. Krome was waiting by the water’s edge, to catch the bow. After patiently untangling the trap ropes from the skeg, he climbed in the boat and said, “OK, Ahab, scoot over. They’ve got a ten-minute head start.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“JoLayne, come on.”
She said, “The shotgun.” Expecting another argument.
But Tom said, “Oh yeah.” He jumped out and dashed across the road. In a minute he’d returned with her Remington, concealed in a plastic garbage bag. “I really did forget,” he said.
JoLayne believed him. She had one arm around his shoulders as they headed across the water.