Fishback’s wife long ago had given up hope and bolted for the mainland, leaving him with an unhealthy amount of solitude and free time. He went through a stretch of hard drinking, during which he regularly neglected to shave, bathe, floss or change clothes. He commonly passed out for days on the beach, and his skin became as brown and crinkled as a walnut. One morning, while drunkenly urinating off the old wooden bridge, Nils Fishback was approached by an impressionable young feature writer for a St. Petersburg newspaper. The following week, a long story appeared under a headline christening him “The Mayor of Toad Island.” Although Fishback could not recall giving the interview, or any of the wild lies he told, he embraced his colorful new title with zest. He grew out his beard and bleached it snowy white, and took to going shirtless and barefoot and sporting bright bandannas. Deftly, Fishback re-created himself as a crusty and reclusive defender of Nature who had settled on the island purely for its grandeur, not to make a real estate killing. He happily posed for photographers, pretending to smooch one of the tiny striped oak toads that had given the place its name. Fishback was always good for a wistful quote or bittersweet adage about the demise of old Florida. For that reason he had been sought out over the years by the Washington Post, Newsweek, CNBC and the Turner networks, not to mention local media outlets. In this manner, he had evolved into a regional celebrity eccentric.
In truth, Nils Fishback didn’t give a damn what happened to Toad Island or the squirmy creatures that lived there. The most breathtakingly beautiful sight he could imagine in all God’s kingdom would be a cashier’s check from Robert Clapley’s company for the sum of $510,000, which was Fishback’s preposterous asking price for his seventeen orphan lots. He would, of course, ecstatically accept half as much and be gone from Toad Island before sunset. He feigned horror when Clapley’s crew started bulldozing the toad habitat, but Nils Fishback was secretly delighted. He had never been fond of the toads, especially during mating season when their high-pitched stridulations rang all night long in his skull. Second, and more important, Clapley’s mechanized assault on the petite amphibians was potent public-relations ammunition for the petition drive—the man was a monster, was he not? Smushing innocent creatures by the thousands. Fishback kept a Rolodex of media contacts, for precisely such occasions. He would personally lead the TV crews across the old bridge and down the beach road to the site of the massacre, and show them where to set up their cameras. The Shearwater Island Company couldn’t afford such gruesome publicity! Nils Fishback would warn Robert Clapley an hour or so in advance, giving him just enough time to call the bank and get a check cut for the escrow deposit on Fishback’s property.
The only question in Fishback’s mind was when to pick up the phone. If he waited too long, the toad massacre would be over 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.”