Read Online Everglades Assault by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page A

neat and gleaming. Tom Healy, who runs the concession, sat in his cramped office doing paperwork. He looked up when I came in, hesitated, then smiled in recognition.
    â€œMacMorgan, you old pirate!”
    â€œWhy is it you keep all your boats in perfect condition, yet your office always looks like election day at a campaign manager’s house?”
    We shook hands, made small talk. On the wall of the office were charts and plaques and letters from the happy people who had rented his boats.
    Finally, after we had talked awhile, I asked him about my friend.
    â€œIs Grafton McKinney still around these parts?”
    â€œGraff? Sure, sure—Graff will never leave. You know that. He was born here and I guess he’s planning on dying here—if he’s not too mean to die.”
    â€œI was kind of hoping to see him before we pulled out in the morning.”
    Tom Healy peered out the window toward the parking lot.
    â€œI don’t see his jeep out there. He may have gone into Homestead for something.”
    â€œAny way to find out if he’ll be back tonight?”
    â€œOh, he’ll be back tonight. He’s never spent a night away for as long as I’ve been here—and that’s a while.” Tom eyed me for a moment. “You look like you have something on your mind, Dusky.”
    â€œNothing important.” And when I saw that he wasn’t convinced, I added, “It has something to do with some people I know up in the ’glades. I figure only an old hermit like Grafton would know anything about it.”
    Tom Healy grinned. “For a minute there, I thought you were the bearer of bad news.”
    â€œWhen I have bad news, I always write. It saves wear and tear on the nerves.”
    He laughed. “Well, if anybody can tell you about the Everglades, Graff can. He knows everything there is to know—and probably some things he shouldn’t. . . .”

6
    Hervey and I paid cash for our motel room. Even though I had no plans of sleeping there, I tested the beds, found them comfortable, then lounged back while Hervey sluiced the day away with a hot shower.
    Completely out of character, he sang “No Business Like Show Business” in a cracking bass as he washed.
    There was a cheap seascape painting on the wall, and I found it did not come even close to the beauty of the seascape out our motel-room window.
    The sun dissipated into molten gold upon Florida Bay, and the mangrove islands nearby looked frail but steadfast upon their small base in the whirling order of things.
    â€œDusky,” he yelled out suddenly, “I sure appreciate your coming up here with me.”
    â€œJust as long as that bear of yours doesn’t bite me.”
    â€œYou’d think you’d show some gratitude—him out there guarding your boat and all.”
    â€œI’m grateful. Very grateful. Even I am afraid to board.”
    After we had showered, we visited the little ground-floor bar. It was dark and cool inside away from the bugs and September heat. Some mid-fifties music was being piped in from speakers on the wall, and a dozen or so tourist types sat at the tables with their drinks, talking softly.
    Hervey wore fresh jeans and shirt. With his hair slicked back and his Gulf Stream tan he looked like someone who had just washed and gone to town after fifteen hours on a John Deere tractor.
    â€œI bet I ain’t been in a bar in ten years,” he said as we took a table.
    â€œYou haven’t missed much,” I said.
    â€œSeems like a nice place, though. Doesn’t seem to attract the rowdy types.”
    â€œI guess I’d agree with that.”
    I should know better by now. To look at me, you wouldn’t think I was the superstitious type.
    But I am. I admit it. It comes from spending a boyhood with circus people. Along with professional baseball players, they’re the most superstitious people in the world.
    I should have known that the