Read Online The Heat Islands: A Doc Ford Novel by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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just for that. Tennis. I mean."
"Oh?"
"No."
Ford waited, thinking she would explain, but when she didn't, he said, "What, then?"
She started to say something, stopped. Something serious. but then she made a joke of it, explaining, "Here's what I was really born for—golf. Born for the LPGA."
Ford said. "For a seeond, I thought you were going to tell me you were retiring."
Dewey thought, Jesus God, he's scary sometimes....
But she said. "Well... maybe transfer, but never quit. Skip the French Open and maybe surface in the spring at Augusta. Take the summer off tennis, then make my bid as a links star. That would shock the shit outta the sports-writers, wouldn't it?"
She was moving closer, making too much of the joke, and Ford knew that she really had almost told him—told him that she was thinking of quitting. He lifted his arm, and she slid under it, and he could feel her ribs beneath his fingers, warm inside the damp blouse.
For Dewey, it was like being alone together for the first time.
Ford said. "You want to get something to eat?"
"Bullshit, we run first. Then eat."
"Okay, okay."
She turned her face and kissed him flatly on the cheek, a real smacker, before pulling away. "See?" she said. "Asking me out isn't so hard."
Ford was in his lab beneath the gooseneck lamp that threw a wafer of yellow light over the wooden floor and onto the walls, showing the stainless-steel disseeting table, a wooden chair, shelves with books and chemical jars, and rows of larger jars containing preserved specimens: nudibranchia, brittle stars, anemones, eels, unborn sharks, and tiny tarpon, all floating motionless, adding to the night silence as he sat alone over his microscope.
But then there was a sound: the combustion ratchet of a hand-crank outboard starting, the boat getting closer and closer. Ford waited until he felt his stilt house jolt slightly—the impact of a skiff landing at his dock—before he got up and took a bottle of beer from the little refrigerator. He placed the bottle on the empty chair, then returned to his Wolfe stereomicroscope, looking and making notes.
There was the thumping vibration of someone coming up the steps, then, over his shoulder. Tomlinson's voice said, "You have company? Thought you might have some company."
Ford said, "Nope."
The screen door opened and closed. ' There's a car parked out there. By the mangroves down from your walkway, like they didn't want to be seen."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I just saw it."
"Probably a couple of kids parking, looking at the moon."
Tomlinson said. "Yeah, it's bright tonight. Bay's pure silver." Then he said. "Ho boy, my favorite refreshment," opening the bottle of beer and sitting down. "God blessed this earth with forests and oceans and plenty of brewers, huh?"
Ford looked at him, rocking back in the chair and drinking. Tomlinson wore no shirt, no shoes; his abdominal oblique muscles showing on the skinny torso, his long arms with veins, probably wearing the same ragged cutoffs he'd worn at Woodstock or Altamont.
"How'd your date go last night?"
"Nice; very nice. This woman is a truly enlightened human being. Doc. Harry, that's her name. Really brilliant, which is no big deal, but spiritually awakened. Not a bad set of dials, either."
"Dials?"
"You know, running lights. Knobs. Berks. Diddies. Love snorbs."
"Ah."
"Yep."
"Harry's the one wanted you to marry her?"
"Well, yeah—father her children, at least. It's one of those genetic deals. She considered all the guys she's ever known, and decided I was the one who had the most to offer. She's only human."
"From Boston, you say?"
"Yep. Her name used to be Musashi Rinmon. but she changed it." Tomlinson took a long drink, reflecting. "After that, it was Moontree, which I liked a lot. That was her name when I first met her, but she switched to Harry as a kind of a protest thing. Glad she didn't show up in time to see you smack Sutter. That was very ugly. Very ugly. I personally didn't approve."
"So
"Oh?"
"No."
Ford waited, thinking she would explain, but when she didn't, he said, "What, then?"
She started to say something, stopped. Something serious. but then she made a joke of it, explaining, "Here's what I was really born for—golf. Born for the LPGA."
Ford said. "For a seeond, I thought you were going to tell me you were retiring."
Dewey thought, Jesus God, he's scary sometimes....
But she said. "Well... maybe transfer, but never quit. Skip the French Open and maybe surface in the spring at Augusta. Take the summer off tennis, then make my bid as a links star. That would shock the shit outta the sports-writers, wouldn't it?"
She was moving closer, making too much of the joke, and Ford knew that she really had almost told him—told him that she was thinking of quitting. He lifted his arm, and she slid under it, and he could feel her ribs beneath his fingers, warm inside the damp blouse.
For Dewey, it was like being alone together for the first time.
Ford said. "You want to get something to eat?"
"Bullshit, we run first. Then eat."
"Okay, okay."
She turned her face and kissed him flatly on the cheek, a real smacker, before pulling away. "See?" she said. "Asking me out isn't so hard."
Ford was in his lab beneath the gooseneck lamp that threw a wafer of yellow light over the wooden floor and onto the walls, showing the stainless-steel disseeting table, a wooden chair, shelves with books and chemical jars, and rows of larger jars containing preserved specimens: nudibranchia, brittle stars, anemones, eels, unborn sharks, and tiny tarpon, all floating motionless, adding to the night silence as he sat alone over his microscope.
But then there was a sound: the combustion ratchet of a hand-crank outboard starting, the boat getting closer and closer. Ford waited until he felt his stilt house jolt slightly—the impact of a skiff landing at his dock—before he got up and took a bottle of beer from the little refrigerator. He placed the bottle on the empty chair, then returned to his Wolfe stereomicroscope, looking and making notes.
There was the thumping vibration of someone coming up the steps, then, over his shoulder. Tomlinson's voice said, "You have company? Thought you might have some company."
Ford said, "Nope."
The screen door opened and closed. ' There's a car parked out there. By the mangroves down from your walkway, like they didn't want to be seen."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I just saw it."
"Probably a couple of kids parking, looking at the moon."
Tomlinson said. "Yeah, it's bright tonight. Bay's pure silver." Then he said. "Ho boy, my favorite refreshment," opening the bottle of beer and sitting down. "God blessed this earth with forests and oceans and plenty of brewers, huh?"
Ford looked at him, rocking back in the chair and drinking. Tomlinson wore no shirt, no shoes; his abdominal oblique muscles showing on the skinny torso, his long arms with veins, probably wearing the same ragged cutoffs he'd worn at Woodstock or Altamont.
"How'd your date go last night?"
"Nice; very nice. This woman is a truly enlightened human being. Doc. Harry, that's her name. Really brilliant, which is no big deal, but spiritually awakened. Not a bad set of dials, either."
"Dials?"
"You know, running lights. Knobs. Berks. Diddies. Love snorbs."
"Ah."
"Yep."
"Harry's the one wanted you to marry her?"
"Well, yeah—father her children, at least. It's one of those genetic deals. She considered all the guys she's ever known, and decided I was the one who had the most to offer. She's only human."
"From Boston, you say?"
"Yep. Her name used to be Musashi Rinmon. but she changed it." Tomlinson took a long drink, reflecting. "After that, it was Moontree, which I liked a lot. That was her name when I first met her, but she switched to Harry as a kind of a protest thing. Glad she didn't show up in time to see you smack Sutter. That was very ugly. Very ugly. I personally didn't approve."
"So
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