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.Then we’ll get your boat safely back to Lauderdale, the insurance company will pay Ocean Towing, me, and the yard bill.And soon, you’ll have your boat back good as new.”“Oh goody,” he said.VIIThe streets of downtown were jammed with tourists and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet.Hordes of pale people in shorts and tank tops jostled their way past the shop windows on Duval Street.The weather had warmed up considerably from the day before, and though the temperatures were only bound for the low seventies, unlike the places most of them called home, here there was no snow in the forecast, so they were thrilled.I kept thinking about what Berger had said—that Pinder was some kind of pirate or rip-off artist.That was what this business had come to.I’d made a career change several years ago from being a beach lifeguard to taking over my dad’s salvage business.Back then I saw the two jobs as essentially the same thing—saving people’s lives and property.It was getting paid to be a Good Samaritan.I was doing something clear and honorable that I could feel proud of.Today it had become a question of gear and equipment and electronics.I understood that cell phones and chart plotters and GPS could be wonderful tools, but I didn’t trust them.First Nestor and now Berger—both had chastised me for not jumping into this electronic mess.The truth was, it had done neither of them any good in the end.The End.In fact, his wife believed that it was Nestor’s reliance on these bits of metal and wire that had caused his end.Granted, I did own a small GPS handheld, but I’d prefer a hand bearing compass, parallel rulers, dividers, and my paper charts any day.Still, there was a huge difference between what I believed and what would help me make a living.Could I compete with my little tug? Probably not.How long would it be before the VHF radio went the way of adding machines, eight-track tapes, manual typewriters, records, videotapes, loran, wringer washing machines, hell, even steam engines? How long before a radio call was no longer the way of the salvage business? But I hated being lumped in with guys like Pinder who saw this industry as a way to build an empire and go for exorbitant claims.Maybe this was just another sign that it was time to think about a career change—again.After nearly getting stepped on as I tried to look in a shop window, I ducked into Sloppy Joe’s Bar, slid onto a stool, and ordered a draft beer.I was alone at the bar, but there were a couple of tables full of rowdy college-age guys.When the bartender, an older guy with a long gray ponytail, brought the plastic cup and set it in front of me, I asked if he had a phone book.“No,” he said, spreading his hands on the bar.“But what’re you looking for?”“How about the offices of Ocean Towing?”He squinted at me.“What would a pretty girl like you want with that rat bag?”“I take it you know Neville Pinder?”The man reached deep into his pant pocket and produced a small container of Skoal tobacco.He opened the tin with one hand and took a pinch with the other.Once he had packed it firmly under his lower lip with his tongue, he started to speak.The bulge was apparent right there on his chin, but it didn’t impact his speech in the least.“Yeah, I known him.” He reached his hand across the bar and I shook it.“Call me Sam,” he said.“I’ve known him and his family awhile.First sailed over to the Abacos in ’69.Neville—he’s from there—was just a kid at the time.There’s lots of Alburys and Pinders and certain family names over there.Those families go way back.White Bahamians, Loyalists.First settled in the Bahamas around the time of the Revolutionary War.They wanted to stay loyal to the queen.”“I’ve read about that.”“Lots of Pinders’ve come to Key West through the years.Probably six or eight families by that name here now, all with ties to the islands and none of ’em wanting to have much to do with our boy Neville.His family’s on Man O’ War Cay.Don’t think Neville’s been back to the islands in years now.They don’t want him back.Family more or less kicked him out.”“Why’s that?”“He always was a troublemaker.Petty stuff.Stealing, public drunkenness, vandalism, mischief.Lots of those islands are dry, you know.They’re religious people.They didn’t take to Neville thinking that anybody’s skiff should be his for a joyride just because he drank a few beers.That’s how he got those scars.”“What scars?”“On his right arm.He’s missing a couple of fingers, too.Actually, it’s kind of a funny story.Neville got drunk, stole this fella’s boat, and went fishing in the middle of the night all by hisself.Caught a good-size barracuda, then, trying to take the treble hook out, he snagged his own arm with the hook, and the fish bit down on his hand.He ended up with a couple of furrows plowed down the skin of his arm.Doc had to amputate two of his fingers when the infection got so bad it almost killed him.”“So how does a guy like that end up head of a big company like Ocean Towing? I mean, hell, they’ve got boats and bases from Stuart to Key West.”“That is the question, isn’t it? And you aren’t the first person to ask it.There are a few of us old-timers around here, still living aboard our wooden boats out in the anchorage.Not many, that’s for damn sure.Most cruisers now have mini Winnebago plastic boats with generators and microwaves and toaster ovens.But a few of us were around back in the ’60s and ’70s, and we remember when everybody knew everybody over in the islands and you couldn’t get away with much.”“I know what you mean.I wasn’t around back then, but I heard about those days from my dad.”“So somehow our friend Neville got himself some backing and now he’s fleecing the yachties and superyachts.The goddamn salvage people are even worse than the cruisers now.You get in trouble, you don’t dare take a line from anybody.They’re just out to steal your boat from you.Not everybody’s got insurance, you know.”“What’s the name of your boat?”“The Osprey.She’s a thirty-four-foot yawl
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