Rescue

boats. Now I ask you, what sense does that make for a ‘Marine’ Patrol?“
    “Not much. So, you bought it from them?“
    “Auction. They took back the lights, but everything else on it made for a good deal. The engine’s more than you’d need for fishing, but it comes in handy running before a storm.“
    “You ever fish the Keys around here?“
    I’d kind of asked him that once, and Greenspan looked at me. “Like where?“
    “Oh, like Little Mercy?“
    Back to the trout. “Not very good fishing around there, though you’ll see plenty trying late afternoon, on the way in.“
    “How about the island itself?“
    “Wouldn’t know.“
    “Why not?“
    This time a look with a set to the jaw, neck cords out some. “Because it’s private property.“
    Getting off that, I said, “You mentioned fishing at night. Is that dangerous?“
    Starting on the third fish, Greenspan seemed to think about whether he was going to keep the conversation going. It was en seconds before he said, “Not if you know where the cuts are.“
    “The cuts?“
    The passes. Channels, kind of, between the mangrove islands or through the shoals. You know where they are, you’re fine any time of day. You don’t, you’ll run aground in ten minutes, have to hop out and do an African Queen to get her off the sand.“
    “And you know where the cuts are.“
    “I’ve learned. Takes a while.“
    “Could you show me where the ones are between here and Littl e Mercy?“
    “Couuld, but don’t intend to.“
    He looked up and spoke slowly. “Because you need to get there by water, you’ve no cause for being there. Private property, like I said.“
    Thinking I should change the subject, I motioned toward his boat. “Anybody ever mistake you for the law, Howard?“
    “Once in a while.“
    “Drug smugglers?“
    “Not so much here. More of them down toward Key West.“
    “But if you were mistaken by them, it would be kind of dangerous for you, no?“
    A last visored look as he put the fillets from the third fish in a red Coleman cooler next to the sink and took off the gloves. “Something I learned a long time ago. Never known it to be wrong. There’re only three questions that matter, and they all have to do with dying.“
    “What are they, Howard?“
    He held up fingers on his right hand. “When. How. And how well.“
    Slipping the knife into a sheath on his belt, Greenspan hoisted the cooler and walked steadily toward the marina building.

    Back at the hotel, I stopped in the lobby and checked with Clark. I didn’t expect John Francis to have any messages, and Clark didn’t surprise me. He had on a burgundy Brooks shirt today, as did all the other staff members I saw, as though there were seven Lodge-issued colors, one for each day of the week.
    I played tourist again for a couple of hours at the beach, grateful that my girlfriend in the thong bikini apparently preferred concrete to sand. Then I went back to the room and showered off, noticing that the towels today smelled like peaches. Thinking of the tent meeting and mosquitoes, I put on a long-sleeved dress shirt, loose-fitting Docker slacks, and black socks before heading out to the Pontiac.
    * * *

    The parking situation on the field was handled in a very low-key but efficient way by more clean-cut young men in white outfits, though these were typically teenagers. The process would have reminded you of parking outside a college football stadium, except that there was no charge, which surprised me a little. I got out of the Sunbird, remembered to put the roof up against the dew, and joined the swelling throngs entering the tent area.
    There was no charge to get in there, either. Someone had set up folding chairs in long rows with one center aisle, over six hundred seats by the sample count I made. The front of the tent itself was a tabernacle in white and gold raised two feet off ground level, everything looking as though it could be broken down and shipped on a pickup truck. Which made me look around until I spotted the huge man with the small head, who seemed to be coordinating security with the sheriff’s deputy I’d seen leaving the Church offices just before him that morning. No sign of the Reverend Royel Wyeth or even the devoted Sister Lutrice.
    I went to take a seat on an aisle, but was beaten to it by an older man with a crabbed left hand. Figuring he might be part of an act to follow, I moved to another row and picked a chair one away from a plump, modestly