Cross Current - Kling Christine (бесплатные книги полный формат TXT) 📗

“I wouldn’t say friends,” he said, then he paused to watch a high-speed ocean racer roar by just outside the beach swim area. He turned back to face me. “He ever tell you the story about towing a Colombian’s sportfisherman up from the Hallandale condo?”

“Can’t say as I remember that one, no.”

Joe chuckled to himself. “We had this kid with us, he was new to the agency, and Red and I had him search the boat while we towed it up the waterway on our way to the River Bend Boatyard. Red and I were on Gorda, kicking back and drinking a couple of cold ones, and we were somewhere between the Sheridan and the Dania bridges, when all of a sudden this kid lets out a holler, comes running out of the cabin, and dives overboard. We had a hell of a time getting that tow turned around, then fishing the kid out of the water. Red was cursing up a storm the whole time. Come to find out, the kid had been searching the lockers in the master stateroom, and he’d opened one only to find a twelve-foot red-tailed boa constrictor. Snake was so hungry, he’d tried to coil around that fellow’s arm. That sucker’s body was yea big around”—he held his hands almost twelve inches apart— “and he could’ve eaten a good-size poodle.” He drained his glass of ice water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, your dad was a helluva guy. I didn’t know him all that well, but we shared a few of my life’s finer moments.” He looked out at the highway, focusing those green eyes of his on the cars disappearing down A1 A.

I was getting used to it, but I still felt slightly uncomfortable whenever people talked about Red. There always came this point when they felt the need to share a moment of silence for the dead man. Like he was looking down on them, and he’d appreciate this somehow. I knew better. Red would have thought it was horseshit and, as his daughter, my spiritual leanings weren’t far from his. I figured you lived your life and then you were dead—end of story.

“You know, Seychelle, Red used to talk about you all the time. He was crazy about his little girl—everyone could see that.” His big hands wrapped around the tiny white espresso cup and clicked it against the saucer in a staccato rhythm. “I have to admit, I was jealous of your dad.”

“You? Jealous of Red? Why?”

“Well, I’ve got a daughter, too. I think I told you.” He pursed his lips and stared into the bottom of his empty cup as though he might find the words in the brown sludge there. “Her mom and I split up years ago, when she was very young. You know, I was on the fast track with the agency, trying to make my mark, and I admit it, I was a lousy father. What would you expect with how I grew up? We were all boys and then I have a girl. Didn’t know what to do with her. Anyway, by the time I was ready to try, it was too late. I’d missed too many birthdays, failed to show up too many times.”

“You’re being kinda harsh on yourself, Joe.”

“No, just honest. We haven’t spoken in over five years now. She’s slammed the door in my face.” Now the bitterness was apparent in his voice. “ ’Course, it didn’t help that my ex had always been telling her that I was a bastard. Thing is, she’s married now. Got a boy. My grandson. He’s mine, and I’ve never seen him.”

“I don’t get stories like that. I mean, you’re still family.”

“You don’t even know it’s happening when it starts, and by the time you realize it, it’s too late. Nothing like the relationship you had with your dad.”

“Yeah. He was a good dad. Heck, a great dad. Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night and think I’ve got to tell Red something. Then I remember he’s gone.”

“Sometimes, it seems as though my daughter is gone, too. Gone from my life, anyway.”

“But she isn’t dead. You still have a chance to fix things with her.”

He leaned back again, so far back that he tilted the chair onto two legs. He bounced his right leg and tapped his fingers on the table. “You’re right. And I’m working on it. I intend to see my grandson.”

I could tell that just talking about his daughter and grandson was making this otherwise confident man a mess of jangled nerves. “You know, Joe, you’re all right. I’ll bet if your daughter got to know you, she’d like you. Your grandson, too.”

He stopped his twitching, leaned forward across the table, and covered my hand with his. “Thanks, Seychelle. That really means a lot coming from you.”

Once again I felt I was getting mixed signals from this man. Was he flirting or being fatherly?

“By the way,” he said, “that was quite a day you had yesterday.” He let go of my hand and rested his elbows on the table. “Finding that little girl like that. What’s her story anyway?” Joe nodded his head toward the pile of newsprint beside my now empty mug. “There’s not much there in the papers about her. Is she able to talk?”

“A little, not much. She speaks some English. Some of it doesn’t make much sense. Seems she’s really afraid of authority figures. She won’t say a word to them.”

“That’s not unusual. I spent some time down in Haiti. Their history has given them good reason to fear the government. But you say she’s talking to you?”

“Well, a little. She told me her dad’s an American.”

“Really? They’re going to let her stay, then?”

Questions, questions. I’d forgotten that Joe was a former cop. “I’ve got to find him first. The Border Patrol guy who came to the hospital last night doesn’t believe this American father exists. He says all Haitians claim to have American relatives.”

“He’s right.”

“But I believe her.”

“So how do you propose to find this guy?”

“I guess I’ll start with the kid. She said a few words to me when I first pulled her aboard Gorda. Last night when I visited her in the hospital, she wasn’t talking to anyone.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help out, don’t hesitate to ask. It would be my pleasure to spend more time with you, and I’d like to know how things turn out for her. Sounds like that poor kid has seen things we can’t even imagine.”

VIII

The dark clouds were breaking up, and it was almost ten o’clock by the time I hooked the Whaler back up to the davits at the Larsens’ dock and cranked her back out of the water. The sun was quickly turning last night’s rain to steam. Henri and the three other members of his lawn service crew were working with weed whackers, gas blowers, and hedge clippers. When he saw me, Henri hurried over and waited while I cranked up the dinghy.

“Hi, Henri,” I said as I bent down and scratched Abaco’s ears. “What’s up?”

He looked distressed. Henri was a tall, handsome Haitian in his mid-forties. He was a successful entrepreneur with a thriving lawn service, a good husband, and the father of five beautiful kids. Distress didn’t look right on his face.

“A man came. He said he wanted to see you. I told him you were not here, but he insisted and left his things in front of your house.”

“What?” I stood and started down the brick path to my cottage. I could see the stuff piled in front of my place: a backpack with dozens of patches sewn on it, an army surplus duffel bag, an old footlocker, and a torpedo-shaped blue Dacron bag.

“This man,” Henri continued, “he did not look very clean even though he was very polite. I thought perhaps he was a homeless man. But he claimed he was your brother.”

I whooped and grabbed Henri by the arm. “This is great!” It was the windsurfer bag that had left no doubt: My brother Pit had come for a visit. “Henri, it was my brother, and don’t you worry what he looks like. He’s a great guy.” Sensing my excitement, Abaco came loping over and started to bark. I knelt down and ruffled her ears. “Pit’s come to visit, girl.” Abaco sensed the excitement in my voice and began turning circles. I stood and turned back to Henri. “Did Pit say where he was going? When he would be back?”