The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘I ought to at least make a …’ Wayland looks at the gnarled, outstretched hand and trails off. When a state Supreme Court judge (even a retired one) holds out his hand, demurrals must cease. What the hell, it’s only an annotated draft, anyway, soon to be replaced by a clean version. He passes the unsigned will over and watches as Beecher rises (painfully) and swings a picture of the Florida Everglades out on a hidden hinge. The Judge enters the correct combination, making no attempt to hide the touchpad from view, and deposits the will on top of what looks to Wayland like a large and untidy heap of cash. Yikes.

‘There!’ Beecher says. ‘All done and buttoned up! Except for the signing part, that is. How about a drink to celebrate? I have some fine single-malt Scotch.’

‘Well … I guess one wouldn’t hurt.’

‘It never hurt me, although it does now, so you’ll have to pardon me for not joining you. Decaf coffee and a little sweet tea are the strongest drinks I take these days. Stomach woes. Ice?’

Wayland holds up two fingers, and Beecher adds two cubes to the drink with the slow ceremony of old age. Wayland takes a sip, and color immediately dashes into his cheeks. It is the flush, Judge Beecher thinks, of a man who enjoys his tipple. As Wayland sets his glass down, he says, ‘Do you mind if I ask what the hurry is? You’re all right, I take it? Stomach woes aside?’

The Judge doubts if young Wayland takes it that way at all. He’s not blind.

‘A-country fair,’ he says, seesawing one hand in the air and sitting down with a grunt and a wince. Then, after consideration, he says, ‘Do you really want to know what the hurry is?’

Wayland considers the question, and Beecher likes him for that. Then he nods.

‘It has to do with that island we took care of just now. Probably never even noticed it, have you?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’

‘Most folks don’t. It barely sticks up out of the water. The sea turtles don’t even bother with that old island. Yet it’s special. Did you know my grandfather fought in the Spanish-American War?’

‘No, sir, I did not.’ Wayland speaks with exaggerated respect, and Beecher knows the boy believes his mind is wandering. The boy is wrong. Beecher’s mind has never been clearer, and now that he’s begun, he finds that he wants to tell this story at least once before …

Well, before.

‘Yes. There’s a photograph of him standing on top of San Juan Hill. It’s around here someplace. Grampy claimed to have fought in the Civil War as well, but my research – for my memoirs, you understand – proved conclusively that he could not have done. He would have been a toddler, if born at all. But he was quite the fanciful gentleman, and he had a way of making me believe the wildest tales. Why would I not? I was only a child, not long from believing in Kris Kringle and the tooth fairy.’

‘Was he a lawyer like you and your father?’

‘No, son, he was a thief. The original Light-Finger Harry. Anything that wasn’t nailed down. Only, like most thieves who don’t get caught – our current governor might be a case in point – he called himself a businessman. His chief business and chief thievery was land. He bought bug-and gator-infested Florida acreage cheap and sold it dear to folks who must have been as gullible as I was as a child. Balzac once said, “Behind every great fortune there is a crime.” That’s certainly true of the Beecher family, and please remember that you’re my lawyer. Anything I say to you must be held in confidence.’

‘Yes, Judge.’ Wayland takes another sip of his drink. It is by far the finest Scotch he has ever drunk.

‘Grampy Beecher was the one who pointed out that island to me. I was ten. He’d had the care of me for the day, and I suppose he wanted some peace and quiet. Or maybe what he wanted was a bit noisier. There was a pretty housemaid, and he may have been in hopes of investigating beneath her petticoats. So he told me that Edward Teach – better known as Blackbeard – had supposedly buried a great treasure out there. “Nobody’s ever found it, Havie,” he said – Havie’s what he called me – “but you might be the one. A fortune in jewels and gold doubloons.” You know what I did next, I suppose.’

‘I suppose you went out there and left your grandfather to cheer up the maid.’

The Judge nods, smiling. ‘I took the old wooden canoe we had tied up to the dock. Went like my hair was on fire and my tailfeathers were catching. Didn’t take but five minutes to paddle out there. Takes me three times as long these days, and that’s if the water’s smooth. The island’s all rock and brush on the landward side, but there’s a dune of fine beach sand on the Gulf side. It never goes away. In the eighty years I’ve been going out there, it never seems to change.’

‘Didn’t find any treasure, I suppose?’