09-Twelve Mile Limit by Randy Wayne White Page A

bypass the obvious, rational options—as most drunks will—and had decided to see just how far he was willing to push it. It’s a truism: Almost all bullying behavior is symptomatic of bedrock cowardice, and there was plenty of evidence now that Camphill was a bully.
    But then Matt was there. After twenty-some years in the business, dealing with drunks and pissed-off tourists, he knew just how to handle the situation. First he went to work on Camphill with adulation—“You’re really the Gunnar Camphill? My God, I love the work you do”—as he positioned himself between Camphill and us. Then he fed him some man-to-man stuff, first giving us a meaningful look—Stay calm, he’s an asshole, but let me deal with it. “Don’t worry about Jeth. Our locals, they tend to be… different. Just goofing around—the manatee roast? It’s kind of a local joke. We’re all very pro-environment on the islands.” Matt was steering him away, toward the bar. Then he added a bribe, saying, “I just got in a half dozen jars of Russian Malossol caviar. Gray beluga. My own personal stock. Would you and your friends mind trying a couple of ounces, giving me your opinion?”
    That quick, Matt had Camphill’s full attention. “Malossol? How did you know I’m a connoisseur of caviar?” Close enough to the bar now for his friends to hear, he added, “When I was studying aikido in Japan, I fell in love with the stuff. My master, Ueshiba Morihei, he got me hooked on the gray beluga. Had it shipped in once a week from Vladivostok, just across the Sea of Japan. Unpasteurized, the finest. There’s an art to serving it, of course.”
    Truth is, Matt has an amazing memory for trivia. He probably saw the bit about the caviar in some magazine and filed it away.
    Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tomlinson stand up, use his fingers to comb his hair back. He gave Amelia a reassuring wink before he walked toward Matt. Tomlinson had been uncharacteristically silent during the confrontation, and now I watched him place his hand on Matt’s shoulder—this was a friendly intrusion—then stand there in his flower-print sarong and black Hawaiian shirt, smiling mildly. Looking at Camphill, he spoke briefly in what, after several slow seconds, I finally realized was fast Japanese. Friendly tone. Very animated. He might have been welcoming him or extending an apology.
    Pointed-face grinned toward Tomlinson, saying, “Ginger! Finally, here she is. I knew Ginger would make an appearance!” For the first time, Camphill seemed momentarily at a loss. But he recovered quickly, also looking at Tomlinson. He placed his palms together and gave a slight oriental bow, saying, “My friend, I think it’s very rude to converse in a language that others in the room don’t understand. We’ll chat in Japanese another time,” then turned away from Tomlinson, using Matt to emphasize the new focus of his attention.
    End of conversation.
    Back at our table, Tomlinson took a heavy swallow of his drink, then another before he nodded at me, and said softly, “The actor, he has a very young spirit. Very young and immature—the number of incarnations he’s made into this world I’m talking about. In his mind, no one on earth actually exists but him. Every other sentient being is simply a bit of fleshy furniture or decoration. That’s the way they are during that stage.”
    Tomlinson then added, “Plus, he’s a liar. He never studied with Ueshiba Morihei. My friend, the great master, Ueshiba, doesn’t speak English, and the actor doesn’t understand a word of Japanese. Even his gassho, the way he placed his palms together, was a poor imitation.”
    A little too loud, Jeth said, “The guy’s an egotistical pahpa-prick.”
    Amelia added, “Little boy in a man’s body. I see them all the time in court.”
    Camphill and his two friends, pointed-face and tennis player, all raised their heads a little, hearing their words, feeling them, then all emphasized the depth of their reactions by trying hard not