09-Twelve Mile Limit by Randy Wayne White Page B

to react. Matt had effectively insulated them with a forced truce, but it wouldn’t last beyond the last glass of vodka.
    There was little doubt in my mind, then, that Camphill would have to do something to save face, to reinforce his big-screen persona. His friends were going to take this story back to Hollywood, and he couldn’t allow that.
    We should have left then.
    Half an hour later, when we did walk out the door, we were all a little drunker.
    Over there drinking vodka shooters and eating caviar, so were Camphill and his pals.
    Timber’s Restaurant and Sanibel Grill are built high on wooden stilts over a parking area that opens onto Tarpon Bay Road, near a sanctuary of lakes and trees, not far from the beach, and only a quarter-mile or so from my house and lab, which is on the bay side of the island.
    I was the last of our group to leave. I stepped out onto the wooden deck and had only taken three or four steps when I felt the double doors behind me burst open. I glanced over my shoulder, and there was Gunnar Camphill in his khakis and black Polo shirt, biceps showing, walking fast, his two shorter friends following along behind like ducklets.
    Camphill’s friends’ faces were flushed and mottled, a mixture of excitement and expectation. There was going to be a show, a little slice of real-life adventure theater, and they were the great star’s sidekicks, their man the good-guy hero who won every fight.
    Camphill was calling as he walked, “Gilligan? Oh … Gilligan-n-n-n-n,” giving it a loud, humorous read.
    JoAnn, Rhonda, and Claudia were already in the parking lot. Jeth and Tomlinson were halfway down the steps, and Amelia was just a few paces ahead of me. I turned when I saw Camphill, then moved sideways to intercept him when he tried to brush past me.
    I said, “Hold it … hey! You’re not going anywhere.” I had my hands up, palms up—stop right there—and was backing away just a little to demonstrate that I didn’t want to initiate contact.
    Behind Camphill, pointed-face, his voice strangely husky, said, “Kick his ass, Gunnar. The Professor with his thick glasses made you look like a fool in there in front of all his redneck friends.”
    Camphill stopped and leaned, his face a few inches from my nose, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he said, “Your little friend needs to take off that T-shirt and throw it away. It’s offensive to me and anyone else who gives a damn about this earth and the creatures who live here. So he takes it off right now, tosses it in that Dumpster, and he walks away, no problem.”
    Behind me, I heard Jeth yell, “You want to threaten me, mah-ma-mister? Then come down here and do it to my face!”
    Camphill called back, “That’s what I’m trying to do, Gilligan. So tell your bookish friend here to move his ass, get out of the way, so we can discuss this man-to-Gilligan.” The humorous inflection again, telling his friends to enjoy it—it wasn’t going to last long.
    He’d been looking over my shoulder. Now he looked into my face as he added, “Okay, Professor. This is your final warning. Get out of my way. Or … or here, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He thought for a moment, making a show of the process, smiling because he had so many options. He glanced back at his friends as if in some wordless conferral, before he said, “Okay, what I’m going to do is, I’m going to put the heel of my right foot dead square on the right side of your temple. No … your jaw; I’ll go easy on you. Kick you on the temple, I could kill you. It’s going to happen so fast, you may hear it coming, but you won’t see it.
    “Now, what I’m worried about is, I might knock you over the railing. It’s sure as hell going to drop you. I don’t want to hurt you—it goes against all my training, my entire commitment to nonviolence—but if you don’t move your ass?” He shrugged. “You’ve forced me. I have no choice. And know what the funniest thing is, Professor? There isn’t a damn thing