Deep Blue by Randy Wayne White Page B

she closed the place to save on utilities. That was almost two years ago.”
    JoAnn, sitting next to Rhonda, asked some of the right questions—price, zoning, taxes—then added, “Are you out of your goddamn mind? So’s the seller at the price she’s asking. With a name as tacky as Grin N Bare It? That would have to go, but why even bother? This place is a teardown. Developers will pay twenty, thirty percent more and build condos.” She focused on Mack. “What’s the catch?”
    Rhonda, oddly subdued, opened her purse, took out a packet of tissues, then put the tissues away.
    Tomlinson exchanged looks with Ford while Mack explained, “Cash, that’s all. She wants a clean deal, and keep it simple. What I’m thinking is, we fix the place up and run it at a profit.”
    He motioned vaguely to include the concrete walls, beige paint peeling, and a tiny kitchen, where there was a counter piled with old phone books still in plastic. “If someone at the marina has friends visiting, or their boat’s being hauled, we’ll book them here instead of a hotel. Hire a manager and a handyman—Figgy is just the guy, I think. We can do the work ourselves in our spare time. I know, I know, the cottages are tiny, but think about it. Who knows more about living in cramped spaces than people who live on boats?We’re all set as far as zoning.” He craned his head back. “A little patch and polish . . . probably redo the wiring; the right furniture and an entertainment system would really liven up this place. And it comes with a license to sell wine and beer.”
    Tomlinson, wearing shorts and a tank top, stood and walked barefoot to the stack of phone books, and began shuffling through them. “Beer—rehydration’s important in the tropics, but why not buy a liquor license, too? I picture a seafaring motif: antique charts, serving wenches in low-cut dresses. And over there”—he pointed—“big-ass speakers for bands we can hire. I say we run the place as a private club. No suits or pinheads allowed . . . But seriously, ladies, you really want to change the name?”
    JoAnn was asking Mack if he needed investors, or had the cash, while Tomlinson continued with his thread. “How about we call this”—he had to think for a moment—“call it the Float On Bar. Or . . . the Déjà Vu Inn—yeah, the little hideaway so friendly, you could swear you’ve been here before. But to change a classic name like Grin and”—he plucked a magazine from the stack, saying, “Aha! Here’s proof. What did I tell you, Doc?” He held up the magazine. “This is why we never heard of the place. Nudists don’t advertise for the same reason they don’t need pockets.”
    International Naturists
, the publication’s name; lead story, Ford didn’t bother to look when it was passed around.
    Mack answered a few more questions before getting down to it. “None of us are getting any younger. Down the road, five or six years, if the feds kick us out, we’ll have a place to go. A sort of a—what do you call it?—family compound. That’s a perk. What I didn’t tell you is the owner has accepted my offer. I want to getthis place up and running before the season’s done. With me, it’s strictly business. If the buildings are structurally sound, if there’s no mold, and if the title’s clear, I’ll sign the contract. Mold is a hell of a lawsuit risk. Doc? That’s why I asked you to bring your tools. Let’s check behind some of the drywall and have a look inside the vents.”
    Ford helped for a while, then left his tools and the truck with Tomlinson and jogged home.
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    What kept going through his head as he lay in bed was Mexico and the procession of events after he’d stepped out,