car—I’m a filmmaker. Do we have time?”
“I don’t have time,” I snapped.
The man was unfazed, which was irritating or to be admired, I hadn’t yet decided. When it was over, five stingray pups were winging the water near an indifferent mother. After confirming I’d gotten footage, I got to my feet, saying, “If you have a business card, maybe tomorrow. I’m busy all day. Sorry.”
It was true. In half an hour, Tomlinson and I were meeting Dan Futch at Punta Rassa on the other side of the causeway. There’s a shallow flat there near the boat ramp, a good spot for a seaplane. Tomlinson’s idea. I had a guess about motives, but he hadn’t explained.
The card my visitor presented said he was Luke Smith, President of something called Adventure World Productions, Tampa, Santa Monica, New York .
“We do reality adventure,” Smith explained, following me across the deck. “Our Atlantis piece, maybe you saw it? Or the thing we did on hyenas in South Africa? I just spent three weeks in Key West filming the offshore boat races. It’ll be a series on Guys’ Network. Flight 19, though—”
The man tapped my shoulder to ensure my attention, so I stopped and turned.
“—Flight 19 is a project I’ve wanted to do for years. I’m no bullshit amateur looking for a free ride, Dr. Ford. My company’s willing to front expense money. Start with ten grand, say?”
I retrieved his card from my pocket for review, straightened my glasses, then looked north beyond the bay where a miniature plane topped the mangrove rim. A Cessna, so it wasn’t Dan Futch.
“Interesting,” I said, “but I’m already late, Mr. Smith—”
“ Luke. And your friends call you Doc.” The genial smile reappeared as he offered a hand. “I do my research, Dr. Ford.” The man was fit, confident, and didn’t attempt to crush my fingers when we shook—an asinine gambit that signals a garden variety of male assholishness.
“I’d shoot all the early stuff personally and oversee the whole project once my partner gets involved. But only if you’re really onto something. Convince me, and we’d have a hell of a good time, I think. Make a fair chunk of money, too, doing what we love—isn’t that what life’s all about?”
I returned the business card to my billfold, asking, “Who said we found wreckage?”
The genial smile broadened. “Like Jimmy Buffett says, ‘The Coconut Telegraph.’”
“It’s not true.”
“Oh? Well, you can’t blame me for trying. You’re not the first group I’ve approached that’s on the trail of those Avengers. I’m at a local bar in Florida, talking to fishermen? I always bring up the subject.” Smith shrugged in a way that added So here I am . “Mostly they’re screwballs—UFO hunters who’ve been probed by aliens, psychics, weirdos. You know the type.”
That caused me to look at No Más in time to see Tomlinson appear on deck, soon followed by a man in a Rastafarian hair net with the body of a miniature sumo wrestler.
“Yes, I do,” I said with feeling.
Smith took that as encouragement. “That’s exactly why I’ve got a good vibe about this project—trust me, I’ve been on both ends of a camera. I don’t care what you’re shooting, you have to start with quality talent to end up with quality product in the can.”
Movie jargon, I guessed. Now in the rubber dinghy, Tomlinson and his friend were laughing, but possibly sober, while sumo-man bounced as if testing a trampoline—the Haitian drug dealer, perhaps. Kondo-something, I couldn’t remember—a “witch doctor.” I kept an eye on the two as I continued to listen.
“You’re respected in your field—I’ve even read some of your papers. And your friend Tomlinson’s book. And there’s not a marina in Florida that doesn’t know the name Dan Futch.”
I expected Smith to stress the point one more time and he did, adding, “But it all depends if you’ve actually found those missing planes.”
“We
“I don’t have time,” I snapped.
The man was unfazed, which was irritating or to be admired, I hadn’t yet decided. When it was over, five stingray pups were winging the water near an indifferent mother. After confirming I’d gotten footage, I got to my feet, saying, “If you have a business card, maybe tomorrow. I’m busy all day. Sorry.”
It was true. In half an hour, Tomlinson and I were meeting Dan Futch at Punta Rassa on the other side of the causeway. There’s a shallow flat there near the boat ramp, a good spot for a seaplane. Tomlinson’s idea. I had a guess about motives, but he hadn’t explained.
The card my visitor presented said he was Luke Smith, President of something called Adventure World Productions, Tampa, Santa Monica, New York .
“We do reality adventure,” Smith explained, following me across the deck. “Our Atlantis piece, maybe you saw it? Or the thing we did on hyenas in South Africa? I just spent three weeks in Key West filming the offshore boat races. It’ll be a series on Guys’ Network. Flight 19, though—”
The man tapped my shoulder to ensure my attention, so I stopped and turned.
“—Flight 19 is a project I’ve wanted to do for years. I’m no bullshit amateur looking for a free ride, Dr. Ford. My company’s willing to front expense money. Start with ten grand, say?”
I retrieved his card from my pocket for review, straightened my glasses, then looked north beyond the bay where a miniature plane topped the mangrove rim. A Cessna, so it wasn’t Dan Futch.
“Interesting,” I said, “but I’m already late, Mr. Smith—”
“ Luke. And your friends call you Doc.” The genial smile reappeared as he offered a hand. “I do my research, Dr. Ford.” The man was fit, confident, and didn’t attempt to crush my fingers when we shook—an asinine gambit that signals a garden variety of male assholishness.
“I’d shoot all the early stuff personally and oversee the whole project once my partner gets involved. But only if you’re really onto something. Convince me, and we’d have a hell of a good time, I think. Make a fair chunk of money, too, doing what we love—isn’t that what life’s all about?”
I returned the business card to my billfold, asking, “Who said we found wreckage?”
The genial smile broadened. “Like Jimmy Buffett says, ‘The Coconut Telegraph.’”
“It’s not true.”
“Oh? Well, you can’t blame me for trying. You’re not the first group I’ve approached that’s on the trail of those Avengers. I’m at a local bar in Florida, talking to fishermen? I always bring up the subject.” Smith shrugged in a way that added So here I am . “Mostly they’re screwballs—UFO hunters who’ve been probed by aliens, psychics, weirdos. You know the type.”
That caused me to look at No Más in time to see Tomlinson appear on deck, soon followed by a man in a Rastafarian hair net with the body of a miniature sumo wrestler.
“Yes, I do,” I said with feeling.
Smith took that as encouragement. “That’s exactly why I’ve got a good vibe about this project—trust me, I’ve been on both ends of a camera. I don’t care what you’re shooting, you have to start with quality talent to end up with quality product in the can.”
Movie jargon, I guessed. Now in the rubber dinghy, Tomlinson and his friend were laughing, but possibly sober, while sumo-man bounced as if testing a trampoline—the Haitian drug dealer, perhaps. Kondo-something, I couldn’t remember—a “witch doctor.” I kept an eye on the two as I continued to listen.
“You’re respected in your field—I’ve even read some of your papers. And your friend Tomlinson’s book. And there’s not a marina in Florida that doesn’t know the name Dan Futch.”
I expected Smith to stress the point one more time and he did, adding, “But it all depends if you’ve actually found those missing planes.”
“We
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