Free Everglades Assault by Randy Wayne White Page B

anybody with a peabrain knows they are. I just hate to see the ’glades die any faster than it already is. God knows, I don’t blame the Indians. They have every right to be bitter—and to make a buck any way they can. It’s just that I want those swamps to last at least until my own grandbabies are growed. I’d like to see ’em last forever, but the way things are goin’ I guess that’s just bein’ selfish. . . .”

7
    It was almost nine by the time Grafton left, and I knew we’d have to hurry if we wanted to order supper at the Flamingo Inn restaurant.
    The four guys in the safari suits had been getting progressively drunker—and louder. And they had been giving Stella, the pretty, worn waitress, a hard time.
    Hervey didn’t seem to notice. He seemed caught up in what Grafton had told him about the inevitable death of the Everglades. I remembered the dreamy way he had described the cypress heads to me, and I could understand his concern.
    Finally, I caught Stella’s eye and called for our check. She seemed relieved to be pulled from the demands of the fish king and his brown-nose court.
    She came over smiling, our check in her hand.
    â€œSo you fellas aren’t going to stay and dance with me either, huh?” she said, laughing.
    â€œI don’t even dance with my wife,” Hervey said quickly, as if she really meant it.
    â€œI’ll dance with you, Stella,” I said. “But after we get some supper.”
    She rubbed at the back of her neck briefly, wearily. “To tell you the truth, I’ll probably be asleep on my feet by that time.”
    â€œTough night?”
    She nodded toward the table with the four men. “Mostly, we just get nice people in here. Good folks who are just here to enjoy themselves. But every now and then we get jerks like that.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “God, how I pity their wives. Guys like that think women were put on this earth just to serve their every little whim.”
    â€œDon’t let them upset you, Stella. They’re not worth the energy.”
    She smiled a thin smile. “That’s the truth. You know, when I was younger it seemed like I knew how to handle men like that. But it’s getting so now they just wear and wear at you until you don’t know how to act. I end up dropping things and tripping over my own feet. I guess they intimidate me.”
    â€œYou want me to say something to them?”
    She shook her head quickly. “Oh, heavens no. I don’t like trouble. Besides—they’re not worth the energy, remember?”
    Those watercolor blue eyes of hers caught me again, and I found myself liking this woman. I wondered what culmination of events or personal disasters had brought her fifty miles deep in the Everglades, waiting tables.
    You could read a life of turmoil in those blue eyes. I could see her at eighteen, beautiful and fresh and naive, hell-bent on romance and the American dream.
    But as happens for all too many modern women, her dream had somehow turned sour. And instead of sailing off into the sunset, her face said she had spent her share of time just floundering for purchase, struggling to keep her head above water.
    You have to like the ones who end up weary and alone, but still determined to survive. And this pretty woman was a survivor.
    â€œSo you’re telling me there’ll be no dance after we finish dinner?”
    She smiled. “No dance. But maybe a cup of coffee?”
    â€œYou’re on,” I said.
    The swarthy-faced boss-master grabbed her just as we were walking out the door.
    â€œThis is my last offer, blondie—fifty bucks for the night!” he said drunkenly. “And don’t tell me you’ve never sold it for less than that.”
    And suddenly I realized just what “a tough night” in waitress talk implies.
    They not only have to hustle tables and wash glasses and smile for