Coconut Cowboy

by Tim Dorsey

  Nothing but frogs belching in the dark.

  “That’s what I thought.” Serge tucked the gun away under his tropical shirt. “You’re all cowards! When it comes to sexual quirks, I’m as weird as you are! No, weirder. There’s not a chance you can keep up with me in that pantheon.” He bent down and covered the prisoner’s nose and mouth until he couldn’t breathe. “When it comes to getting your freak on, my motto is the same as the oath physicians take: Do no harm.”

  “Mmmmmmmmm!”

  “You’ll have to speak more clearly. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Kick, kick, stomp, kick. “In all my years, I thought I’d been around every fetish block there is, but not this ghetto.” Extra-­hard kick, this time to the throat. “Trouble breathing, eh? Think about those poor, small animals you tortured and mutilated just for sexual gratification and, worse, profit!” Another stomp that broke his nose.

  “He shut up,” said Coleman, looking skyward at the canopy of brilliant stars in the reacquired tranquillity. “This is actually kind of nice.”

  “Who says work needs to be stressful?” Serge stood confidently at a steering wheel. “That’s why I love environmental experiments.”

  Coleman stared over the side into black water. “I’ve never ridden a pontoon boat before.”

  “Necessary for shallow drafting—­and when you need a stable, flat deck.” Serge turned the wheel, and the craft calmly followed a bend in the river. Along the banks: docks and davits and homes with flickering TVs.

  “Serge,” Coleman whispered. “I thought boat engines were noisy.”

  “Very much so.” Serge turned the wheel the other way. “And that big ninety-­horsepower Evinrude on the back of this baby would wake the whole neighborhood. That’s why I’m using the auxiliary electric motor to run silently. Most riverboats have them because the owners generally like to fish, and on the final approach to their favorite spots, they switch to electric so it doesn’t spook their prey.”

  “The motor’s really tiny.”

  “With a pontoon boat this size, you can only go a ­couple miles an hour,” said Serge. “Which is fine because we’re in a wake-­free manatee zone—­another spiritual commandment with me—­and I don’t need to make waves that could bang around those boats anchored at the bank and draw attention.”

  “Mmmmmmmmm!”

  Kick.

  “You’re right,” said Coleman. “We couldn’t be more quiet if we tried. And dark.”

  “I killed the running lights,” said Serge. “That’s a no-­no, but the animals don’t mind.”

  A barely audible movement of air came toward them as something took shape in the blackness. A large blue heron swooped over the boat and disappeared. An owl hooted from an overhanging branch.

  “Nature’s cool,” said Coleman.

  “Then take a gander off the port side.”

  “Which is port?”

  “Left.”

  Coleman leaned over the edge.

  “Your other left,” said Serge.

  “Oh.” Coleman walked across the boat.

  “Here’s how you remember: Port has fewer letters than starboard, and left has fewer letters than right. I can’t help you with the basic right and left.”

  “Better write it on my shoes again.” Coleman suddenly leaped back and seized his heart.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He pointed with a quivering arm. “There’s something giant and alive in the water! Now I know what you’re going to do to that guy.”

  “Chill out.” Serge ran fingers through his hair. “That’s one of the gentlest creatures on earth.”

  Coleman cautiously looked over the side again. “I recognize it now. It’s one of the manatees we saw earlier.”

  “Grab one of our grocery bags and get out a head of lettuce. They like that.”

  Coleman dropped the leafy ball in the water. “You’re right. He’s nibbling. So that’s why you made us stop at the store?”

  “Not entirely.”

  They continued up the river, bend after bend. More birds and unseen things in the trees. Then it became eerily quiet. The boat approached a bridge.

  Coleman stared up as they slipped under the span. “This reminds me of Apocalypse Now.”

  “Near the end of our mission, there will be certain parallels.”

  Serge cut the engine back until they were barely moving.

  “There’s that underwater tank where we looked at fish the other day,” said Coleman. “We’re inside the park now?”

  “Keep your voice down.” Serge pointed up the right bank. “And your head.”

  They watched the roof of a golf cart zip by.

  “I think this is a bad idea,” said Coleman. “Those guards are bound to see us.”

  “Not if we stay low,” said Serge. “They’re on vigil for trouble coming at them from the road. They never expect the river. And the moon won’t be up for a while, so as long as we stay on schedule, we’ll have cover of total darkness.”

  “But I just don’t see how it’s possible to break into an official place like this.”

  “Chaos is always possible in Florida,” said Serge. “Sea World has far more security, but remember in 1999 when that guy snuck into a tank in the middle of the night to swim with the whales? They discovered his naked body the next morning. And he was just some loon who stupidly stumbled through all their precautions, so this place should be a cakewalk.”

  Serge steered toward the bank and turned the motor off, allowing the pontoons to drift harmlessly into the mud and reeds. Then he hopped ashore and secured the boat with a rope around the nearest tree.

  Coleman followed Serge on hands and knees as they crept to the perimeter of a large enclosure. Serge taped an envelope to a fence post.

  “What’s that?” asked Coleman.

  “Money for repairs because I have total respect for the sanctity of our state parks.” He started snipping the fence with bolt cutters. Soon he had enough clearance to peel back a wide flap. “Now help me unload the boat . . .”

  Moments later, they were crawling again. Coleman had a grocery sack and a leash. Serge pulled a pair of ankles.

  “Mmmmmmmm!”

  Serge grabbed the man’s crotch. “I swear to God I’ll pop your nuts if you don’t shut up! . . . That’s better.”

  They slithered through the opening in the fence.

  “You were right,” said Coleman. “We made it inside.”

  “Don’t celebrate too soon.” Serge removed his backpack. “We’ve got critical work to do. Hand me the leash . . .”

  WOBBLY

  Vernon’s car skidded to a stop at the top of the driveway, and he cut the siren.

  Officer Phibbs was still interviewing the person who had originally called 911 the day before.

  The mayor ran up. “Peter, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. Just freaked out.”

  Other official cars were already there. Several sheriff’s cruisers and unmarked vehicles. Detectives taking photos.

  “God, I hate those county bastards!” said Vernon. “This is all we need.” He turned to his officer. “You were kind of vague when you called me on the radio. This happened last night?”

  The officer nodded.

  “And I’m only hearing about it now?”

  “Peter ran to a neighbor’s house down the road, which may or may not be over city limits,” said the officer. “So the call went to the sheriff’s office, and it fell through the cracks . . . Deputies finally got around to coming out, and when I saw all the commotion while driving by, I figured you’d want to know, because of that other issue.”

  “Excuse me,” said Peter. “What other issue?”

  “Your house is located in disputed border country.”

  “I don’t know w
hat that means.”

  “Has to do with that strip of land we annexed so we could catch speeders on the highway,” said Vernon. He glanced around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “Surveyors cost a lot of money, so we just sort of eyeballed it.”

  More sheriff’s cars came pouring up the drive. Deputies began unwinding yellow spools.

  “Excuse me, Mayor,” said Officer Phibbs. “I didn’t exactly tell you everything before, because it was over the radio. Could we step aside for a moment?”

  The officer gave him the lowdown.

  “What!” Vernon jumped back. “You’re completely serious?”

  The officer nodded.

  Vernon heard car doors slamming across the lawn.

  “Who are those guys?” asked Peter.

  “No time to explain,” said Vernon. “Listen very carefully: Don’t say a single word. I’m getting you a lawyer.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Vernon. “This is one of those rural political feuds, and you’ve just become an innocent pawn in the border war. Forget fair. Anything—­and I mean anything—­can happen way out here in the country.”

  “You mean like that song ‘The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia’?”

  “Just keep your yap shut!” Vernon turned and smiled and held out a hand. “Sheriff Highsmith, it’s a pleasure. What brings you out to these parts?”

  “Vern, are we going to have to do this the hard way again?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t.” The sheriff pivoted. “You must be Peter Pugliese?”

  “Peter,” said Vernon. “Remember what I told you. You don’t have to talk.”

  “Interfering with a witness?” asked Highsmith.

  “I don’t know about your jurisdiction, but in my town reminding someone of the Constitution is patriotic,” said Vernon. “And speaking of jurisdiction, aren’t you out of yours?”

  More cars arrived. Men got out on the edge of the property, setting up tripods with highly calibrated telescopes.

  “Surveyors?” said Vernon.

  “We’ve been requesting your official annexation map for over a year,” said Highsmith. “The preliminary one we got looked like someone had drawn the lines freehand after drinking.”

  “Someone needs to get their vision checked.” Vernon turned. “Peter, don’t say a damn thing.”

  The sheriff stepped up to the mayor nose-­to-­nose like a baseball argument. “I know exactly what kind of town you’re running here. Speed traps, the subdivision, lost utility-­bill records and all the other off-­the-­books corruption. It stinks to high heaven!”

  “That’s slander,” said Vernon. “Phibbs, you heard that.”

  “I haven’t been able to prove anything yet, but you’re dirty and I’m going to take you down,” said the sheriff. “In the meantime, I’m bringing the witness in for questioning. Peter, this way . . .”

  Vernon’s mind swirled at the ramifications: the fake geology report, groundwater pumping, everything. Peter was a city boy who wouldn’t take well to a twelve-­hour interview in some outback shithole. He might crack and say anything.

  “Sheriff!” yelled Vernon. “Mr. Pugliese is a hardworking, upstanding citizen of this community, and I strenuously object—­”

  “Save it,” said the sheriff. “Let’s go, Peter . . .”

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  LEAD BELLY’S

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “We’re closed.”

  “Otis, it’s me. Jabow.”

  The door opened and he stormed inside.

  Three young men sitting in a row saw him coming. They snapped their heads back, hitting the wall in succession.

  “Don’t hurt us.”

  “As much as I’d like to . . .” Jabow bore down on them. “Where’d you bury the money and the body?”

  “Just where we told you,” said Elroy.

  “We dug up the whole place and then some,” said Jabow. “Didn’t find nothing.”

  “But it’s there—­”

  “Get in the truck!”

  They raced back across town and turned up the driveway to the house. Jabow jumped out of the cab and ran around to the pickup’s bed. “Get out!”

  It was like the trio was spring-­loaded.

  “Now you’re coming with me!” said Jabow. “And you’re going to show me exactly where you were digging!”

  “Okay.”

  The three climbed back into the bed of the truck.

  “Dammit!” said Jabow. “How simple are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you to show me where you buried the stuff!”

  “Right.” They sat still.

  Jabow’s face turned blood red. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “We’re going to show you,” said Elroy.

  “So get the fuck out of the truck and get under my house!”

  “But that isn’t your house,” said Slow.

  “Of course it’s my house.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I think I would know my own home—­” Jabow suddenly stopped and hung his head in exasperation. “Under exactly which house were you digging?”

  “We’ll take you there,” said Elroy. “It’s just up the road, next turn.”

  “You of all ­people should know where it is,” said Slow.

  “You live there, after all,” said Slower.

  The sheriff began walking Peter back to one of his cruisers.

  Another car came up the drive. An expensive one. A distinguished man in an oxford shirt climbed out of the black Lincoln.

  “Senator Pratchett,” the sheriff said respectfully. “What are you doing here?”

  The senator placed a friendly hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Heard there might be a tiny misunderstanding.”

  “To say the least.”

  “But this is the sort of thing that has a way of getting in the papers, and there’s been a tad too much of that lately for my taste. Not good for anyone. I’d like to see if we can come to an amicable resolution.”

  The sheriff pointed accusingly. “It’s him! He gives a bad name to the whole county!”

  Pratchett manufactured a pained expression and nodded with sympathy. “I’m familiar with the history around here. Give me a second and let me see if I can’t reason with him. In the meantime, I would consider it a great personal favor if you could put everything on pause.”

  “Anything to help you.”

  The senator walked over to the mayor.

  “You’re up late,” said Vernon.

  “Jabow called me.”

  “Jabow?”

  A ’55 Ford pickup raced toward them and skidded to a stop.

  “Vernon!”

  “Jabow, what’s going on?”

  Jabow whispered in his ear.

  Vernon’s eyes flew wide. “Jumping saints in heaven! Can this possibly get any worse?”

  Pratchett gestured down the driveway, where Peter was about to be placed in the back of a cruiser. “Yes, it can.”

  “What do I do?”

  The senator whispered in Vern’s other ear.

  “But won’t that make everything worse?”

  “Just do it,” said Pratchett. “It’ll stop the bleeding.”

  The pair walked down the driveway, and Vernon pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Peter Pugliese, you’re under arrest for murder.”

  “Hey!” shouted the sheriff. “You can’t take my witness!”

  “He may be your witness, but now he’s my homicide suspect. That trumps.”

  “Like hell it does.” The sheriff gestured across the driveway. “My coroner’s van says otherwise. The med
ical examiner is a county office, which gives me the bigger bite of this pie.”

  “Take it up with the judge in the morning,” said Vernon. “Which is me . . . Come on, Peter.”

  Sheriff Highsmith looked toward the senator for help.

  “I did my best.” Pratchett shrugged. “But you know how unreasonable he is.”

  At the top of the drive, Vernon pressed Peter’s head down as he stuck him in the backseat of his car.

  “But I didn’t kill anyone!” Peter protested.

  “I know that,” said Vernon.

  “Then why are you arresting me?”

  “You’re not really under arrest.”

  “What?”

  “Just shut up and look guilty.”

  The car left the driveway, and Jabow followed in the pickup truck with three young men in the back bed.

  “What happened to that house?” Slow asked Slower.

  “They said a big sinkhole opened up under the bedroom.”

  “Wow, I sure hope Jabow’s okay.”

  THE HOMOSASSA RIVER

  A full moon rose on the horizon, gleaming through the trees.

  Serge and Coleman were crawling again. This time leaving the park. Twenty more yards to their exit through the vandalized fence. Coleman glanced back at the captive’s plight. “Can we stay and watch? It’s going to be so excellent!”

  “Wish we could.” Serge looked up at the trees. “But we need to get back to the boat and out of here before the moon lights up the whole river.”

  They made it through the fence. Serge pulled the chain-­link flaps closed, then secured the breach by sewing the broken links back together with heavy-­gauge wire. “Coleman, go get on board.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “One last task.” Serge kept his head low, waiting and checking his glow-­in-­the-­dark wristwatch. The roof of a golf cart appeared right on schedule above some vegetation, and just as quickly it was gone. Serge pulled something from his backpack, stood up and attached it to the top of a fence post.

  Coleman was waiting with a beer as Serge untied the mooring line from a tree and hopped back on the boat’s deck, sending vibrations through the water.

  “Shoot!”

  “What?”

  “Cut it too close.” Serge pointed at sparkling ripples in the river. “Moon’s already up. We’re exposed.”