Coconut Cowboy

by Tim Dorsey

  “Except I caught the logo on the front when he turned around. It’s a Ferrari shirt.”

  “ . . . Remember to forward my calls to Saint Kitts this weekend. And phone the resort. They stuck me with a dump of an eight-­hundred-­dollar room last time . . .”

  “Plus those fancy sunglasses on top of his head,” said Coleman.

  “Ferrari sunglasses.”

  “You think he likes Ferraris?” asked Coleman.

  “He owns one.” Serge pointed out the restaurant window. “And it’s not good enough that he has the car. He’s got to wear all the Ferrari shit so ­people know about it when he’s forced to be on foot.”

  “It’s parked in the handicapped space,” said Matt. “That’s breaking the law.”

  Serge bent over and pointed again. “Worse. He’s got a handicapped tag on his mirror.”

  “But he doesn’t look handicapped,” said Coleman. “In fact, he looks in great shape.”

  “He is.”

  “ . . . Another interview request? Unless it’s Time, tell them I’m at the house in Marseilles. Once you’ve been on enough magazine covers . . .”

  “But how can he have a handicapped tag?”

  “Easier than you’d think,” said Serge. “You just need a doctor’s note. And if all those celebrities can score exotic pharmaceuticals in Malibu by saying they’ve been on edge lately, a handicapped car tag is child’s play.”

  “That’s not right,” said Matt.

  “ . . . So change distributors. Doesn’t he know everyone wants my business? He’ll be in a bread line before I’m finished with him . . .”

  “I hate to stereotype, but I’ve seen the type,” said Serge. “Nobody else matters. If he wants extra space so his precious car doesn’t get scratched, then the wheelchair ­people will just have to pick up the slack.”

  “He’s up to the register now,” said Coleman. “She’s ready to take his order, but he’s still on the phone.”

  “ . . . Yeah, a supermodel again. But you get tired of that . . . No, I’m not going to tell you what she’s into . . . Okay, I’ll let you guess . . .”

  Serge tapped him on the shoulder.

  “ . . . Hold on.” The man turned around. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Serge gestured behind them. “There’s a pretty long line, and that girl’s waiting to take your order. But she’s just a kid and too polite to say anything.”

  “So?”

  “So the proper thing to do is get off the phone,” said Serge. “Please, come join us in the merriment of polite society.”

  “Unlike you losers, I have important business.” Then back into his cell: “No, just some jack-­off . . . Tell that other idiot I can have him fired with one phone call . . .”

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “You know how you asked me to remind you to count to ten when your face gets that color? . . .”

  Chapter TWENTY-NINE

  TALLAHASSEE

  The Florida state capital appears detached from the rest of the state. It might as well belong in any of its bordering Bible Belt neighbors, from the syrup accents to biscuit-­and-­gravy world view.

  Kudzu.

  The capitol building itself was the twin of the one in Alabama. In both states sat the ancient, original structures from the 1800s, now museums preserving an antebellum musk and spittoons. Behind each of those stood the new capitols: tall, narrow skyscrapers accompanied on each side by domes for respective chambers of the legislature. The overall resulting shape was the source of discussion.

  Today, it was hot. Inland hot. Trapped air and humidity. Condensers worked overtime pumping coolness into the senate committee room. A long curved table rose above those who were summoned. A tall burgundy leather chair sat in the middle of the curve, behind the engraved nameplate of the committee’s chairman, Bolley “Bo” Bodine. Always wore suspenders and a belt, so he could unbuckle in buffet restaurants.

  “This hearing is called to order.” The chairman gaveled. “Our committee is in session today to discuss an extremely unsettling matter. As a practice, we normally respect local governance, but irregularities have come to light that make it incumbent upon us to consider revoking the articles of incorporation for the city of Wobbly.”

  “Mr. Chairman?”

  “The chairman recognizes our esteemed colleague from Calusa County, Senator Ryan Pratchett.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Ryan. “Since my district represents the good ­people of Wobbly, I would like the record to reflect that I have found no finer group of citizens in the entire state who will give you the shirts off their backs. The senator yields.”

  “That’s it?”

  Pratchett reclined in his own massive chair and nodded.

  “Now then, a current state investigation into corruption in Wobbly has turned up some serious questions—­”

  “Mr. Chairman?”

  “The senator from Calusa County?”

  “Is it not accurate that thus far no corruption has been proven?” said Pratchett. “I would then respectfully request that the terms ‘law-­abiding and devout’ be added to the official record.”

  “Would that make you happy?”

  A nod.

  “So ordered,” said Bodine. “If we may finally proceed, I would like to begin taking testimony from our first witness, state auditor Franklin James . . . Mr. James, please raise your right hand . . .”

  A storm of camera flashes filled the chamber as a lithe man with wire-­rimmed glasses took the oath.

  “Mr. James, we have a copy of your preliminary report right here, which I deem highly disturbing. Would you begin by substantiating your first finding?”

  An awkward clearing of a throat, and he started speaking . . .

  “Excuse me,” said the chairman. “Could you move closer to the microphone? We can’t hear anything you’re saying.”

  The auditor scooted his chair and reviewed notes. “The city of Wobbly has, um, issued as many traffic tickets as some of the largest cities in the state, yet has a population of less than a thousand. Almost all of the citations issued in the last year came along a hundred-­yard stretch of State Road 92 that the city annexed with a long, narrow corridor of land. There can be no other conclusion than Wobbly’s police are issuing the citations almost solely as a revenue generator.”

  “Mr. Chairman?”

  A sigh. “The senator from Calusa County?”

  “I would like to say that I fully support the good men and women of this fair state who put on the proud uniforms of law enforcement and risk their lives each day to protect us from speeders.” Pratchett sat back.

  The chairman stared a moment, then turned to the witness. “Continue.”

  “When we visited the town with our requests for documentation, we could find no accounting for the fines. In addition, there was a similar lack of paper trail for water bills and pet registration fees.”

  “How did they explain this?”

  The auditor looked down at his notes. “There was a fire, a flood, it was lost in a tourist attraction.”

  “Attraction?”

  “A sinkhole.”

  “Anything else unusual?”

  “They were holding traffic court in a barbecue restaurant.”

  “Mr. Chairman?” said Pratchett. “I have a ­couple of questions for this witness.”

  “Go ahead.”

  The senator smiled behind his microphone. “Were they nice?”

  “What?”

  “When you were in Wobbly asking for this documentation, were they nice to you?”

  “I guess, but—­”

  “Would it be accurate to say they’re the salt of the earth?”

  “I don’t see—­”

  “Did you try the ribs
?”

  A gavel banged. “Senator Pratchett!” said the chairman. “Please! I’ve given you significant latitude, but we’re getting off track!”

  “Really?” said Pratchett. “In a land that so many of our military heroes fought and died for, listening to all sides is getting off track?”

  “Senator!”

  “Fine, if you don’t want the complete picture. It’s your committee.”

  “Are you finished?” asked the chairman.

  Pratchett shrugged.

  “Thank you . . .”

  Two hours later, they called the next witness.

  The chairman looked over the top of his reading glasses. “Sheriff Highsmith, the committee would like to express its appreciation for taking the time to travel all the way to Tallahassee.”

  “No problem.”

  “When state investigators visited your county, you described some troubling trends that I would like repeated for this panel.”

  “Well, one by-­product of the speed trap is a large number of arrests for reckless driving and other more serious traffic infractions. Since the only jail is the county’s, they bring the suspects to us, but we have to turn them away.”

  “And why is that?”

  “They’re issuing so many tickets that it’s far more than the town’s three officers can handle. So they started deputizing citizens for traffic duty, except there’s no protocol. It’s almost as if they’re just handing out badges. The ­people bringing the prisoners to us are driving personal cars, wearing street clothes and often have alcohol on their breath—­half the time we don’t know which one is under arrest. We’ve also had to respond to a number of clashes between rival neighborhood watch groups.”

  “Rival?”

  “Disputed border territory,” said Highsmith. “Both groups are standing their ground. We have surveyors working on it.”

  “Anything else?”

  ­“People are starting to go missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “We found the body of a Miami man in a sinkhole,” said the sheriff. “And an insurance underwriter still hasn’t turned up.”

  “Mr. Chairman?” said Pratchett. “May I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Sheriff,” said Pratchett. “Would you say that you and I have a good working relationship?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And that you and some of the officials in Wobbly do not?”

  “To say the least.”

  “Could your testimony be subconsciously tainted by last year’s pig races?”

  “What?”

  “No further questions . . .”

  The last witness of the day took the stand shortly after four.

  “Mr. Abernathy,” said the chairman. “We’ve heard previous testimony about an unusual configuration of land that was annexed. As an investigator with the attorney general’s office, do you have an opinion on this?”

  “We’ve never seen anything like it,” said the witness. “It’s beyond unusual: this thin, long appendage so out of place that the only logical answer is it was designed to take advantage of unsuspecting motorists.”

  “I see,” said the chairman. “And do you have any knowledge how this configuration came to be?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. The city was incorporated in 2012 with the guidance of a then–Calusa County attorney, who subsequently helped the city annex the land in question for the previous-­mentioned scheme. This appears to be part of a quid pro quo arrangement for votes.”

  “Votes?”

  “That fall, the attorney in question was elected to his first term in the state senate: Ryan Pratchett.”

  Gasps.

  Cameras furiously flashed.

  “Mr. Chairman!” yelled Pratchett. “So now we’re into character assassination?”

  The gavel banged. “You’re out of line!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” said Pratchett. “Your evidence is that a city has a weird shape?”

  Bang, bang, bang. “Order.”

  “Have you looked at your own gerrymandered voting district?” said Pratchett. “It’s shaped like copulating giraffes . . .”

  Laughter, gavel bangs.

  “Order!”

  Pratchett stood and dramatically waved a piece of paper over his head. “I have in my hand proof of the real corruption that this committee is trying to cover up from the citizens of this great state!”

  The pool of news photographers stood and rushed forward with another blinding wave of flashes.

  Bang, bang. “Order!”

  “I hold a copy of a traffic citation that the chairman of this committee received last year in Wobbly. This entire sham of a proceeding is nothing more than an attempt to fix a speeding ticket!”

  “Order!”

  “My conscience refuses to allow me to stand idly by and listen as an entire community of patriotic, God-­fearing ­people is unfairly maligned just because the chairman wants to drive faster.”

  “Order!”

  “Mr. Chairman, at long last, have you no shame?” yelled Pratchett. “Attack me all you want, but I will not let you slander the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ!”

  “What?”

  The senator stormed out of the room, and the press corps followed.

  “Order!”

  Chapter THIRTY

  U.S. HIGHWAY 44

  Vehicles stacked up in the drive-­through lane. So did ­people at the counter inside.

  “Eight, nine, ten,” said Serge.

  “Your face color is getting better,” said Coleman.

  Serge looked at the ceiling and performed breathing exercises. “Is he off the phone yet?”

  “Yes,” said Coleman. “But he’s still not ordering. He’s waving down a manager.”

  “ . . . Excuse me, how much is the escrow to reserve a new franchise location? Is there a regional price break for six or more? . . .”

  “I, uh, don’t know.”

  “ . . . What’s next quarter’s earnings projection? . . .”

  “Look, I just watch the kids.”

  “ . . . No problem. I’ll have my ­people call corporate . . .”

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “You’re vibrating.”

  “I know this guy.”

  “You’ve met before?” asked Matt.

  “Not specifically,” said Serge. “But yes, we’ve crossed paths dozens of times. Some ­people are unable to simply walk among us and conduct simple business. Everywhere they go, they’re compelled to bullhorn that they’re a player. They can never just buy something from a store without letting you know they can buy the store.”

  “He’s starting to order now,” said Coleman.

  “Oh God, not that!”

  “I thought you wanted him to order,” said Matt.

  “No, look,” said Serge. “He took the Ferrari sunglasses off his head, and now they’re dangling from the corner of his mouth by one of the ear things. I hate the guys who do that.”

  “The girl behind the register looks confused,” said Coleman. “He’s having to repeat his order . . . She’s still confused.”

  Serge tapped the shoulder.

  The man spun. “ . . . Mbgkeheygrblat! . . .”

  “She might be able to understand you if you took the sunglasses out of your mouth.”

  “ . . . Fgjhdkjuusthezaz! . . .”

  Serge grabbed the sunglasses. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t make out what you were saying.”

  The man shuddered in shock. “You touched my sunglasses!”

  Serge handed them back. “There’s still plenty of leg room left in the brotherhood of mankind.”

  “That’s assault! If you weren’t so unimportant, I’d press charges and have my attorneys ruin your entire family for the
next century.”

  “Or you could just order food and be happy like everyone else.”

  The man pursed his lips with bulging eyes, then spun to the register . . .

  Ten minutes later, Serge and Coleman and Matt sat at a table by the window, mustard on their mouths.

  “ . . . Another thing kids today don’t appreciate,” said Serge. “They all have music libraries in their pockets that they listen to with earbuds. You know what we had in the sixties? A bud. Singular. You plugged it into a transistor radio and listened to the audio fidelity of a string and Dixie cup. We used phone books, and if we needed to set a clock, we called ‘time of day’ and listened to bank ads. But most essential of all, nobody even considered throwing out a television. They were sacred family possessions, like an automobile in Havana they keep fixing for decades. TV repairmen were always visiting our house with suitcases of vacuum tubes, and my whole family sat around the living room watching him in teeth-­gnashing terror like we were holed up in a Yukon blizzard praying he could start a fire with wet matches. Except for me, because I was still stuck at the kitchen table glaring at a plate of uneaten roots until I could slip outside and crack coconuts. We lived like savages.”

  “All the long lines are gone at the registers,” said Coleman. “Is something going on?”

  “It was just our luck to hit the end of the lunch-­hour crunch.” Serge grabbed a napkin to dab his face. “These places become tombs in the mid-­afternoon.”

  “The Ferrari dude is getting up and going back to the counter.”

  “I was seriously trying to forget about him.”

  “He’s pointing at the dessert menu,” said Coleman. “I think he wants a New Age Cookie. . . . Yeah, that young girl is getting him a chocolate chip.”

  “Okay, I know I’ll regret this.” Serge turned around and eased back in his chair. “But I have to watch, even though I can’t imagine how he could possibly lower the bar of social behavior any farther.”

  “Serge, did he just do what I thought?” asked Matt. “He must have, because of that girl’s expression.”

  “We have a new limbo champion.” Serge got out his keys and slid them across the table. “Matt, there’s been a change of plans. I need you to take the motorcycle up the road and check in at the Primrose Motel.”