by Tim Dorsey
“But how is that possible?”
“Not only is it possible, it’s easy.” Nick interlaced his fingers. “But it involves knowledge of how banking and real estate knit together. I’m always amazed at how much needless grief people are going through these days.”
“It must have been God who made me bump into you.”
“He works in mysterious ways,” said Nick.
“You have no idea.” Serge’s head swiveled as he watched the last of the other people at the church drive away. “How do we do this?”
A hearty laugh. “See? You’re already bouncing back . . . The first thing I need to do is take a look at your mother’s house to gauge how it will appraise, then check some of her documents to make sure the title isn’t clouded. Tell her to get ready to limbo in Cancún.” Another laugh.
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” said Serge.
“No need to repay,” said Nick. “At this church, it’s what we do for each other in His name.”
“Okay, when can we start?”
“How about right now? Let’s go.”
“Fantastic,” said Serge.
Nick pointed at the only car in the otherwise empty parking lot. A late-model BMW sports coupe. The vanity plate read: Winning. “That’s mine.” He reached in his pocket for a blue-and-white key fob.
“Mine’s around back,” said Serge.
“I’ll follow you out to her place.”
“Actually, I’d like to show you something first.”
“What is it?”
“When I was going through Mom’s papers on the house, I found these other files with financial accounts and securities certificates that I didn’t know she had. And I also don’t know what they mean. They’re in my car. I was hoping maybe you could make heads or tails out of them.”
Nick thinking: Can this get any better? He stuck the Beemer’s keys back in his pocket. “I’d be more than happy to look at those files.”
They walked around the rear of the church to the glowing gold Plymouth. Serge stuck a key in the back and popped the lid. Nicholas leaned toward the trunk. “Hmm, I don’t see any files.”
“Because there aren’t any,” said Serge.
“Huh? What’s going on?”
“I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the others, so I waited until we could have a private little chat back here.” Serge held out his hand. “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars, please.”
Sincere confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s how much you stole from the couple up the road. I’m sure you remember the Whorleys. The Nantucket Whorleys?”
“Oh, now I get it.” A smirk. “Yeah, I heard about that. Terrible tragedy. I honestly tried to help them, but they made some bad financial moves. Retirees really have to watch out these days.”
Serge’s hand remained extended. “I’m still waiting.”
“For what?”
“The only mistake they made was trusting you,” said Serge.
“Now wait a second,” said Nick. “I’ve tried to be nice, and now you’re accusing me? This is all on them. Sorry, but those are the breaks.”
“I’ve seen a lot in my years and didn’t think the bar of human behavior could drop any lower, but joining church choirs to exploit people’s faith?” said Serge. “There’s a little chestnut out there about a special place in hell.”
“I’ve grown weary of you,” said Nick. “Okay, say I did it. So what? In fact, now that you’ve pissed me off, I’m glad I did it.”
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”
“Yes, there is,” said Nick. “Go fuck yourself!”
“In that case . . .” Serge lunged. “In you go!”
“Ahhhhhh!”
The trunk slammed shut.
Four Years Earlier
A bottle of Johnnie Walker sat on a desk next to a cannonball. Captain Crack sat behind the desk drinking Scotch and fingering gold doubloons. He had gotten the taste, and it put the fangs in him. The nerve of those guys! How dare they point guns at him?
After much tortured moral gymnastics, Crack decided that it was the guys who’d found the ship who were in the wrong. He made the decision. He looked up at his two associates, sitting in wicker chairs against a wall under an antique harpoon and a stuffed wahoo.
“Suit up,” said the captain. “We’re going back out tonight.”
“But what if they’re there?”
Crack stood and grabbed the bottle by the neck. “I’m actually hoping they are . . .”
The night was moonless, and the wind howled.
A black cigarette boat with all the running lights off skipped across the waves at top speed. There was an element of stealth, but the prime strategy was a blitz attack. Come in dark and fast before they knew it.
From distance surveillance, Crack knew all the divers were in the water, leaving a single hand on deck. And from experience, Crack knew that the person would be monitoring the divers and sonar screens. The black boat circled for a downwind approach to cloak the sound of their engines until the last moment, which was now. The deckhand heard the distinct noise a hundred yards out and lunged for a shotgun.
Seconds later, another standoff.
“It’s three to one,” said Crack. “Give us your shit.”
“Go to hell!”
“Then we’re coming aboard!”
“I’ll shoot!”
“No, you won’t.”
Bang!
Crack’s eyes widened. He quickly looked down at his chest. No blood. He looked up at the salvage boat. Nobody standing. Crack peered down into the deck at the still body of the deckhand. Then he shot glances side to side at his henchmen. “Who fired?”
“It was an accident. My finger slipped.”
“Fuck it,” said Crack. “I’ll deal with you later. Let’s get aboard and off-load their haul before the divers surface.”
The gang efficiently began passing expensive baskets over the gunwales.
Naturally, the divers surfaced. “What the hell’s going on? Get off our boat!”
“You’re not in a bargaining position,” said Crack. “I suggest you just swim away.”
“Fuck you!” The first diver started climbing up the swim ladder.
“Screw this!” A henchman dropped his basket and grabbed a rifle. “I’m not going back to prison!”
“What’s that mean?” said Crack.
“One dead in a robbery gets you the same as four. No witnesses!”
Bang!
So the others got into the act.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! . . .
When the proverbial smoke cleared, three lifeless wet suits floated and bumped against the hulls of both boats.
“What do we do now?” asked the second henchman.
“What the hell do you think? Finish loading!” Crack went to the inboard motor station of the divers’ boat, lifted a hatch and pulled the gas line free, liberally splashing the stern and port.
When they were all back in the cigarette boat and drifting away, Captain Crack pulled out a Zippo and patiently lit an entire roll of toilet paper. It was hurled into the salvage craft. A yellowish fire flickered at first. Then blue flames violently shot out from any vulnerable aperture before a fireball billowed into the sky. Crack threw the cigarette boat in gear and took off.
After a couple hundred yards: “Stop the boat! Stop the boat!”
Crack pulled the throttle all the way back, and the boat settled. “What is it?”
A henchman stretched out an arm. “Someone’s coming!”
Crack grabbed night-vision binoculars, and all three crawled out onto the bow on their stomachs.
“What’s going on?”
“Shhhhh!” Captain Crack focused the binoculars on a wayward shark fisherman named Remy Skillet as he arrived at the burning boat and poked around, then inexplicably began firing a gun at the already dead. “Unbelievable.”
It became even more unbelievab
le as Remy turned his boat and, instead of motoring off in any number of logical directions, decided to come straight at them.
“Shit!”
The black cigarette boat bolted out of its path at the last moment, and the henchmen turned around just in time to see the physics of the spinning vessel.
“He got thrown overboard . . .”
Crack decided to set a course south, parallel to land, putting distance between his boat and the natural vector out to the murder scene. A few miles later, he cut the engine again and admired the far-off ribbon of lights defining Singer Island.
“Why are we stopping?” asked a henchman.
“To celebrate,” said Crack, reaching into a watertight compartment for three glasses and the bottle of Johnnie Walker he had dragged along. “I was planning to celebrate anyway, though I didn’t think it would be under these exact circumstances. We had a few bumps, but all in all a successful run tonight.”
He handed out the glasses and poured several fingers of the Black Label in each.
“We really appreciate the opportunity,” said the first henchman.
“Definitely,” said the second, sniffing his drink before sipping.
Crack clinked his glass with theirs. “Congratulations! We’re all rich men now.”
The first henchmen sipped. “I could seriously get used to this.”
Crack turned his back. “Then be quick about it.” He faced them again.
One of the henchmen’s hands opened, and a glass of Scotch shattered on the deck. “W-w-what’s the shotgun for?”
“Do the math,” said Crack. “Six dead is the same as four. No witnesses.”
“But—”
Blam! Blam!
The henchmen toppled backward into the water.
Captain Crack Nasty set the gun down and picked up a glass. He calmly finished his drink and headed back to shore.
Chapter 12
Northeast Florida
A Plymouth Satellite raced north along the shore of a formidable river.
“You know what really separates the United States from the rest of the world?” asked Serge.
“Cowbell?”
“Soccer.”
“How so?”
“We’re the only country that gives such a small shit about it that we deliberately call it by the wrong name.”
“I don’t know,” said Coleman. “I’ve heard of some pretty scary soccer riots.”
“How scary can it be when the rioters are called hooligans?” said Serge. “Visit Philadelphia after any championship game and watch tipped-over police cars burning. And that’s when they win. Soccer, on the other hand, has no upside, other than our women’s team.”
“What do you mean?”
“A little while ago I read where the U.S. national team narrowly defeated the island of Martinique three-to-two,” said Serge. “That’s like barely beating a Sandals Resort.”
“It’s just embarrassing.” Belch. Coleman looked out the window as a swamp gave way to vegetation that thickened and seemed to crowd the road. Pines, oaks, palmettos. Moss hung from branches in a canopy. “Where the hell are we?”
“On the William Bartram Scenic and Historic Highway just southwest of Jacksonville,” said Serge. “We’re in St. Johns County, named after that big river off to our left. I’ll save you the details on Bartram. Okay, I won’t. Born in 1739, Bartram was a groundbreaking naturalist known for his colorful drawings of birds and plants. In 1774, he entered Florida and sailed down the river, encountering alligators and Indians and otherwise exploring in a fashion that makes people want to put your name on street signs.”
“I see one of the signs now.”
“But Bartram is just the aperitif. The main course is still coming up.” Serge snapped photos out the window. Click, click, click. “Man, I love this highway. The flora is so much different from the southern part of the state, much denser.” Click, click, click. “Do you realize what’s happening again? We’re in danger of too much linear thought. We must rage against the machine!”
“I thought soccer was our exit ramp.”
“True, true,” said Serge. “But now the whole country is into tangents, whether they realize it or not, so we amp up our game!”
“The nation is into tangents?” Coleman’s construction-paper robot was starting to fall apart from saliva. He reapplied the wacky eyes and took another double-clutch hit. “How so?”
“Comment threads!” Serge handed Coleman his smartphone. “I’ve already dialed one up for you. Go to any news site that invites reader comments at the end of stories and start reading. Doesn’t matter what the story is about: a new high-altitude diet from the Andes, debt restructuring for the mathematically deranged, royal wedding gaffes in pictures through the years, why Selena Gomez is mum about one sexy topic. The article I just gave you is about a seven-state egg recall for salmonella.”
“What am I looking at?”
“Just scroll down. It’s like the threads for all the other stories. This one starts with comments about food safety and the FDA and communicating with school cafeterias. But inevitably . . . wait, wait . . . Here it comes! . . . Here it comes! . . .”
Coleman squinted at the tiny screen. “‘Food is regulated more than assault rifles! . . . During a robbery do you want to be holding an egg or a gun? . . . It’s all the orange president’s fault! . . . Lock her up! . . . Snowflakes! . . . Republic-tards!’ . . .” Coleman handed the phone back. “I had no idea it was that bad. How did this happen?”
“Technology outpaced our evolution,” said Serge. “All of humanity falls along a spectrum of love to hate, and the people bunched up on the shitty end are now defined by too much spare time and keyboards. It happened once before when some pricks got hold of a Gutenberg press—‘Bullshit on the Renaissance’—until calmer heads prevailed.”
Thud, thud, thud.
Coleman spun around in pot paranoia. “What the hell was that?”
“Relax,” said Serge. “Just the guy in the trunk.”
“I remember now,” said Coleman. “Clyde, who’s mean to birdies.”
“No, you idiot. We got rid of Clyde back on the beach in Fort Lauderdale,” said Serge. “This is the new guy.”
“Sorry,” said Coleman. “There’s so much traffic through your trunk that it’s hard for me to keep the players straight.”
“Me too,” said Serge, pointing up at names written on a row of Post-it notes stuck to the sun visor.
The Plymouth dramatically slowed down as Serge scanned the side of the road.
“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.
“We just passed Cricket Hollow, so it’s coming up.”
“What is?”
Serge eased off the right side of the road and pointed at an easily missed piece of crooked, weathered wood with carved lettering: Beluthahatchee.
Coleman sucked his robot. “I still don’t know where we are.”
“Beluthahatchee is the name of the historic four-acre compound of preeminent Florida folklorist Stetson Kennedy. It’s from the Miccosukee tongue, meaning Dark Water. I love it when I find these compounds, like Graceland without amphetamines and sequins.”
Serge turned down a dirt road covered with brown leaves. “Stetson is one of my all-time heroes, traveling the state writing books and recording oral histories. He studied writing under Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, worked on the Federal Writers Project with Zora Neale Hurston, and Woody Guthrie often slept on his couch. Coincidence? You make the call!”
“I say nope.”
“Our tour is like the Kevin Bacon game of Florida with lots of dot-connecting that will become more evident as our odyssey continues.”
Coleman stared out his window, catching glimpses of water between the trees. “Is there a cemetery around here or something?”
“It’s like Mitzi the Dolphin, just a single resting place.” Serge slowed as the narrow road curved through an untamed southern jungle. “After Stetson passed away in 2011, they scattered hi
s ashes on the pond next to us, and Woody’s son Arlo gave a concert.”
Serge finally parked behind the old cedar barn of a home perched on piers over the edge of the water. “I love how Stetson let most of the compound continue to grow wild. But what I love more is that back in the 1950s, he infiltrated the Ku Klux Klan. He wasn’t working with law enforcement or anything, just thought it up and did it all by himself on spec.”
“What balls,” said Coleman.
“Then he passed what he’d learned over to the authorities and journalists. It was a difficult time in America, and Woody Guthrie was roaming the countryside with an acoustic guitar that had a sticker on it: ‘This machine kills fascists.’ Woody became quite controversial, and when he needed breaks, he began spending a lot of time at Stetson’s to retreat from it all. He was even staying here the night a fire started in the woods and threatened the house, but they put it out. Then they found a note on the front gate from the Klan threatening Kennedy. Mind you, this was after a previous incident when Stetson came home to discover the interior destroyed and all his writings thrown in the water. Anyway, Guthrie was crashing on the couch at Beluthahatchee so much that this is where he finished his memoir, Seeds of Man, and composed more than eighty songs, including ‘Beluthahatchee Bill,’ about Stetson. That resulted in this place being named not once, but twice, as a national literary landmark, for both Woody and Stetson. That’s beyond exciting. Think of it, two times!”
“I remember when you got all excited after having two orgasms in a row and put that number two NASCAR racing sign on your driver’s door.”
“It’s close, but I think this is bigger.” Serge stared wistfully out across the water. “I’m on an urgent quest for the high-water marks of letters in this fine state.”
“How come?”
“It’s necessary,” said Serge. “The state’s literary laurels are a needed counterbalance to our recent cultural reputation.”
“Which is?”
“Florida Man.”