by Tim Dorsey
The Plymouth reached the outskirts of the civilization. Signs for bait, fishing licenses and fried catfish.
“Where are we?” asked Coleman.
“The city of Okeechobee, also known as Cow Town.” The Plymouth pulled into a parking lot. “We need to resupply before our excellent visit.”
Twenty minutes later, they came out of the store. Coleman was pushing a shopping cart, and Serge was dragging a sales receipt across the pavement. He suddenly stopped and violently balled it up. Then into a garbage can—“Motherfucker!”—slamming the lid five times.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Soon, they were checking into another economy motel. This one had a warning sign at the reception desk.
Coleman moved his lips as he read. “Serge, what are blind mosquitoes?”
“Tiny suckers that don’t bite but sometimes swarm in biblical numbers off the lake after dark, and you have to keep your mouth closed unless you want extra protein. But they can still get in your eyes, ears and nose.”
“Jesus.”
“They’re attracted to light, so that’s why that sign asks guests to turn off all the lamps before leaving the room in the evening and close the door quickly. It’s a whole different set of rules out here, and they’re not in the humans’ favor.”
A young wrangler-Jane type stood behind the counter with a genuine smile. “I wouldn’t worry too much. The mosquitoes are bad on the few nights they’re out, but it’s mostly quiet. What freaks newcomers most are the frogs.”
“Frogs?” said Serge.
She nodded and held her hands apart a good half foot. “We have these giant ones that come out after a big rain, and people open their doors at night and see them all over the sidewalk and parking lot. They’re harmless, but sometimes one or two will hop in a room. That’s a lot of my night service calls.”
“Service calls?”
Another nod. “I have to go in rooms and capture them because people say they can’t sleep with those things under their bed making noise and just being creepy, and they’re too squeamish to catch them on their own . . . So what are you fellas doing in town?”
“Historical research,” said Serge. “Following connective tissue.”
“History? Really?” She brightened further. “I love history!” She got out a paper and pen and began jotting feverishly. “Here are the area’s high points . . .” She got to the bottom of the page. “. . . Finally, don’t forget the Brighton Seminole reservation. There’s a visitors’ center with exhibits and souvenirs, plus they have a twenty-four-hour casino where you don’t have to dress up. I usually go in my pajamas.”
They retired to the room as the sun began to set.
Coleman stood in amazement. “This is like the best budget place we’ve ever stayed in. It’s got a giant full kitchen and everything!”
“Scoped it out years ago, and now it’s the only place I’ll stay around here.” Serge hung his toiletry bag on a mirror. “Where else can you rent a former condo unit at a bargain price? And there’s always vacancy. That’s why I’m keeping it a secret.”
Rinnnnng! Rinnnnng!
Serge jumped. “What the fuck was that?”
“The phone,” said Coleman.
“Of course it’s the phone! But who could possibly know we’re here?”
Rinnnnng! Rinnnnng!
Serge gingerly picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi! It’s me, Cheyenne, from the front desk. I just thought of a couple more places that I forgot when I was making your list. Have a pen handy?”
Serge urgently lunged toward writing materials like he was taking a call for ransom demands. “Hit me!”
The call eventually ended, and the receiver went back in its cradle.
“Who was that?” asked Coleman.
“Our little history helper from the front desk. My love for country folk just keeps growing.”
The pair commenced their respective chores. Coleman spread dope on the counter and swilled malt liquor. Serge unpacked notebooks, guidebooks, pamphlets, and recording devices. Coleman made a bong from a souvenir plastic cowboy-hat penny bank that he’d bought at the store.
“TV?” asked Coleman.
“Leave it off. I have other plans.” Serge carefully arranged a configuration of needed materials on the nightstand: antiquarian novel, portable stereo, Styrofoam to-go dinner box. He took a deep breath in anticipation. Then he kicked off his shoes and lay on top of a bedspread in his stocking feet. “Here . . . we . . . go! . . .”
“What are you doing?”
“A lost art: constructing the perfect moment!” Serge bunched the pillow up under his head. “It requires the precisely engineered intersection of sensory, mental and emotional input: First, the motel room is in the ideal location: From the comfort of my bed, I have a fantastic view just outside the window of the Hoover Dike in the setting sun. Next”—he pressed a button on the portable stereo, and a growling voice came to life—“‘Little Black Train’ by Blind Joe Taggart, just the kind of blues song they would have been playing in the 1920s juke joints surrounding the lake’s bustling packing houses . . .” He opened the Styrofoam box on his stomach “. . . And this is my soul-food takeout from that shack in Pahokee of smothered pork chops, pigeon peas and collards. Standard dinner fare in those old days . . .” Serge finally grabbed the book off the nightstand. “And last but not least, a collectible early copy of Zora Neale Hurston’s masterpiece recounting the 1928 storm that struck right out there! . . .”
Serge became quiet. He turned up the tiny stereo, stuck a fork in a pork chop, opened the book and stared out the window. “. . . I’m starting to feel it. I’m getting tingly . . . Here it comes! . . . Here it comes! . . . It’s almost here! . . . It’s here!” Serge’s eyelids fluttered uncontrollably as his pupils rolled up in his head like he was possessed. Then, a few seconds later, it was over. “Coleman, did you see it? The Moment! . . . It was just here . . . See? There it goes . . .” He closed the book and swallowed a bite of pork. “. . . Whew! Exhausting! . . . If everyone could experience motels like this, prostitution as we know it would end.”
“They would have to get other jobs,” said Coleman.
“Then one day you order a pizza and open the door: ‘Hey, didn’t you used to be a hooker?’ ‘Shut up.’”
Serge paused curiously and considered the closed book next to him. He opened it again and read down a page. “Wait . . . just . . . a minute!”
“What is it?”
He ran for the desk and opened another, thicker green book. “I need my bible.”
“The Bible Bible?”
“No, the Florida bible. WPA Guide published in 1939, two years after Zora penned Their Eyes Were Watching God and around the time when she was crossing the state with Stetson Kennedy. The government commissioned the Depression-era guide series to put writers to work, and all these incredible people of letters contributed with flourishes never seen before in a travel guide. But nobody got a byline, and all the writing is uncredited . . .” Serge found the page he was looking for and thrust a fist in the air. “I knew it! I knew it!” He grabbed Coleman’s arms and danced in a circle. “I rock tonight!”
“What did you find?”
Serge plopped down at the desk again, holding up one of the books. “I knew I recognized it from somewhere! Hurston’s novel described the Seminoles evacuating ahead of the storm because of how the sawgrass bloomed.” He set the book down and picked up another. “And in the guide, virtually the same description. I just discovered an anonymous Zora passage! Prostitution is history!”
“Woo-hoo.”
Serge stopped and held the open books side by side, one in each hand. He looked out the window at the sunlit dike, then down at the books, up at the dike, books, dike, books, dike. His eyelids began fluttering again and his pupils rolled back up. Then it passed. “Whoa! . . . Two in a row!”
“Remember that time you had—”
“I know,” said Serge. “But this is better than orgasms, give or take . . . There’s nothing else in life to compare . . . unless I can figure a way . . .” He let his thought trail off.
“Figure a way what?”
“I don’t want to jinx it.” Serge reached in one of their shopping bags and pulled out a copy of the morning’s Okeechobee News.
Coleman popped another can of malt liquor. “I think I’m going to use all the extra space in this room to run around again.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“Yi-yi-yi-yi-yi . . . Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa . . . Oops, that’s enough.”
“Why’d you stop so soon?” asked Serge.
“The key is to stop just before you spit up in your mouth.”
“I think you’ve just nailed what to put on your tombstone.”
Coleman strolled over to a spacious desk. “What’s that? What are you doing now?”
“Trying to read the newspaper,” said Serge. “I’m required to buy a local newspaper whenever I arrive somewhere, to get in rhythm with the residents. And these small-town papers are the best! No bullshit about celebrity Twitter feuds or a cabinet member spending ten grand on a wastebasket. Check out this front page . . .” He held it up to his pal. “. . . Big photo at the top, ‘Veterans Honored,’ and another photo of a teen holding up two fish that won a tournament. Over in a box on the side where the weather forecast would normally be: ‘Lake level 15.51 feet.’ And last but not least, a front-page story you would only find in a paper like this: ‘Ball of Light Reported over Lake Okeechobee,’ complete with a photo someone took with a cell phone.”
Coleman leaned closer. “It’s just a black square with a fuzzy circle in the middle. Looks like a streetlight.”
“Good a guess as any.” Serge grabbed something else. “I get the feeling a lot of people around the lake are often staring up at the sky: ‘Sweet Jesus! The aliens are landing again!’ ‘You’re looking at a streetlight like last time, Uncle Biff. Why don’t you hand me that beer.’ . . . And here’s the free town flyer with announcements for lawn-mower races, taco night at the American Legion, and a dunk tank for charity.” Serge flipped through the paper until he came to a full-page ad. He leaped up. “Coleman!”
“What?”
“There’s a rodeo tonight!”
“What’s that mean?”
Serge tossed a duffel bag on the bed. “It means we have to get our uniforms ready . . .”
Chapter 25
September 17, 1928
The twangs of a guitar floated down the dirt street in pre-dawn hours. A gusting wind picked up pieces of cardboard and newspaper. Men in grimy pants and overalls sat on the porch steps of one of the many juke joints in Belle Glade and Pahokee that stayed open around the clock: small cabins with patrons stumbling in and out, some sleeping in the grass by the back door. Cats and dogs foraged for scraps.
The front of this particular saloon was a random patchwork of corrugated sheet metal. There were signs for Nehi and Royal Crown Cola and Atlantic Ale. Inside the cramped room, loud conversation and thick smoke from filterless cigarettes. A poker game became heated. Under a window stood a wooden pinball machine with a racehorse theme. At the front of the bar, a sweaty, rotund gent sat on a stool that looked like it might collapse from physics. He was the only one wearing a suit, but the jacket had long since been removed, and perspiration pasted the white dress shirt to his chest. A kerosene lantern illuminated other beads of sweat generously cascading down his cheeks. He hunched over his Gibson Archtop guitar, strumming a three-chord Chicago progression and howling the lyrics to “Rope Stretchin’” by Blind Blake. They don’t call it the blues for nothing.
In the back corner, beneath other signs for Ice Cold Jax Stout and Cobbs Creek Blended Whiskey, three men huddled over brown bottles.
“I am so sick of this shit,” said Johnson.
“Me too,” said Cabbage.
“How does he get away with it?” asked Mozelle.
“How? What color is his skin?” said Johnson. “I lost two weeks’ pay.”
“Then you had it good,” said Cabbage. “I was the fool who worked a third week after he kept puttin’ me off.”
“Somebody needs to do something about that asshole!”
“And end up like Jacob? You weren’t there.”
“I also heard he got run out of the Dominican for pulling a bunch of the same bullshit.”
“They say he doesn’t trust the banks or anyone since,” said Mozelle. “Keeps everything in gold, who knows where?”
“That’s just a crazy rumor,” said Johnson.
“Is it? I know a guy who saw him at the bank—”
“I thought he didn’t trust banks.”
“Not to deposit,” said Mozelle. “To change his cash into twenty-dollar gold pieces. Had a big-ass sack of ’em.”
Johnson lit a Lucky Strike, and they got another round of Blatz. They sat looking at each other.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” said Cabbage.
“I’m in,” said Mozelle.
“No time like now,” said Johnson.
They quickly finished their beer and headed out into the wee hours . . .
After brief trips home, they crept through the night with Colt revolvers and a crowbar, across tomato and strawberry fields. Then they entered rows of tall stalks yielding in the whipping wind.
“You heard about this storm that’s supposed to come?” asked Cabbage.
“We always get storms,” said Johnson.
“But what about that hurricane two years ago?”
“Lightning doesn’t strike twice. Like that’s going to happen again so soon.”
A gust came through, knocking them off-balance.
“I don’t know,” said Mozelle. “I heard the Seminoles already came through before sunset for higher ground. They tend to be right.”
“They tend to be Indians,” said Johnson. “We going to do this or not?”
They finally crouched on the edge of the cane field. Ahead, one of the nicest homes for miles. Columns and a second-floor wraparound veranda. Johnson took off running, and the rest followed until they were crouched again by a side door. They all reached in their back pockets and pulled out canvas flour bags with holes cut in strategic spots. They pulled them over their heads.
Johnson stuck the crowbar in the frame and cracked the door open. They charged inside and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Fakakta was snoring.
“Where’s his wife?”
“This other bedroom,” said Johnson, quietly closing another door in the hall.
Mozelle stuck his gun to the baron’s head and shook his shoulder. A whisper: “Wake up.”
Fakakta finally roused, then sat up quickly. “What do you want?”
“Gold.”
Then it all went south in an urgent hurry.
“I recognize your shirt from the fields,” said Fakakta. “Blue stripes. What was your name? Mozelle something?”
“Fuck!” He yanked off his flower bag. “Where’s the gold?”
“Mozelle, put your bag back on,” said Cabbage.
“Why? If he wasn’t sure about my name already, you just repeated it!” He swung his gun back to Fulgencio and pressed it between his eyes. “The gold!”
“What gold?” said the baron. “Go ahead and shoot. You’re all dead men anyway.”
Mozelle cocked the hammer. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously. You think you can just steal from everyone around here and get away with it? Not to mention lynching Jacob. You may not have known, but he was my cousin.”
A loud crackle outside as lightning laced the sky. The wind was now up to a roar, whistling through the clapboards and eaves. The shutters began coming loose, banging with a violent rhythm against the side of the house. Other stuff in the yard became airborne and crashed into things. Then another crash, but this one was different. It was inside. The trio saw glass and water explode on the wall over the headboard. Mozelle
spun with his pistol.
Bang.
A thud in the doorway.
“Jesus!” yelled Cabbage. “You just shot his wife!”
“She threw a vase at me!”
“We’ve got more trouble.”
They heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. Fulgencio’s adult son and chief enforcer, Pablo. With a rifle.
Johnson dashed to the door and fired his Colt, easily picking Pablo off before he reached the landing. The body slumped and tumbled backward down the stairs.
Cabbage grabbed his own head with both hands. “Shit! This was a bad idea! We never should have come!”
“We’re way past that now.” Johnson smacked the side of Fakakta’s head with his pistol. Blood spattered. He smacked him again the other way, then a third time.
“Damn!” said Mozelle. “Aren’t you going to ask him any questions?”
Another crack to the skull. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”
He raised the gun again, and Fakakta raised his hands. “Okay, enough. I’ll take you to the gold.”
Everyone marched out the back door and leaned forward in a driving rain. Fakakta led them out behind a falling-down old barn that came with the property. He placed his back against the wall, then counted out twenty measured paces. He stopped and pointed down.
Johnson shoved him out of the way and fell to his knees. “Keep him covered.” His hands clawed at the dirt. About a foot down, his fingers found netting. He grabbed it and stood, pulling hard. Earth flew. They all froze. An open pit with crate after wooden crate stacked to an unknown depth. Johnson opened the first box. Gasps.
“Look at all that money!”
Then they were all on their knees, running their fingers through the coins. “How much do you think is here? . . .”
Fakakta knew the effect gold had on people. He’d been waiting for his chance. He slowly inched backward, then all at once took off for the house.
“He’s running!”
Johnson stood and didn’t hurry his shot. Careful aim.