by Tim Dorsey
Serge’s forehead was on the bar. The same reel of images flickered inside his own skull: one long gooey montage from a chick flick starring Reese Witherspoon, who turns down the Stanford grad for true love with the hometown boy who grinds keys in the hardware store.
She leaned over and rubbed his neck. “Are you okay?”
Serge raised his head. “We have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“The kidnapping jazz isn’t going to fly.”
Brook’s face brightened with a big smile. “Then I get to stay with you?”
“No.” Serge fiddled with the label on his water bottle. “There’s only one alternative left.”
“What is it?”
“I have to turn myself in.”
“That’s crazy,” said Brook. “Why would you do that?”
Serge wouldn’t look at her. “I’ve had a good run. No regrets. The sole way to get the heat off you is to give them what they really want.”
“I won’t let you do it.”
“You won’t be able to stop me,” said Serge. “I’ll tell them I lied and manipulated you. They won’t go for it—not totally. So in exchange for details about certain cold cases, I’ll demand immunity for you.”
“Stop talking like that!”
“You’re the most decent thing I’ve got going.” Serge took a long sip and stared up at a collage of police patches from across North America. “It’s more than worth it. You’ve got so much to look forward to, and my luck is long past the expiration date.”
“There has to be another way.”
He shook his head. “A moment comes in every life with a choice that defines who you are, and this is mine.”
“But you’ll go to prison for life, maybe even death row.”
“I’ve always wanted to be an escape artist.”
“Shut up! . . .”
. . . The moon rose behind cabin number five. Coleman pushed himself up on the picnic table. He groaned and pulled out a sticky peanut—“Now I can hear better”—then he looked down at himself.
“What’s this?” He plucked the note off the front of his shirt, staggered over to the office and knocked. No answer. He pressed his face to the glass. No lights on. He stumbled back to the cabin and tried the knob. Locked. He sat back down on the picnic table. Something licked his hand. He fed the deer a peanut . . .
. . . Inside the No Name, Brook lit up and raised a finger of epiphany. “I’ve got it! I know another way out of this!”
Serge guzzled the rest of his water. “Like what?”
“Look at me.”
“Yeah?”
Brook got off her stool and stood in front of him. “I want you to beat me up.”
“This is no time to joke.”
“I couldn’t be more serious. Hit me. Hard!”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“It’ll make them believe the kidnapping tale,” said Brook.
“There’s no way I’m hitting you. That’s final.”
“I’ll say it’s what you did to me after my escape attempt,” said Brook. “Then I tried again and succeeded the next day. That way you won’t have to turn yourself in, and we can later secretly reunite and be together.”
“Even if we did try your plan—which we’re not—cops always see right through that,” said Serge. “Someone makes a murder look like a robbery by giving themselves a flesh wound in the meaty part of their arm. Really convincing.”
“It’s convincing if you beat me badly enough.”
“You’re wasting your breath. My freedom is a small price to pay for your happiness.”
“Serge, I love you and can’t let you do this for me,” said Brook. “Remember a minute ago when you mentioned a choice that defines a life? That’s a two-way street, and I’ve made my choice.”
“This conversation’s over.” Serge brusquely hopped off his stool and threw open the screen door.
The couple didn’t speak on the trek back toward the cabin.
Suddenly, a whoosh of wind went by.
The sight stopped them. Flickering blue lights. A police car skidded around the corner into the fishing camp. Then another whoosh and more flashing blue.
“How’d they find us so quickly?” said Brook.
Serge didn’t answer as he took off running toward the camp.
Brook shouted ahead into the night: “What are you going to do?”
Serge silently sped up.
Brook broke into her own sprint. “Don’t turn yourself in!”
Chapter SIX
CABIN NUMBER FIVE
Serge reached the corner, and sure enough, both police cars were parked at impromptu angles in front of his cottage. The rest of the cabins had emptied a crowd of onlookers that surrounded the eventfulness.
He walked purposefully toward one of the officers.
Brook snapped a whisper from behind: “Don’t confess or I’ll get mad!”
Serge ignored her and strolled directly to the closest uniform. “Good evening, officer. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Actually there is,” said the corporal. “Are you staying in this cabin?”
“Yes, I am.”
The officer opened a notebook. “What’s your name?”
“Serge A. Storms.”
“We’ve been looking for you.”
“I’m sure you have,” said Serge. “I’ll tell you everything. Where do you want to start?”
Brook stood horrified in the background. She made her right hand into a fist and gave her chin a light test punch. “Ow.”
Serge pointed at the officer’s belt. “Shouldn’t you get out your handcuffs?”
“Depends on how things go.”
“That’s an enlightened view.”
The officer waved. “Follow me.”
They walked around the back of the cottage to a tipped-over garbage can. Above it was a jimmied-open window with a pair of thick legs protruding outside. The window had slid closed on the middle of a generous derriere, apparently trapping someone trying to get inside. Legs kicked with anemic energy and rhythm.
The officer looked back at Serge. “Recognize this man?”
He nodded. “I’ve seen those legs before, and in even less usual context.”
A muffled voice from inside the cabin. “Serge, is that you?”
“Coleman, what are you doing?”
“Entering our cabin,” said Coleman. “Looks real nice.”
“What about your back half?”
“Still working on that.” Feet wiggled. “The note on my shirt said there was a spare key in the office, but by the time I regained consciousness, it was closed. Luckily I found this window unlatched, and then it fell down on me when I was crawling through.”
“How long have you been stuck?”
“Maybe a half hour.”
“What are your plans?” asked Serge.
“Watch TV.”
“Not later,” said Serge. “I mean right now.”
“I am watching TV right now. I was able to reach the remote on the arm of the couch.” Fart. “You’re all over the news, dude.”
Serge turned and smiled at the officer.
The officer didn’t smile back. “Is this man staying with you?”
Legs kicking harder.
“Unfortunately,” said Serge. “Is that what this is about?”
“We got a couple burglary calls.” The corporal closed his notebook. “Please latch your windows.”
“I think I got it,” said Coleman. “I’m coming loose.”
“No,” said Serge. “Let me come inside and lift it off you.”
Crash, thud. The window busted out of its frame and the legs disappeared.
The officer headed for his car. “There go
es your deposit.”
“Not the first time,” said Serge.
The squad cars backed up from the cabin and drove away. The couple went inside.
Coleman pushed the window off his head and got up. “What’s for dinner?”
Brook tapped a fist to her nose. “Beat me up.”
Serge turned his back and opened the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To get some air.”
“Don’t give yourself up,” said Brook.
“Bring back something to eat,” said Coleman.
Crickets.
Bullfrogs.
Waves lapped a low-tide shore in moonlight. Seaweed wrapped the island-expanding roots of red mangroves that dangled and grabbed down into the surf. Overhead, stars. Billions. The Big Dipper. It told Serge midnight was afoot. He stared out across the black water from the dead end of the ancient ferry ruins at the far edge of No Name Key. He had a gift for reminiscing about times before he was born.
After the Labor Day hurricane of ’35 took out the railroad, they decided it should be a highway, since automobiles were now around. Except it couldn’t be built in a day. The last gap was the watery run from Marathon to the lower Keys, and for a time, all the cars heading to Key West had to be ferried ashore at this then-bustling port that had since been abandoned to nature. Today’s so-called ruins were but strewn and somewhat-submerged concrete with rusty underpinnings. A bunch of boulders were placed on top, at the end of the road, by authorities who feared wrong-way departures from the No Name Pub would end up driving off the island into the drink, which they would.
Serge set a foot upon one of the large stones, an elbow resting on his raised knee. He gazed south at the string of tiny headlights racing down U.S. 1 across the Spanish Harbor Keys. When he left the cabin earlier, his brain was in a vise. But he knew his state’s foolproof spots for emergency mental decompression. The foot came off the boulder, and he pivoted for the three-mile return walk to the cottage. After crossing the island, he headed up the incline of the Bogie Channel Bridge. The night fishermen were out in ritual, casting lines and spinning lead-fringed nets into the air. Serge eventually made out cabin five in the distance. “What in the name of—” A solitary porch light blazed. Two people dancing outside. The distant thumps of a cheap boom box skipped across the waves: “ . . . Play that funky music, white boy . . .”
Moments later, Serge strolled up to the scene. Coleman was on his back again, babbling atop the picnic table. On the steps, Brook swigged from a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and let a tiny deer lap M&M’s from her hand.
“Brook . . .” said Serge.
“Beat me up.”
“Did you go somewhere?”
Another swig. “Coleman and me got a cab for Big Pine Liquors and the Winn-Dissy, I mean Dixie.”
“You’re drunk.”
“That’s the plan.” Brook’s attempt to stand landed her on her butt. “I’m not good with pain. And figured you wouldn’t feel so bad hitting me if I couldn’t feel it.”
“There’s no chance I’m hitting you.”
“Then I’m going to find a flight of stairs or some shit.” She raised the bottle again.
“I’ll take that.” Serge pulled the whiskey from her stubborn fingers. “Now let’s get you to bed.”
“Beat me up . . .”
Chapter SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING
Sunshine streamed through thoughtful clouds over the Florida Keys, sending warm shafts into the blinds at the Old Wooden Bridge Fishing Camp.
There was never a gradual awakening for Serge. His eyes would just spring open and he was into the day. He looked through the open bathroom door where Coleman was still snoring. Then his eyes wandered toward the other bed.
Empty.
But how?
Brook had been pretty smashed when he’d tucked her in. He would have sworn she’d outsleep him by hours.
Serge searched the rest of the cottage. Then around the outside. Then around the fishing camp. The sky was clear and a stiff onshore wind cut the heat. Perfect day to be on the water. Serge stopped and scratched his head. Sportsmen fueled center-console fishing skiffs near the big Texaco gas tank. They clomped down the dock carrying fly rods and coolers and frozen bait. Others rented orange-and-yellow kayaks, paddling out of the still harbor and into the heavy chop of Bogie Channel that quickly swept them off with the changing tide whether it was their intention or not.
Serge climbed the wooden steps of a clapboard building and entered the bottom-floor marina and motel office. Customers stood in line for ChapStick and nautical maps, fishing weights and bobbers, coffee, postcards, polarized sunglasses, advice. Someone opened a refrigerated case for sodas.
The last angler left and gave Serge the counter.
Julie rehung a sun visor that someone had second thoughts about. She returned with a smile. “You seem lost.”
Serge stared down in concern. He looked up. “Julie, did you happen to see the woman I arrived with yesterday? Maybe taking a morning stroll?”
“No, why? Another one get away?”
Julie had never seen Serge anything less than radiantly confident. Now he was worried. “It’s probably nothing.” He went back to the cabin as Coleman sat up dazed on the bathroom tiles.
“Coleman, you know where Brook is?”
He removed a Lincoln penny from his mouth and examined it. “She’s gone?”
“Did you go anywhere last night besides the liquor and grocery stores?”
“No, I mean, yeah, we stopped back in the No Name Pub again.”
“Anything happen?”
“Not really.” Coleman put the penny in his pocket, where he discovered a melted Klondike bar. “I wanted to eat that.”
“Think hard,” said Serge. “This is important.”
“Well, we met some of the regulars: Yulee, Fellsmere, Daytona Dave, Sop Choppy, Bob and Shirtless Bob—”
“Fine,” Serge said impatiently. “Did anything happen?”
“She was chatting with a lot of people, but after all she’s pretty cute.” Coleman grabbed a bottle of hair of the dog. “Then some of them took a table in back and leaned closer like they had secrets and then Sop Choppy—that’s the big biker—”
“I know who he is. What did they do?”
“He called someone on his cell and handed it to Brook, who talked like forever, but that’s really all.”
“And none of this seemed unusual to you?”
“Not really.” Coleman reached in the fridge for a Schlitz. “It’s the No Name.”
“Great.” Serge opened all the blinds and plopped down on the sofa; the water on the other side of the windows grew choppier, kayakers screaming in the channel as they were swept out to Florida Bay. “Where on earth can she be?”
Tires squealed as a muscle car whipped around the corner and skidded up in the gravel just before hitting the picnic table.
Coleman pointed with his beer. “Maybe that’s her.”
Serge bolted out of the cabin.
The driver’s door opened.
Serge sagged. “Oh, it’s just you, Faber.”
“Oh, it’s just me?” said Joe. “I was expecting a little more gratitude, like, ‘Hey, I know you’re running a couple of really busy bars, but thanks for risking your neck collecting the luggage of a known fugitive and throwing it in the trunk of a cool new ride you just hooked me up with.’ It’s a seventy-six Cobra, by the way. Next time a Pinto.”
“No really, thanks,” said Serge. “I just got my mind on something—”
Joe threw the car keys like he was still pitching for Miami. Serge ducked and Coleman grabbed his forehead. “Ow, shit!”
Faber stomped up the street to check on his bartenders.
Serge followed him, and Coleman followed Serge. “Where are you
going?”
“To talk to Sop Choppy. He has some explaining.”
The screen door flew open with a bang. “There you are!”
Sop Choppy looked up from a mug of beer. Eyes got big. “Serge, uh, what are you doing here?”
“Surprised to see me?”
“Yeah, you’re supposed to be in hiding.”
“You better start talking. Fast!”
“About what?”
“Last night, Brook.”
“Oh, that.” Sop Choppy relaxed and hoisted his mug. “Don’t worry about it. All taken care of, just like you wanted.”
“What are you talking about?” said Serge. “I didn’t ask you for anything.”
“Brook relayed your message. I thought I was doing you a favor. Why? Did I do something wrong?”
“What did you do?”
“Oh my God,” said Sop Choppy. “Then this is bad . . .”
Faber was behind the counter filling out a vacation schedule. A beer mug shattered. He turned to see Serge jerk Sop Choppy off his stool and drag him toward the men’s room. The owner threw up his arms and went back in the kitchen.
Several miles away, on the side of U.S. 1, a timid knock on a door at a signless motel. A man in shorts answered. Shaved head and prison tats running up his neck. More ink formed a teardrop next to his left eye. A scar from a box cutter ran from one corner of his mouth to his ear. He took a drag on the stub of a Marlboro pinched in his fingers.
“You Brook?”
She nodded. “You Bones?”
“Still time to change your mind.”
Brook gulped and shook her head. “I got your money.” She began opening her purse.
“Not here.” He glanced outside, then waved her into the room. “You’re going to want a drink first. Maybe a few . . .”
. . . A blue-and-white Ford Cobra raced south on Big Pine Key. Coleman made the rare decision to buckle his seat belt without being told. They went hard around a corner, and the shoulder strap cut into his chest.
“Serge, you might want to slow down. I mean you usually drive fast, but—”