American Tropic

by Thomas Sanchez

  His words are cut off by the roar of a boat engine. Everyone looks out from the open-sided party tent at the concrete pier jutting into the ocean. At the end of the pier is Big’s powerboat, with its engine roaring. Big grabs his steel-pronged trident and runs out onto the pier to his boat. No one is in the boat; its two-hundred-horsepower engine idles with a turbo-fueled growl, and exhaust steams from beneath its chrome spoiler back fin. On the boat’s sleek hull the name Big Conch is spray-painted over by a slashed red X.

  Big jumps into the boat and turns off the engine. An eerie whistle breaks the sudden silence. Big looks across the water. There is no one in the darkness. Big raises the trident spear gripped in his hand and shakes it angrily. “Whoever you are—I will get you! I will cut off your head and piss down your neck and have you tell me it’s raining!”

  A massive redbrick fort built during the Civil War dominates the entrance to Key West Harbor on a spit of land hooked out into the Atlantic Ocean. The fort’s towering walls are surrounded at their base on three sides by a deep water-filled moat. The fort’s one open entrance is guarded by two large iron-barrel cannons. Police cars speed up to the entrance, skidding to a stop. The Chief and his policemen, outfitted in riot gear and bulletproof vests and carrying heavy automatic weapons, jump from the cars and run into the fort. They race to the end of an arched brick corridor where Moxel stands waiting, with his rifle at the ready. The Chief catches his breath, looks behind Moxel at a six-foot hole opened up in a brick wall, and huffs. “So this is it?”

  Moxel nods at the hole. “Yeah, the fort’s restoration crew was doing structural work on this old wall when they realized it closed off what once was a doorway. Probably bricked in way back in Abe Lincoln’s time. When the crew broke through, they discovered a passageway leading into a hidden room. They found weird stuff and got out fast.”

  “What kind of weird stuff?”

  “Really spooky. Bizango stuff.”

  “We got an alert that this is Bizango’s hideout. Did anybody see him?”

  “I was the first one here, immediately sized up the situation, and issued the alert.”

  “Did you see him? Did you go in?”

  “No, I was waiting for backup.”

  The Chief grips his rifle in one hand and unhooks the long metal flashlight hanging from his belt as he barks orders at the surrounding men. “Guard this entrance. Moxel and I will go in. If we’re not out in twenty minutes, two of you follow us—never more than two at a time. I don’t want to lose a whole squad to this maniac; he could be hiding anywhere.”

  The Chief clicks on his flashlight and steps through the brick wall’s opening into a passageway barely the width of a man. He shines the flashlight into the darkness, exposing twisting curves ahead. Moxel follows him in. They duck their heads beneath the low arch of the brick ceiling as they squeeze forward. The Chief stops, sweat pours down his face. “Jesus, must be a hundred and ten degrees in here.”

  Moxel’s nostrils twitch as he inhales the stifling air. “Smells like a sewer. Smells like there might be dead Civil War guys rotting in here. Let’s turn around.”

  “We can’t turn around. It’s too narrow.”

  “We can walk out backward.”

  “No. We’re going through to the end.”

  Moxel slaps at his face. “Fucking mosquitoes. I’m being eaten alive. During the Civil War, more soldiers died from mosquito malaria than were shot in battle. I saw that on the History Channel.”

  “Keep your voice down. Is the safety of your rifle off?”

  “Of course.”

  “You sure your rifle’s loaded?”

  “Shit, I forgot.”

  “Goddamn it, man. Load your rifle.”

  Moxel loads his rifle in the semidarkness, snapping cartridges into the clip. “I’m ready now.”

  “Good. I hope this passageway doesn’t go on too much farther.”

  Moxel follows close behind the Chief. The passageway becomes narrower and tighter. They squeeze forward, and emerge into a dark room. The Chief shines his flashlight around the room, exposing old wooden crates stacked along one wall. The crates are stamped MUSKET ROUNDS, BLACK POWDER.

  The Chief whistles under his breath. “Looks like we’re in a Civil War munitions room.”

  “Shit! This stuff is so old it can blow if we even talk too loud.”

  “Don’t get excited.”

  The Chief aims his flashlight at a wall. The beam lights up a giant red X spray-painted across the wall. Below the red X, on the floor, is a Pelletier speargun. Next to the speargun is an open box full of four-foot-long steel spears.

  The Chief shines his light onto the adjoining wall.

  Stuck to the wall with duct tape are cut-up newspaper headlines in bold black ink:

  SOME SHRIMPERS IGNORE LAWS PROTECTING TURTLES

  CONDOS SLATED FOR WHITE HERON HABITAT

  TRACTOR-TRAILER RIG KILLS THREE KEY DEER ON HIGHWAY

  POWERBOAT RUNS OVER 22ND MANATEE THIS YEAR

  DOLPHINS DIE IN PESTICIDE-POLLUTED WATERS

  CORAL REEF DESTROYED BY CRUISE SHIPS

  ALLIGATOR SLAUGHTER DECLARED A DISGRACE

  TOXIC WASTE LINKED TO CANCER IN THE FLORIDA KEYS

  Moxel turns to leave. “I’m getting out!”

  The Chief grabs Moxel’s arm. “You aren’t going anywhere. This is definitely Bizango’s lair.”

  “He could be in here!”

  “He’s not here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If he was, you’d already have one of his steel spears shot through your heart.” The Chief shines his flashlight up, exposing a solid brick ceiling. “How the hell does Bizango get in and out of here, if the outside passageway’s been bricked up since Civil War times? Got to be another way in.” He points the beam across the ceiling, then down along the brick corner to the floor. The beam lights up an open carton of black micro–digital recorders. The Chief takes a step toward the carton. He stops at a sudden loud clacking at his feet. He jumps back.

  Moxel aims his rifle at the floor. “What’s that?”

  The Chief shines down his flashlight. The slick green mildewed floor around him is alive with clawing orange crabs. The crabs scuttle toward a wide hole in the floor. The hole is filled with brackish water. The crabs splash into the water and disappear down the hole.

  The Chief steps carefully to the hole. He bends over and directs the flashlight into the hole’s murky water. He holds the beam on the water. “Damn, now I get it. This hole was originally built as an escape hatch in case the fort was under siege. The hole is on the exact same water level as the moat outside surrounding the fort. That’s why the water from outside doesn’t flood into this room. Civil War soldiers could secretly escape this room by jumping into this hole and swimming through an underwater tunnel up into the moat. Bizango figured that out and he did the reverse.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Bizango’s been swimming under the moat and popping up through this hole to hide. That’s why we couldn’t find him all this time.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “I want you to stay in this room. Bizango might pop up from this hole at any moment.”

  “Chief, I can’t stay here. Tonight’s the Fantasy Parade. Bizango will be prowling for his next victim. I’m the one who’s come closest to capturing him. I should be out there on the streets, hunting him.”

  The Chief shines his flashlight into Moxel’s face. “Stay put and don’t leave this room. That’s an order.”

  Moxel’s face twists angrily. “Okay, but you’re wrong. I’m the guy to bring Bizango down.”

  The Chief takes out his cell phone and punches in a number. “Damn, it’s dead. No reception—brick walls are too thick. I can’t get ahold of Luz.” He moves to the passageway opening and punches in the number again. “Line’s still dead. She’s up in Key Largo at her daughter’s soccer game. I need to get her down here.”

  Moxel snorts. “Fucking
soccer moms. They’re at a game when there’s a killer on the loose. That’s why women shouldn’t be cops.”

  The Chief swings his flashlight around to the back wall and shines it on the spray-painted red X. “You’re wrong about Luz. Sometimes the only way to counter a man’s killer instinct is to use a woman’s intuition. I’ve got a feeling Luz is the one who is going to bring Bizango down.”

  The Key Largo High School soccer field is a sun-parched grassy rectangle lined by wooden bleachers that are filled with parents and supporters watching teenaged girls in shorts and jerseys battle out the final minutes of a hard-fought game. The sweating girls charge a white ball in a rush of running legs and pumping muscular thighs. A scoreboard on the side of the field reads LARGO GATORS 2, KEY WEST CONCHS 1.

  In the bleachers, Luz and Joan jump to their feet, yelling encouragement to Carmen as she runs in the middle of the action on the field. The ball bounces off the leg of a Largo player and goes out of bounds. Carmen races to the sideline and takes the ball from the referee for a throw-in. Both teams scatter back into their positions, hands on their hips, breathing hard as they focus on Carmen, waiting. Carmen holds the ball above her head, her feet planted firmly on the ground. She searches the field for an open teammate. She hurls the ball toward the Largo goalpost, and the action explodes into another blur of running girls.

  Joan holds Luz’s hand and squeezes it. “I’d give anything if Nina could have seen this championship. She was Carmen’s biggest fan.”

  Luz squeezes Joan’s hand back. The cell phone in her guayabera-shirt pocket rings. Luz doesn’t hear the ringing above the yelling around her; she strains to figure out what is going on at the far end of the field, where the ball sails through the air above the players. She sees Carmen and another girl leap high, their long hair flying, their bodies lunging toward the ball. Carmen whacks the spinning ball with her forehead, slamming it toward the goal net. The other girl in the air smashes hard into Carmen. Carmen falls, her head hitting the hard ground, knocking her out. The action on the field stops. Carmen lies motionless.

  Luz jumps down from the bleachers and runs across the field, with Joan close behind. Luz shoves through the players packed around Carmen; she kneels at Carmen’s side and holds her by the shoulders. “Can you hear me?” Carmen’s eyes don’t open. Luz shouts, “Can you hear me?” Carmen’s eyes slowly open; she moans and tries to get up. Luz pushes Carmen’s shoulders back down. “Don’t move! Watch my finger with your eyes!” Luz holds a finger in front of Carmen’s eyes and moves it slowly. Carmen’s dazed eyes follow Luz’s finger from left to right. “Good. Now count for me backward from five.”

  Carmen keeps her eyes on Luz as she counts. “Five, four, three, two, one … I love you, Mom.”

  Luz breathes heavily with relief. She kisses Carmen’s cheek and pulls her to her feet. The cell phone in Luz’s shirt pocket rings, but she ignores it.

  Joan pulls the ringing phone from Luz’s pocket and answers. “This is Joan. Luz can’t talk. Yes, go ahead, I’m listening. Okay, but it will take her two hours to get there from here.”

  Joan clicks the phone off and looks at Luz. “That was the Chief. They found Bizango’s hideout. Chief said you’ve got a siren and red lights on your rocket Charger, use them and get your ass to Key West.”

  Thousands of people wearing wildly imaginative and bizarre costumes are packed along the sidewalks lining both sides of mile-long Duval Street. The excited spectators cheer as the enormous decorated floats of the Fantasy Parade motor past. The floats resemble everything from a jet airplane crashed into a mountaintop, to pirate ships with sails billowing from towering masts, to the marble façade of the White House, to spooky haunted houses. From each passing float, costumed men and women fling strings of colored beads and candy to the playful crowd below. Between the floats march high-school bands, Jamaican tin-drum bands, Dixieland bands, bluegrass bands, and heavy-metal bands blasting an earsplitting blare.

  Through the raucous sidewalk crowd, a man wearing a presidential-looking dark suit and a rubber John F. Kennedy mask obscuring his face makes his way. A Frankenstein monster with iron bolts protruding from his neck lurches by the masked man. The monster is followed by a roller-skating seventy-year-old woman high on ecstasy, her wrinkled body totally nude except for a Red Riding Hood cape.

  The Kennedy figure looks up to a clattering sound in the sky and sees a police helicopter overhead. The copter skims above the rooftops of buildings lining the parade route. On the rooftops, police riflemen view the crowd through high-powered scopes.

  The masked man is banged into by a broad-shouldered drag queen wearing a red-white-and-blue Wonder Woman costume and a rhinestone tiara. Wonder Woman bats long false eyelashes at the man. “Well, if it isn’t John Frigging Kennedy, my hero. Don’t ask me what I can do for my country. Ask me what I can do for you! It’s Hell-o-Weenie. Treat or be tricked.” Wonder Woman slams a can of beer into the masked man’s chest.

  The man pushes the can away and walks on, his attention caught by black-and-white flashes in the middle of the street. He turns quickly to spot twenty men in full-bodied rubber skeleton suits, their faces hidden behind skull masks with knobby eye sockets; they all look like Bizango. The skeletons wear shiny black top hats and tap-dance behind a brass band of bloody-faced staggering zombies. The skeletons stop and toss their hats high in the air. They twirl around on white canes, blowing shrill whistles clenched between their teeth. The skeletons catch the spinning hats as they fall back down, to cheers from the crowd.

  The masked man closely follows the tap-dancing skeletons until his way is blocked by punk rockers surrounding Scarlett O’Hara. Scarlett is resplendent in her Civil War–era satin ball gown, flowing black wig, and sequined silver mask. The gang of spike-haired punks are tricked out in black leather pants and steel-point black boots. The punks’ faces are tattooed over by ghoulish inked images. The punks shout rude, lusty comments about Scarlett’s creamy swelled cleavage, pushed up from the tight top of her ball gown.

  The masked man shoves through the punks to get to Scarlett. He leans his rubber face close to her. “Excuse me, Miss Scarlett, you in trouble? Need some help?”

  The punks press in belligerently around the man. One punk spits his screaming words onto the man’s Kennedy face mask. “Fuck off, dead president!”

  The masked man pushes aside the front of his suit coat, exposing the handle of a pistol tucked behind his pants belt.

  The punk shouts at his mates, “Motherfucker president is packing! Motherfucker president assassin!” The punks run off.

  Scarlett flutters a purple fan before her face as she eyes the man from behind her silver mask. “Mr. President, there’s something familiar about you. Do we know each other?”

  “Maybe we do. Your voice sounds exactly like my wife’s.” The man grabs the bottom of his rubber mask and pulls it off.

  Scarlett sees the exposed face of Noah. She coos sarcastically, “Don’t you mean, my voice sounds exactly like your ex-wife’s, not your wife’s?” She pulls up her sequined face mask and takes it off. It is Zoe.

  Behind Zoe, in the street, a huge float depicts a palm-tree-studded island encircled by aqua-blue ocean waves. A painted wooden sign is arched over the island spelling out NEPTUNE BAY RESORT. Commanding the island’s center is Big Conch, costumed in his King Neptune toga, his long white wig circled by a plastic gold crown, and gripping his silver-painted pitchfork trident. He is surrounded by big-breasted mermaids in skimpy bikinis. The mermaids toss brightly wrapped candy to the leering crowd. Big vigorously pumps the silver trident above his head. He gazes down and sees Zoe in her Scarlett ball gown next to Noah holding his Kennedy mask. Big grabs the crotch of his short toga and thrusts his hips forward. He points the trident’s sharp steel prongs at Zoe. “Hey, Scarlett, why you with a president when you can be with Neptune? I’m king of the sea!”

  Big’s mermaids laugh and throw handfuls of candies through the air to Zoe. The candy rains down as a black-and
-white-rubber-encased skeleton appears next to Zoe. The skeleton dashes past her. It climbs up the blue-painted plywood waves of the island float and pushes the mermaids aside. It leaps toward Big and rips the trident away from him. It turns to the crowd, the steel-pronged trident held high in its hand. People erupt in panic. “It’s him! Run! The killer! Bizango!”

  Big yanks the trident from Bizango and slams its wood handle against the skeleton’s skull with a loud crack. Bizango reels backward. Big swings the base of the trident’s steel prongs into Bizango’s face, knocking the skeleton to the floor. Big aims the prongs at Bizango and thrusts forward. Bizango rolls; the prongs scrape the rubber skeleton suit, drawing a leak of blood. Bizango springs up. Big points the trident and lunges forward. Bizango spins aside; the sharp prongs whiz past. Bizango grabs the handle and wrenches the trident away from Big. Big dives toward Bizango. Bizango swings the trident around and drives its sharp prongs into Big’s chest; blood spurts from around the embedded prongs. Bizango yanks the trident back, pulling the prongs from Big’s chest. Big’s breath explodes in a gasping blast of shock as he falls dead at Bizango’s feet.

  Bizango raises the bloody trident and hurls it through the air at the wooden sign arched over the float. The steel prongs pierce the sign’s painted words, NEPTUNE BAY RESORT.

  On the street, Noah runs alongside the still-rolling float. He tries to keep his footing in the terrified crowd. He pulls out the pistol tucked beneath his pants belt. He aims the pistol up at Bizango. “Stop! I know who you are!”

  Bizango’s rubber skull face mask swerves around. The mask’s deep black eye sockets stare down at Noah with the aimed pistol.

  Noah shouts above the screaming crowd at Bizango, “Don’t make me shoot you!”