Donald Sikes hadn’t been to bed. He had dozed fitfully on the fantail, suffering little boy’s nightmares, and now the sun knifed him in the eyes. He stood up. “Roger—” he called, wanting coffee brewed the way he liked it. Then he remembered. He had murdered Roger. That’s when he saw Rosalind’s boat approaching his starboard stern quarter. Christ, there was a Mountie aboard. Those bastards always got their man. Maybe they’d caught Mr. Freed in Canada, and he talked…Then Donald Sikes recognized the uniform as that of the local law. There was a civilian aboard in addition to the boat driver. And two women were taking pictures…Why were the civilian and the cop staring down into the ocean like that?
The purser summoned Donald Sikes onto the bridge because the approaching boat was hailing him on the radio.
“What do you want?” asked Donny. “I’m in international waters.”
“Roger that, King Don. I got Professor Armbrister with the Florida Historical Society aboard here. Him and Sheriff Plotner, representin’ the town council, would like to invite you to a celebration they’re having, over.”
The fear stopped churning in the half-digested piña juice. They weren’t coming to arrest him. They had camera people aboard to take his picture. Local news hicks, probably. “What kind of celebration?”
“Well, it’s Founder’s Day on Omnium Key. We want to honor the pioneerin’ efforts of Prentiss Throckmorton. Professor Armbrister researched up the fact you and him was related, so they’d like you to be guest of honor, over.”
Donny Sikes couldn’t help laughing out loud. You just can’t ever tell how things will go down here, and Donny found that kind of charming. “Did you hear that, Gramps? Founder’s Day!”
The Annes panned the King Don from bow to stern before they went aboard.
Sheriff Plotner and Professor Goode were pale and panting by the time they climbed up to the main deck. The Annes were amazed at the bad taste topside. It looked like network TV’s notion of a New Orleans whorehouse. Chandeliers on a boat? A wet bar? At first they thought it was a joke. Everyone introduced themselves in the main saloon, then they repaired to the fantail. The Annes got a covert shot of the ridiculous fluffy carpet on the way out.
“Who’d like a piña colada?” asked Donny with a clap of his hands, the hale host. It was 8:45 in the morning.
The very thought of a cloying rum libation caused the professor’s gorge to rise like a dead bird in his throat.
“Sounds good to me,” said Captain Bert. “I could use the vitamin C.”
Donny gave last night’s pitcher a good shake to get the layers of rum and fruit-juice pulp to mingle before he poured out two big ones. “Founder’s Day, huh?” Donny giggled.
“Yes, sir,” said Bert.
“Bottoms up,” said Donny.
“Yes sir.”
“Uh, tell me, will Mr. Broadnax be attending? I understand his father was involved in this region’s past.” Donald Sikes kept wiping his cheek as if something wet and gooey had landed on it. Anne zoomed in on it. Nothing was visible on his cheek. “You folks must be making a moving picture.”
“Oh yes,” said Bert, “we have movies of Founder’s Days back, oh, fifty years? Wouldn’t you say, Professor Armbrister?”
“Yes.”
Was Bert going to have to fly this entire show solo?
Sheriff Plotner was regaining himself now that he was aboard the larger vessel, and he had his end to uphold as an elected official of Broadnax County, so he said, “It’s funny you should mention ol’ Big Al—that’s what we folks call him around here, fondly, you know. Thing is, we been trying to get hold of him for a couple of days now, but he must be away. Van’s gone. His young son Sennacherib’s gone, too. Funny, though, the servants didn’t know anything about it—them leavin’, I mean. Big Al hasn’t missed a Founder’s Day in a coon’s age, but he’s an independent one, ole Big Al. Can’t ever tell what he’ll do or not do.”
“Actually”—the professor took a series of deep breaths—“his father and your grandfather were partners here in south Florida. Did you know that, Mr. Sikes?”
“Please call me Donny,” said Donny, wiping his cheek.
“Why, thank you, Donny, and may I say what an honor it is to meet you. I’m a fan of yours, of your deals.”
“Are you really?”
“Oh, yes.” Professor Goode couldn’t wait to see himself flattering Donald Sikes on film. “Yes, Throckmorton and Broadnax made this region great. Why, before them it was a putrid swamp utterly hostile to the desires of man.”
“You don’t say—”
“Yes, indeed I do. They collaborated on the construction of a hotel, but more spectacularly, those two managed to make land where there was only water and wildlife. Isn’t that astonishing? It’s man’s desire to change his environment for the better that separates him from the beasts of the fields—swamps, as it were. Ha-ha. Yes, these men were giants of the old mold. Being related to such men must have proved a benefit to you in your deals.”
“Why, Professor,” said Donny, delighted, “you sound like my biographer.”
“I have been the biographer of great men of the past.”
“No kidding? Who?”
“Crashaw, Herrick, Herbert, and Vaughan.”
“A law firm? Little joke there.”
“They are the Metaphysicals.”
“What kind of money did they pay you? I mean what do you charge for a biography? Ballpark.”
“It’s never the money, Donny, it’s the subject. Without a worthy subject a biography is nothing. A worthy subject makes it priceless, but in your case I’d say about point one percent of your next deal.” Professor Goode was feeling great now. “That should set me up handsomely for my remaining years.”
Donny chuckled. He liked this Professor Whatshisname. A biography would please Gramps. Perhaps as a Christmas present—
“I just hope you get to meet Big Al,” interjected Sheriff Plotner toward the camera. “Yes, we’d sure like to have pictures of that meeting.”
Now Donald Sikes seemed to be batting invisible mosquitoes from his face.
“In fact,” continued the sheriff, “the parade route leads right to the site of the old Oseola Hotel. We’ll take you to the very spot.”
“Parade?”
“Oh well, now you can’t go expecting no Macy’s parade like the one in Chicago. We’re just a little community, but we’d be tickled pink to have you in our celebration.”
“Perhaps you’d care to say a few words to the local residents assembled at the site?” suggested the professor.
“About my grandfather?”
“Just anything at all,” said the sheriff. “Folks’d love to hear about some of your deals. Professor tells me you have some big ones. Deals.”
“Piña colada?” asked Donny.
“Sure,” said Bert.
“Gentlemen, my anchorage here isn’t entirely a coincidence. My next deal, as the professor puts it, will be local.” Donny twisted in his seat to present his profile to the camera. A powerful profile ran in the family. “I was putting you fellows on a bit. The fact is, I know my family history intimately. And that’s why, now, I intend to build on that very site of the old Oseola Hotel a new and grander facility. Certain changes to the in situ geography which I have in mind will require the creation of over two thousand new jobs.”
Bert, Sheriff Plotner, and Professor Goode exchanged bowled-over glances.
“Yes, gentlemen, prosperity beyond this county’s wildest dreams. Perfection Park, I call it, for that’s what I mean to create. Perhaps Founder’s Day is an appropriate day to present my main stipulation.”
“Stipulation?” smiled Professor Goode.
“Are you taking notes, Professor?”
“Always.”
“I want the name of the county changed from Broadnax to Throckmorton, and wherever the Broadnax name appears within the county—on roads, municipal buildings—I will want those, too, changed to Throckmorton. I would be pleas
ed if retail establishments complied as well with the name change, but I shan’t insist. It’s private enterprise, after all.” Donny Sikes brushed a swarm of invisible arachnids from his cheek.
“Sounds good to me,” said Sheriff Plotner. “Ole Big Al’ll be disappointed, but what the hell, what’s he done for us lately?”
“That’s the spirit that made this land great,” said Donny.
“But I don’t have that authority. Wish I did. It’d have to be put to a vote by the Town Fathers.”
“Why don’t we let the constituents decide?” suggested Professor Goode.
“How so, Professor?” asked Donny.
“Why don’t you present your proposal in broad outline form to the people who gather for Founder’s Day. It suggests to me the old New England town meeting. The seedbeds of democracy.”
“You mean today?”
“Sounds most appropriate to me.”
Bert and the sheriff nodded vigorous support of the idea.
“I guarantee they’ll be interested,” said Sheriff Plotner.
“Hmmm,” mused Donny, pretending reluctance. He’d let them encourage him some more.
And they did.
“By the way,” said Sheriff Plotner, “why don’t you come on in and use the docks at Bird Cut. We got enough water, and it’d sure be more comfortable than bouncin’ butt out here. By the way, how many crew do you have? So we can make arrangements.”
“I’m down to four, since the death of my friend Roger Vespucci, which of course you know about.”
“Well, your crew’s more’n welcome at the party.”
“I’d offer you gentlemen a ride back in this boat, but I’ll need some time to perfect my speech.”
Bert, the sheriff, and the professor giggled like boys on the way ashore. They replayed their bullshit, taking turns assuming the role of Donny Sikes, and they laughed and clapped each other on the backs. That Doom Loomis was a genius, and they were his trusted bullshit artists. So excited, so mirthful were they that they forgot to get seasick again.
DEBARKATION
The Tequesta Key Regional High School Pep Band, hired by Doom, played Bobby Goldsboro’s greatest hits as the hired captain of the King Don, a sun-bleached blond young man who when Donny’s back was turned used the ship to smuggle pornography into Nicaragua, maneuvered her into her berth at the end of the dock where before the recent unpleasantness Staggerlee used to live. His crew smartly swung out the boarding ramp for Donny Sikes, who wore his blue blazer with the fouled anchor on the breast, neatly creased blue tropical slacks and a captain’s hat with gold braid on the brim. He paused at the top of the ramp and waved to the assembled throng.
It was a pretty raggedy-assed throng. A knot of barefoot tourists in polyester Bermudas had assembled on the dock to get an early spot from which to view the sunset. Smoking cigarettes, they didn’t seem to have any clear idea who was aboard this huge white yacht that had just blocked out any hope of a sunset view. Professor Whatshisname was down on the dock wearing a red and green academic sash like a bandolier across his chest. The dykey chicks were there filming his arrival. The smelly sheriff was there. And the other guy, the one who drove the boat. Bart, or something. They were smiling in welcome. But everyone else had blank looks on their faces.
Donny’s crewmen had misrigged the boarding ramp. When Donny stepped slightly off its centerline, the narrow plank flipped out from under him. Only the rope railing catching him around the ass, burning it, prevented a plunge into the bay he meant to drain. He clawed and kicked for purchase and tried to boost himself onto the upturned edge of the ramp.
“Cut, cut!” he shouted, but of course the Annes never cut.
The tourists had now been joined by a gaggle of locals and the folks from the Flamingo Tongue. The swelling crowd pressed in close to watch this puffed-up little fuck in the sailor suit fall off his own gangplank.
Rosalind, Doom, Marvis, and Longnecker watched through binoculars from the south jetty of Bird Cut as Donny’s crewmen tried to right the ramp from the onboard side, while the Flamingo Tongue skippers shouted conflicting shoreside directions to Donny, who hung fluttering and flailing, squeezing a railing stanchion in a love grip. It was an ignominious position for the guest of honor at the Founder’s Day festivities to find himself in. “Get me off this goddamn thing, you bulletheads!”
This did little to ingratiate Donny to his would-be rescuers, and they began to disperse. His crew, however, finally managed to square away the ramp, and Donny, visibly shaken, low-walked ashore.
Bert, Sheriff Plotner, and Professor Goode all helped to brush him off.
“I’m all right.” His left lapel hung by a thread. He’d lost his red paisley breast-pocket handkerchief and his captain’s hat with the yellow braid on the brim. His crew was trying to fish these items out of the water, but, bursting with the giggles, the crew couldn’t hold the boat hook steady. Bert, Plotner, and Professor Goode, also fighting the giggles, continued to brush Donny off. “I’m all right! Christ!”
Donny whirled on his crew lining the bulwarks: “You’re through! You’re finished! Get off my ship or I’ll have the sheriff arrest you! As pirates!”
Ironically, that’s exactly what Doom had planned—Sheriff Plotner would arrest the crew on some trumped-up charge and hold them for a couple of hours, thereby isolating Donald Sikes, but this was better still.
“You heard the man, boys,” the sheriff said. “Get on out of here now. Don’t you worry none, Donny. Bert and me, we’ll get you a new crew. Crews are a dime a dozen in these parts. Come on, we’ll get the parade started—”
“That place”—the Flamingo Tongue—“does that place serve drinks?”
“No, sir, that’s like a coffee shop. But I’ve taken precautions—in my car.”
They all four climbed into the sheriff’s squad car, and he broke out a gallon cooler full of fresh piña coladas. He poured generous portions into clear plastic glasses from the picnic section of the Winn Dixie. “Hell, bad start there, Donny, but that’ll just make the festivities seem all the sweeter.”
“Hear hear!” said Professor Goode.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Bert.
FOUNDER’S NIGHT
Sheriff Plotner wondered why there were so many dumpsters. Didn’t there used to be just one dumpster, a green dumpster? Or blue? Now there was a whole family of dumpsters cavorting and frolicking like cartoon elephants. His eyes kept slipping in and out of focus, and the palms of his hands perspired profusely. In order to get to Founder’s Day, he would have to drive through all those unruly dumpsters…Professor Goode, also in the front seat, couldn’t feel his feet. Visually they were present; neurologically they were absent. Another piña colada might retrieve sensation. Donny and Bert giggled together in the backseat.
As soon as the squad car departed, Doom slid into the water to execute Phase Two, while Duncan, Marvis, and Longnecker set in motion Phase Three of the plan.
“How about coming to work for me, Bert?” Donny asked.
“As what, Donny?”
“As captain of the King Don.”
“Sure, Donny. Great.”
They drank on it.
Why was it so dark? Professor Goode thought his vision must be following the way of his feet. That’s what old age was, a gradual diminution of faculties and parts. “Why is it so dark?” he asked Sheriff Plotner.
“ ’Cause the sun went down.”
That explained it…Yet the view from cars at night was often brighter than this due to headlamps. “Excuse me, Sheriff, but might I inquire as to whether or not your headlamps are alight?”
“I think so…Sure, see the white line—right there.”
Professor Goode did not. “Oh yes,” he said. Thank Jesu his job was nearly done, since he was approaching absolute incapacitation. Must be all that citrus juice, he surmised. Grapefruit juice was insidious, and pineapple juice, you just couldn’t trust pineapple juice. Many a stout fellow has been laid low by the curse
of citric acid.
“But why are there so many dumpsters?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dumpsters, dumpsters. They’re creating a public nuisance.”
This being a parade, Donny figured a string of cars, perhaps even floats sponsored by the Rotary and assembled by wholesome high school students up all night stuffing colored tissue paper into chicken wire palm trees and indigenous waterfowl, followed behind the squad car, but in fact they did not. Only two vehicles followed: the Annes’ production vehicle and the Big Al Broadnax van. Anyway, Donny was too drunk to swivel his head astern for a look. He’d see them all when the parade arrived at its destination, when he nailed down his stipulation.
Bert, new captain of the King Don, was telling Donny a truncated story he could barely follow about a fellow with three testicles, who, when asked, “How you hangin’?” replied, “One behind the other, for speed,” and Bert cackled knee-slappingly. Then he poured Donny another piña, after which he held the Igloo Cooler up beside his ear and shook it. Emptiness approached.
After an initial overshoot, the sheriff retreated and successfully negotiated the right-hand turn into the ex-town of Omnium Settlement. He flipped on his siren and flasher and managed to maintain control down the hill to the flat land beside the bay, where a crowd was gathering, not a huge crowd, but it was beginning to swell respectably; at least in the dark it seemed that way. Sheriff Plotner parked beside the stage.
The stage, a hurried affair made from part of the rear wall of Fred’s Hobby Shop set horizontally atop a bulldozer corpse braced up with wires, faced west out across the sinking town, moonlight shimmering on the encroaching bay. A makeshift podium stood center stage, and from it orange streamers arced to the corners of the stage. Across the front, colored plastic flags, which Longnecker had stolen from a used car lot on Cormorant Key, fluttered in the soft west wind. And the ruins of Omnium Settlement were hung with Japanese lanterns gently jouncing in the breeze.
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