SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel

by Tim Dorsey

  “So how do you want to play it? Tell her lawyer she’s in the clear?”

  The other detective shook his head. “We need to bluff a little while longer.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m a hundred percent on her innocence, but there’s still the Stockholm syndrome.”

  “Stockholm? After that beating?”

  The detective shrugged. “In some twisted corner of her mind, she may still feel some screwed-up devotion to her tormentor.”

  “You think she knows more about Serge’s whereabouts than she’s letting on?”

  “There’s always the chance. That’s why we need to keep the pressure on.”

  “I don’t feel good about this.” The detective stared at his shoes. “It was creepy enough questioning her just now with that blinking eye.”

  “I know it’s a shitty thing to do,” said the second detective. “I got a family just like the next guy. But I also want to protect them from all the psychos out there.”

  They both stopped and looked over again at the guarded door of Brook’s room.

  “God only knows what that poor kid went through . . .”

  They heard a crash and ran outside. A Camaro with a snail-punctured tire had hit a utility pole in front of the emergency room. A stretcher came out.

  Back inside Brook’s room, the attorney patted her hand. “Don’t think any more for today. Just go to sleep.”

  Brook’s one visible eye slowly closed as she dozed into a deep morphine dream that seemed vividly real. Because it had been . . .

  Chapter TWO

  THREE DAYS EARLIER

  The eye was large and wide and blue, with innocent lashes. Practically pressed against the wood, staring down into a tiny hole.

  Brook Campanella stood back up and read the tiny brass plate nailed above the hole. “Who’s Mel Fisher?”

  “The famous treasure salvager,” said Serge. “Discovered the wreck of the Atocha and about forty tons of gold, silver, emeralds and other goodies. Died 1996.”

  Brook pointed at the wood. “He’s in there?”

  “Part of him, supposedly.”

  Brook looked down the length of the polished bar. Numerous other half-inch holes drilled at precise intervals, each with its own accompanying brass plate. The contents of the holes were a light alabaster, in contrast to the dark, brooding wood, sealed with varnish. In front of each hole sat a stool.

  Brook looked puzzled at Serge. “You mean to tell me people come in here and drink with someone’s cremated remains right in front of their beers?”

  “Don’t forget the empty holes in between.”

  Brook glanced again. “What are they for?”

  “The people sitting on the bar stools in front of them—bought burial slots in advance. They’re obviously goal oriented.” Serge smiled big. “There are bars and then there are bars. This one’s the ultimate crusty-locals dive, where politicians and assorted characters have been coming for decades.”

  “And it’s called?”

  “The Chart Room.”

  “Why?”

  “Nautical charts, like those hanging in that corner where Jimmy Buffett played for tips while still unknown,” said Serge. “He arrived in the early seventies with Jerry Jeff Walker, and the Chart Room is the first place they stopped. The now-famous novelist Tom Corcoran just happened to be bartending at the time, and since Jimmy said he was new to Key West, Tom said the inaugural beer was on him, and then Corcoran went on to write a couple songs with Jimmy, ‘Fins’ and ‘Cuban Crime of Passion,’ and shoot photos for seven of his album covers.”

  They stopped to take in the hodgepodge of faded photos and newspaper clips tacked up behind the bar. A sign: TIP BIG!—above a fake million-dollar bill. Political buttons, business cards from defunct businesses. An actual coconut sat among a shelf of glasses without explanation. Some of the photos were of dogs and people mooning.

  “I never expected a place like this when we walked up a few minutes ago,” said Brook. “I just saw a giant luxury resort with everything perfectly manicured and polished.”

  “The Pier House,” Serge footnoted. “North end of Duval.”

  “But how does the bar still exist?” asked Brook. “It’s everything big corporations detest, as if the people who own this place don’t know it’s here.”

  “That’s the reaction I always get when I bring people, voluntarily or against their will, leading them on the winding route through a Hawaiian-pastel landscaping maze with pasty northerners cannonballing in the pool, fiddling with drink umbrellas and feeding pet tarpon off the boardwalk—until we discover this joint tucked out of sight under the back side like it’s janitorial storage. One of the tiniest bars, but pound for pound . . .”

  Brook slowly began to nod. “I’m starting to get it. I see why you like the place . . .”

  It was the perfect answer. The way to Serge’s heart was through his trivia. And Brook wasn’t like the others. She was pure and possessed historical stamina. Serge had tried vainly to teach previous love interests about his cherished state, but they just wanted to have sex.

  “Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh, Serge! Harder! Faster! What are you thinking about?”

  “Artifacts from the Seminole wars, agrarian pioneers at Cape Sable, Florida lighthouses in chronological order of construction . . .”

  “To delay your orgasm?”

  “No, to speed it up . . .”

  But Brook was different. When the couple initially arrived in Key West, Serge had guarded expectations. He began his trademark A-tour of the island, a withering multiday quest of brutal attrition. To his surprise, Brook stayed with him stride for stride.

  “Key West tip number 362: If you have to go to the bathroom on Duval Street, most of the restrooms are for patrons only, and the ones on the ground floor of the venerable La Concha hotel are locked and require a room key for access, so you just take the elevator to the observation deck, where the bathrooms aren’t militarized.”

  Brook exited the ladies’ room on top of the hotel. “That feels better. Where to now? Hey, how about that cemetery you were telling me about? I’ll bet you’d like to take lots of photos . . .”

  Serge thought: Heart be still.

  They weren’t just an odd couple but a freak pairing of nature, like those Internet photos of a mouse that thinks a cat’s its mom. Serge was criminally insane, and Brook was Norman Rockwell territory. They’d met during one of Mahoney’s cases. She was his client and in a serious jam, the proverbial damsel in distress. So Serge added more distress. “Get in the fucking car if you want to live!”

  She got in.

  Only because of the harrowing alternative. And once that danger had passed, the specter of Serge became even more terrifying. But Serge was an old-school criminal: Leave the vulnerable alone, or rescue if need be. To Brook’s astonishment, he was a total gentleman and the ultimate protector. She felt completely safe for the first time since she could remember.

  That was three months ago, a schoolgirl crush growing by the day. Brook had never laughed so much in her life.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Serge.

  “Your new diet,” said Brook. “Replacing the bulb in the refrigerator with a black light so everything looks like toxic waste.”

  “I’m totally serious. I could get a book deal.”

  And she couldn’t get enough of his encyclopedic brain-evacuation rants. Their dynamic became a subtropical My Fair Lady, her Eliza Doolittle to his Henry Higgins by way of Speedy Gonzalez.

  For his part, Serge slowly began to notice the sweet little flower by his side. She was the only uncontaminated thing in his life, and he decided to keep it that way. In the beginning, Brook had worried about sexual come-ons. Now she wondered, What’s he waiting for?

  And that’s where it stood as she helped him photographically map every inch
of the Chart Room. Click, click, click. “Serge, I think I’m getting the hang of this.” Click, click, click. “Where to now?”

  “How about Havana Docks? It’s another bar behind this place up on piers with a great view of the harbor,” said Serge. “One thing you should know about me: I’m all about drinking holes with views of water over the bottles.”

  “Sounds so romantic.” She clutched his arm tighter. “And you were right about putting out of my mind that whole mess back in Fort Lauderdale. I’m definitely in the clear by now.”

  Serge stopped to photograph one of the massive tarpon awaiting tourist handouts. “As they say, worry is usually interest paid on a debt that never comes due.”

  They made more stops, admiring and snapping pictures of chromatic flowers, wading birds, flats boats and more fish. Brook snuggled into his side and stared up at him radiantly. Passersby would have guessed it was a honeymoon.

  The couple finally climbed the wooden planks leading to Havana Docks. Brook made a prompt left after hitting the air-conditioning. “I need to powder my nose.”

  “I need to look at water over bottles.”

  Moments later, a carefree Brook emerged from the ladies’ room, stowing lipstick in her purse. Something seized her arm from behind and yanked her back into the alcove.

  “Oh, it’s you, Serge.” Brook took her hand off her chest. “Nearly gave me a stroke.”

  “We have to get the hell out of here! Now!”

  “But we just got here,” said Brook. “Why?”

  “Because they have a TV.”

  “I know you hate network programming—”

  He pulled her to the front of the short hall and pointed around the corner at the large-screen TV over the bar. “It’s probably been playing all day.” The volume was up loud enough for them to hear across the empty lounge.

  “Hey,” said Brook. “What’s my photo doing on the news?”

  “At this hour, authorities are conducting a massive search for this woman in connection with two brutal South Florida murders . . .”

  Brook went slack-jawed. Another face filled the screen.

  “Law enforcement suspect she is traveling in the company of this man, Serge Storms, wanted for questioning in at least twenty other homicides . . .”

  The noise in Brook’s head was an air-raid siren.

  “The pair was last believed to be traveling toward Key West . . .”

  Her legs began to buckle, and Serge caught her on the way down.

  Chapter THREE

  THE GULF STREAM

  A catamaran sat anchored six miles southwest of Key West.

  It had left the dock crammed cheek to jowl with fifty tourists who had suddenly decided to take up snorkeling. They were instructed how to fasten and blow up their yellow flotation vests, making the deck even more crowded. Locals called it a cattle boat.

  It had a large sail that was stowed so it could quickly motor out to the reef and get those paying customers in the water. They now surrounded the boat, bobbing in the sea like a school of spastic lemon jellyfish.

  A head rose from the sea and spit out a snorkel. “I think I saw a fish.”

  “Where?” said Ethel.

  “Down there,” said Edith.

  “I don’t see anything,” said Edna.

  “They promised all this fantastic marine life,” said Eunice. “Why aren’t we finding it?”

  Because the best underwater viewing was at Pennekamp, Looe Key and the Tortugas. And the fiercely competitive Key West snorkeling racket depended on turnaround time, which meant the nearest reef, which was barren.

  “I see some rocks,” said Edna.

  But it was still the Gulf Stream, and a few stray fish couldn’t help but swim by. Then visitors from Indiana and Ohio who didn’t know any better would go home happy. It was a sound formula: People not used to treading open ocean quickly tired of waves and tide, returning to the boat long before their snorkel time was up. On the way back to Key West they were served unlimited free Rum Runners that they lapped up in the manner of people offered free liquor everywhere, and by the time they staggered onto the dock, the four scrawny fish they had seen turned into a Jacques Cousteau expedition.

  “I definitely see one this time,” said Ethel. “That little guy.”

  “I see one over there,” said Eunice. “That makes two.”

  Edith was looking the other way. “I think the guys running the boat are hotties.”

  “Edith, they’re all seventy years younger than us.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I have to admit I’m with Edith on this one,” said Edna.

  “I’m exhausted,” said Eunice.

  “Me, too,” said Ethel. “Let’s go drink a shitload of those Rum Runners.”

  “What about you, Edith? . . . Edith? . . . What’s that look on your face?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “So go already. It’s the ocean.”

  “No, it’s not—”

  “Wait,” said Edna. “You don’t mean number two.”

  “I didn’t plan it.”

  “Just hold it until we get back on the boat!”

  “Have you forgotten?” said Edith. “At our age that’s not always in the cards.”

  “No! Stop! Whatever you do . . .”

  Edith closed her eyes, and exhaled with satisfied relief.

  “Dear God in heaven!” The other three frantically splashed away from her.

  Back on deck, the boat’s crew circulated with giant red pitchers, filling dozens of plastic cups held out by the beckoning mob. The crew was motivated; it increased tips. Four crouched women with white hair elbowed their way through. Ethel held a cup over her head. “Hit me!”

  “That’s your fourth,” said Edna.

  “And this train ain’t stoppin’ now.”

  “Whoa!” Eunice jumped back, arms dripping with red liquid from the pitcher. “What’s the deal?”

  “Sorry,” said the crew member. “Someone just pinched my ass.” He spun around to see a giggling Edith worm her way out of sight into the crowd.

  The anchor hoisted. Those with better cameras migrated starboard to shoot the setting sun through girders of the nearby Sand Key Lighthouse, which began service in 1853. Since it was a reef light, it wasn’t one of those round concrete jobs but an iron skeleton in the shape of a steep pyramid. The sand of Sand Key was underwater. One of the shutterbugs with a Nikon pointed off the port bow. “A waterspout!”

  “I’ve never seen a waterspout before,” said Eunice.

  “It looks so pretty,” said Edna.

  “You wouldn’t say that if you saw it on land,” said Ethel. “They’re called tornadoes.”

  “Except this one’s just harmlessly sucking up water.”

  “And some fish that don’t like it,” said Eunice.

  “Maybe that’s where all the fish went that we were supposed to see today,” said Ethel.

  “Have another drink,” said Edna.

  The crew started the engine. They had a strict no-ocean-littering policy, because of staunch fines from the ever-vigilant Coast Guard. So there was immediate concern when a passenger with a video camera panned wide-angle along the side of the boat. “What the heck is that floating over the reef? . . .”

  A half hour later, the gangway lowered onto the dock, and the crew steadied its customers as they wobbled ashore. “Here’s ten bucks for your tip bucket! . . .” “Never seen so many fish! . . .”

  The old ladies climbed down next.

  Eunice reached the dock and covered her eyes. “Jesus, Edith! I’ve never been so embarrassed in my entire life!”

  “I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”

  “Edith! The first mate used a net on a long pole to fish your diaper out of the ocean!”

/>   “Fuck it, let’s find a bar.”

  “I know a good one.” Edna pointed across a sunset crowd surrounding jugglers and tightrope walkers and a guy turning blue in a straitjacket wrapped with chains. “Just on the other side of Mallory Square.”

  The elderly quartet finally reached the top step outside their destination, and Edna grabbed the door handle. “What do you think?”

  “Look at that view!” said Eunice.

  “Told you it was a great place.”

  They went inside Havana Docks. Eunice stopped and pointed at the face entirely filling the flat-screen TV. “Look! It’s Serge!”

  “You’re right!” yelled Edna. “It is Serge!”

  “What’s he done now?”

  Serge’s eyes flew wide at the sound of his name echoing through the bar. He pulled Brook deeper into the alcove outside the restrooms and urgently tapped her cheeks. “I know you’re woozy, but we have to get out of here!”

  A waiter passed by and stopped. “Is she okay?”

  “Just needs some air.”

  The waiter was about to leave, but stopped again. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “No!”

  Brook managed to steady her legs. They hurried east toward Key West Bight. Every passing bar seemed to have a TV with their faces. “Wrong way.” Serge jerked her south, ducking in the first souvenir shop they saw. The clerk rang them up. “Have we met somewhere before?”

  “No!”

  They ran out of the store with bright Conch Republic baseball caps pulled low over their faces bank-robber style. “This way . . .”

  They reversed course, moving west on Greene Street. Up ahead, a large grouper marked their sanctuary. It hung over the doors of Captain Tony’s Saloon, the original Sloppy Joe’s where Hemingway used to kick back after his daily writing quota of five hundred words. A drunk tourist now stood on the sidewalk, throwing quarters backward over his head in a long-standing tradition of trying to get pocket change in the grouper’s mouth for good luck. Serge knew that Tony’s didn’t have a TV and was cave dark. He also knew something else.

  Quarters bounced and rolled on the sidewalk as Serge and Brook ran hand in hand into the bar, past pool tables, some real tombstones and the old lynching tree that grew up through the roof. They reached the back of the lounge; Serge’s fist pounded a door that said PRIVATE.