SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel

by Tim Dorsey

  The group made a wide circle and ran off the beach.

  Serge stopped twitching. “Time to establish the homestead and look for snakes . . .”

  Hours passed. Serge pushed away branches and led Coleman back toward their campsite. They emerged from the scrubland into a small clearing with a tent and a small hole surrounded by stones for the evening’s campfire. It was a nice big tent, the kind you can practically stand up inside.

  Coleman slapped his neck.

  Serge sat on the ground and frowned.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” said Coleman. “The whole state only caught sixty-eight snakes.”

  “I could have sworn we’d be stacking them like cordwood.”

  “At least you tried.” Coleman found a beer in his suitcase. “That one time you were wrestling in the water for almost a half hour.”

  “But it turned out to be a small log.” He got up and listlessly gathered firewood.

  Soon it was dark, and campfire flames flickered in a stout breeze off the water that kept the mosquitoes at distance.

  The traveling pair sat cross-legged in the fire’s warm glow. Serge’s mood had boomeranged back to A-OK. The camaraderie, conversation and raconteur tradition of a campfire with a close friend had set his head right.

  “And what’s the deal with the emergency broadcast system?” said Serge. “I’ll be listening to astounding dialogue in a Steven Seagal movie when the sound drops out and a red banner runs across the screen, followed by annoying blasts of static.”

  “Who needs it?” said Coleman.

  “Someday when the shit really hits boil and it’s not a test, then what?” Serge uncapped a canteen. “The sky’s blood red, alien ray guns cutting people in half, the undead noshing on our slowest neighbors, and the government responds by hitting our TVs with obnoxious static.”

  “If you listen to static on mushrooms, it’s a special language of the machines.”

  “But what about this?” said Serge. “What if all these years, the people sending the tests don’t realize we’re just getting static? It’s a test, after all, which by definition means they’re not completely sure it works. For all we know, they’re sending critical verbal instructions that they just assume are getting through. And all because none of us calls to tell them, ‘Hey, your shit’s broken.’ Instead we’re like, ‘The static again for the millionth time. Okay, we get it. Now can we get back to Seagal bending a guy’s leg the wrong direction?’ ”

  Serge reached in his duffel and pulled out a sheet of hard plastic with thin metal strips.

  Coleman took a swig from a fifth of Jack. “What’s that?”

  “An electroplate. I made it myself.” He reached in the bag again. “Here’s a capacitor and solenoid and small motor.”

  “Your science project?”

  “Yes, except I’m still working on the trigger element.” He placed them back in the bag. “I decided to go organic this time and let my environment inspire me and fill in the blanks, but I’m still waiting for the vibe.”

  “What was that electro-thing for?”

  Serge sat up and rubbed his palms. “Okay, during the summer season this park has like more mosquitoes than practically anyplace in Florida. The stories are legendary. You know how insects like flames? Pioneers from the 1800s reported that swarms of mosquitoes were putting out their kerosene lamps. Someone else saw them suffocate a cow. So I was thinking I could work in the electroplate. When a mosquito hits, the current running through the metal strips will fry it like a bug zapper. But unlike a bug zapper, there’s more: The plate has two separate circuits of alternating parallel strips. One is hot, the other has no electricity. When the mosquito meets its maker, the salty juices become an electrolyte and allow a tiny bit of current to jump the dead circuit that feeds the capacitor, which stores each charge until it builds up enough to fire the voltage. But why would a mosquito be attracted to the plate? And what will I do with the capacitor’s charge? Therein lies the rub . . .”

  Another swig of whiskey. “I’m sure it will come to you.” Slap.

  “Coleman, the marshmallow on the end of your stick is engulfed in flames, yet you’re still leaving it in there.”

  “I know. Camping’s cool!”

  “How are you going to eat that carbon cinder?”

  “Eat it? I thought we were just burning stuff up.”

  “What did you think I was doing rotating my stick until the marshmallow was gently brown and then popping it in my mouth?”

  “Thought you were doing it wrong. Didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Remember lying in the grass when you were a kid?” said Serge. “That was the best! Not a care in the world, just staring up at the clouds from a lush bed of Saint Augustine, thinking maybe later you’d run through a sprinkler or dig a mudhole.”

  “And then you’d go inside for some Hawaiian Punch,” said Coleman. “And if you hadn’t been wearing a shirt, your back would start itching like crazy.”

  “It’s a kid’s job to lie in the grass, but they don’t warn you about the itching,” said Serge.

  “When I camped as a kid, we used to tell scary stories so we wouldn’t be able to sleep,” said Coleman. “They all had ax murderers. Know any?”

  “Just the classics,” said Serge.

  Coleman set another marshmallow ablaze. “Hit me.”

  “Okay,” said Serge. “Here’s one every kid needs to know . . .”

  Coleman sat with wide-eyed attention for ten minutes until Serge reached the conclusion: “ . . . And then the police phoned the babysitter back and said, ‘The calls are coming from inside the house!’ ”

  Coleman covered his eyes.

  Serge grabbed his checklist and marked an X next to Scary stories.

  “What’s next?”

  “Campfire songs,” said Serge. “Remember that Phil Collins tune at the end of the Miami Vice pilot?”

  “Who can forget?”

  They both cleared their throats for off-key harmony: “I can feel it . . . coming in the air toniiiiiiight . . .”

  “Hey, Serge, remember the rumor about that song? Phil was up on an oceanfront balcony at night and sees someone drowning while this other guy on the beach just watches without helping . . .”

  “ . . . And then he writes a song about it,” says Serge. “And gives the guy front-row tickets to his concert . . .”

  “ . . . And then Phil sings the song to him and the spotlight hits the dude and he’s royally busted!”

  “Great story.”

  “What do you mean ‘story’?”

  “It’s a myth, like Mama Cass choking to death on a ham sandwich when she just had a heart attack.”

  “No sandwich?” Coleman sat up with concern. “Please tell me Keith Richards kicked H before a Stones tour by flying to South America and having all his blood replaced.”

  Serge shook his head.

  Coleman stared at his flaming stick. “My life has been built on lies.”

  Serge grabbed an aerosol can and sprayed himself. “Want more repellent?”

  “No, I’m cool.”

  “There’s a couple mosquitoes on your arm. The breeze is keeping most of them away, but a few will always get through.”

  “I like it.”

  Serge got a funny look. “You like getting bitten?”

  “I was slapping my neck earlier, but now I’m drunk.”

  “You mean you don’t feel the stings?”

  “No, I still feel them.” Coleman grinned toward his arm. “It’s this fun thing I discovered partying outside a few years ago.”

  “Please, illuminate.”

  “You know how mosquitoes suck a lot of your blood?”

  “Right, some species are able to engorge themselves until it’s the vast majority of their body weight.”

/>   “So if I have a high enough blood-alcohol content, the mosquitoes get seriously fucked up.” Coleman smiled again. “Watch these little buggers.”

  One of the mosquitoes finished and took off, then the other. They flew normally for the first few feet, then began veering erratically, flying sideways and upside down before falling to the ground. They took off again and fell back to earth. One staggered into the campfire with a small flash.

  Coleman grabbed his bourbon. “Camping is cool!”

  Serge scanned down his camping checklist. “Marshmallows, childhood memories, horror stories, singing around the fire, Keith Richards transfusion.” He folded the list. “Well, that about does it. Time for bed.”

  Serge poured his canteen on the fire, producing a column of ash and steam, then unrolled a fluffy bag on the ground.

  “Don’t the sleeping bags go in the tent?”

  “Absolutely not.” Serge wiggled inside. “You’re supposed to sleep under the stars.”

  “Then why’d you bring the tent?”

  “Because you’re just supposed to pitch a tent when camping. Everyone knows that.” Serge zipped himself up to his neck. “Better get some shut-eye. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  Coleman shrugged and unrolled his own sleeping sack.

  They stared up at bright constellations.

  “Serge?”

  “What?”

  “I’m really hot.”

  “Me, too.” Stinging perspiration rolled into Serge’s eyes. “And the wind died down.”

  “There’s a million more mosquitoes.” Coleman slapped his sweaty neck. “I’m starting to really hate this.”

  “That’s why they call it camping.” Serge slapped his own wet neck. “Now pipe down and go to sleep.”

  They both zipped the bags up ever farther around their heads until only their noses were sticking out.

  Billions of miles away, stars and nebulae moved across the sky. One inch away, a tiny Culex biscaynensis hovered for a landing and inserted a barely visible proboscis into a much larger proboscis.

  “Ow!” Serge jumped up and grabbed his nose. “This is ridiculous!”

  Coleman loosened the drawstring so he could see. “Serge, why are you hopping around in the sleeping bag?”

  “Because the zipper’s stuck.”

  “Ow! Damn!” Coleman jumped up. “They’re swarming!”

  “I forgot they’re attracted to carbon dioxide.” Serge hopped around the campsite. “What’s with this stupid zipper?”

  Coleman hopped next to him. “Mine’s stuck, too.”

  They continued hopping frantically like giant inchworms encased in down and Gore-Tex. Serge bounded blindly into a tiny pit.

  “Yowwwww! The embers from the campfire are still hot!”

  “Where?” said Coleman. “Owwwwww! My feet are on fire!”

  They fell to the ground. Serge violently broke the zipper and ripped the bag off himself, then flung it in the bushes.

  Coleman rolled through the smoldering pit. “Fire again.”

  Serge grabbed the melted foot of his friend’s bag and pulled him free.

  Five minutes later, the front seats of a ’76 Ford Cobra were reclined all the way. The engine idled so air-conditioning could run. Serge munched ridged potato chips and held a magnifying glass to his souvenir mosquito pin. Then he turned on the battery-powered travel TV sitting atop the dash. “I love camping.”

  Coleman poured whiskey shots. “How long can we run the air-conditioning?”

  “There’s a full tank, so it should last longer than we need to sleep.” Serge popped a chip in his mouth. “But just in case, we have an alarm clock.”

  “I don’t see any clock.”

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  “Oh, him,” said Coleman.

  Serge grabbed a tire iron from under the seat. He went to the trunk and came back.

  “What did you just do?” asked Coleman.

  “Hit the snooze button.”

  “I like it in the car,” said Coleman. “It’s much better than what was happening before.”

  “The key to enjoying nature is learning how to adapt.” Serge turned up the A/C and bunched a T-shirt into a makeshift pillow. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “I want to watch more TV,” said Coleman. “Camping’s cool!”

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  MEANWHILE

  The Sawgrass Expressway separates the Everglades from the western sprawl of Broward County. A white Toyota Camry headed north, a half hour after leaving downtown Fort Lauderdale. The Camry had the no-option package but the fabric seats were clean. A decal in the back window suggested that someone believed Florida State was “#1” at something.

  “Shelby,” said Brook. “Are we being followed?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re constantly glancing in the rearview.”

  “That’s how you have to drive down here.” Shelby looked at the mirror again and leaned over the steering wheel. “South Florida drivers are the worst. They tailgate at eighty and change lanes without clearance. So if you just stay in the right lane and leave extra separation from the car in front of you, you’ll be fine. As long as you keep watching—” He looked up again.

  “The rearview?”

  “In South Florida, all the trouble comes from behind.” Shelby gave the Camry a brief burst of gas and swung over to the side of the lane. The shoulder’s warning strips rumbled under his right tires. A black Corvette whipped around and blew by like they were standing still.

  “Good God,” said Brook. “If you hadn’t sped up and scooted over, he would have clipped your back end.”

  “Got the address?”

  Brook opened a file in her lap. “Why did Mrs. Wozniak want to meet at such an ungodly hour?”

  “Says she’s a night owl. Likes to watch infomercials and preachers.” Shelby tapped the brakes and swerved. A Camaro whipped in front of him. “Maybe tomorrow we can go see Ziggy. He left a message.”

  “What about?”

  “Didn’t elaborate,” said Shelby. “Or couldn’t over the phone.”

  “Which is it?”

  Shelby shrugged. “You’ll just have to meet Ziggy.”

  “Why don’t you simply call him back and ask?”

  “You need to meet Ziggy anyway,” said Shelby. “It’ll eventually come up.”

  “What will?”

  “Keeps calling with strategy and stuff. You’ll start getting calls, too. Still thinks he’s lead counsel on the case.”

  “But the firm absorbed it,” said Brook. “That’s standard. He just has to kick back and collect his fee.”

  “You have to meet Ziggy.”

  Moments later, the Toyota turned left into the Coral Shores trailer park, which was fifteen miles inland. The entrance had wooden signs with pelicans and an empty space on the pavement where a guard shack had once stood. A retired man on a three-wheel bicycle pedaled across the road in the dark. He wore a blue baseball cap that said he had served on the USS John C. Calhoun. In the bicycle’s handlebar basket was a pet iguana that seemed to either enjoy the ride or was utterly confused by this turn in his life. Shelby continued winding through trailers, looking for the address. The park was still and quiet, except for all the other senior citizens with blank expressions and giant tricycles who slowly pedaled back and forth in the dark like a mellow zombie movie.

  The Camry finally parked in the dirt next to a double-wide. It was one of those trailers where the front steps were surrounded with way too much stuff to compensate for it being a trailer. Flags, gnomes, dead potted plants, giant frog statues, tiny windmills, wind chimes, birdhouses and a signpost with various arrows indicating the mileage to London, Nova Scotia and Bangkok.

  The lawyers climbed the steps and knocked.

 
A voice from inside: “Who is it?”

  “Shelby and Brook.”

  “Who?”

  “Your attorneys. We called.”

  “One minute.”

  Muffled sounds, glass clinking, shuffling, something fell over, coughing. Shelby and Brook glanced at each other. More coughs, a horribly violent clearing of a throat, then the door opened.

  “Make yourself at home.” An older woman in a nightgown turned and retreated back into the dimness of the trailer.

  The lawyers took seats on a sofa covered in plastic. At the end of the couch was an embroidered pillow of a dalmatian. The beginning of a trend. The pair’s eyes moved around the room: a giant floor-standing ceramic dalmatian; framed paintings of dalmatians; shelves filled with dalmatian stuffed animals, figurines and commemorative plates. A model fire engine had a spotted dog behind the wheel.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” said Shelby. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

  “You’re no bother. I’m glad to have the company,” said Mrs. Wozniak. “It’s been hard for me since the colonel passed away.”

  “Your husband?”

  “No.” She pointed. “My dalmatian.”

  The lawyers turned toward what they had previously believed to be another stuffed toy, but was actually the work of a taxidermist.

  Brook whispered sideways, “Awkward.”

  “Mrs. Wozniak,” said Shelby, “the reason we’re here is that we need to go over your testimony for the trial.”

  “Call me Ruthy. I don’t understand why I have to testify.”

  “Because you’re a named plaintiff,” said Brook.

  “I still don’t know what any of this means. What’s a class action?”

  “Remember when you talked to that other lawyer at our firm?” asked Shelby. “If the finance company only treated you badly, then there would just be your lawsuit. But we’ve found many, many other people that the company also treated unfairly—” Shelby stopped.

  Mrs. Wozniak had begun petting something invisible in her lap. “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “Uh, anyway, so the judge considers all of those other victims part of the same class, which is why it’s called a class action.”