Shark Skin Suite

by Tim Dorsey

  From inside “What now?” It was opened by an extra-tall, lanky man who used to pitch for the University of Miami Hurricanes. His eyes bugged out. “Serge!” He quickly checked to see if anyone was looking, then pulled them both inside and slammed the door.

  “Jesus, you’re all over the news, every station. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

  “I can explain.”

  The man held up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “That I knew.”

  “It’s too hot for us in Key West,” said Serge. “We need to get off the Rock, but people are starting to recognize us on the street . . .”

  “ . . . And you need to get to Big Pine.”

  “Can you help us, Joe?”

  Joe rubbed his forehead. The full name was Joe Faber, who bought the bar from Captain Tony two decades back, allowing the local celebrity to remain on his bar-stool perch by the front door—right up to his death in ’08 at the age of ninety-two—taking donations for autographs and, if the women were sufficiently hammered, getting in a little fondling. Faber also owned the infamous No Name Pub, a converted 1930s trading post and brothel back in the banana trees on Big Pine Key.

  “Man, Serge, when you show up, you bring the band.” Joe grabbed his keys off a hook. “We’ll go out the back . . .”

  Chapter FOUR

  THE OVERSEAS HIGHWAY

  Joe Faber loved his classic ’96 Cadillac DeVille. Serge had also once owned a Caddy and was familiar with the roomy trunk, but this was the first time he was getting the ride.

  “What are you doing?” Brook asked in the dark next to the spare tire.

  “Counting bridges,” said Serge. “That last one was Ramrod, and Little Torch is coming up. Then one more to Big Pine.”

  A couple minutes later: “We’re stopping,” said Brook.

  “First red light since Stock Island after leaving Key West twenty-six miles back. Then we turn north into the backcountry.”

  Serge finally heard rocks under the tires. “We’re here.”

  The car stopped and the trunk popped open in blinding sunlight.

  Joe helped Brook climb out. “I pulled us around back by the gas tanks so nobody would see.”

  “I owe you,” said Serge.

  “I know.” The Caddy slung pebbles and sped off.

  Quiet again except wind and occasional cawing gulls over Bogie Channel.

  Serge headed toward a whitewashed two-story clapboard building—the combination marina and motel office. The rear door opened before he could knock.

  “Good God, Serge, get in here before anyone sees!” Hands yanked them inside. “You’re all over the TV!”

  “It’s this crazy twenty-four-hour news cycle,” said Serge. “When I was a kid, just three channels, the national anthem, a prayer, test pattern, go to bed. And the 7-Eleven closed at eleven. It was a healthier time.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “My manners,” said Serge. “Brook, I’d like you to meet Julie. Julie, this is Brook.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  Serge cleared his throat. “I need a—”

  “Favor,” said Julie. “Okay, we got a free cabin.”

  “Cabin number five?” Serge pumped his eyebrows. “You know how I feel about ol’ casa cinco.”

  “Serge, you’re not exactly in a position to be choosy.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Serge. “But if you have number five.”

  Julie sighed and pulled a plastic fob off a pegboard. “Here’s the key. And can you come back sometime when you’re not using my place as a fugitive hangout?”

  “You say that like it’s bad publicity.”

  “Because it is.”

  “Excuse me.” Brook asked Julie, “How well do you know Serge?”

  “Well enough not to get into a trunk with him. Girl, take care of yourself.”

  The pair pulled their baseball caps down again and walked briskly across a white gravel parking lot.

  “How exactly do you know all these people?” asked Brook.

  “I just have a knack for collecting friends,” said Serge. “And they’re always offering to do favors. It’s odd.”

  They continued toward a row of tiny cabins. The Old Wooden Bridge Fishing Camp. The wood part of the bridge was gone, now a modern concrete arch festooned with fishing poles and cast nets, connecting Big Pine to the hardy residents of No Name Key and their thriving hermit village of generators, septic tanks and cisterns.

  Serge reached the door. Since time was critical, he only briefly kissed the number five as he unlocked it.

  It was a cozy cottage. Could easily have been a single room, but a thin wooden divider separated two small beds from the sofa and tube TV. Serge’s favorite part was the full wall of windows along the front of the cabin that overlooked the magnificent waters of Bogie Channel. He could spend hours watching the rhythms of nature through that glass.

  Serge quickly closed all the blinds and pulled Brook to the couch.

  She looked searchingly into his ice-blue eyes. “What happens now?”

  “Strategize,” said Serge. “I’ve seen this movie before, and I know how cops tick. The first thing we need to do is split up.”

  “But, Serge, I want to stay with you!”

  He shook his head. “I knew that’s how you’d react, but it’s non-negotiable. This isn’t your world.”

  “But why?”

  “Operationally, it’s a no-brainer. They’re looking for a couple traveling together. More important, though, is your future. It’s me they want, and the sooner we part, the better it will go for you.”

  “But I didn’t do anything, and anything I did do was legally justified.”

  “You’re fond of me?” asked Serge.

  “So?”

  “So we hung out. That’s aiding and abetting a known fugitive.” Serge got up and peeked through the blinds. “The longer police can’t capture someone, the more pissed off they get. Go figure. Then they target anyone who might have helped you remain free. Usually it’s relatives with addresses that have been under surveillance. The police know you haven’t stayed there, but they fuck with them anyway, hoping to rattle their cages and get them to phone you on a wiretapped line. But you fall into a worse category.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone who’s been seen rolling with me.” Serge began pacing. “The only option is to immediately turn yourself in and minimize the damage.”

  “I don’t want to turn myself in.” Tears welled. “I mean, I thought you and me—”

  “Stop!” He knelt in front of the couch and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Look, if I didn’t also have feelings for you, I’d let you come along—”

  “Serge!”

  “Who knows what the future will bring? Someday down the road, long after you’ve gotten your law degree and have a corner office with a successful firm, the phone will ring out of the blue and it will be me, hopefully not because I need a lawyer.”

  “But there must be a way we can stay together.”

  “When I said there was only one option, there’s another: You become a lifelong fugitive. Is that really what you want? Always looking over your shoulder, flinching every time a car backfires, running out the back door whenever there’s a knock at the front, carrying bags of marbles to throw on the sidewalk in the event of a chase? Actually, I used to throw the marbles in general as a preventive measure, but that just created chases. Not to mention constantly escaping through Chinese kitchens with crashing food trays and Cantonese hysterics. Personally I couldn’t live any other way, but are you prepared to pull all that chow mein out of your hair?” Serge idly grabbed the TV remote and clicked the set on. Brook’s face filled the screen. He clicked it off.


  She was crying now. “I—I—I don’t know what to do.”

  “What you do is let me think for both of us from now on.” Serge took a seat next to Brook and held her hand. “Right now I need you to compose yourself and pay attention. Can you do that?”

  She wiped her eyes and nodded.

  “Okay, the only way this will work is if I kidnapped you. Anything they ask about, pin it all on me. Tell them everything even if I didn’t do it. Agree to testify.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to,” said Serge. “When you turn yourself in, there are only two untasty items on the menu: They’ll either think you started out as a kidnap victim but I brainwashed you into becoming an accomplice. Or they might actually believe your story. But they’ll still bluff as leverage for details to track me down.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  “Give them details.”

  “Make them up?”

  “No, tell the truth.” Serge stood and stretched. “The point is you have to convince them, and they have this annoying way of figuring out when you’re lying. So the more candid you are about me, the more it will buttress our kidnapping charade. Tell them everything: my routines, frequent haunts, jaunty attire, charismatic quirks, love of country, disdain for eleven items in the express lane, passion for folding road maps back correctly. Just stick to the story that I had a gun on you the whole time.”

  “But details will help them capture you.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Serge checked his wallet for cash reserves. “Then it’s settled.”

  “What about your car?”

  “It’s a memory. We have to wait while Faber gets me another ride with clean plates and retrieves our luggage from the Southern Cross. Man, he’s going to hold this over my head so long it’s almost not worth it.” He stopped and tapped his chin. “But I have the oddest feeling I’m forgetting something. It’s been nagging me all day. What could it possibly be?”

  “Serge,” said Brook. “Where’s Coleman?”

  Chapter FIVE

  KEY WEST

  Another anonymous fleabag motel on Truman Avenue. And what do we have behind door number three?

  The third door flew open. A naked man ran across the parking lot with clothes bunched in his arms and a spiked dog collar around his neck.

  Back in the doorway stood a curvaceous woman with an irrepressible mane of fiery red hair. A shiny Smith & Wesson .38 pistol gripped loosely in her left hand. “Come back! It was just role-playing!”

  The fleeing man never broke stride through honking traffic. “You’re a crazy bitch!”

  The woman frowned and closed the door. She clicked on the TV. An episode of Desperate Housewives was interrupted by breaking news. Serge’s face filled the screen.

  “Cocksucker!”

  A .38 bullet blasted the picture tube in a shower of glass and sparks. She casually stuck the gun in her purse and headed out the door.

  Brakes screeched on Truman Avenue. A pickup rear-ended a Miata. Frat boys on mopeds shouted propositions. Guys on bicycles turned around and doubled back.

  The woman ignored them all and continued down the sidewalk in the kind of chin-up, aggressively sexual strut that made men forget the fear of death and glance over with their wives present.

  She reached the entrance of a corner bar with all the windows open and wooden ceiling fans set on lazy.

  A bartender happened to turn; his eyebrows jackknifed. He huddled with the others.

  “You serve her.”

  “I’m not going to serve her. You serve her.”

  “Are you crazy? . . .”

  She settled onto a stool at the far end. A salesman quickly moved to the stool next to hers and offered a drink. She slowly turned toward him. He abruptly left the building.

  “What are you guys afraid of?” asked the newest bartender.

  “That’s Molly.”

  “Who’s Molly? . . .”

  The TV over the bar flashed a news bulletin. “ . . . Authorities are looking for this man . . .”

  Molly’s hand swiftly went into her purse.

  “Change the channel! Change the channel! . . .” yelled one of the bartenders.

  Trembling fingers fumbled with the remote and clicked coverage over to a Belgian soccer game. Molly withdrew her empty hand.

  “I still don’t know who Molly is,” said the clueless bartender.

  “Serge’s wife.”

  “Serge has a wife?”

  “Been separated almost a decade, but she refuses to sign the divorce papers. Whatever else you do in this life, don’t mention his name . . .”

  Back on Big Pine Key:

  “Coleman!” Serge jumped up. “That’s right! We left that idiot in the Million Dollar Bar on Truman. See, that’s the thing about my A-tour of Key West. Coleman’s all cool with it at the beginning, but then, ‘I just need to lie down a minute,’ like when we lost him in the cemetery.”

  “And I found him snoozing between those crypts,” said Brook. “You’d have thought those ant bites would have woken him up.”

  “Not when he goes to the dark side.” Serge flipped open his cell. “So I figured we’d straighten him up with some café con leche and get him to the Million Dollar. At least I could count on him staying put there . . . Damn, he’s not answering his phone.”

  “Why do they call it the Million Dollar?” asked Brook. “It’s just a small locals’ dive.”

  “Believe it or not, that’s what real estate goes for down there.” He dialed again. “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Don. Who’s this?”

  “Serge. Is Coleman there?”

  “Yeah, he’s resting.”

  “Where?”

  “On the pool table.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Me, too. You know how hard it is getting urine out of green felt?”

  Serge covered his eyes. “I’m good for it. Listen, can you get him in a cab for the Old Wooden Bridge? And pin a note on his shirt saying there’s an extra key to cabin five waiting for him in the office.”

  “I want him out of here more than you do.”

  “I can understand,” said Serge.

  “No, you can’t. Molly’s here.”

  “Molly! What’s she doing there?”

  “How should I know? She’s your wife. You almost owed me a new flat screen.”

  “Has she seen Coleman?”

  “Hell no! I got Lubs and Boomer at the pool table shielding her view until Mike can drag him out the back.”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” said Serge.

  “Expect a bill from the pool-table people.”

  The phone went dead.

  Serge heaved a breath of frustration and turned around.

  Brook was staring. “Who’s Molly?”

  “My wife?”

  “Your wife!”

  “Separated for years. Won’t sign the papers.” Serge grabbed his room key. “The important thing is they’re retrieving Coleman.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to get out of here.”

  “But we’re not supposed to show our faces,” said Brook. “You keep checking out the blinds.”

  “Cabin fever is the natural enemy of strategic judgment. Plus there’s a really cool place I want to show you!”

  He opened the door.

  “Serge, there’s a tiny deer waiting at the bottom of the steps.”

  “It’s one of the endangered miniature Key deer that only live on Big Pine and No Name Key.”

  “He seems to know you.”

  “His name’s Sparky. He likes Cheetos.” Serge petted the deer on the head as he went past. “You’re not supposed to feed or touch them, but those big eyes wear you down.”

 
; He led her along the isolated street in growing darkness. Silent except for their footsteps.

  Brook looked up at wild palms bending in the cool night breeze. “Where the heck are we going?”

  “No Name.”

  “It doesn’t have a name?”

  “No, that’s the name.”

  Brook chuckled. “Who’s on first?”

  “It’s a pub.”

  She stopped on the center line. “We’re going to a bar? Don’t you think that’s a little risky?”

  “Relax, it’s the No Name. You’ll see . . .” Serge walked around the side of the building and grabbed the handle on a screen door. “This place is totally cool. They’d never rat me out, and everyone’s sly enough not to attract any undue attention toward me.”

  They stepped inside.

  “Serge!”

  “You’re all over TV!”

  “Did you really do all that shit?”

  Serge pulled out a stool for Brook. “Can you guys dial it down a tad? I think Interpol heard you.”

  Brook rotated in place where she sat. “Wow, the bar is completely wallpapered with signed dollar bills. Ceiling, too . . .”

  “Mine’s up over that little pass-through window to the kitchen where they send out the world’s greatest pizzas,” said Serge, looking out the screen door as a pink taxi went by.

  The cab turned at the corner and parked in front of cabin number five. The dashboard air freshener was a tiny voodoo mask. The driver was from Senegal. “Okay, big fella, enough beauty rest.”

  “Wha—?” Coleman sat up in the backseat with caramel peanuts in his ears.

  The driver steadied Coleman until they reached the picnic table in front of the cottage. Coleman climbed on top and went back to sleep. The cab pulled away.

  Back at the No Name, Serge huddled with Brook. “The next step is to anticipate the cops’ questions. So we need to rehearse your answers, which means remembering all the public places where there might have been surveillance cameras or witnesses.”

  “Let’s see,” said Brook. “We took the tram out to Pigeon Key, toured Fort Martello, went for a biplane ride over the Marquesas atoll, slow-danced in the Green Parrot, had ice cream at the southernmost point, you gave me a piggyback ride on Smathers Beach . . . what’s the matter?”