by Tim Dorsey
“You know how I need to take regular breaks from the vertical world.”
“Stand up and check this out!” Serge extended an arm like he was posing for a painting of an explorer. “Most people would never expect this in Florida!”
Coleman struggled to his feet and joined his buddy at the railing. He slowly turned his head toward Serge.
“What?”
“It’s a field.”
“Right,” said Serge. “But this one is a great field. Look at that panorama to the horizon, a lush savanna like you’d expect to find in the Mauritanian plains of East Africa.”
“It’s just bushes and a bunch of grass sitting still.”
“No, it’s not,” said Serge. “There’s a serious amount of shit going on down there. Miocene Epoch remnants of limestone basins collapsing in sinkholes to the Floridan aquifer, creating an insane irrigation and drainage system for a thriving balance of ecological interaction between swamp and arid scrub. How can you not get a boner?”
“Serge, you already know how I feel about fields, so a super big one isn’t better. It’s like I don’t enjoy being pushed down into a pile of dog crap, so I won’t love being pushed into ten.”
“Don’t you call Paynes Prairie ten piles of dog crap!”
“It’s worse,” said Coleman. “You can put dog crap in a paper bag and set it on fire on someone’s doorstep. That I’d stay to see.”
“Where are you going?” said Serge.
“Back down. This sucks.”
“Wait, I’ve spotted a longleaf-pine sand hill!”
“Meet you back at the car.”
Serge ran across the deck. “You’re not leaving until you dig the prairie.”
“Watch me,” said Coleman. “Hey, let go of my hair!”
“Are you going to stay? . . . Ow, my ear! I’ll put you in a headlock!”
“I’ll grab your nuts!”
“Ow, the headlock!”
“Yowch! My nuts!”
They crashed to the deck and rolled violently. Pinching, pulling, bending fingers back and screaming . . .
Serge suddenly froze and poked his head up in alertness.
“Why’d you stop?” said Coleman. “We were having fun.”
“Listen. Do you hear that?”
“Sounds like some chick talking at the bottom of the tower. Except she’s using the extra-loud cell-phone voice.”
Serge pushed himself up. “How inconsiderate! She’s shattering our tranquillity.”
“Where are you going?” asked Coleman.
“The bottom.”
“To confront her?”
“No, my work here is finished. It’s back to the Master Plan . . .”
Fifteen minutes later, and a few hundred yards down a walking trail, Coleman looked around as they entered a short concrete tunnel. “What’s this thing?”
“The remains of an ancient railroad trestle,” said Serge. “They abandoned it in place to preserve history. Nothing left on either side but the strangling roots of nature reclaiming her turf.”
The trail opened into a wide raised causeway of grass. On one side, a drop into thick vegetation; on the other, a marsh. Serge grabbed Coleman’s shoulder. “Don’t get too close.”
“Holy God, there’s a bunch of huge alligators on the banks of this trail!”
“There used to be alligators on this trail,” said Serge. “The key features of Paynes Prairie are its sinkholes. Usually rainwater is absorbed into the ground and filters through a stratum of porous rock until it reaches the aquifer. But if you see a body of water out here, like the famous Alachua Sink coming up on your left, it has a number of holes collapsed through the rock, which is what drains the rain and keeps this prairie from filling with water. But over centuries, the holes have become clogged from time to time with rotted plants and stuff, creating a massive lake like the one Hernando de Soto found in 1539. The last time it happened was in the late 1800s, when a clog again put the whole prairie underwater, and for a couple decades, steamboats were sailing back and forth right where we’re walking.”
“What happened?”
“Here’s where history has a sense of humor.” Serge pointed toward a rock formation in the water. “The clog gave way and a giant sinkhole reopened with such ferocity it was like putting a foot-wide drain in a bathtub. The water disappeared so fast that some of the steamboats were left out in the mud.”
“What’s the problem with that guy walking up ahead of us?” asked Coleman. “Keeps looking around all nervous like he’s not having a good time.”
“He’s missing the whole concept of hiking. You have to get into it for its own sake.” Serge gestured at himself and Coleman. “Take us, for example. We’re becoming one with nature, unlike that uptight city guy who looks as if he’s on a forced march through Florida’s magnificence at gunpoint.” Serge walked up and pressed a gun barrel into the man’s spine. “What are you slowing down for?”
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
CHANGE OF VENUE
The afternoon sun danced off whitecaps in the Gulf Stream. Along the mangrove shorelines, fly-fishermen cast hand-tied lures into the shallows, hoping for the Florida Keys Grand Slam of bonefish, permit and tarpon.
If it were a movie, a camera-laden helicopter would swoop over the Seven Mile Bridge, filming a white Jetta crossing the hump of the span at Moser Channel.
Inside the car: “Change of venue?” said Brook. “That’s pretty rare in a civil case.”
“Except the Broward jury pool is crammed with foreclosures, even higher among those who can’t get out of jury duty. But Judge Boone would have granted whatever they asked for anyway.”
Brook had her hand out the window, catching the breeze like a child. “At least we get to go to Key West.”
“I’ve never been,” said Shelby. “You know the area?”
“Actually, I do . . .”
Soon they were wheeling luggage down Duval Street. Coming the other way: a tourist stream of floral shirts, sandals and Rum Runners in to-go cups. A barefoot man sat on the curb, weaving a hat from palm fronds. A local rode by on a bicycle with a cockatoo on his shoulder. A guitar case sat open on the sidewalk with loose change and dollar bills. “ ‘Wastin’ away again . . .’ ”
Shelby stopped wheeling his Samsonite in front of a clapboard building and looked up at an old neon sign of yellow on green. SOUTHERN CROSS.
“How’d you pick this place?” he asked.
“It’s a spit away from the courthouse on Whitehead. That’s the next street,” said Brook, wheeling past him and leading the way down a side path to registration. “It gets noisy at night on Duval, so I booked our rooms upstairs in the back. But that’s nothing compared to the racket just before dawn.”
“Why?”
“Roosters,” said Brook. “That’s why you avoid ground-floor rooms on Duval if they face an alley.”
After dumping off luggage and locking up their respective rooms, the lawyers regrouped in the hallway. “What’s the matter?” asked Brook.
“We’re going to be stuck down here for who knows how long,” Shelby said with a touch of melancholy.
“I get it,” said Brook. “You’re going to miss Jack.”
Shelby shrugged. “I got a job to do.” Then he brightened with a smile. “We have a little downtime before the witnesses get here. Know anything good to do?”
“Come on.” Brook headed for the stairs. “I’ll give you the tour . . .”
In quick succession, Shelby was shown the cremation holes in the bar at the Chart Room, Jimmy Buffett’s secret recording studio at Key West Bight, the hanging tree in Captain Tony’s, pressed cheese bread in 5 Brothers Grocery, the cemetery . . .
“What’s the matter?” asked Brook.
“I have to go to the bathroom pretty bad, but no public restrooms for
the last ten blocks.”
“Follow me.”
They entered the venerable La Concha hotel. “Ah, there’s one.”
“No,” said Brook.
He tried the handle. “It’s locked.”
“You need a room key.”
“But I thought you said there was a restroom.”
“This way.” She led him to the elevators. The doors opened in the rooftop lounge surrounded by the observation deck. “There you go.”
“Yessss!”
He reemerged a minute later with relief. They went outside for the view, leaning against a ledge of orange barrel tiles. “Wow, you can see everything from up here.”
“Tallest building in Old Town, built 1926. There’s a big sunset ritual up here each night, second only to Mallory Square. That way is the lighthouse near Hemingway’s, and the redbrick building in the other direction is the historic Customs House—”
“Excuse me,” said Shelby. “Did you used to live here?”
“No. Why?”
“All the trivia you were rattling off on the drive down here, then that off-the-grid tour this afternoon and now all these facts,” said Shelby. “I can’t understand how someone who never lived in a place could know so much.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Brook . . . Brook? . . . Now you have a look like you’re missing someone.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” said Shelby. “I shouldn’t have . . . Listen, my feet are pretty tired. I’ll bet you know a funky little spot to relax and have a drink.”
“Got just the place.” Brook set off for the elevator. “But we have to get off Duval with all the tourist noise and Buffett clones. So it means a little more walking.”
“I’m up to it.”
Duval is a narrow street shared by a spectrum of incompatible transportation. People who have never ridden a moped rent them by the hundreds, then gun the throttle after drinking and zip between cars, bicycles and pedestrians. A yellow moped took a tight corner at Truman, sending a bicyclist ramming into the curb. The next moped ran the red light and cut off the tourist trolley, scooting between families in the crosswalk.
“Jesus,” said Shelby. “I can’t believe nobody gets hit.”
“They do,” said Brook, turning up Truman. “Key West has one of the highest non-car road-accident rates in the country.”
Shelby watched as a moped hit an African land snail, flipping a frat boy over the handlebars. “So where’s this place you’re taking me?”
“The Million Dollar Bar, also known as Don’s Place. Only locals and well-versed visitors.”
A few more blocks and they were there. The entrance sat on a diagonal at the corner. All the windows open for sea breeze. One of those narrow joints defined by length.
As soon as she walked in the door: “Hey, Brook, great to see you.”
“Hi, Don.” She turned to Shelby. “That’s the owner.”
“I guessed.”
From behind the bar. “Brook!” “Where you been?”
“Hey, Kurt, Boomer.”
From a stool at the end of the bar: “Brook, where’s Serge?”
The bar went silent.
The customer on the next stool nudged him.
“What? What’d I say?”
“Just shut up!”
Shelby looked at Brook and opened his mouth, then closed it.
“It’s okay.” She headed toward the pool room in back. “Sometime when I get enough drinks in me, I’ll tell you a story.”
“No rush.”
“Hey, Don,” yelled Brook. “What’s this big stain on the pool table?”
“Coleman. Tried everything to get it out.”
Brook racked the balls in the triangle.
“We’re going to play?” asked Shelby.
She chalked a cue stick. “Unless you just want to watch me.”
“Yo!” yelled the bartender. “What are you having?”
“Uh, Budweiser,” said Shelby.
“Jack,” said Brook.
Shelby raised his eyebrows.
“Not your Jack,” she added. “Daniel’s.”
“I figured that,” said Shelby. “You’re full of surprises . . .”
There was a commotion toward the front of the bar. Four old ladies with black wraparound glaucoma goggles stormed in like they owned the place.
“The G-Unit!” yelled the bartender.
“Wild Turkey!” yelled Edna, raising a thumb. “Up!”
The gang climbed atop four stools, and the bartender came over with the bottle. “What’s new with you gals?”
Eunice set her glasses on the bar. “Edith crapped herself again.”
“Wasn’t my fault. It’s that stupid trailer I rented on Stock Island.”
Eunice looked at the bartender. “Can you believe she forgot to seal the doggie door when the weather started turning?”
“What?” He lined shot glasses in front of the gang and began pouring. “Everyone in the Keys knows to seal doggie doors before winter.”
“I didn’t,” said Edith. “Then, in the middle of the night, something lying on my chest woke me up. And I open my eyes and there’s this big fucking iguana. You try not crapping yourself.”
“Reptiles are cold-blooded,” said the bartender. “When the temperature drops, they try to get in houses because they sense the air inside is much warmer than outdoors. Then they go looking for the warmest spot in the home, which is usually a sleeping resident.”
Edith tossed back a shot. “Now somebody tells me . . .”
Shelby stared curiously from the back of the room. “The G-Unit?”
Brook lined up a shot. “Regulars. G for ‘grandma.’ Says it makes them sound def.” The five ball slammed into a pocket.
Someone else entered from the street and took a stool. A bombshell redhead with a musk of spring-loaded violence. The bartenders retreated and huddled. “I’m not serving her.” “Neither am I.” “One of us better get over there soon because she’s getting pissed.” “Okay, I’ll go first, but if anyone mentions Serge, I’m hitting the ground . . .”
The bartender named Boomer forced a smile. “What can I get you?”
She idly twisted a curly lock of hair around a finger. “Has Serge been around lately?”
The bartender hit the ground.
The woman stood and leaned over the counter. “You okay down there?”
A couple drinks later in the pool room, all the striped balls were still on the table. The only solid was a black one numbered eight. Brook tapped a side pocket with the end of her cue and sank it. “Want to play again?”
“Rack ’em up.”
Brook grabbed the triangle. “What still baffles me is why a financial institution as big and well known as Consolidated would try to pull these stunts. I could understand some fly-by-night little loan office on the back side of town.”
“The surprising thing is how few don’t do it,” said Shelby, striking the cue ball.
Brook chased down the ball as it bounced across the floor. “But they have so much to lose.”
“You’d think,” said Shelby. “Except regulations are only as good as enforcement, which is gutted by lobbyists and campaign cash.”
Brook sank a wicked bank shot. She walked around the table and tapped another pocket. “The biggest fraud to me is in the court of public opinion. They’ve actually convinced a lot of people that the buyers share equal responsibility.” She dropped the four ball. “They’d have us believe that spontaneously, millions of first-time home buyers ran into mortgage offices and were savvy enough to trick financiers into lending them too much money.” Chalking her cue and rounding the table. “I have one answer to equal footing: Go to a house closing. When my dad bought his condo down here, his arm was practically
in a sling after signing that mountain of documents.”
“I have another answer to who’s responsible,” said Shelby. “Who ended up with all the money?”
Something suddenly knocked Shelby into the table. A shouting bartender: “No! Not again!”
Brook turned as Eunice ran past her, followed by Edith, who had grabbed a cue stick off the wall. “I’m sick of the diaper jokes! . . .” Swing. The stick missed Eunice.
“Ow!” Shelby rubbed his shoulder as the women raced in a circle around the table.
On the next pass, Eunice grabbed her own stick and turned. “Then stop shitting yourself!” Swing.
The stick smacked the Jägermeister lamp over the pool table before a pair of bartenders finally separated the women and escorted them away. “No more Wild Turkey for you.”
Shelby raised an eyebrow at Brook. “This happen often?”
Brook was already lining up her next shot. “More often than not.” She sank the eight ball again. All the striped balls were left again. “Another game?”
Shelby just held his beer and stared at the table. “How’d you learn to play pool like that?”
Brook shrugged and finished her current drink. “I’m from Brooklyn.”
Shelby narrowed his eyes a moment. “Brooklyn . . . Brook?”
Another shrug. “Dad was a Dodgers fan. Claimed we were related to the catcher, but I doubt it.”
“Where’s your dad now?”
“Let’s sit down,” said Brook. “I’ll tell you a story.”
They grabbed a pair of stools and the bartender produced another round of drinks.
“You can’t tell anybody this,” said Brook. “It could ruin me.”
“You mean get disbarred?”
“Go to jail.”
“You trust me that much already?”
“Yes, but even friends can be subpoenaed by grand juries.” She handed him a dollar.
“What’s this?”
“I’m hiring you as my attorney,” said Brook. “That makes everything I’m about to say privileged communication.”
Then she gave another dollar to the guy sitting on her other side. “I’m in.” The patron passed her a foam can coozie. She shook it and dumped six dice on the bar.