Tropic of Stupid

by Tim Dorsey

  “Even more times.”

  “You like to dive and hike?”

  “And kayak.”

  “So having been on the dive boat together, and then us bumping into each other today out in the middle of this nothingness is just a coincidence?”

  “Not exactly.” Sandy didn’t realize she was twirling gravel around with the toe of a hiking boot. “I was in the tiki bar and overheard Captain Katie telling you about this place, and I sort of wanted to meet you.”

  Serge turned. “Coleman?”

  “I know, I know.” He started walking toward an out-of-sight bend in the trail. “I wish I had a girlfriend.”

  Serge shouted after him. “And stick your fingers in your ears this time!”

  They waited until he disappeared. “Well?” said Serge.

  Sandy patted a wide slab atop the rock wall overlooking the quarry.

  “Won’t that hurt your back?” asked Serge.

  “Not my back. Yours.” She took off her hat and glasses, and gave him a two-handed shove in the shoulders.

  Serge gulped . . .

  Coleman stood with fingers in his ears, staring at a tree snail. After a while, he figured it was okay to remove them.

  “Key Largo Limestone! . . .”

  “Miami Oolite! . . .”

  Nope, too soon. He stuck them back in.

  Finally, the sweaty, disheveled couple rounded the corner, and Coleman dropped his hands. They all hiked back to the road together, where a second car was now parked next to the Cobra.

  Sandy unlocked it. “Maybe I’ll see you at the tiki bar tonight?”

  “Good chance,” said Serge. “You like old National Geographics?”

  “Sure, I’ll bring my collection.”

  Chapter 26

  West Palm Beach

  The staff at the law firm was more than frantic. It had been five days now.

  Two partners hovered expectantly over the reception desk. A secretary hung up the phone and shook her head. “Still no word. Nobody’s seen him, and he’s not answering anything.”

  The partners looked at each other with the same thought: Is it too early to call the morgue?

  A junior lawyer rushed into the office. “I went by his house to check like you asked. The place is empty, but there’s a ‘For Sale’ sign in the yard.”

  Alarm and relief at the same time. The morgue was off the table, but not the intrigue. Reinhold turned back to the secretary. “Keep trying.”

  Before she could, the phone rang. “. . . Mr. Sparrow! Where are you? We’ve all been worried sick.”

  The partners spun at the sound of the name, and grabbed the edge of the counter. “Transfer him to the conference room!”

  They ran inside and put him on speaker.

  “Nathan, thank God!” said Reinhold.

  “What’s going on?” asked Nash.

  “A few things have come up,” said the speaker box.

  “Hope everything’s all right.”

  “Getting better every day,” said Nathan.

  “Listen,” said Nash, “I’m sorry, but we had to shoot the last commercial without you. We had no choice.”

  “That’s a good start,” said Nathan.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want you to buy me out.”

  “Buy you out of what?”

  “The firm,” said Nathan.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Reinhold. “You’re a founding partner. The founding partner.”

  “I’ll accept whatever you offer,” said Sparrow.

  “Uh, there’s a ‘For Sale’ sign in your yard,” said Nash.

  “Can you get someone to handle the closing for me?” said Sparrow.

  “No problem,” said Reinhold. “Where do you want us to send the check?”

  “Make it out to the Salvation Army.”

  “Nathan, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Click.

  The day was gray as it began. Quiet, except for a few birds and a frog that splashed in a puddle of algae. Nathan Sparrow walked alone in the woods on a dirt path. He had a lot of catching up to do.

  His old firm still didn’t know what was going on. Just the occasional mysterious phone call out of necessity. They completed the buyout and house sale and other loose ends. They always had questions at the end of calls, and Sparrow always hung up.

  Nobody knew where he was, but Sparrow did. Exactly where he wanted to be.

  He continued walking through the pines and palmettos. Gone were the suits and five-hundred-dollar shoes. Now, jeans and boots. His pace was slow, deliberate, looking at individual trees. He placed a hand against one of the trunks and examined a leaf. The scenery was overlain with mental images from the inside of his former mansion. In the early years, there had been a young wife and an unplanned pregnancy, followed soon by a divorce without a fight over custody and child support. What did he care back then? He was hardly home anyway. And when he was there, it was all or nothing. Either it was completely empty, or full of party guests, which meant it was still empty. The place was worth a fortune, and it was worthless.

  Nathan looked down at his boots. He had just completed his first job interview in decades, since the one after passing the Florida Bar. Given his education and résumé, he easily landed the position. Only a single big question: Why?

  “You do understand what this pays?”

  “You don’t have to pay me,” said Nathan.

  “Actually, we do. State law, or we get in trouble.”

  “Then I’ll put it to use.”

  He hiked down a circular path until arriving at a small building.

  “You’re the new guy, Sparrow, right?”

  Nathan was wearing a short-sleeve olive shirt. A uniform shirt. It had an official patch on the shoulder. He extended a hand. “First name’s Bobby.”

  “I heard it was Nathan.”

  “That was formal, for business.”

  The other man shook his hand with a slight laugh. “For business I’m the Duke of York. Call me Carl. Got a tuna sandwich waiting. Thanks for being on time to spell me.”

  “Who isn’t punctual?”

  “You’d be surprised.” Carl didn’t go far, sitting down at a nearby picnic table and opening a small lunch cooler.

  Bobby took a seat inside the booth, but not for long. A car full of people pulled up. He stood and walked to the window. “How are you doing today?”

  “Great, and yourself?”

  “Perfect.” He smiled sincerely at the happy family. “That will be six dollars.”

  The driver displayed a card. “We have an annual pass.”

  “Then that will be zero.” A grin. “Hope you enjoy your day.”

  The station wagon didn’t move. The driver was reaching toward the back seat. Then out the window. “I’ve got a couple of these for my kids if you don’t mind.”

  Bobby accepted a pair of small green booklets, opened to the appropriate page. The grin extended. He pulled out a drawer and flipped the cover up on an ink pad. The official stamp came out and he pressed it down with careful precision.

  He smiled again as he handed the books back with fresh seals: the shape of Florida and the words Myakka River State Park. The father passed them over to the children.

  “Wow!”

  “You have a beautiful family,” the newest park ranger said as the car pulled away. “Take care.”

  The next car pulled up and the driver paid cash. But no passport book. The uncomplicated pleasure of the ink pad would have to wait.

  Carl came back after lunch.

  Bobby pointed at the corner of his own mouth. “You got tuna.”

  The other ranger wiped it. “If you don’t mind, it’s a tight bunch around here. The others have been asking. Why would you give up that kind of money?”

  “I figured they’d be curious.”

  “I looked you up online and found your TV commercials. You were like a rock star on the other coa
st.”

  “It had its purpose in its time.”

  “That’s what I figured,” said Carl. “It was just a job, a means to an end. But now you’re doing what you enjoy.”

  “Pretty much,” said Bobby. “Just didn’t realize it until now.”

  Carl was roughly the same age, but appeared slightly older from all the sun and elements out in those marshy hardwoods. He looked down at Nathan’s soft white hands and manicured nails. “Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a city boy. Do you really know much about nature?”

  “That’s why I’m here. To learn.”

  A pat on the shoulder. “You’re at the right place.”

  Bobby Sparrow came to know the park well, all the hiking trails and campsites, the lakes and river. And the gators, everywhere. He looked forward to his solitary walks deep in rural Sarasota County.

  Many of the rangers lived at the park. There was a long old building out in the woods, chopped up into living quarters.

  “Here you are,” said Carl, opening a weathered wooden door. “Home sweet home. It’s unfurnished. And a little tight.”

  Sparrow stuck his head inside the new residence. “I like tight. Thanks.”

  He borrowed one of the park’s pickup trucks and went into town for some purchases. That evening he unloaded and got to work. He stood on a drop cloth next to a bucket of paint, with a roller in his hand. A couple hours later he was done.

  Bobby stopped and looked around and was satisfied. There was just enough room for a modest single bed, a bookshelf and a small table that served as a desk. The walls were dark green, the same shade as back at the rectory. He sat down and opened a Bible to the Gospel of Matthew, where it had been bookmarked with an envelope.

  Sparrow unfolded the letter and read it again. He stared at the wall in thought before finally nodding to himself.

  He had the next day off and drove back to the east coast. It took a lot of phone calls and knocks on doors, but he finally got an address. He found himself in a quiet room. He approached a bed and took hold of a weak hand. “Hi, Sarah.”

  Eyes widened. Nasal grunts.

  “It’s been a long time. I saw you a few times with Father Al.”

  Her mouth twisted into her version of a smile. She was now an old woman and her parents were gone. The long-term-care facility was on a budget, the cheapest available with what was left from the wills.

  He turned toward an attendant standing in the doorway. “Does she get many visitors?”

  “You’re the first.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I’ve been working here.”

  “How long’s that?”

  “Been here ten years. Eleven this fall.”

  Bobby looked around the sparse room. “Where are her pictures?”

  “What pictures?”

  “The autographed ones.”

  “Oh, those. They’re in a box somewhere,” said the attendant. “Some people from the church brought them by when they helped move her in.”

  “Why aren’t they on the walls where she can see them?”

  “Regulations prohibit unauthorized material.”

  He looked at the floor. A head shook. “This won’t do . . .”

  A private ambulance crossed the state and arrived at the most modern and expensive care facility in Sarasota, not coincidentally a convenient drive from the state park. They wheeled Sarah into her new room. The bubbling cheer of the place extended from the decor to the staff, which was overstaffed. A group of smiling people surrounded her bed and introduced themselves. Bobby opened a cardboard box and pulled out a roll of tape. He placed an autographed photo of an ice skater on a wall.

  “What are you doing?” asked a nurse.

  “Putting up her photos.”

  “It’s not really allowed.”

  “She loves them. It gets her through.” Bobby pulled out a thick money clip and began peeling off hundreds. “How much?”

  The nurse smiled warmly. “Put your money away.”

  The whole staff became busy with tape until the walls were covered with signed pictures.

  A mouth twisted in joy. Bobby held her hand again. “I’ll be back soon.”

  His next day off, Bobby Sparrow held a hammer. It drove a nail. He and the other volunteers heaved to erect the stud wall. He was wearing a T-shirt from Habitat for Humanity. So this was happiness? Who knew? He joined crews collecting trash on the beach and handing out relief supplies after storms. He gave blood.

  And each evening Sparrow returned to the park and his small green room. The letter was now taped to the wall, just like one of Sarah’s photos:

  Most people have the ability to know what the right things are to do. They just choose not to listen to their inner voice. Follow your heart.

  Shalom,

  Father Al

  Fingers pressed buttons on a cell phone. Bobby Sparrow put it to his ear. It rang and rang. He left a voice message, just as he did every day, week after week. He hung up.

  He dialed another number. This time he got through. He was put on hold. The secretary came back on the line. “He said he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “I understand.”

  A high-mileage Oldsmobile crossed the state again and pulled into the parking lot of a law office in downtown West Palm Beach. Bobby Sparrow entered the lobby. He spoke to the receptionist and pleaded his case. She finally relented and led him to a door and opened it. “Mr. Pickering, he insisted on seeing you.”

  The lawyer looked up. “I can’t believe my eyes. You actually have the balls to show up here?”

  “I want to apologize,” said Bobby. “The night with the woman in the bar.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Apology still stands.”

  Bobby left and drove to a private home. Moments later, a woman stood stunned in the doorway, holding a check. “What’s this hundred thousand dollars for?”

  “What I cheated you out of,” said Bobby. “The violation of the non-disclosure clause after your settlement. I’m so sorry.”

  He parked downtown and entered another law office. Word swept the floor in excitement. The remaining partners came running out of their offices.

  “Nathan, for God’s sake, we’ve been trying like hell to get hold of you,” said Reinhold.

  “Are you okay?” asked Nash.

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Nathan.

  They looked at his boots and jeans and finally his face. “You haven’t shaved,” said Nash. “Are you trying to grow a beard?”

  “No, if I don’t feel like shaving, I don’t.”

  “Last we spoke, we sold the house,” said Reinhold. “But then we couldn’t reach you, so we took care of the taxes and put the money in an account in your name. You gave us power of attorney.”

  “You have the paperwork?”

  They sent the clerk for a file and handed it to him, including an unused checkbook. “Have I gotten any calls?”

  “A million. Like I said, you were unreachable.”

  “No, you know what I mean,” said Bobby. “A call.”

  The others just silently shook their heads.

  He began to leave. “Thanks for handling this for me.”

  “When will we see you again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The Oldsmobile had more miles to go before dark. It arrived in Miami. Another office building. Bobby was led inside by a man in a starched dress shirt. “Heather, there’s someone—”

  “Dad, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been calling and calling. Leaving voice messages. You never called back.”

  A firm pause. “And you have no idea why?”

  “There’s a lot of things I need to say.”

  “You had plenty of opportunity before,” said Heather. “After the divorce, when me and Mom moved out, we never heard from you again. And we were just across town. Heck, even before the divorce you were never home.”

  “Work.”

&
nbsp; “I work, too.” She pointed up at the seal of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. “That’s no excuse.”

  “I lost my way.”

  “And now you’ve found it?”

  “I’m trying.” He opened his wallet. He had filled out the check in the parking lot. He placed it on her desk.

  She looked at all the zeroes. “You think you can buy me?”

  “That’s not to buy you,” said Nathan. “That’s for your security. It’s good to have a safety net.”

  She held it toward him. “I’m not going to cash this.”

  “Then just keep it.”

  He left the building.

  Chapter 27

  The Next Day

  The clock struck noon.

  The minute hand was six feet long. Up in the tower of another historic old Florida courthouse. This one in DeLand, the seat of Volusia County. The dome was verdigris.

  A camera poked out the window of a blue-and-white Cobra. Click, click, click. Serge was mildly dejected that he had to drive on to the modern new courthouse nearby.

  He entered an office and stood at the counter.

  “How may I help you?” asked an assistant clerk.

  “I need everything you’ve got on one Chester Montclair,” said Serge. “All the vitals, and don’t leave anything out, even if it’s embarrassing. I’m researching the best family tree ever!”

  “Chester Montclair?” asked the clerk. “I don’t have it right now.”

  Serge was aghast. “You lost it?”

  “No, she’s got it.” The clerk pointed toward a woman Serge hadn’t noticed, standing at the other end of the counter in a business suit.

  Serge walked over. “What a coincidence!”

  The woman looked up. “Excuse me?”

  “Imagine two people showing up at the same time in this quaint little hamlet and requesting the same seventy-year-old files. What are the odds?”

  “You came here for the Montclair files?”

  Serge nodded effervescently with a huge smile.

  “What for?”

  “Why, just the most incredible family tree anyone’s ever attempted!” said Serge. “I got hooked from an infomercial in the middle of the night that targets drunk insomniacs, but I was sober as a judge. And when I pick up a new hobby, stand clear!”