Tropic of Stupid

by Tim Dorsey

  Almost all the tourists who hit Key Largo head southwest toward the other islands. Card Sound entered the north end, solely the destination of residents. And nature lovers. And historians.

  The Cobra sat in a small parking lot next to a public recycling bin and a trail sign. Coleman was the only occupant, chasing pork rinds with Pabst.

  A half mile away, Serge stood in the middle of a gravel path, checking his phone for GPS hiking coordinates.

  “Hey, Mr. First-In-Last-Out!”

  Serge looked up. “Thanks for meeting on such short notice.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Sandy was wearing her bucket hat again and all the trimmings. “Dagny Johnson Key Largo Hammock Botanical State Park.” She held up a little green book. “Get your stamp?”

  Serge held up his own book. “Stuck the landing.”

  Sandy knocked him to the ground and undid his pants, and began riding him like a cowboy.

  “You don’t waste life,” said Serge.

  Sandy thrust. “The passport books were plenty of foreplay . . .”

  They began hearing voices approaching from around the bend. “Once slated to become condos, this park contains one of the largest tracts of West Indian hardwood hammocks . . .” Someone leading a tour group. They heard more voices of schoolchildren.

  “Better get off the trail,” said Serge.

  “Good idea.”

  Fifty yards later, in the leaves, they heard the voices of the tour group go by, and their own voices picked up.

  “Oh yes! Oh no! Oh yes! Don’t stop! Harder! Faster! Talk dirty to me! . . .”

  “Buttonwood! . . .”

  “Spanish bayonet! . . .”

  “Bulrushes! . . .”

  “Weeping banyan! . . .”

  They stood up. “Give my regards to Broadway,” said Serge.

  “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

  The pair began walking down the trail.

  “Question,” said Sandy. “Why have you been checking your phone so often ever since we got here? And why did you just turn your ringer all the way up? You usually hate people who do that out in state parks.”

  Serge checked in vain for missed calls or texts. “This is different. I’m worried about a couple of my friends.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure.” Serge pocketed the phone. “Sometimes I just get this strange vibe that something big is about to happen. Can’t explain it, but I’ve been right more than once.”

  “Anything that triggered it?” asked Sandy.

  “Well, I was up at the Myakka park with a ranger friend of mine, and I had that weird feeling we were being watched. I even saw some branches move.”

  “It’s a state park,” said Sandy. “Probably a bird or a squirrel.”

  “Probably, but I want to play it safe. One of the friends is handling a sensitive criminal case.”

  “And the phone?”

  “I have a call in to the dark side.” Serge pulled out the cell again, checking the screen. “And that’s why I picked this area to meet. I need to be in position in case I have to move quickly. There’s a particular law enforcement field office just up in Miami. On the other hand, if I’m wrong, I’m out of position the other way. That’s why it’s super urgent I get hold of my friend.”

  “You are an odd one,” said Sandy. “That’s a good thing.”

  “Sorry about distracting from the nature experience.” He stowed the phone again. “Thank heavens they protected this end of the island. Like that tour guide said, this was about to go condo. And most people wouldn’t believe it if you showed them the blueprints, but they also planned to put in an amusement park.”

  “And not some little roadside gator farm,” said Sandy. “But a big fucking Disney-type thing. Thank God calmer heads prevailed.”

  “Today, the state preserves the south side of the road . . .”

  “. . . And on the opposite side, Crocodile Lake National Wildlife Refuge.”

  “Nothing gets by you,” said Serge. He searched her eyes. “What?”

  He was slammed down on his back again.

  “Senegal date! . . .”

  “Strangler fig! . . .”

  “Magnolia! . . .”

  “Cassia fistula! . . .”

  “. . . Also known as the golden shower.” Sandy propped herself up on her knees and straddled him.

  “That wasn’t a request,” said Serge.

  “I have to go anyway,” said Sandy. “Why waste a natural resource?”

  “Where has love been my whole life? . . .”

  They were walking again on the trail, holding hands.

  She pointed. “Mahogany mistletoe.”

  He pointed. “Endangered Key Largo cotton mouse. One of the little guys who stopped the abomination of that planned amusement gulag.”

  “I love this end of the island,” said Sandy. “Ignored and quiet, just before the road ends . . .”

  “But the upper Keys don’t,” said Serge. “And you can canoe across the creeks and tidal flats to islands of aptly named Islandia . . .”

  “Old Rhodes Key, Totten Key, Elliott Key . . .”

  “And the legend of Black Caesar,” said Serge. “I know a lookout point.”

  “Let’s roll,” said Sandy.

  They dove into the Cobra, causing beer suds that gave Coleman a rare shampoo. “Dang it. You know I usually have a beverage.”

  “Sorry, Lebowski.” Serge sped up the road until they could go no farther at the gates of the exclusive Ocean Reef Club golfing development. He turned to Sandy: “We’ll have to go to the shore and hike the rest of the way in the water.”

  “Done it many times.”

  They left Coleman behind and trudged through the ankle-deep water, hugging the curling mangrove coastline until they reached the extreme northern tip of Key Largo, overlooking Angelfish Creek. A fish jumped and a blue heron took flight.

  “It’s up there on the other side of Totten and just southeast of Elliott.”

  “Caesar’s Rock,” said Sandy. “Where the black pirate from the early eighteenth century hid out with his gang awaiting passing ships.”

  “You know about the ring?” asked Serge.

  “Of course. That’s how they captured those passing ships,” said Sandy. “They embedded a large metal ring in the limestone, and ran a thick, braided nautical rope through it. The other end of the rope was tied to the top of the highest mast on their pirate ship.”

  “Then the whole gang grabbed hold of the rope and pulled it through the ring,” said Serge. “Leaning their ship over on its side so passing mariners couldn’t see its riggings rising up from the mangroves. But as soon as an unsuspecting schooner came along, they sliced the rope, and their ship immediately popped up for the chase.”

  “You heard those islands are haunted?” asked Sandy.

  Serge nodded. “At its height, it was practically a town. All the pirates, plus captured passengers and even Caesar’s harem that numbered in the dozens.”

  “Jesus, it’s between Miami and Key Largo,” said Sandy, gazing at egrets across the creek. “Yet scarcely three hundred years ago, a giant freaky outlaw culture ran amok over there.”

  “Not to mention that the pirate’s harem inevitably spawned more than a hundred children,” said Serge. “And of course Caesar wasn’t the model stay-at-home dad, and most of the kids escaped to the next island, running around naked, eating berries and making up their own language.”

  Sandy listened to the wind and watched the creek ripple. “People wouldn’t believe that’s all true . . . Could you put the phone away?”

  “Sorry again. That sensation is still there.”

  More walking.

  “This is a little bit awkward for me,” said Serge, “but I’d like to ask you out on a date.”

  “You mean a real formal date-type date? Like a restaurant?”

  “Even better!” said Serge. “Let’s run around naked, eating berries and making up our own language. Wha
t do you say?”

  “Almost romantic,” said Sandy. “I’ll put it on my calendar.”

  They headed back to the Cobra for one last stop, on the north side of the road, at the crocodile lake refuge.

  “Coleman, wait here,” said Serge.

  Coleman set a six-pack in his lap. “I’m good.”

  The couple headed off on another nature hike.

  “I love ancient ruins,” said Serge.

  “Me too.”

  “But in Florida, all the ruins are so new,” said Serge.

  “Except with the withering elements and thriving overgrowth of subtropical vegetation, it’s like Indiana Jones.”

  They pushed away branches and vines until arriving at a puzzling abandonment, like the Temple of Doom. The name fit, literally. The couple walked through rubble and twisted metal, the remains of radar towers and launch pads.

  “Nike Hercules missile battery HM-Forty,” said Serge. “Pointed at Cuba when Nikita Khrushchev was being a shmuck. What a place! Pirates, feral children, rockets! Who could ask for more?”

  “I can,” said Sandy, plucking something from a tree.

  “What have you got there?”

  She held out her hand with a grin.

  Serge looked up in her eyes. “Berries? . . .”

  Coleman sat in the car, plowing through the six-pack. He began hearing strange sounds and stared out the window toward the woods.

  A hundred yards away, it was another typical Keys thing: A naked couple chased each other through a decommissioned missile site, babbling made-up words, until Sandy tackled Serge near a radar dish and jumped on top . . .

  They eventually staggered back to the car, Sandy straightening out her hair and replacing the bucket hat. “Confession: When you first suggested the idea, it sounded stupid. But it was so liberating running around like I was a kid again.”

  “Me too,” said Serge. “Nudity and gibberish are underrated.”

  They headed back to their cars. “I really do apologize,” said Serge, pulling out his phone again. He punched in a number and was put through to voice mail. “Gypsy, you really have to call me as soon as you get this. It’s ultra-important.” He hung up.

  They reached the road. “When will I see you again?” Sandy asked as she opened her driver’s door.

  “A day? A week?” said Serge. “You caught me in a nutty part of my schedule.”

  “It would be harder not to.” She smiled warmly. “Take care of yourself. And don’t change.”

  Both cars headed back across the Card Sound Bridge. Sandy whipped around him and accelerated away. The Cobra came off the crest of the bridge and touched back down on the mainland. But still miles from civilization. Only one sign of humanity could be seen in all directions.

  Coleman bounced in his seat, pointing out the windshield and tugging Serge’s sleeve. “Please? I’ve been waiting in the car all day while you’ve been doing girlfriend stuff.”

  “Normally I wouldn’t, but it’s so historic . . .”

  Not just historic, but known far and wide among the natives as one of the best outpost watering holes in all the state.

  The Cobra pulled through the parking lot of Alabama Jack’s. Coleman practically sprinted into the bar and hopped onto a stool. On the next stool, a man slumped over the counter. He struggled to raise his head with red slits for eyes. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Coleman. Who are you?”

  “Jack Grayson, dammit! I could have been senator!”

  Chapter 38

  The Next Day

  The blue-and-white Ford Cobra sped west past a shack with a wooden sign for frog legs.

  Coleman held another newspaper in his lap. “But I read yesterday.”

  “You do realize that you can read more than one day in a row. It’s not like being a marathon runner.”

  “But I’m high again.”

  “And I’m driving again!” Serge grabbed a travel mug from a cup holder. “I told you I need to keep my edge on the other guys. I’m sure they have helpers who read to them.”

  Coleman listlessly turned a page and read in an annoyed monotone. “‘Naked driver in car crash discovered with electrical wires attached to his penis.’”

  Serge sighed. “Next.”

  “‘Woman tells police the wind blew cocaine into her purse.’”

  “Next.”

  “‘Hazmat team evacuates mall after man sprinkles cremated ashes in LensCrafters.’”

  “LensCrafters?”

  “Says he was going around town to places that had sentimental meaning.”

  “Next.”

  “Dude dies after going to girlfriend’s house and getting stuck in the cat door.”

  “Next.”

  “Florida man murdered with a whole set of kitchen knives bought from a TV commercial.”

  Serge shook his head. “That’s enough data.”

  “Hold on,” said Coleman, pulling the newspaper closer to his face. “There’s a photo of the victim.”

  “So?”

  “He looks familiar. I think I’ve seen him recently.”

  “You’re just ripped again.”

  “No, seriously. It says here his name was Raúl Dixon—”

  The Cobra skidded off the Tamiami Trail, catapulting Coleman into the dashboard. He rubbed a sore spot on his forehead. “Lucky I’m medicated. But my coconut-bra bong’s fucked up.”

  “Let me see that!” Serge snatched the newspaper and read down the article. “This happened several days ago. Why are they just reporting it now?” More reading, and Serge began to nod. “It’s a follow-up story. Reporters talked to some neighbors who said detectives visited the house a day or so before the homicide.”

  “What did they want?” ask Coleman.

  “The article says ‘No comment,’ but a confidential source indicated it might be linked to a serial killer.” He tossed the paper over his shoulder and grabbed his cell phone. “Now I definitely have to get hold of Gypsy!”

  “What for?”

  “Shhhh! I’m dialing!” He put the phone to his ear and listened until he reached voice mail. “Gypsy, call! It’s an emergency!” He hung up.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “I know less what’s going on than normal.”

  “Don’t you see? It’s all fitting together now like a puzzle.” He retrieved the discarded newspaper from the back seat and slapped it. “This is why I had that creepy feeling I told Sandy about on Key Largo. I’m rarely wrong.”

  “What’s fitting together?”

  “I visit Dixon for my family tree, then state agents do the same thing, then he’s murdered. Then I had that strange conversation with Ranger Bobby, where I got the sensation we were being watched.”

  “What’s it all mean?”

  “That we have to turn around.” Serge spun the Cobra’s tires in the grassy shoulder and slung the car in a violent U-turn.

  “Does this also mean I don’t have to read anymore?” asked Coleman.

  “Yes. The torture’s over.” The Cobra sped past the Big Cypress Oasis Visitor Center and continued on through the Glades. Vultures and roadkill and mirages of puddles ahead on the road. Finally, Serge pulled off the road again, much more gently this time.

  “Why are you stopping?” asked Coleman.

  “We’re at a brick wall,” said Serge. “Nothing I can do until I hear back from Gypsy. I’ll wait for the call here, and then I’ll know which way to drive.” He opened his door . . .

  Soon, they were riding an open-sided tram that looked like a little train. It headed south down a narrow fifteen-mile trail into wildness. Coleman’s head hung out the side. “Jesus! I’ve never seen such huge gators. So many gators. And they’re in the road. We’re having to stop and go around them.”

  “Shark Valley is renowned for its teeming wildlife.” Serge snapped photos of herons and ibis. “Named after the Shark River that flows down into the gulf.”

  “I thought you’d be more upbeat,” said Coleman.

&nb
sp; “Part of the national park system, so I’m emotionally conflicted that my passport book can’t get another state stamp.”

  “What am I seeing up ahead?” asked Coleman. “Wasn’t this supposed to be pure nature?”

  “It is, but it’s also part of controlled management to balance visitor access and appreciation while preserving impact goals.”

  As they grew closer, an immense concrete structure rose from the big sky.

  The largest part looked like a highway cloverleaf spiraling upward toward a cylindrical panoramic observation tower. The tram arrived and visitors climbed to the top.

  “Coleman, are you digging it?” said Serge. Click, click, click. “This is what it’s all about! . . . Coleman?”

  Serge turned. Other visitors were having to walk around where Coleman lay flat on the observation deck. “What are you doing down there? You can’t see anything.”

  “I’m dying.”

  “Don’t be such a drama queen.” Serge raised his camera. “Catch your breath and get up here!”

  After much effort, Coleman became upright and collapsed against the railing next to Serge. “What am I looking at? It’s all flat.”

  “I know. Isn’t it great?” Click, click, click. “Possibly nowhere else can you get such an inspirational view of the miracle of the Everglades.”

  “It’s still flat.”

  “Will you stop?” said Serge. “That incredible expanse of grass dotted with hardwood islands to the horizon is actually a super-wide, shallow, slow-moving river. Right now, we could be looking out there at a wall of shopping centers and gated communities, except Marjory Stoneman Douglas presciently sounded the alarm that there is only one Everglades in the world—”

  Serge looked down at his vibrating pocket. He pulled out his phone and checked the display. “I have to take this . . .” He stepped a courteous distance away from the other visitors. “Gypsy! Jesus! And you complain that I’m hard to reach!”

  “Okay, I kind of owe you an apology,” said the voice on the other end. “I got your payment for locating that scam artist at the Miami marina. Lot more money than I expected . . . So what’s this emergency you left like ten messages about?”

  “I need another favor,” said Serge. “A big one.”