Coconut Cowboy (9 page)

A HALF HOUR EARLIER

Knock, knock, knock.

The door to Lead Belly's opened.

“Gus, come on in!”

“We've got serious problems,” said the insurance man. “Someone screwed us but good.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

“The geology report was switched,” said Gus. “I underwrote a piece of shit, but you're in even worse shape, exposed to a bunch of lawsuits. Must be one of the investors who did it.”

“You're hitting us with a lot at once,” said Pratchett. “Why don't you have a seat and go over this slowly?”

“I prefer to stand,” said Gus. “I won't be here long. I'm going to the authorities.”

“Then I hope you don't mind if
I
sit.”

“Just wanted to come by and give you a heads-­up,” said Gus. “Because this could hurt you politically. We're talking fraud.”

“Are you sure?”

He pulled folded pages from his back pocket. “Got copies of both reports from a friend I have on the inside. We need to get out ahead of this. If we can prove who did it, we might be able to walk away unscathed.”

“You're right,” said Pratchett. “This
is
bad. And it definitely would hurt me at the polls. You did the right thing coming to us.”

“Did you tell anyone else?” asked Vernon.

“Not yet,” said Gus, turning toward the door. “Like I mentioned, fair warning.”

“Wait!” said the senator. “Okay, I always hate to appear weak, but this could do more than a little political harm. I could lose my seat.”

“What are you saying?”

“That I need a big favor.”

“I'm not holding back on this,” said Gus. “I got a family.”

“All I'm asking is a few days until I can look into this and prepare a public relations defense.”

Gus shook his head. “Since I already know, that would add obstruction of justice to my pile of crap.”

“Then let's balance the scales,” said Pratchett.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“A lot of money is in the lurch,” said Vernon.

“There's plenty to go around,” said Pratchett.

Gus paused and looked at each of them. “Are you offering me a bribe?”

“Oh, no, no, no! A consulting fee.”

“I don't think we should talk anymore without lawyers present.” He began leaving again.

“Gus!” shouted the senator. “Cards on the table. Two hundred thousand.”

The insurance man turned. “Two hundred?”

“I'm desperate,” said Pratchett. “Please?”

Gus just stared.

The senator searched his eyes. “Is that a yes or no?”

Gus slowly began backing up. He raised a shaking arm and pointed. “You!”

“Me?”

“How could I have been so naive?” said Gus. “Of course! It was you all along! And to think I came here worried about
your
career!”

“That's absurd,” said Pratchett. “You need to calm down before you do something you'll regret.”

“Hell with this town! I'm out of here!” He ran toward the door.

Vernon lunged and tackled the underwriter. They rolled across the floor. Gus soon got the upper hand, and Vernon felt his left arm twisted behind his back. “I could use a little assistance down here.”

Pratchett stared stupefied. “How on earth did this get so fucked up?”

“Any time now,” said Vernon.

Pratchett ran over and pulled Gus off the mayor, wrapping his arms around the insurance man from behind. Gus furiously pedaled backward and slammed the senator into the bar. “Ow, mother—­”

Vernon raced forward to punch him in the stomach, but Gus kicked him in the crotch first. The mayor doubled over. Wrestling continued. The senator and underwriter ended up on top of the bar, then crashed behind it. “Vernon! He's stronger than he looks! Get over here!”

“One second.” The mayor ran through the restaurant's swinging doors to the kitchen. He urgently looked one way and the other—­“Ah-­ha!”—­bolting over to a thick wooden table where the ribs were prepared.

“Vernon, where'd you go?”

“Be right there!”

He dashed out of the kitchen and dove behind the bar. “You son of a bitch!” Swinging down hard, again and again.

Pratchett squirmed out from under the insurance man. “Finally!”

“Here,” said Vernon. “I brought one for you, too.”

“That's mighty neighborly.” Pratchett began swinging. “Take that, cocksucker!”

The swinging continued until both were exhausted.

“Think he's dead?” asked Vernon.

“Most definitely.”

“Let's make sure.”

“No harm, no foul.”

Chop, chop, chop, chop . . .

Knock, knock, knock.

The two men jumped up from behind the bar and froze with big eyes, holding bloody meat cleavers in silence.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Who can that be?”

“Damn,” said Pratchett. “I forgot we told Peter to meet us.”

“You got some blood on your shirt.”

“We'll kill most of the lights and sit in the corner.”

Knock, knock, knock.

“Coming . . .”

BACK TO THE PRESENT

Pratchett looked up from the floor and the spreading pool of blood seeping beneath the bar. A countdown clock had begun to tick. “I'm sorry, Peter. You were saying?”

“That I could go to prison.” He crossed his hands over a queasy stomach. “Maybe I should just go to the authorities. Then it's all on the record in real time, and they can't come after me.”

Vernon and the senator exchanged glances. The blood crept closer to Peter's chair.

The geologist leaned toward the senator. “What's on your shirt?”

“Barbecue sauce. They ran out of lobster bibs.”

Vernon grabbed Peter's arm.

“What are you doing? That hurts.”

Pratchett shook his head vigorously.

Vernon released his grip. “Sorry, just trying to be reassuring.”

The blood reached the near leg of Peter's chair. The countdown clock entered James Bond warhead-­disarming territory.

“Peter,” said Pratchett. “When we mentioned earlier that you were among friends, you're among something even better now:
powerful
friends. There's a whole world operating on a level you've never seen. We won't ever let anything happen to you.”

“Trust us.” Vernon checked his watch. “And get some sleep.”

The liquor was now working. “Thanks. You've made me feel a lot better.” Peter stood and stretched. He began taking a step into the bloody slick.

Vernon yanked him from behind. “This way.”

“What?”

“It's shorter.”

“No, it's not.”

“I misjudged,” said Vernon. “But since you're already going this direction . . .”

They escorted him out the door and closed it.

“Jesus!” said Vernon, fastening locks. “I thought he'd never leave.”

“Let's get that body out of here.”

The pair walked behind the bar and stared down, gauging weight and volume.

“Your thoughts?” asked Pratchett.

Ten minutes later, the pair strolled down a quiet sidewalk under a row of silk flags. A traffic light blinked yellow as they crossed the street.

“I don't know about Peter,” said Vernon. “Seems shaky.”

“Just keep tabs on him.”

They reached the other side of the road and headed down into the woods, each holding a handle of a large wheelbarrow.

“What a night.”

 

Chapter
TWELVE

U.S. HIGHWAY 90

A
gleaming chopper with a coconut gas tank rode loud and proud over the hills of North Florida.

“Radio check,” said Serge.

“Coleman here, over.”

“Another thing that pisses me off about the Internet,” said Serge. “I'll see something a stupid criminal did in Fort Lauderdale, so I click to read the article, and instead I have to watch a video. And I can't even watch the video because first I have to watch a commercial for cold cream.”

“I don't even know what cold cream is.”

“Neither do I,” said Serge. “But it's out there and ­people are doing it. And apparently it's now even more refreshing, so I also have to investigate that, and then I finally get to the story.”

“What was it about?”

“This burglar broke into a house and thought he was disabling the alarm system, but instead he disabled the thermostat, so not only did he get arrested but he was sweaty.”

“Why are we stopping?”

“Another small town,” said Serge. “Small towns are the best! Barefoot kids bringing home a string of catfish, an old theater on Main Street that plays
one
movie on
one
big screen, Esso and Enco gas signs, water tower that wants you to know about the high school Fighting Argonauts, handwritten notes in store windows for free kittens, faith circles and fill dirt.”

“I'm still amazed you're so into small towns.”

“This one's called Monticello, twenty miles east of Tallahassee.” Serge grabbed his camera. “Its showpiece is the Perkins Opera House, built in 1890. Who would imagine that in this little speck of population surrounded by vast ruralness is one of the oldest, most famous—­and still operating—­opera houses in all the Southeast? Outside life is too fast; in order to notice such gems, you need to get in cadence with the beat of these little communities and slow way,
way
down.”

Serge took a rapid burst of photos and screeched away.

“Radio check,” said Coleman. “I thought we were going inside that old building.”

“Negative,” said Serge. “I love opera houses, yet I hate opera. The key in my climb for the top is to keep everyone guessing.”

They continued eastbound over another hill on Highway 90 and the road opened up.

Serge's helmet rotated left to right. “This is the part of the journey that really unwinds my head. The first few times you see
Easy Rider,
you're watching it for the story. But after enough viewings you start to
look
at the movie, and you realize the cinematography is one long love letter to America. Sweeping panoramas of western mountains, mesas, prairies and old-­style truss bridges over canyons.”

“Then it got better when they pulled over and smoked weed.”

“This is
our
panorama.” Serge's eyes scanned back the other way. “There are lots of fantastic scenic drives along the ocean, but this is a part of the state where you have to stop and remember to dig it: Florida's big-­sky country, rolling hills and farms and sprawling beds of those lavender and harvest-­yellow wildflowers in an intoxicating oil-­painting palette like a Monet come to life. When I was a kid, bumblebees whizzed around those flowers, and one of my uncles said you could catch a bee in your cupped hands, and as long as you kept shaking them, the bee would rattle around and couldn't sting you.”

“Did you try it?” asked Coleman.

“Stung me right away and hurt like a bastard,” said Serge. “The sixties were all about the lies.”

The pair rumbled on down the endless ribbon of tar. Coleman bent over in the sidecar with his lighter. They approached a county line.

Serge pushed his helmet microphone toward his mouth. “Better lower that joint. See what's ahead on the side of the road?”

Coleman looked up at a big blue traffic sign with an illustration of handcuffs: Z
ERO
D
RUG
T
OLERANCE
. He leaned back down. “What a joke.”

“Get serious,” said Serge. “A lot of the highway patrol cars in these parts are canine units. You think they're just dog lovers?”

“I'm not disagreeing about that.” Coleman took a hard drag on a one-­hitter. “It's just that they're unknowingly tipping off stoners that drugs are actually readily available.”

Serge glanced over at the sidecar. “What are you talking about?”

“The kinds of rural counties with anti-­drug signs are the same places where you're most likely to find country gas stations selling bath salts in Scooby-­Doo packets.”

“Bath salts?”

“Synthetic designer drugs that act like coke and uppers.” Coleman pocketed his tiny pipe. “The white crystals look like bath salts, and they're labeled ‘not for human consumption' to avoid arrest. Those salts will mess you up! The kids love 'em.”

“That's terrible!” said Serge. “But obviously law enforcement's hands are tied or they'd do something.”

“Wrong again,” said Coleman. “They don't even need to be concerned about the contents of the packets or drug laws. They can seize everything and make arrests for counterfeit goods and trademark infringement because of the licensed cartoon characters on the labels to attract kids. It's just like if a cop sees cheap handbags on a corner in New York that say Gucci: Into the back of the squad car you go!”

Serge scratched his forehead under his helmet visor. “How come you can suddenly sound so smart when—­ . . . Forget it. I already know the answer.”

Twenty minutes later, Serge and Coleman rumbled alongside the tracks of the Seaboard Coast Line Railroad. The speed limit dropped again as they entered a town of 837 souls.

“Where are we?” asked Coleman.

“Greenville.” Serge swung the chopper south off the highway and cranked up the music in their helmets.

“ . . . Hit the road, Jack! . . .”

Thin tires crossed train tracks and rolled through the kind of quiet, tree-­shaded residential area that didn't have sidewalks.

Greenville was definitely green. Lots of lush trees and lawns and decorative shrubs showcasing sun-­parched old wooden homes with rusty tin roofs. Bright clothes drying on lines, bicycles against utility poles. A fifty-­five-­gallon barrel on concrete blocks burned trash. A beach umbrella stood over another charred metal barrel, where more smoke rose from lunch being grilled for the whole block. Then an abandoned pickup truck sinking into the earth, its decay toward ugliness having bottomed out, and, now that nature was reclaiming it with grass and vines, becoming kind of pretty, if you're into that sort of thing.

“Radio check,” said Coleman. “I haven't seen a place like this before.”

“Greenville is a historic African-­American town,” said Serge. “As southern and rural as they come. The economy definitely isn't here, but they more than make up for it with pride and beautification. You can't help but feel the bonds of community.”

He pulled the motorcycle off the side of the road to check a map.

A junky El Dorado came the other way and stopped in the street. The driver leaned out the open window. “Can I help you guys find anything?”

“As a matter of fact you can.” Serge held out his map and told him.

The old man pointed backward. “Keep going that way until you come to the stop sign. If you think you've gone too far—­don't. There's only one stop sign, way, way down. Then take a right and follow it to the bend. But don't take the bend. There's a road on the other side and you'll see it.”

“Appreciate the courtesy.” Serge stowed his map and took off.

More old houses and freshly cut grass. In the middle of the homes was another small building with another tin roof, this one concrete and lime green. Bare four-­by-­fours held up a weathered porch roof below a sign: H
&
R
G
ROCERS
. There was an air pump and a row of three retired guys sitting against the front of the building and liking it.

The old man's directions were spot-­on. After the second right turn, Serge rolled a short distance to a stop at street address number 443. Just off the shoulder stood a compact four-­room wooden house with a chimney and simple open deck with rocking chairs.

Serge removed his helmet. “You're in for a real treat.”

“Whose house is this?”

“Glad you asked! From 1930 to 1935, it was the childhood home of the legendary Ray Charles, before his sight failed and he was sent to the Florida School for the Deaf and Blind in Saint Augustine.”

“Ray Charles?” said Coleman. “I thought he was from Georgia.”

Serge grimaced and pounded a fist on the coconut gas tank. “It's like Allman Brothers déjà vu all over again! Duane and Gregg were from Daytona, and Ray was from Greenville!”

“Easy now,” said Coleman. “You're in a small town.”

A camera clicked at a street sign: R
AY
C
HARLES
A
VENUE
. The motorcycle sped off.

They crossed the train tracks again and took Grand Avenue through downtown Greenville, which was a block long: connecting brick buildings with some of the windows bricked up.

Hardware store, closed pharmacy with mortar and pestle over the door, antiques place selling an ancient rust-­streaked sign for T
ALLAHASSEE
M
OTOR
H
OT
EL.
P
HONES,
P
OOL,
TV
.

They turned the corner at Ike's Bait and Tackle, which had branched into the deli business and featured a drawing of a rattlesnake, the mascot of the traditionally black Florida A&M University. Then another small building whose entire front was a roll-­down metal door below block letters that said F
IRE
D
EPT
and appeared to be out of business. The VFW hall advertised free breakfast for veterans. Serge stopped across the street.

“Where are we now?” asked Coleman.

“Hayes Park, the town center, a magnificent open space surrounding that tranquil lake. Playground, picnic area, and something few others have. A great place to slow down.” Serge took off running.

Coleman caught up as his buddy aimed a camera at a bronze statue of a man in sunglasses playing the keyboard near the children's slides. “I must touch Ray. You touch him, too . . . Our work here is done.” He took off back to the motorcycle. Coleman was barely able to jump in the sidecar before Serge screeched off and cranked up the stereo.

“ . . . C.C. Rider! . . .”

More hills and clouds went by.

“Radio check,” said Coleman. “Can we take a break? All this slowing down is making me tired.”

“We're about to take a very long break up ahead.”

“Another small town?”

“Live Oak, established 1858 at the junction of two major rail lines.” The chopper approached a bridge and passed a sign containing musical notes.

“What river are we crossing?”

“The Suwannee.”

“Like in the song?”

“The same.”

“Aren't you saying it wrong?” asked Coleman.

“No, I'm pronouncing it right. Su-­wann-­ee.” Serge gazed over the side of the bridge at a winding, tea-­colored tributary. “It's three syllables. But in 1851, Stephen Foster needed a two-­syllable name of a river for his song, so he looked at a map and just lopped off part of the historic name like we're North Korea.”

“Fuck that shit,” said Coleman.

“My sentiments exactly,” said Serge. “And then of all things it became our state song.”

“Not good?”

“Have you ever heard the original words? It's titled ‘Old Folks at Home' and was a minstrel song sung by a slave yearning for the plantation life. But aside from the controversy, there are so many better artists to choose from.”

“Led Zeppelin!”

“Let's try to stay focused,” said Serge. “Yes, the heavy-­metal lads from Britain did play the long-­since-­closed Pirate's World amusement park in Dania in 1969—­which I still can't get my head around—­but the orgasm section of ‘Whole Lotta Love' might be a hard sell to the legislature. We need someone more palatable.”

“Like who?”

“Ray Charles,” said Serge. “ ‘Georgia on My Mind' was good enough for that state's leaders. Can you imagine the Florida Senate swaying to ‘Unchain My Heart'?”

“That would rule!”

“One can only hope.”

“Serge, my tummy's making those sounds again.”

“And I need coffee. Here's a convenience store.”

They pulled past gas pumps that still had mechanical numbers. Signs in the window advertised tomatoes, a charity car wash and Newports. Serge went straight for a round glass pot with a burnt aroma. He stared down inside. “Still good.” Coleman loaded up on Snickers and Baby Ruths.

The door opened. A neatly pressed khaki uniform came inside.

Serge glanced furtively, then whispered the other way: “Coleman, be cool. It's a sheriff's deputy . . .
Coleman!
” Serge snatched a Scooby-­Doo packet from his hands. “No bath salts for you!”

“Crap.”

THAT NIGHT

A power outage in Calusa County left most of the alarm clocks blinking 12:00, but it was really closer to three. The moon lit up a piece of decorative latticework that lay on the ground next to the crawl space where it had been pried loose.

“Shhhhh!”

“You shhhh!”

“Don't shhhh'sh me!”

“Will you assholes be quiet? It's hard enough crawling under here as it is.”

“Who cares? It's Jabow's house.”

“And he doesn't like to be woken!”

“Then why not come out here during the day?”