Coconut Cowboy (17 page)

“Steve, calm down,” said Jabow. “You know we really like you—­”

“Knock off the country-­fried horseshit!” A fist pounded the table, spilling iced tea. “I want my money.”

“Okay,” said Vernon. “We all understand you're upset about a missing relative and not thinking clearly, so we're going to let it pass this one time.”

“Fuck you!”

Vernon stood and began opening his mouth. When he did, he saw something he hadn't noticed before in the crowded restaurant: two immense men in white suits standing silently by the door, hands clasped in front of them and weapons bulging under their jackets. “Who are they?”

“I'll be back!” said Steve. “I want my money! And my cousin!”

He stormed out of the rib joint, and the linen suits followed.

“What the hell was that about?” asked Jabow.

“Goddammit!” snapped Vernon. “I hate a pissing contest when the other guy knows more about my dick than I do.”

“What now?”

“Get ahold of those three morons and bring them here as soon as possible so we can find out what really happened last night.”

 

Chapter
TWENTY-ONE

CENTRAL FLORIDA

A
n eclectic line of humanity stood at a counter.

“Next . . .”

Everyone moved up a space. Envelopes, brown boxes. FBI Wanted list on the wall. Poster for new commemorative stamps featuring mallard ducks. Typical post office.

“You can't use twine in the mail . . .” “It'll never make it to New Zealand taped like this . . .” “You forgot to address all of these . . .” “It has to be under seventy pounds even if it is a rock collection . . .”

“Have any of these ­people ever mailed anything before?” asked Coleman.

“Unfortunately, many times.”

“Serge, I agree it's a good idea to stake out the PO box, but we don't know when someone will show up,” said Coleman. “We could be waiting here all day.”

“Not when money's coming.”

They finally reached the counter. “How may I help you?”

“What time do you deliver to the PO boxes?”

“Guaranteed by noon.”

“Thank you,” said Serge.

“Is that all?”

At the next window, someone placed a large ceramic unicorn on the counter. No box, nothing.
“Can you help me mail this?”

Serge aimed a thumb sideways. “How often does that hap-pen?”

“More than you'd ever imagine.”

“My sympathies . . . Come on, Coleman.”

They waited outside on a parked motorcycle, talking with radio helmets.

“It's hot,” said Coleman. “I'm bored.”

“Promise it won't be long.” He checked his watch. “One minute past noon . . . Wait, see that guy through the window? He's going for the PO box.”

“What's our move?” said Coleman.

A hand reached into a knapsack. “You're going to have to ride bitch behind me.”

“But I like the sidecar . . .”

Serge hopped off the bike as a man exited the post office flipping through a stack of envelopes containing money orders and personal checks. His silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Gold chains, dark monogrammed sunglasses, pointy Spanish boots.

“Excuse me,” said Serge. “Lizards were my childhood companions.”

He raised his face. “Huh?”

“I think you know what I'm talking about.”

“Do I know you?”

“We might even get to be friends,” said Serge. “As soon as you take down all your animal-­crushing videos and promise never to do it again.”

“Oh, I get it. A dissatisfied customer.” The man nodded. “Did you pay for something and not receive it?”

“I'm not a customer, but I'm definitely dissatisfied,” said Serge. “I totally understand there's no accounting for sexual fetishes. One person's Wiffle ball is another's butt whistle. But can't you use animation or special effects or something?”

“Shit,” said the man. “Another animal-­rights wingnut. How many of you assholes are out there?”

“Don't worry,” said Serge. “I'm not like anyone you've ever met before.”

“Just get the fuck out of my way!”
Shove
.

Serge stumbled backward, and the man took a step forward, misjudging his adversary's reflexes.

Serge was right back in his face. “You must have slipped. Because otherwise that would be no way to launch our summit talks.”

“You're a fruitcake!” The man cocked his arms back for another hard push. But before he could deliver: “Ow! What the hell was that?”

Serge raised a syringe and flicked a clear drop off the end of the needle. “Just a little something for your nerves. Everyone's so uptight these days.”

“I am talking to a dead man! You're going regret ever . . .
eeeeee-­ooooooo
.”

“Easy, big boy,” said Serge. “Take it slow. Let me give you a hand walking . . .”

Ten minutes later, Serge's chopper cruised west through relaxing miles.

“Coleman, ease up on your grip around my stomach. I can't breathe.”

“But I'm scared to fall off the back.”

“Can't you just chill out like our guest?”

Coleman glanced over at the sidecar. The passenger's head was in a helmet, slumped to his shoulder.

“How long will that tranquilizer last?”

“Long enough to get him out of sight,” said Serge. “Why are you laughing?”

“
Easy Rider
has become
Weekend at Bernie's
.”

THAT NIGHT

Another quiet evening in the charmingly restored two-­story country home. No lights. A balmy breeze blew through lace curtains.

Peter Pugliese lay peacefully in a Queen Anne bed.

His eyelids flew open. “I can't sleep.” He looked at the digital alarm clock. “A sandwich and milk would help me sleep.”

Peter put on slippers and shuffled to the kitchen. He stood indecisively in front of the open refrigerator door for an extended duration of time that men only do when their wives are out of town. “Baloney.”

He grabbed the Oscar Meyer and a jar of mayo, then put the jar back. “No, I want it fried, like in college,” also because his wife wasn't home. He got out a skillet and made strategic slices in the meat so the middle wouldn't bubble up. While it began to sizzle, he opened the fridge again. “Ooo, didn't see the cottage cheese before. That goes great with corn chips.”

Peter sat at the table with his fried baloney and milk and used a remote control to turn on a tiny kitchen TV that flipped down from under the cabinets. He felt mildly guilty about using a remote for such a close distance and decided to mow the lawn in the morning. The cable channel showed a controversial rancher holding a dead calf to somehow prove he was justified in not paying taxes because of Negroes . . . “I'm feeling sleepy.”

He took the cottage cheese and corn chips back to bed and munched until his eyelids drooped. Peter dozed a second, then startled awake in terror at the messy snack on his chest, reflexively spinning his head to locate his wife. Then he remembered . . . He set it all aside on the nightstand and rolled over, burying a smiling face in the pillow.

Peter lay tranquil. He sprang up. “I can't sleep.” He looked at the alarm clock. “It's still only ten o'clock in Sacramento.”

He went back in the kitchen with his cell phone and dialed.

“Peter, what are you doing up?”

“I can't sleep. How's the trial?”

“The killer wore these Velcro shoes from the Payless chain called Cross-­Trekkers, and I thought we'd caught a big break, but didn't realize how popular they were because the social stigma against Velcro shoes is lifting among certain youth subcultures. Then we lucked out because the killer kept going to this video store . . .”

Peter got a curious expression. His ears perked up at a faint, low-­frequency sound that he wasn't sure he was actually hearing. Then it grew louder and he became sure. But what was it? Wide-­open possibilities: plumbing pipes, joists adjusting to temperature, a stereo playing too loud on the other side of the hill. He decided to walk to the window.

“ . . . Peter? Are you there?”

“I'm here.”

“Were you listening to me?”

“Absolutely.”

“What was the last thing I said?”

“Velcro.”

“That isn't the last thing I said. Video store.”

“Who has those anymore?”

“Cold case, twenty years.”

“Sorry, I just went to the window.”

“Why?”

“Looking for pigs.”

“Pigs?”

“They live in the woods, but that might just be rumor.”

“Are you interested in what I'm saying? It's a really exciting trial. I'm in a Marriott. I've had a little wine. So the murderer wore these shoes a million other guys now wear—­not ones that I personally would marry, but some women—­except the shoes were like a fingerprint because the guy's video store had a parking lot experimenting with a new silica aggregate that was supposed to change everything but only bankrupted the company and convicted the defendant because of teensy-­weensy jade granules—­”

The vibrations became louder. Peter ruled out pigs and thought,
What else?

“—­which were distinct hexagons that stuck in his soles and will probably send him to death row. Isn't that wonderful?”

“What?”

“You said you were listening to me.”

“I am. It's just . . . this noise in the house.”

“What's it sound like?”

“Odd.” He poked his head toward another window. “Do they have earthquakes here?”

“I don't know. But whatever it is, it must be getting loud,” said Mary. “I can hear it over the phone. Sounds like a herd of buffalo outside.”

Peter grabbed the kitchen counter for balance. “Now it's like the buffalo are
inside.
”

“What's happening back there—­”

Mary didn't hear an answer because her phone was filled with the sound of a bomb going off . . .

. . . Back in Florida, the phone had shattered. Peter found himself dazed on the floor. A thick cloud filled the room. Peter got his bearings and pulled himself up at the sink, splashing his eyes and rinsing dust from his hair. He was definitely convinced there'd been some kind of detonation. “Was that a gas explosion? Because there's no way someone would want to
bomb
me. I don't have any enemies . . .”

Peter wanted to call 911 but remembered the useless phone. So he grabbed a D-­cell flashlight from the junk drawer and went investigating through the haze. Room after room, all clear. He reached the end of the hall and the master bedroom, where he had just been lying down.

The flashlight's beam swept the space, but he couldn't see anything because the cloud was impenetrable. This had to be ground zero of whatever craziness had happened. He took a cautious step forward but still wasn't able to make anything out. Then another step. He peered closely as the smoke and dust began to clear. His eyes must be playing tricks. The haze wasn't the only reason nothing was visible. Because nothing was there. No dresser, nightstand, not even the bed. “What the—­”

Peter took another bewildered step forward. His front foot slipped, and he fell backward on the wooden floor. He moved forward again, this time crawling and feeling with his hands for what had made him trip. His fingers found something that didn't compute.

An edge.

He aimed the flashlight down. Not just any edge. The side of a cliff. More haze dispersed, exposing a twenty-­foot-­deep hole in the earth the size of the entire room. “A sinkhole?” The bright beam searched the bottom but found nothing. The cave-­in had covered all the furniture and everything else with dirt and clay. He grabbed his pounding heart. “My God, if I hadn't gotten up to call my wife . . .”

Peter knew sinkholes, knew they could spread. Some dirt clods broke loose from under the floorboards beneath his hands and tumbled into the abyss. He prepared to crawl backward as gingerly as possible. Just before he did, the flashlight caught the only discernible feature at the very bottom of the collapse. “Is that what I think it is? . . . No, you've been having too many nightmares lately. That can't possibly be . . .” Peter and the flashlight patiently waited for more dust to settle. “Dear God!”

He abandoned composure and scrambled in dizzying panic out of the room, then the house, and threw up in the geraniums. “I have to get to a phone!”

 

Chapter
TWENTY-TWO

THE NEXT DAY

C
oleman stared at the yellow sign.

V
ENOMOUS
S
N
AKES IN
A
REA
.

“Will you come on!” yelled Serge, feeding coins into a coffee machine.

Coleman trotted up and pointed over his shoulder. “This rest stop has poison snakes?”

“Of course,” said Serge. “Those signs are at dozens of our welcome areas.”

“That's odd.”

“Here's what's even stranger.” Serge collected his cup of joe. “Check out that vending machine.”

“The candy bars?”

“No, the other one with sundries that travelers forget: toothbrush, razor, aspirin.”

Coleman stooped in front of the glass. “I didn't know you could buy snake-­bite kits from vending machines.”

“They're adapting to local needs, like how McDonald's in Paris sells Cabernet,” said Serge. “Snake-­bite kits in rest-­stop vending machines bring up another daily hurdle only encountered in Florida: ‘I'm starting to see spots
and
I don't have correct change.' ”

Coleman looked back at their motorcycle's sidecar. “He's still out cold. Aren't you worried that everyone can see him?”

Serge shook his head. “The best place to hide something is in plain sight.”

“But I think ­people are getting suspicious,” said Coleman. “They're staring at him as they walk by.”

“That's more out of disgust than suspicion, because his head is hanging over the side with drool coming out,” said Serge. “They were staring at you the same way earlier in the trip, except you weren't around to see it.”

The chopper roared away from the rest area and took an exit below Ocala. It pulled through the gates of a parking lot with rows of orange-­striped vehicles.

“Why do we need a U-­Haul?” asked Coleman.

“Because U-­Hauls are the best! They have limitless possibilities!” said Serge. “I've been fascinated with U-­Hauls since I was a kid. Back then, I desperately wanted one because it would be the perfect escape pod for when the adults disappeared.”

He went inside the rental office and approached the desk. “I need a U-­Haul for a sensitive experiment.”

The manager had begun getting out the forms but hesitated. “What exactly are you going to do with it?”

“First, load my current favorite possession, that
Easy Rider
chopper sitting outside your window.”

“Oh, I get your experiment now.” The manager slapped paperwork on the counter. “We often get bikers who are concerned because they haven't transported their wheels before. But don't worry; the trucks that will fit your motorcycle have special tie-­downs inside.”

“For the record: Ever since I was a little kid, I've had the utmost respect for U-­Haul, from concept to execution,” said Serge. “During my wonder years, I'd see them going down the road and think: ‘What are those ­people fleeing from?' I always begged my parents to rent one, but they kept telling me they didn't have any need. And I said, ‘I do. Just park it in the backyard and I'll go about my business. You'll forget I even live here.' ”

The manager handed over the keys. “You know we're not actually the U-­Haul company.”

“But . . .” Serge looked back out the window. “The trucks and trailers?”

“Bought some used inventory and opened an independent office.”

“Good for you,” said Serge. “Then the U-­Haul ­people won't mind what I'm going to do.”

“And I won't, either,” said the manager. “Bikers are some of my best customers. Guess it's overall vehicle pride, because they always return them spotless. You should see some of the other stuff we get back. Once there must have been some kind of struggle inside because of all this blood.”

“I'll try to watch that.”

Serge took the keys and led Coleman out to one of the trucks. The manager stood at the window, observing them lower the back ramp and push the chopper up the incline with someone still in the sidecar.

A helmet began lolling back and forth.

“Serge, I think he's starting to come around.”

“Then we have to hurry.” Serge grabbed his knapsack off the rear of the bike, removing rope and duct tape. He saw the manager staring from the office. Serge grinned and waved and pulled the roll-­down back door closed behind them.

“It's dark in here,” said Coleman. “And hot.”

Serge clicked on a flashlight. “Only take a minute to immobilize and silence him. I love U-­Hauls! If only my parents had rented one, they wouldn't have had to repair the ceiling.”

“Ceiling?”

“It can only hold so much weight. They were watching TV one night when suddenly: ‘What the hell are all these coconuts falling out of the attic? . . . Where's little Serge?' ”

“I think you tied him up pretty good,” said Coleman.

“Let's rock.”

Serge began raising the door but stopped a quarter way when he saw the manager standing outside.

“Is everything okay?”

The pair crawled out quickly, and Serge closed the door. “Reminiscing about childhood. They also found coconuts under my bed.”

The manager rubbed his eyes as Serge and Coleman climbed in the truck's cab and sped away.

It was another winding country drive back to the motel. This time, not even small towns. Just tracts of land and isolated buildings. Fire tower, church steeple, N
O
D
UMPING
, some kind of quarry, a soccer field for migrant workers, an overgrown cemetery where the latest date was 1933, a wedding dress in a ditch. The traffic was different, too. An open-­bed semi brimming with fresh oranges, a pickup full of watermelons, an obese woman in a Cadillac with a row of stuffed animals in the back window.

“Serge, I think I hear the theme from
Miami Vice
.”

“My cell phone . . . Hello?”

“Where are you guys?”

“Oh, it's you, Matt.”

“I found your note when I got up yesterday and I've been waiting and waiting, and you still weren't back this morning.”

“Had a bunch of errands to run.”

Thud, thud, thud.

Coleman tapped Serge's shoulder. “I think he's flopping around back there.”

“He'll wear himself out.”

“Who will wear himself out?”

“Nobody you know.”

“You guys aren't doing any cool stuff on the tour that I'm missing, are you?”

Thud, thud, thud.

“Definitely not,” said Serge. “You'd be completely bored.”

“I'm completely bored here.”

“We'll be back tonight,” said Serge. “Meantime, just do what college kids do. Study for a test, occupy an administration building.”

“That was the sixties.”

Thud, thud, thud.

“Got to go.”
Click
.

Coleman cracked a Pabst and looked out the window. “I just saw another mailbox shaped like a chicken. That makes five, including the rooster.”

“It's the defining difference between inland and coastal Florida. Near the ocean, ­people with money have manatee and dolphin mailboxes,” said Serge. “Out here, poultry is the class distinction.”

“So what's the plan now?”

“Stop voter suppression,” said Serge. “Another goiter on the American Dream. It's supremely immoral to use the false pretext of in-­person voter fraud to disenfranchise hardworking citizens. You should have seen the line I had to stand in for the last election.”

“But how can you vote if you're a fugitive?”

“With a fake ID,” said Serge. “I'm not about to let them destroy the integrity of the process.”

“That's just not right.”

“Especially after they cut back early voting,” said Serge. “I always cast my ballot before Election Day because I have flexible hours, so I drove to the local precinct at the library and went in one of the meeting rooms where I always vote. Can't tell you how heartened I was to see all these lines of fellow patriots itching to be democratic. I took my spot at the end of one of the lines with my sample ballot already filled out. Soon I realized the lines were barely moving, and I'm like, ‘What the hell are they trying to pull now?' Then all the ­people got down on the floor and sat cross-­legged, obviously because of the long wait, except they pulled their feet up uncomfortably over their thighs. I remember poll taxes and literacy tests from the sixties, so I yelled, ‘We have every right to vote without this stress-­position bullshit!' Then someone explained that early voting had been pushed back and I was in a yoga class.”

“What happened?”

“I didn't get to vote, but I learned the lotus position.”

Coleman nodded and drank beer. “So what's the plan?”

“I just told you.”

“No, I mean right now.” Coleman looked over his shoulder. “The guy in the back of this van.”

“Oh, I thought you meant
the
plan: Stand up to China, fix immigration, get some new Supreme Court justices who will play ball . . .” Serge passed a chicken mailbox and watched a sign go by. He hit the brakes.

“What did you see?”

“That farmhouse.”

The moving truck turned off the street and headed up a solitary dirt road.

Someone on the porch saw a cloud of orange dust approach from the distance. He continued rocking in his chair.

The truck pulled up sideways, and Serge ran to a porch railing. “Saw your sign by the road.”

“If you say so.” The whiskered man in a straw hat took a leisurely sip of sweetened iced tea and bourbon.

“You selling horses?” asked Serge.

“That what the sign says?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don't see why not. You want a horse?”

“No,” said Serge.

“You here for conversation?”

Serge pointed at a much smaller animal. “I want that.”

“You want to buy Betsy?”

Serge got out his wallet. “How much?”

“Wasn't plannin' on sellin' her.”

“Name your price.”

The farmer shook his head. “She's part of the family.”

“Five hundred,” said Serge.

“I'll go get her.”

“Not necessary.” Serge handed cash over the railing. “We'll just drive down and load her in the back. Here's another hundred for that wheelbarrow.”

“Nice doin' business.”

The truck headed away from the house. A chair resumed rocking.

A half hour later, Serge entered Citrus County. He flipped down his visor to shield the setting sun.

Thud, thud, thud.

Coleman took a hit and flicked a roach out the window. “I'm totally confused.”

“You just nailed human existence.”

“We got a hostage to take care of with a new science experiment you haven't explained.” He pulled out a baggie to twist a fresh one. “But buying that thing back there is only going to slow us down.”

Serge winked. “Unless Betsy is part of the plan.”

MEANWHILE . . .

A “Closed” sign hung in the front window, and all the doors were locked just after dark. But Lead Belly's was definitely open for business. A private party.

The search had taken forever, but it finally yielded the three bug-­eyed, stuttering young men sitting up as straight as they could in a row of chairs against the wall. Elroy, Slow and Slower.

“You got to be shitting me!” yelled Jabow. “You buried him under my house! I'm going to strangle all of you!”

He lunged, but the others got between them and wrestled him back.

“Jabow!” shouted Vernon. “The last thing you need to do now is lose your head. We have to close ranks on this.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Otis.

“Give me some space to think,” said the mayor. “Obviously the first thing is to get that body out of there. Then we'll worry about the cover story . . . Guys, get the pickup truck and some shovels.”

Jabow pointed with menace. “Those assholes ain't going anywhere near my house!”

“Fair enough,” said Vernon. “But we have to start moving because we've got a lot of work and the sun will be up before we know it.” He turned to the petrified trio against the wall. “Elroy, exact location?”

“Uh, third piece of lattice from the end on the south side, then straight in twenty yards.”

Vernon turned a different way. “Otis, stay here with them and don't let anyone leave until we get back. The rest of you, follow me . . .”

A small convoy raced through back roads at ninety.

“I still want to kill them!” said Jabow.

“Let's stay on task,” said Vernon. “There's your house now.”

They pulled up and piled out. A piece of lattice was pried away. Vernon peeked underneath with a flashlight, then stood up. “Okay, who's going with me and Jabow?”

The rest leaned on shovels, looking at each other and the sky and the ground.

“Come on!” said Vernon. “If I'm going, you can, too. Floyd? Clem? Harlan?”

“It's really dirty.” “There could be insects.” “My back.”

“Jesus!” said the mayor. “Okay, I'll make this simple: Either we all go, or nobody goes. And then we all hang together and rot in jail.”

Vernon got on his hands and knees with a flashlight, followed by Jabow and a yardstick, then the reluctant remainder of the gang joined them in the blackness of the crawl space.

Worms and ants and spiderwebs. “How much farther?”

“Just keep crawling.”

“Eighteen,” said Jabow, dragging the yardstick. “Nineteen . . . Twenty. Here we are. Shovels?”