Coconut Cowboy (5 page)

 

Chapter
SIX

CENTRAL FLORIDA

A
map lay open in a lap. “I've never been to Daytona Beach before.”

“You can drive on the sand,” said Peter Pugliese. “Or so I've heard.”

“Why would you want to?” asked his wife.

­“People do it.”

Mary looked up from the route she had marked in pencil. “Let's never take an interstate again. You see so much more out here.”

“The homemade signs alone are worth it.”

“There's another person selling hay,” said Mary. “Someone with discount landscaping rocks. Horse-­riding lessons. Teaching ceramics in their garage by appointment. Someone else hates the president . . . Why are you slowing down?”

“All those flashing lights up ahead,” said Peter. “Must be some kind of big accident.”

More colorful lights, this time from behind.

Mary turned around. “Peter, how fast are you going?”

“Why?” He checked the rearview and speedometer. “We're good.”

The police officer pulled them over behind the other blinking patrol cars on the shoulder. The ­couple sat quietly. The cop took forever to get out. It was that universal period of needless panic where motorists mentally audition a catalog of stilted dialogue to win the officer over.

The cop arrived at Peter's window, and so began an epoch of bad acting. A crooked smile. “Good morning, Officer. Is there a problem? Was I doing something wrong? I sure hope not, because I would never want to. Taillights? That must be it. Because I was really watching my speed—­”

Mirror sunglasses. “License, registration and proof of insurance.”

“Sure thing. Here's my license and insurance card . . . Where's that registration? Mary, can you check the glove compartment? Or maybe it's in this console . . .”

“Sir, you do have registration, don't you?”

“Oh, definitely, it's right around here somewhere . . .” Fishing in seat pockets. “Do you mind if I ask why you pulled us over?”

“Registration, please.”

Peter continued the hunt. “I had the car on cruise control. I'm sure I was only doing fifty-­three. I like to keep it a ­couple miles under the limit, you know, to do the right thing.”

“I clocked you at fifty-­three.”

“There you go,” said Peter.

“In a thirty zone.”

Peter stiffened. “But the sign back there said fifty-­five.”

“And the sign up there says thirty.”

“
Up
there?” Peter pointed ahead toward six other pulled-­over motorists. “You mean where I haven't driven yet?”

“The sign was in view, under state statute.”

“Is this some kind of speed trap?”

“Sir, please step out of the car.”

“But I was under the limit,” Peter protested.

“Sir, I'm not going to ask you again.”

Mary clutched his arm. “Please do what he says.”

The cop stuck his ticket book in his back pocket. “I'd follow the lady's advice.”

Peter gave his wife a last something's-­rotten glance and slowly climbed out the driver's side.

The officer immediately spun him around and slammed him against the side of the car. Arms twisted behind his back. Handcuffs snapped closed.

Mary leaned across the seat. “What on earth are you doing to my husband?”

“Ma'am, please stay in the vehicle and remain quiet.”

Peter craned his neck in a vain attempt to see behind. “Officer, if I'm in handcuffs, that means I'm technically under arrest, and then you're required to tell me what for. I watch TV.”

“Anything over twenty miles in excess of the limit can be considered reckless driving, plus you weren't cooperating, which might add a felony depending on how the judge sees it.”

“But I was under the limit!”

“Come with me.” The officer escorted him by the arm to his patrol car.

“I'm going to have to appear before a judge?”

The officer didn't answer. He walked Peter around to the passenger side, where someone in a black robe rolled down the window.

“Judge,” said the officer. “Caught him going twenty-­three over the limit without registration.”

“Peter?” asked the man in the patrol car.

“Vernon?” said Peter.

Vernon nodded at the officer. “It's okay, Boyd, I know Peter. He's good ­people. You can uncuff him.”

“Yes, sir.” A tiny key twisted in the locks.

Peter rubbed his wrists. “You're a judge, too?”

“You wouldn't believe how ­people fly through here. You got your spring-­breakers heading to Daytona that way, and everyone else going to Orlando theme parks the other. They think because this ain't the interstate and just a country road, nobody's watching,” said Vernon. “We got a nice little town and mean to keep it that way.”

“But this isn't your town.” Peter jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “It's at least five miles over there.”

“That's right.” Vernon pulled a longneck Bud from the cooler between his legs. “So we annexed a five-­mile-­long, hundred-­yard-­wide corridor of land, and now a little piece of the town stops just over the edge of this highway. Want a beer?”

“I'm driving.”

“You're good ­people.”

Peter leaned against the edge of the police car. “But why are
you
out here?”

“Case backlog. Try to settle as many of these on the spot . . .” He gestured in the backseat at a cash box and credit-­card swiper.

“This is an outrage!”

They both looked ahead at a cuffed man in a tennis shirt being pushed down into the back of a squad car.

“We still get a lot of hard cases,” said Vernon. “But a night in county lockup tends to crack the shell. You're lucky I was here or that's where you'd be heading.”

Peter turned forward again and examined all the other law enforcement vehicles that had stopped motorists. One looked like the patrol car he was standing next to, but all the rest were beat-­up sedans and pickups with revolving red lights on the dash. “So you're also using unmarked cars?”

“Not on purpose.” Vernon stuck a hand inside his robe to grab a pint of Southern Comfort. “Too many speeders and not enough officers, so we had to deputize. Up there's Bo, Clem, Otis and I think Haywood.”

“That's most of the city council,” said Peter.

“Ha! We got a quorum!” Vernon grinned that he was finally able to work
quorum
into conversation.

“Well, Mary's probably getting worried,” said Peter. “Probably should be heading back to the car.”

“Just watch your speed along here.” Vernon reached between his legs again. “Take this.”

“What is it?”

“My campaign bumper sticker.” He took a swig from his bottle. “Stick it on your car, and there won't be any more misunderstandings if you're pulled over again.”

“Okay, then, I'll keep my speed down.”

“Hell, drive as fast you want. Give my best to the missus.”

Peter got back in his car with a dazed look.

“That cop had me scared crazy,” said Mary. “What the heck happened?”

“I got a bumper sticker.”

He put the car in gear and drove off, just as a convertible BMW pulled up.

A fit man in an oxford shirt walked to the patrol car. “Vern, how's business?”

“Where's this recession everyone's talkin' about?”

“Got some good news on that other thing,” said Ryan. “Don't worry another second about the investigation. It's officially closed.”

“But I thought we were getting subpoenaed.”

The senator shook his head. “Did a little horse-­trading in Tallahassee on the budget committee and threw the investigators a bone. Hampton.”

“Hampton? That inbred town up north?” said Vernon. “They couldn't find their own asses if they had ten arms.”

“Blue-­ribbon panels are so predictable,” said Ryan. “Don't care who they skin for corruption, just as long as they get a pelt once in a while to hold up for the cameras.”

“Speaking of pelts . . .” Vernon opened the glove compartment and tossed a brown paper lunch sack out the window. “Need to count it?”

“I know where to find you,” said Ryan.

“Oh, and Peter just left. Got pulled over.”

“So now he has a bumper sticker,” said Ryan.

“How'd their background checks go?” asked Vernon.

“Both look clean,” said the senator. “From Saratoga Springs just like they said. Don't think they'll be any trouble. Did you hear what he does for a living?”

“Something about geography.”

“
Geology,
” said Ryan. “And you know what that means?”

“Not really.”

“He might be very useful to us. As long as he doesn't decide to become the hero type.”

 

Chapter
SEVEN

THE NEXT MORNING

M
ississippi detectives pushed open steel doors just as the medical examiner finished scrubbing down.

“Got anything yet?”

The coroner dried his hands. “Just preliminary until I check my findings with some experts, but this most definitely was a homicide.”

“What experts?” asked a detective. “Thought you were the final word around here when it came to cause of death.”

“Different field of medicine entirely,” said the examiner. “Couldn't find much on the X-­rays, so I ran several MRIs. The results were most troubling.”

“You're just going to leave us hanging?”

“Little pieces were missing throughout his body.”

“Pieces? Of what?”

“Bone, cartilage, you name it,” said the doctor. “All very small, all highly scattered; knee, elbow. That's why the X-­rays didn't pick it up.”

“That killed him?”

“The strategic positioning of the damage left him like a structurally unsound building. Then the damaged bones in his inner ear knocked out equilibrium and sent the whole thing teetering. Did you know they're the smallest bones in the human body? Three of 'em called the hammer, anvil and stirrup.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The inner ear,” said the examiner.

“The murder!” said the detective.

“Oh, sorry . . . Anyway, had me stumped. Even after the MRI discoveries, I still didn't have any answers. There were no injuries or other underlying pathologies to explain any of it. Stuff was just
gone
.”

“This is starting to sound like
The X-­Files
.”

“And it would still seem like that except I went over the films again and found one of the tiniest missing pieces still lodged in his urinary tract. That's when it all clicked,” said the examiner. “He must have peed out the rest of the missing stuff before we found him.”

“Pee?” said a detective. “I'm still no closer to grasping this.”

The examiner grabbed a large molded-­plastic case from a shelf. “I had the hospital send one of these down.”

The lid opened and the detectives leaned. “What is that thing?”

“Your murder weapon,” said the coroner. “A lithotriptor. This is one of the smaller mobile models. You wouldn't be able to move the table-­mounted jobs.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Most ­people haven't.” He closed the lid. “But many know what it does. If you have kidney or gallstones and don't want surgery, this thing stays outside the body and uses a focal point of high-­impact sonic waves to smash them.”

“Sonic?”

“In the wrong hands, this device is the world's deadliest boom box.”

“So our killer's a doctor?”

“Not necessarily,” said the coroner. “Normally it would take rigorous medical training to focus the sound beams accurately. That's to cure a patient. But if you were going for this . . .” He gestured at the deceased on the cold table. “ . . . Not so much.”

WOBBLY

The sound and smell of frying bacon filled the kitchen.

Peter rushed into the room, tying a Windsor knot on his way to the skillet.

“Already poured your orange juice,” said Mary, sitting at the table with her laptop.

“Thanks.” Peter plopped down and buttered toast. “What are you doing?”

“Googling ‘Florida speed traps.' Triple-­A has a bunch listed. Some places named Lawtey and Waldo.”

“I know where those towns are,” said Peter. “Up north on 301, probably trying to catch college students on the way down from Jacksonville to the University of Florida. I shouldn't eat bacon.”

“A little won't be bad,” said Mary. “Here's a place called Hampton. Wow, less than five hundred ­people live there, yet they issued almost thirteen thousand tickets in two years. The city's under investigation.”

“For all the tickets?”

“And some of the money's missing. They said the records got lost in a swamp.”

“Are you making that up?”

“It's so Florida.” She continued reading. “The town leaders annexed a thin strip of land to reach the highway so they'd have jurisdiction to pull ­people over.”

“Sounds familiar.” Peter jammed toast crust in his mouth and chased it with juice as he got up.

“Where are you off to today?”

“Longwood. New mall.”

“Who's paying?”

“Everyone. Florida's combination of sediment, limestone and aquifers are the perfect storm.”

Mary reached across the table. “Don't forget your hard hat.”

A
ten-­thousand-­acre lot sat on the north side of Orlando in the inexorable path of suburban sprawl.

Twenty men wearing silk ties stood in the field.

“We haven't even started building the mall yet,” said one of the executives. “Why do we have to wear hard hats?”

“Insurance,” said an insurance man.

They all observed workers packing up an exotic scientific contraption that vaguely reminded them of a moon rover. Then they turned to Peter. “Well?”

He scribbled on a clipboard. “Ground-­penetrating radar checks out.”

“So we're good?”

“Almost,” said Peter. “You paid for the full treatment.”

The workers began inserting a series of evenly spaced metal rods in a straight line across the property, attaching wires and instruments.

“What's that?” asked a leading expert in the field of food courts.

“Electric resistivity test,” said Peter. “We're going to pump a bunch of current into the ground.”

“Stand back,” said the insurance guy.

“What's that do?” asked the anchor-­store tenant manager.

Peter gave a high sign for his subordinates to hit the power. “Measures discrete intervals of conductivity, which are then processed through inversion software to create a cross section of substrata.”

“Huh?”

Peter flipped a page on his clipboard. “Tells us whether this land will hold your buildings.”

“It never used to be this involved,” said the guy who made the architectural scale model that included tiny customers on escalators that he got from train-­set kits.

“It's getting more so . . .” said Peter.

“ . . . Ever since that sinkhole swallowed the Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky,” said the insurance man.

“What's a sinkhole doing in Kentucky?”

“What's a Corvette museum doing in Kentucky?”

“Just about finished.” Peter received a data sheet from one of his colleagues. “Still have to bounce this off our baseline models at the home office, but I'd sleep well tonight.”

“So you're saying we won't have any sinkholes?”

“I'd never say never,” replied Peter. “But if it was my money, I wouldn't hesitate to build here.”

A cell phone rang. Everyone checked pockets. “That's mine,” said Peter, turning around for privacy. “Pugliese here . . . You have another job for me? . . . Of course I know where Wobbly is. I live there . . . What? They asked for me by name?”

U.S. HIGHWAY 31

Nothing but cows and fields and webs of vines covering power poles. Keg-­chested men in camouflage proudly emerged from a forest with assault rifles and trophy squirrels. The sky was so blue. A '72 Mercury Comet sped through southern Alabama.

“Here comes the state penitentiary in Atmore,” said Serge. “Home of their death chamber.”

Coleman held his joint down as they passed the guard towers. “Have I seen this place before?”

“Probably recognize it from the Prison Channel.”

“Prison Channel?”

“That's what I call MSNBC,” said Serge. “A lot of ­people hate that channel because of its politics, but my main beef is an abject neglect of journalism. Here's this twenty-­four-­hour news outlet with the unlimited resources of the NBC mother ship, faced with a million news stories exploding in our shrinking world, so I'll turn it on in the middle of the night to update my global perspective, and immediately smack myself: ‘Dear God in heaven! Not another six-­hour binge-­athon of
Lockup Raw
!' ”

“They use dental floss like fishing lines to pass notes between cells.”

“Possibly interesting the first time,” said Serge. “But it's like a freakin' bass tournament, and my brain's hard drive has exceeded capacity on things to make a shank out of.”

“Toothbrush, melted comb, mop handle, glued Bible pages,” said Coleman. “They also have an impressive number of uses for their turds.”

“Plus I now know far more about prison romance than I'd ever want. It pisses me off.”

“Because you're prejudiced?”

“No, envious,” said Serge. “If I live to be three hundred, I'll never figure out my own relationships, but jailhouse love is so straightforward. A nice ­couple is out in the exercise yard, then one wrong look and they're hosing blood off the barbells. No room for nuance. But in the real world, it's prolonged periods of the silent treatment and slamming doors, and me with that dazed look on my face: ‘I still have no idea what I did wrong.' ”

Coleman stubbed out a roach. “Like your ex-­wife?”

“Molly said the key to bringing us closer was honesty, but that was a lie. ‘Serge, which of my friends do you think is the most attractive?' ”

“I was there when she asked that,” said Coleman. “I told her you thought Jill was super hot, remember?”

“What the hell were you thinking?” said Serge. “It's not like in prison. You can't call the guards, can't lock yourself in your cell, and definitely can't let her even
find
a shank. No, when you're married, you need a diplomatic advance team to vet a menu of highly polished responses.”

“So what was the right answer to her sexiest friend?”

“ ‘It's about to rain and I left my windows down!' ”

“What if it's not going to rain?”

“ ‘Don't move! A spider!' ” said Serge. “Making the effort to prepare multiple diversionary tactics shows you're committed to the marriage.”

The Comet turned south and approached the Florida state line.

Bang, bang, bang
.

“Serge, you're firing a gun out the window.”

“It's the state line.” He stuck the pistol back in the glove compartment. “Road trips are all about tradition.”

Coleman punched holes in an empty beer can to make it a pipe. “When did you first get interested in road trips?”

“I was three,” said Serge. “It was the weirdest thing, but for some reason I spent my entire preschool life in utter dread after becoming aware of a simple, existence-­consuming truth: ‘If all the adults suddenly disappear, I'm totally fucked.' ”

“Goes without saying,” said Coleman.

“Years of sheer panic. Parents usually keep a close eye on their kids, but with me it was the opposite, staying glued to them in department stores in case they tried to ditch me. Meanwhile, I continued work on my exit strategy. If they ever
did
vanish, the only hope was to make a marathon road trip to the secret land where all the survivors had set up shop. First, I already had a tricycle, so I could check transpo off the list. Then before the next Christmas, I told my parents—­and I was extremely emphatic about this—­‘All I want is a Frosty Sno-­Cone Machine and a Matchbox Car collecting briefcase.' And my folks said, ‘That's it?' And I said, ‘Believe me, it'll be enough.' And I kept grabbing them tight by the collar each time I reminded them. ‘You absolutely must get these items for me!' And they're like, ‘Okay, okay, Serge. Jeez! Why do you want this stuff so bad?' Obviously I couldn't tell them that it was in case they died or were part of a conspiracy, so I just said I had my reasons and it was personal.”

“Did you get the stuff?”

“It got hairy leading up to Christmas. Most kids are filled with the ecstasy of anticipation, but for me it was the jitters of self-­preservation. That morning I ran from my bedroom in a freak-­out until I saw those two gifts under the tree, and I exhaled in relief: ‘Now I can live.' Before my parents were even up, I cut the cardboard dividers for the little cars out of the Matchbox briefcase—­‘Now I have luggage'—­and the snow-­cone machine meant I could provide my own sustenance. So I packed the Matchbox container with pajamas and underwear, then went in the kitchen to give Frosty a dry run, and my heart sank. ‘It's just shaved ice; these little flavor packets won't carry the day . . . All right, think, think! What's abundant in Florida that you can always get your hands on to nurture the body? Coconuts!' I ran outside before it was light, found one under a palm tree and tried bashing it open in the driveway, then grabbed it by the husk, repeatedly slamming it against the side of the house, but nothing worked. I wouldn't be strong enough for years, so now it's terror-­time again and I run back inside. Meanwhile, my parents woke up from all the thumping against the wall under their window. ‘What on earth is all that banging?' And they walked in the living room to find me facedown on the carpet, kicking and crying, next to a cut-­up Matchbox suitcase with my clothes spilling out, and a coconut crammed in the ice hole of a destroyed Frosty machine. That's how I got into road-­tripping.”

“Yeah, but what happened to your survival plan?” asked Coleman. “You could have died.”

“I kind of got distracted when I realized I'd also received some G.I. Joes that Christmas, and my parents came back in the living room later that morning: ‘What the hell is going on with the Nativity scene?' I said King Herod had gotten wind of the Messiah and was killing all the firstborns, so I deployed my G.I. Joes to the manger and set up a perimeter with a sniper on the roof. Then I rearranged the other Nativity figures so the Three Wise Men were standing in line at a checkpoint. ‘Can I see some ID?' ”