Coconut Cowboy (22 page)

 

Chapter
TWENTY-NINE

TALLAHASSEE

T
he Florida state capital appears detached from the rest of the state. It might as well belong in any of its bordering Bible Belt neighbors, from the syrup accents to biscuit-­and-­gravy world view.

Kudzu.

The capitol building itself was the twin of the one in Alabama. In both states sat the ancient, original structures from the 1800s, now museums preserving an antebellum musk and spittoons. Behind each of those stood the new capitols: tall, narrow skyscrapers accompanied on each side by domes for respective chambers of the legislature. The overall resulting shape was the source of discussion.

Today, it was hot. Inland hot. Trapped air and humidity. Condensers worked overtime pumping coolness into the senate committee room. A long curved table rose above those who were summoned. A tall burgundy leather chair sat in the middle of the curve, behind the engraved nameplate of the committee's chairman, Bolley “Bo” Bodine. Always wore suspenders
and
a belt, so he could unbuckle in buffet restaurants.

“This hearing is called to order.” The chairman gaveled. “Our committee is in session today to discuss an extremely unsettling matter. As a practice, we normally respect local governance, but irregularities have come to light that make it incumbent upon us to consider revoking the articles of incorporation for the city of Wobbly.”

“Mr. Chairman?”

“The chairman recognizes our esteemed colleague from Calusa County, Senator Ryan Pratchett.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Ryan. “Since my district represents the good ­people of Wobbly, I would like the record to reflect that I have found no finer group of citizens in the entire state who will give you the shirts off their backs. The senator yields.”

“That's it?”

Pratchett reclined in his own massive chair and nodded.

“Now then, a current state investigation into corruption in Wobbly has turned up some serious questions—­”

“Mr. Chairman?”

“The senator from Calusa County?”

“Is it not accurate that thus far no corruption has been proven?” said Pratchett. “I would then respectfully request that the terms ‘law-­abiding and devout' be added to the official record.”

“Would that make you happy?”

A nod.

“So ordered,” said Bodine. “If we may finally proceed, I would like to begin taking testimony from our first witness, state auditor Franklin James . . . Mr. James, please raise your right hand . . .”

A storm of camera flashes filled the chamber as a lithe man with wire-­rimmed glasses took the oath.

“Mr. James, we have a copy of your preliminary report right here, which I deem highly disturbing. Would you begin by substantiating your first finding?”

An awkward clearing of a throat, and he started speaking . . .

“Excuse me,” said the chairman. “Could you move closer to the microphone? We can't hear anything you're saying.”

The auditor scooted his chair and reviewed notes. “The city of Wobbly has, um, issued as many traffic tickets as some of the largest cities in the state, yet has a population of less than a thousand. Almost all of the citations issued in the last year came along a hundred-­yard stretch of State Road 92 that the city annexed with a long, narrow corridor of land. There can be no other conclusion than Wobbly's police are issuing the citations almost solely as a revenue generator.”

“Mr. Chairman?”

A sigh. “The senator from Calusa County?”

“I would like to say that I fully support the good men and women of this fair state who put on the proud uniforms of law enforcement and risk their lives each day to protect us from speeders.” Pratchett sat back.

The chairman stared a moment, then turned to the witness. “Continue.”

“When we visited the town with our requests for documentation, we could find no accounting for the fines. In addition, there was a similar lack of paper trail for water bills and pet registration fees.”

“How did they explain this?”

The auditor looked down at his notes. “There was a fire, a flood, it was lost in a tourist attraction.”

“Attraction?”

“A sinkhole.”

“Anything else unusual?”

“They were holding traffic court in a barbecue restaurant.”

“Mr. Chairman?” said Pratchett. “I have a ­couple of questions for this witness.”

“Go ahead.”

The senator smiled behind his microphone. “Were they nice?”

“What?”

“When you were in Wobbly asking for this documentation, were they nice to you?”

“I guess, but—­”

“Would it be accurate to say they're the salt of the earth?”

“I don't see—­”

“Did you try the ribs?”

A gavel banged. “Senator Pratchett!” said the chairman. “Please! I've given you significant latitude, but we're getting off track!”

“Really?” said Pratchett. “In a land that so many of our military heroes fought and died for, listening to all sides is getting off track?”

“Senator!”

“Fine, if you don't want the complete picture. It's your committee.”

“Are you finished?” asked the chairman.

Pratchett shrugged.

“Thank you . . .”

Two hours later, they called the next witness.

The chairman looked over the top of his reading glasses. “Sheriff Highsmith, the committee would like to express its appreciation for taking the time to travel all the way to Tallahassee.”

“No problem.”

“When state investigators visited your county, you described some troubling trends that I would like repeated for this panel.”

“Well, one by-­product of the speed trap is a large number of arrests for reckless driving and other more serious traffic infractions. Since the only jail is the county's, they bring the suspects to us, but we have to turn them away.”

“And why is that?”

“They're issuing so many tickets that it's far more than the town's three officers can handle. So they started deputizing citizens for traffic duty, except there's no protocol. It's almost as if they're just handing out badges. The ­people bringing the prisoners to us are driving personal cars, wearing street clothes and often have alcohol on their breath—­half the time we don't know which one is under arrest. We've also had to respond to a number of clashes between rival neighborhood watch groups.”

“Rival?”

“Disputed border territory,” said Highsmith. “Both groups are standing their ground. We have surveyors working on it.”

“Anything else?”

­“People are starting to go missing.”

“Missing?”

“We found the body of a Miami man in a sinkhole,” said the sheriff. “And an insurance underwriter still hasn't turned up.”

“Mr. Chairman?” said Pratchett. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

“Sheriff,” said Pratchett. “Would you say that you and I have a good working relationship?”

“Absolutely.”

“And that you and some of the officials in Wobbly do not?”

“To say the least.”

“Could your testimony be subconsciously tainted by last year's pig races?”

“What?”

“No further questions . . .”

The last witness of the day took the stand shortly after four.

“Mr. Abernathy,” said the chairman. “We've heard previous testimony about an unusual configuration of land that was annexed. As an investigator with the attorney general's office, do you have an opinion on this?”

“We've never seen anything like it,” said the witness. “It's beyond unusual: this thin, long appendage so out of place that the only logical answer is it was designed to take advantage of unsuspecting motorists.”

“I see,” said the chairman. “And do you have any knowledge how this configuration came to be?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. The city was incorporated in 2012 with the guidance of a then–Calusa County attorney, who subsequently helped the city annex the land in question for the previous-­mentioned scheme. This appears to be part of a quid pro quo arrangement for votes.”

“Votes?”

“That fall, the attorney in question was elected to his first term in the state senate: Ryan Pratchett.”

Gasps.

Cameras furiously flashed.

“Mr. Chairman!” yelled Pratchett. “So now we're into character assassination?”

The gavel banged. “You're out of line!”

“You've got to be kidding me!” said Pratchett. “Your evidence is that a city has a weird shape?”

Bang, bang, bang.
“Order.”

“Have you looked at your own gerrymandered voting district?” said Pratchett. “It's shaped like copulating giraffes . . .”

Laughter, gavel bangs.

“Order!”

Pratchett stood and dramatically waved a piece of paper over his head. “I have in my hand proof of the real corruption that this committee is trying to cover up from the citizens of this great state!”

The pool of news photographers stood and rushed forward with another blinding wave of flashes.

Bang, bang.
“Order!”

“I hold a copy of a traffic citation that the chairman of this committee received last year in Wobbly. This entire sham of a proceeding is nothing more than an attempt to fix a speeding ticket!”

“Order!”

“My conscience refuses to allow me to stand idly by and listen as an entire community of patriotic, God-­fearing ­people is unfairly maligned just because the chairman wants to drive faster.”

“Order!”

“Mr. Chairman, at long last, have you no shame?” yelled Pratchett. “Attack me all you want, but I will not let you slander the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ!”

“What?”

The senator stormed out of the room, and the press corps followed.

“Order!”

 

Chapter
THIRTY

U.S. HIGHWAY 44

V
ehicles stacked up in the drive-­through lane. So did ­people at the counter inside.

“Eight, nine, ten,” said Serge.

“Your face color is getting better,” said Coleman.

Serge looked at the ceiling and performed breathing exercises. “Is he off the phone yet?”

“Yes,” said Coleman. “But he's still not ordering. He's waving down a manager.”

“ . . . Excuse me, how much is the escrow to reserve a new franchise location? Is there a regional price break for six or more? . . .”

“I, uh, don't know.”

“ . . . What's next quarter's earnings projection? . . .”

“Look, I just watch the kids.”

“ . . . No problem. I'll have my ­people call corporate . . .”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “You're vibrating.”

“I know this guy.”

“You've met before?” asked Matt.

“Not specifically,” said Serge. “But yes, we've crossed paths dozens of times. Some ­people are unable to simply walk among us and conduct simple business. Everywhere they go, they're compelled to bullhorn that they're a player. They can never just buy something
from
a store without letting you know they can buy
the
store.”

“He's starting to order now,” said Coleman.

“Oh God, not that!”

“I thought you wanted him to order,” said Matt.

“No, look,” said Serge. “He took the Ferrari sunglasses off his head, and now they're dangling from the corner of his mouth by one of the ear things. I
hate
the guys who do that.”

“The girl behind the register looks confused,” said Coleman. “He's having to repeat his order . . . She's still confused.”

Serge tapped the shoulder.

The man spun.
“ . . . Mbgkeheygrblat! . . .”

“She might be able to understand you if you took the sunglasses out of your mouth.”

“ . . . Fgjhdkjuusthezaz! . . .”

Serge grabbed the sunglasses. “I'm sorry. I couldn't make out what you were saying.”

The man shuddered in shock. “You touched my sunglasses!”

Serge handed them back. “There's still plenty of leg room left in the brotherhood of mankind.”

“That's assault! If you weren't so unimportant, I'd press charges and have my attorneys ruin your entire family for the next century.”

“Or you could just order food and be happy like everyone else.”

The man pursed his lips with bulging eyes, then spun to the register . . .

Ten minutes later, Serge and Coleman and Matt sat at a table by the window, mustard on their mouths.

“ . . . Another thing kids today don't appreciate,” said Serge. “They all have music libraries in their pockets that they listen to with earbuds. You know what we had in the sixties? A bud.
Singular.
You plugged it into a transistor radio and listened to the audio fidelity of a string and Dixie cup. We used phone
books,
and if we needed to set a clock, we called ‘time of day' and listened to bank ads. But most essential of all, nobody even
considered
throwing out a television. They were sacred family possessions, like an automobile in Havana they keep fixing for decades. TV repairmen were always visiting our house with suitcases of vacuum tubes, and my whole family sat around the living room watching him in teeth-­gnashing terror like we were holed up in a Yukon blizzard praying he could start a fire with wet matches. Except for me, because I was still stuck at the kitchen table glaring at a plate of uneaten roots until I could slip outside and crack coconuts. We lived like savages.”

“All the long lines are gone at the registers,” said Coleman. “Is something going on?”

“It was just our luck to hit the end of the lunch-­hour crunch.” Serge grabbed a napkin to dab his face. “These places become tombs in the mid-­afternoon.”

“The Ferrari dude is getting up and going back to the counter.”

“I was seriously trying to forget about him.”

“He's pointing at the dessert menu,” said Coleman. “I think he wants a New Age Cookie. . . . Yeah, that young girl is getting him a chocolate chip.”

“Okay, I know I'll regret this.” Serge turned around and eased back in his chair. “But I have to watch, even though I can't imagine how he could possibly lower the bar of social behavior any farther.”

“Serge, did he just do what I thought?” asked Matt. “He must have, because of that girl's expression.”

“We have a new limbo champion.” Serge got out his keys and slid them across the table. “Matt, there's been a change of plans. I need you to take the motorcycle up the road and check in at the Primrose Motel.”

“How are you and Coleman going to get there?”

“We've got some temporary wheels,” said Serge. “But you need to hurry because that motel fills up pretty fast.”

Matt stood and gathered his trash. “You're not going to ditch me again like last time, are you?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no.”

The Prince­ton student took a deep breath. “Whatever you say.”

Serge watched as Matt pulled away on the chopper, then turned his head toward another table.

The sports car owner finished his cookie and left the crumbs and everything for someone else to clean up. He headed outside and was about to get in his restored '84 Berlinetta.

“Yo!” yelled Serge. “Joe Ferrari.”

The driver looked back. “Don't you ever give up?”

Serge grinned and held out a palm. “Give me a dollar and six cents.”

“So now you're a beggar, too?” He stuck a key in the car door. “Fuck off and get a job!”

“I'm not begging and I'm asking nicely.” Serge closed the distance. “A cookie is ninety-­nine cents, and sales tax brings it to a dollar-­six.”

“What?”

“You're such a player, yet you paid for your cookie out of that girl's tip cup at the register.” Serge extended his hand again. “I'm sure it was a mistake, and since you're so busy, you can just place the money in my hand and I'll return it to her. While you're at it, I'll also take the handicapped parking tag.”

“Do you have any idea who you're fucking with?”

“No,” said Serge. “Because you're not special.”

“You're about to find out!” He opened the driver's door.

“I'm still being polite,” said Serge. “This is as good as it gets. From here it goes down rather steeply.”

The man stuck his head in the car and came back out. “
This
is who you're screwing with!”

“Nice pistol,” said Serge. “Ruger nine-­millimeter semi-­auto. So now you're contributing to the gun violence epidemic?”

“I feel threatened.”

“You're just saying that to lay the legal pretext for brandishing a deadly weapon,” said Serge. “You don't really feel threatened . . . Although you should.”

The man snickered and aimed the gun between Serge's eyes. “How does it feel now, loser?”

Serge turned to Coleman. “Do I look like a loser?”

Burp
.

“Well put.”

“Shut up!” yelled the man. “Now apologize and maybe I'll let you leave.”

“Coleman, I've always wanted to drive a Ferrari.”

“I've always wanted to ride in one.”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” The man stiffened his shooting arm. “I'm the one with the gun! And the bullets!”

“Is a bullet in the chamber?”

“What?”

“That's an automatic pistol, and you can't fire until you've chambered a round by racking the slide,” said Serge. “So have you?”

“I said shut up!”

“That means you haven't,” said Serge. “Which is good. Most ­people who have a gun in their cars don't chamber a round until ready to fire. Those are the safety rules. Thank you for complying.”

“What's your point?”

“Unfortunately for you, I'm not safe.” Serge pulled his own pistol from under his tropical shirt. “I hear these cars drive like dreams, but the trunk space is terrible.”

THAT EVENING

A Buick Skylark pulled up the winding drive of a tastefully restored country farmhouse that was now a two-­and-­a-­half-­star bed-­and-­breakfast. The newest guests were sinkhole refugees.

Honk, honk.

Peter Pugliese opened the front door. “Be right there.”

Mary walked up behind her husband, carrying a brown paper bag that had been prepared with affection. “Don't forget your lunch.” She rethought timeframe as she looked out at the night sky. “Or dinner.”

“Thanks.” Peter gave her a quick kiss and trotted down the steps. He jumped into the car. “All set.”

Vernon threw the vehicle in gear and took off. “Peter, I'm so glad you accepted our invitation to join us tonight. I feel absolutely sick about everything your family has gone through lately, and this will give you a chance to get your mind elsewhere. It also shows your commitment to becoming part of the fabric of this town.”

“How could I not accept?” Peter stared into his paper bag. “This kind of thing is very important to me and Mary.”

The drive was over before Peter knew it. Vernon pulled into the parking lot of a darkened corner gas station. Four other cars and a pickup were already waiting.

“May I have your attention?” the mayor called out. “I'd like you to meet the latest member of our neighborhood watch group . . .”

Peter already knew most of them by sight. He began shaking hands. “You know, I used to be on a neighborhood watch up north. It was a great way to meet other families and show appreciation for the role of local law enforcement.”

“That's how we feel down here,” said Jabow.

Peter assessed the identical appearance of the others. “Was I supposed to dress all in black?”

“Next time,” said Vernon. “Everybody, let's get moving . . . Peter, what are you doing?”

Peter stood holding the open passenger door of the Skylark. “Getting ready to go.”

Vernon shook his head. “The vehicles stay here.”

“We're patrolling on foot?” asked Peter. “But I thought neighborhood watches observed in cars and phoned in tips to the police if anything seemed out of place.”

“Times have changed. And we're the police.” Vernon walked around to his trunk; the rest of the gang gathered behind him. The lid popped open.

“Good God,” said Peter. “What's with all the guns?”

“You're in Florida now.” He began handing out revolvers and automatic pistols and shotguns. “Here's your weapon.”

“I'm not taking that thing.”

The others stopped and turned with misgivings. Vernon raised a paternalistic eyebrow.

“I guess I could. Is this what they call an assault rifle?”

“And here's your cap.”

Peter grabbed the black knitted piece of apparel. “Good thinking. It could get cold tonight.” He placed it on his head and rolled it down to his hairline. He realized there was a lot more to the cap and continued rolling until it completely covered his face. “A ski mask?”

“Probably won't come to that,” said Jabow. “You can keep it rolled up for now.”

Vernon twirled an arm in the air. “Move out!”

The gang briskly strolled a few blocks. They reached the end of a sleepy residential street and, without communication, silently fanned out in rehearsed formation. ­People in the houses peeked out curtains and closed their blinds.

“Peter,” said Vernon. “Since this is your first time, stick with me.”

“I thought this town didn't have much crime.”

“We don't.”

“Then what's all this about?”

Vernon pointed at the end of the road, where street lights caught a group of dark silhouettes scattering with precision.

“More of our guys?” asked Peter.

“No, the rival neighborhood watch.”

“A rival watch?”

“This is disputed border territory.”

“Like India and Pakistan?”

“Except hairier,” said Vernon. “Started when our town annexed this land, but we didn't anticipate an insurgency movement.”

The rival groups advanced toward the middle of the block, where they began to enmesh and follow one another in man-­to-­man coverage. Some proceeded in straight lines. Others paired off and pursued each other in circles.

“Why are you following me?”

“Why are
you
following
me
?”

Peter looked at Vernon in befuddlement. “This is about city limits?”

“Much more than that,” said the mayor. “In Florida, a lot of ­people need to be mad to be happy. They're just looking for a reason, any reason. Luckily we have a new state law to help them.”

Peter paused again to take in the action. Here and there, pairs of competing watchmen had ceased moving and faced each other.

“I'm standing my ground.”

“I'm standing
my
ground.”

Peter continued observing in disbelief. “How long does this go on?”

Vernon checked his wristwatch. “Until now.” He pulled out a referee's whistle, and a shrill warble filled the neighborhood. The groups dispersed in opposite directions.

Peter followed Vernon back to the cars. “That's it?”

“Just dinner break.”

A bunch of the guys piled in the Skylark, and Vernon handed out beers from his cooler. “Peter?”

He waved off a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “We're carrying guns.”

The men passed around a cardboard bucket of cold KFC. Peter unfolded a paper napkin on his lap and opened his brown bag. Each item individually wrapped. Dill pickle spear, hard-­boiled egg, dietetic portion of potato chips in a clear baggie, an orange. He unwrapped wax paper around a sandwich and lifted the top piece of white bread. “Baloney, excellent.” Then he read the note Mary had inserted. “Have fun with your friends tonight. Love, Me.” The
i
's were dotted with hearts. Peter smiled and stuck the note back in the bag. He realized the car was silent. He looked up. Everyone staring with open mouths.