Coconut Cowboy (24 page)

 

Chapter
THIRTY-TWO

THE NEXT MORNING

O
pen-­bed trucks of migrant workers waited behind police lines. The only ­people getting through on the lonely road south of Clewiston were detectives and a coroner's van. Onlookers gathered as the satellite trucks set up shop.

“This is Roberta Blanco reporting live from sugarcane country just south of Lake Okeechobee, where authorities have discovered the body of a hedge-­fund trader who was first thought to be the victim of a freak accident. But police are now interviewing a local crop duster who appears to have been the unwitting accomplice in a bizarre murder plot. Also cooperating is the sales department of a regional food processing distributor. The preliminary coroner's report identifies the cause of death as asphyxiation from a severe lung coating of dust that was an equal mixture of Doritos cool ranch, mesquite barbecue, and sour cream and onion . . .”

A Ferrari Berlinetta raced by the TV cameras. Serge opened her up along the deserted eastern shore of the lake and made it back to the Primrose Motel in record time. The sports car skidded to a stop next to a chopper as Matt burst out of a room.

“There you are! I've been calling and calling!”

“My bad,” said Serge. “I'm sure you can understand that in my line of work, a lot of ­people unexpectedly make demands on my time.”

“But I wasted another whole day in a motel room,” said Matt. “The only reason I didn't head back north is I felt responsible for your chopper.”

“And I'm going to make all that up to you,” said Serge. “Get your stuff. We're heading to another inspirational event where the spirit of the sixties still thrives in a most unlikely location. If you thought the Suwannee River fest was great . . .”

Matt was staring next to the motorcycle. “Where'd you get the Ferrari?”

“I have friends who just give me things. It's weird.”

“That's the same car from outside the restaurant the other day.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Coleman's got bruises, and it looks like you have spots of blood on your shirt, just like the last time you disappeared.” Matt carefully looked them over. “Something's going on. You're keeping secrets from me! I'm not leaving here until you come clean and tell me what you're really up to!”

Serge slowly lowered his head. “Okay, when you're right, you're right.” He looked up and placed a trusting hand on the young man's shoulder. “Matt, you're one of the good guys, and we've been traveling together long enough to establish bonds of trust. If you're going to continue on with us, it's only fair to reveal something important that you don't know about me. And after I tell you, you're free to go your own way if you so choose, no strings attached . . . Ready?”

Matt took a deep breath and braced himself. “What is it?”

“I'm able to create thousand-­island dressing from the condiment section of any convenience store,” said Serge. “Packets of ketchup, mayo and relish. Comes in handy on the road.”

“
That's
your secret?”

“I haven't told anyone but Coleman because there are millions of dollars at stake. It's the perfect business model: Condiment packets are free, and I can bottle and sell the dressing endlessly with no ingredient cost. Plus, my recipe is a close molecular cousin of sandwich spread, and if you subtract the ketchup, you've also got tartar sauce. A whole product line is ready to explode . . .”

“Serge . . .”

“Except the grand plan hit a kink. Sure, they
say
the condiments are free, but try walking out of a convenience store with a bulging backpack. So now I'm forced to hit a million places and get only a few at each, like the meth guys running around town all day buying Sudafed. The meth dudes are called smurfs, and we've started crossing paths, nodding at each other out of professional courtesy . . .”

“Serge . . .”

“Except the condiment crackdown is much more severe.” He reached into his pants to show Matt some packets, then put them back. “I've been banned from every convenience store where I live. That's why I can only make my collection rounds on the road and sometimes, when funds are low, I'm forced to go missing for otherwise inexplicable periods of time. I did it all for you, Matt, to continue financing your thesis journey.”

“All right, all right,” said the student. “Let's just go.”

“I was ready to leave a while ago, but you're the one who's acting all suspicious.”

WOBBLY

The front door opened at the First National Bank.

Men in overalls looked up from newspapers.

“Steve!”

“You made bail?”

“Even better. All charges dropped.”

“But how?”

He took a seat. “Good lawyer. The transport driver and car dealer were clean and passed voluntary polygraphs. And the vehicle with the dope was bought by one of the guys I hired to hit the auctions, who turned out to be clean as well. It never came within miles of me, so they had nothing.”

“Then how'd the drugs get in there?” Vernon asked with a wink.

A sly grin. “The only possible explanation is that they were already in the vehicle when we bought it just a week ago, and, as my attorney pointed out, it had numerous previous owners, including one with substance issues.”

“If I ever need a lawyer . . .” said Jabow.

“I'll give you his card,” said Steve. “Now my turn: How'd that blue moon work out for you the other night?”

Vernon sighed. “Terrible.”

“Trouble getting down in the hole?”

“Worse. Right after we entered the house, the sheriff showed up,” said the mayor. “Out of nowhere. We had to abort.”

“But you're going to try again?”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because deputies have increased patrols ever since,” said Vernon. “And I believe we have a more immediate problem. Don't you think it was a little too coincidental that you got pulled in by the sheriff? A few hours before he
happens
to come by that house when we were about to recover the money?”

“I was already wondering about that,” said Steve. “Who do you think the informant is?”

“Follow the motive,” said Vernon. “Who stands to gain the most by neutralizing both of us?”

“That son of a bitch! I knew I should have taken care of Pugliese when I first had the chance.”

Steve stormed out of the bank, and men in overalls picked up newspapers.

“Yup.”

“Mmm-­hmm.”

MEANWHILE, TWENTY MILES AWAY

Night fell. Coleman waddled through the darkness with a crooked smile and a beer in each hand. It was a giant wooded expanse way out in the sticks, which meant DeLand, Florida.

Coleman was properly roasted to dig the weirdness of the place. Here and there in the moss-­draped trees, strands of twinkling little lights. And all around, faint, competing music of unseen origins: rock, zydeco, mystical twangs from India.

Ahead of him, a form took shape in the forest. The person approached Coleman, also grinning with two beers. They silently exchanged looks of kinship as they passed. Coleman continued deeper into the woods, scraping his legs on brush. He began hearing drums, then noticed flames flickering through branches. By the time he reached the clearing, his beers were empty. He saw some ­people lying on blankets outside a cluster of tents. A man in a fringed leather vest played a homemade flute. A peace flag flapped from an old-­growth oak. Coleman adjusted his course.

He reached the group and tripped, ending up on his back like a turtle. “Hi, I'm Coleman . . .” He rolled onto his stomach and pointed at their cooler. “ . . . Can I buy a beer for a dollar?”

The man stopped playing the flute. “No, but you can have one. There are no possessions here. We are all connected; the separateness of our beings is but an illusion.”

A young girl with daisies in her hair gave Coleman a Budweiser; another handed him a tambourine.

Coleman began chugging and banging the percussion instrument on his hip. “Far out.”

Then it was time to be moseying along. He entered the woods again, shaking the tambourine along the way, until he emerged in another clearing.

Serge and Matt were sitting outside their own tent when a jingling sound came toward them from the tree line.

“Where'd you get the tambourine?”

“It came with the beer.” Coleman lit a joint under the stars. “This place rules! There are ­people all through the woods getting righ­teously fucked up. You never know what excellence you're going to stumble across!”

“It's one of the best.” Serge stared toward the largest fire of all, glowing through distant trees. “An annual event that's Florida's biggest haven for preserving the essence of the individual.”

Coleman exhaled toward the sky. “The flute dude said we're all connected.”

Matt leaned over a notebook. “You were explaining before Coleman came back? . . .”

“It's DeLand's Burning Man music festival, held way, way out in the countryside at a secret location each year that's only revealed word of mouth.”

Coleman blazed a fatty. “Because they want to make sure everyone's cool!”

“Word of mouth?” Matt looked around. “And still
all
these ­people came?”

“Like I said, Burning Man is special. Or rather that's what it used to be named. Now it's called ‘the event formerly known as Burning Man.' ”

“How did it start?”

“They got the idea from the original Burning Man out in Nevada's Black Rock Desert, which was created to reject the plastic greed of the material world's war machine and embody the hippie idealism of free communal love, higher conscience and ultimate harmony.”

“Why did DeLand change the name of its event?” asked Matt.

“They received a threatening legal letter over infringement.”

Coleman pointed at a luminous blue beam sweeping through the woods. “I want to check out the stage shows.”

Serge stood up. “Let's rock.”

The forest was bathed in a surreal soup of smoke and strange light. Serge, Coleman and Matt wandered through shadows and lasers. Swirling rhythmic sounds moved in and out of the space all around them. They passed a row of bongo players who played feverishly for a few moments, then stopped and were answered faintly by other far-­away bongos. The woods opened into another modest clearing. Along the edge were small makeshift platforms for musicians. In the middle, beach blankets and lawn chairs. More colored lights spun over a band performing a techno-­synthesized version of Santana's “Soul Sacrifice.”

“This whole scene is giving me an eerie feeling,” said Matt. “Like a kind of preternatural vibe that something really big is about to happen.”

“Something big
is
about to happen.” Serge led them to the largest clearing of all, brightly lit by flames lapping high into the night. Hundreds of ­people several rows deep surrounded the giant moon crater of a fire pit, rubbing their arms to stay warm in the uncommonly chilly night. Over their heads, long poles suspended a gigantic X-­shaped human form that had been lashed together from straw and sticks. It was raised over the pit and quickly engulfed in a spectacular display that seemed dislodged from some ancient Mayan ritual.

The crowd:
“Oooooooooo.” “Ahhhhhhhhhh.”

Serge turned around. “Matt, what do you think?”

“That creepy feeling I had is just getting stronger.” The student held cold hands toward the fire. “And I'm not the superstitious type. It just seems like this is some final quiet evening before all chaos breaks loose.”

“Nonsense,” said Serge. “It's simply your brain's unfamiliar reaction to all the unusual sensory bombardment.”

“I don't know,” said Matt, taking a step back. “I've never felt this way before. I'm getting kind of scared.”

“Matt, you're an educated person,” said Serge. “You know how stupid that sounds?”

“I don't care if I do sound stupid—­”

Coleman shook a jingling round piece of wood over his head. “Hey guys! I never knew I could play the tambourine! And I never even took a lesson!”

Serge looked back at the student. “You were saying?”

“Forget everything I just mentioned.” He began walking. “So where are we heading tomorrow?”

“Thought I'd let you pick,” said Serge. “To compensate for all the time you were stuck in the motel room.”

“Hey, I know what would be a hoot,” said Matt. “How about that wacky small town that's been in the news lately? I think it's nearby. Wobbly.”

“Then Wobbly it is.”

 

Chapter
THIRTY-THREE

WOBBLY

A
man peeked out the second-­floor window of a red-­brick building. The old Railroad Hotel was built in 1922 when ­people still came to Florida by rail. Then they didn't. The hotel sat boarded up for fifty years until the tourists and antique hunters discovered the town. So it was restored, including the elevator where you had to pull the accordion door shut. The front desk still had the original wooden mail slots and brass room keys. They bought a new chandelier that looked old.

The upstairs view from room 201 began with Shorty's Garage down below, then Lead Belly's and the rest of Main Street, fluttering with hopeful Founders' Day banners. A pair of eyes moved over the unhurried routine of a small town. Longtime residents emerged from the barbershop and pharmacy with crew cuts and ointment. On the sidewalk, small children played jacks and ­paddleball and hopscotch, except they played them on smartphones. Peter Pugliese pulled the curtains tight and took a seat on one of the beds.

“I don't understand why I can't go shopping,” said Mary. “We're supposed to just
stay
in the room?”

“It's only temporary.”

“What was wrong with that nice bed-­and-­breakfast in DeLand where we were at?” asked his wife. “And what's all this new drama about keeping out of sight?”

“It's nothing,” said Peter. “I don't want to worry you.”

“Well, you are. So I want to know everything.”

“Remember that body they found under our house?” asked Peter.

“You don't forget something like that,” said Mary. “And then they arrested you!”

“I already explained,” said Peter. “It was a turf war with the sheriff, and they were protecting me from being used as a pawn. The case was immediately dismissed.”

“They have a strange way of doing business around here. And you still haven't told me why we're prisoners in this room.”

“We're not prisoners,” said Peter. “The mayor and the others are just taking extra precautions. Some of the dead guy's relatives came to town and were upset about the charges being dropped.”

“Didn't they explain that you're innocent?”

“Over and over,” said Peter. “Vernon told me the family seems harmless, but to be on the safe side we need to let them cool down. They're still in the stages of grief. Frankly, I think the mayor's overreacting.”

“How are we supposed to eat?”

A knock at the door.

Peter sprang off the bed and froze. Then he crept forward and checked the peephole. He opened up.

“Here's your barbecue.”

“Thanks, Otis.”

Peter returned with a pair of hot sacks. “Mayor said he'd take care of the meals.”

“You're a little on the jumpy side,” said Mary.

“From hunger.” He unwrapped corn bread and set out the plastic utensils.

Mary got up and went to the window herself.

“Don't open the curtains that wide!”

She turned and stared at Peter. “Okay, first your startled reaction to the knock at the door, and now this. What aren't you telling me? I want to know right now!”

“It's just a rumor, but there's a farfetched story floating around—­I think it's just because they're from Miami—­that the dead guy and his cousin might sort of be, like, in the . . . drug business.” He quickly took a bite of ribs.

“Drugs!” yelled his wife. “We need to go to the police!”

“The mayor and his buddies
are
the police,” said Peter.

“Not this Barney Fife crap. The real police. In a city.”

“And what will they do?” said Peter. “The thing about small towns is they're all-­powerful. They don't mind cutting corners when it comes to fending off outsiders to protect locals. I think we're much safer here.”

“I don't.”

DELAND

A late-­morning fog began to lift from the forest floor as campers stirred in their tents. Someone scrambled eggs over a propane burner. Others rolled up sleeping bags.

Serge finished lashing all his gear to the chopper. “That was one heck of a night.”

Coleman crawled out of the bushes with pine needles and sap in his hair. He stood and smacked a tambourine. “Burning Man rules!”

“Off to Wobbly! . . .”

Serge had the perfect sound track for the rolling hills leading south into Calusa County. Joplin, Steppenwolf, the Byrds.

“ . . . Eight miles high . . .”

“Radio check,” said Coleman. “Love bugs keep getting in my mouth.”

“You know how to fix that?”

“Not really.”

“Wait a second,” said Serge. “What's that noise?”

The siren grew louder. Serge turned around and saw the flashing blue light. “Shit!”

“It's a speed trap,” said Matt. “Like they reported in the papers.”

“I know.” Serge angled the motorcycle onto the shoulder. “That's why I was deliberately going under the limit . . . Let me do the talking.”

Serge removed his helmet as a man in jeans and mirror sunglasses walked up. “Good morning, Officer. I'm sure I wasn't going that fast. I was watching the gauge very carefully because I'm committed to your mission.”

“License and registration.”

“Can't help you there,” said Serge.

“No license? Other ID?”

Serge shook his head. “I hid my wallet too good last night with the reminder note inside.”

“What about your friend?”

Serge glanced at Coleman in the sidecar. “That's an even longer shot. Since I wasn't speeding, are we done now?”

The auxiliary officer retreated a step and placed a hand on his hip holster. “Don't move.” Then he waved ahead at another squad car. The signal for assistance.

Moments later, Serge heard handcuffs snap behind his back. “This isn't good.”

Then Coleman got the bracelets. “What's your plan?”

“Don't have one.”

They twisted Matt's arms. “I have ID if that helps.”
Snap
.

“Which pocket?”

Matt craned his neck. “Right side.”

The first officer pulled out the billfold and removed a New Jersey license. He showed it to the other cop, who walked ahead and leaned in the passenger side of his patrol car.

“What's going on?” whispered Coleman.

Serge shrugged.

Up at the squad car, a whiskered man in overalls stuck his head out the passenger window and looked back at the chopper . . .

The officer soon returned and called to his colleague. “Uncuff 'em.”

Matt rubbed his wrists.

“Here's your license, Mr. Pugliese. We're very sorry for the misunderstanding. We didn't know who you were.”

The officers left.

Serge and Coleman glanced at each other, then slowly turned toward the college student. “What happened?”

“I haven't the faintest.”

They rode on.

“Turn up here,” said Matt.

“You know this place?” asked Serge.

“Never been.”

The chopper cruised deep into the countryside.

Matt tapped Serge's shoulder. “Pull over.”

All three got off the bike and stared.

“Man, it looks like a bomb hit the place,” said Coleman.

“More like a sinkhole,” said Serge. “Matt, why'd you bring us here?”

“That's my parents' house.”

“Your parents?”

“It's the whole reason I suggested we visit Wobbly,” said Matt. “But I wanted it to be a surprise, both for you guys and my folks. Except I didn't realize there was this much damage. I thought they were still living here while repairs were going on.”

“Do your parents know you're in town?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I think you ought to call them.”

Matt nodded and walked over to the other side of the road.

“What a trip.” Coleman puffed a one-­hitter. “That traffic stop and now this.”

“Why do I get the feeling that the surprises have just begun?”

Matt came back and stuck the phone in his pocket.

“Did you find out where your parents are?”

A glance at the ground. “Yeah.”

“What's the matter?” asked Serge. “You look concerned about something.”

“Not sure.” Matt furrowed his brow. “My dad didn't sound right. Matter of fact he sounded terrible, almost as if he was . . . afraid.”

“Have any idea what it could be?” asked Serge. “Anything unusual happen lately?”

“Nothing, except he got arrested.”

“For what?”

“He told me it was just for show. Part of a local feud between the mayor and the sheriff.” Matt pointed across the field. “Right after they found the body under the house—­”

“Whoa! Stop, back up, slow down,” said Serge. “We've just entered a surprise theme park. Take your time and start at the beginning and tell me everything.”

“Okay, my dad's a geologist and he moved down here because of all the new work . . .”