Coconut Cowboy (14 page)

“Dancing Christ!” yelled Vernon. “What the hell is going on out here? We've been getting calls from everywhere! ­People are reporting UFOs!”

An antique truck from the volunteer fire department arrived.

“Jerome!” shouted Vernon. “Will you stop with the hand-­crank siren? We're trying to keep a low profile.”

The noise ceased and the hoses came on, sending up ash and white smoke as the water hit the burnt debris.

Vernon bore down on the group with a look that said:
Start explaining
.

“Uh, there were a few glitches,” said Elroy.

“Glitches?” Vernon stabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “We set up a blockade to stop the news trucks . . . Where's the plane?”

“In the ravine,” said Martin. “Just follow the Christmas lights.”

“What?” Something suddenly clipped Vernon in the back of his legs, knocking him to the ground. “Where did that fucking pig come from?”

“Apparently some have been living in the woods since last Founders' Day.”

The mayor covered his face with both hands. “Okay, we'll sort out this stupidness tomorrow. But right now, where's the shipment? Please tell me it survived whatever it was that happened out here.”

“Got it,” said the pilot, raising a hard-­shell Samsonite.

“Hand it over,” said Martin, laying it on the hood of his Mercedes and flipping latches. The lid opened to reveal sixteen undisturbed packs of powder.

Vernon closed the case and gave it to Shorty. “Stick this in the Chevy and get it locked up at your shop as fast as possible. Don't stop for anything. We'll give you a police escort.”

From another direction. “What about my airplane?”

“Shorty,” said Vernon. “Come back with the tow truck for Boggs . . . Everyone else, clear out of here and keep your mouths shut until this blows over.”

“Mayor . . .” said Slower.

“What!”

He pointed toward a large, oncoming wave illuminated by Christmas lights. “Pigs.”

“Run!”

 

Chapter
EIGHTEEN

HIGH UP ON THE GULF COAST

T
he chopper left Route 19 behind at Crystal River and wound through the spongy lowlands of Florida's nature coast. Oak trees and cabbage palms intermingled in odd alliance for street shade. Pontoon boats were in favor among the locals, who docked them in canals when not navigating the shallow-­drafting maze of tributaries that snaked through the marsh before emptying into the Gulf of Mexico's oyster and scallop spawning grounds.

Serge parked his two-­wheel machine next to another, significantly older machine that also had wheels. Except the wheels were much bigger and the machine didn't run anymore. Rust-­frozen gears were surrounded by the kind of ancient stone walls that evoked Spanish forts.

“Another great small town!” announced Serge. “Homosassa, founded by David Levy Yulee in 1851, and here”—­he slapped the rock partition behind him—­“are the ruins of the historic Yulee Sugar Mill.”

“It's just a bunch of broken-­down old stuff,” said Coleman.

“Bite your tongue,” said Serge. “Florida is so young that it has very few ruins. Actually half the state is in ruins, but I'm talking the traditional type, like Aztec pyramids.”

“Aztecs were cool,” said Coleman. “They pulled out beating hearts and shit.”

“This is even more excellent.”

“Really?” Coleman became semi-­alert.

Serge nodded and waved an excited arm at the woods. “Once upon a time, all this overgrown emptiness used to be a bustling, five-­thousand-­acre sugar plantation with hundreds of workers. Unfortunately they were slaves, so I'm glad it's ruins.” He spat on the ground. “Those big gears used to grind the cane with steam power. There's the chimney, and these massive metal bowls in the ground were the settling vats.”

Coleman scrunched his face. “I thought this was better than beating hearts.”

“They also produced a ton of molasses to make rum.”

“It's getting better,” said Coleman.

Serge surveyed the fallen-­down stone masonry now overwhelmed with moss and vibrant green vegetation thriving on the wetlands' moisture. “I love to meditate in some quiet place when Mother Earth has taken back the site of once-­furious activity. And if you clear your head and activate your imagination engine—­luckily mine is nuclear powered—­your genetic memory can conjure a spiritual connection with the souls who toiled here.”

Coleman whispered to Matt, “He stands in a lot of empty fields.”

“I heard that!”

“But it's boring.”

“This is just the precursor,” said Serge. “From the other-­things-­to-­do drop-­down menu of this tour stop.”

“But there's nothing else out here,” said Coleman. “Only a bunch of old rotting logs.”

“Trust me. Back to the chopper!”

They cruised down Yulee Drive.

“Radio check. I see a building,” said Coleman, straining for a better view. “It's the Old Mill Tavern. I knew you'd come through! . . . Serge, slow down. You're passing the bar.”

“We're not stopping there.”

“But it's a righ­teous place.” Coleman faced backward in his sidecar. “The phone number on the sign is 628-­BOOZ. That's a good omen.”

“I have something better in mind.”

Less than a minute later, the motorcycle rolled to a stop in front of what looked like a small house. Its front was a jigsaw-­piece rock wall. Over the door stood a giant photo of a man in sunglasses and an
Alice in Wonderland
top hat, playing the bass guitar. Lighted words on each side of the picture announced the name of the place.

Coleman tried to scratch his head but forgot he was still wearing his helmet. “Neon Leon's?”

“Actually Neon Leon's Zydeco Steakhouse.” Serge climbed off the bike. “Another theme running through
Easy Rider
is that they were always breaking bread: at that family's Western ranch where they repaired the bikes, the hippie commune, campfires, and the southern diner where they were run off. Except for that last place, the meals were always ceremonies of peace and camaraderie with new friends.”

Matt removed his lacrosse helmet. “But why did you choose this restaurant in particular?”

“I needed to locate a Florida place with New Orleans cuisine to represent Fonda and Hopper's last supper in the French Quarter. And I found it!” A big grin as he led the march to the door. “What seals the marriage between the Big Easy and my home state is that the restaurant's namesake is none other than Jacksonville's own Leon Wilkeson of Lynyrd Skynyrd fame. His relatives now run the place.”

They went inside and grabbed a booth under an autographed guitar on the wall.

“Is that a real gold record?” asked Coleman.

“The genuine article,” said Serge. “From their debut album with ‘Tuesday's Gone' and ‘Freebird.' And in that other frame is an original front page from the October 21, 1977, edition of the McComb, Mississippi,
Enterprise-­Journal
covering the plane crash that claimed six, including three members of the band.” He pointed another direction. “That glass case holds one of Leon's trademark, concert-­worn hats.”

Matt scanned his menu. “What's good?”

“Everything,” said Serge. “Gumbo, crawfish, jambalaya, crab cakes, Cajun Seafood Medley, Mighty Rad Creole.”

The waitress arrived. “Had enough time?”

“One more second,” said Serge. “What would Leon have?”

“I don't know.”

“Probably the oyster po'boy . . . You guys?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Matt.

“Beer,” said Coleman.

Serge handed his menu back to the waitress. “Make it three. Plus coffee, and keep the refills coming.”

She departed and Serge hopped up. “I must take contingency photos.” He roamed as the restaurant became filled with camera flashes.

“Sure does like to take pictures,” said Matt.

“I barely notice anymore.”

The coffee was waiting when Serge returned. He scorched his tongue as he chugged, then hunched over the table. “Here's the critical part, since we're about to break bread: bonding through conversation . . . Matt, you're the newest friend at this ceremony, why don't you kick it off?”

“Okay, where are we going next on the tour?”

“Wrong!” said Serge. “In movies they're always staying on point and talking about the plot, but the dialogue in real life is about everything else. That's where
Easy Rider
shattered the mold. They chatted about a mother retrieving a football helmet from the trash, and aliens mating with us in an advisory capacity. You have to think free form. I'll get us started by picking the
Jeopardy!
category . . . Alex, I'd like pharmaceutical TV ads for a hundred.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Matt. “Those commercials are off the hook. Acid reflux, testosterone replacement, trouble sleeping, the purple pill . . .”

“Don't forget the crazy warning list of possible side effects,” said Serge. “Dry mouth, constipation, dizziness upon standing, blurred vision, slurred speech, numbness, tingling, episodes of eating or driving with no memory of the event, breasts developing in men.”

Coleman raised his hand. “Are you talking about me?”

“Then they tell you to report any unusual dreams,” said Serge. “Dreams by definition are unusual. If you dream about sitting in a waiting room, then there's a problem. And ‘avoid contact with application sites'? Hey, I don't know who's using what or where. I could bump into someone on the street and suddenly have an early onset of puberty. Next topic: How would you go about organizing an anarchist group? Maybe advertise on one of those public bulletin boards with hand-­printed notices for babysitting, lost pets, algebra tutoring and ill-­attended support meetings for memory loss—­using a sheet of paper with a bunch of strips at the bottom where ­people can tear off phone numbers, except I'd leave all the strips blank. ‘Upper Bay Anarchist Membership Drive: Stay Away!' And heaven help the person who's elected secretary. What would the official minutes look like? ‘Meeting not called to order,' ‘Minutes from the previous meeting shredded,' ‘Agenda rejected,' ‘All officers impeached,' ‘Group disbanded,' ‘After-­meeting meal at Denny's.' ”

“That's a good dilemma topic,” said Matt. “We have those discussions all the time in philosophy class, like the liar's paradox, or
pseudómenos lógos
in the ancient Greek.”

“What's that?” asked Serge.

“There are several variations,” said Matt. “But it mainly boils down to a pair of statements like ‘The following sentence is true. The previous sentence is false.' Great minds have pondered the ramifications.”

Coleman giggled. “You've got to be kidding.”

“It's no laughing matter,” said Matt. “In the third century B.C., the philosopher Philitas of Cos reportedly became so consumed trying to resolve such paradoxes that he went without sleep and food until he died.”

Coleman's eyes glazed a moment, then he shook his head. “What a load of crap. Over a stupid riddle?”

“It's more than possible,” said Matt. “And it has nothing to do with the paradox. Just whether the person has a severe enough case of obsessive-­compulsive disorder.”

Serge finished snapping a hundred photos of rock-­and-­roll memorabilia. “I prefer the term ‘focus-­intensity gifted.' ” He turned the camera the other way.
Click, click, click
. “And I can attest from personal experience that Matt's right. I once stayed awake in a tiny, windowless room for three days wondering what happened to Richie Cunningham's older brother.”

“I forgot about that,” said Matt. “In the first season of
Happy Days,
Ron Howard's character had an older sibling named Chuck, who disappeared from the series without any explanation.”

“And all the other family members went on with the show as if nothing was out of place,” said Serge. “But here's what I think really happened: You know how even the nicest families can have one ‘off night' that results in an unspoken agreement never to mention it again? I can just see the Cunningham parents staring down in the living room. ‘Good God, what have we done! Look at all the blood! Kids, go to your rooms.' They're still freaking out when Fonzie shows up and goes, ‘Whoa! . . . Joanie, go get the shovel.' ”

The waitress arrived with their oyster sandwiches. “Top off your coffee?”

“Yes!” said Serge.

“Anything else?”

“We're conducting a bonding ceremony,” said Serge. “It's the perfect place: rock history, unusual dreams, the Cunninghams chopped up the older brother. Could I trouble you for a wedge of lemon? This statement is false.”

MEANWHILE . . .

Another pleasant afternoon inside the First National Bank of Wobbly, Florida.

“Yup.”

“Mmm-­hmm.”

The door opened.

Vernon tossed his newspaper aside and stood. “Martin, great to see you! And let me be the first to apologize for the little mix-­up last night. We run a much tighter ship around here than that.”

“It's already forgotten.”

“In the daylight I can see the family resemblance,” said Jabow. “You're definitely Steve's cousin.”

Martin hoisted a heavy sack onto the magazine table. “Here's what Steve said would be coming.”

“But how come he didn't bring it by himself as usual?” asked Otis.

“Stuck in Miami. Some disagreement with one of the car ­dealerships. Several vehicles got damaged.”

“How?”

“Long story.”

“This town runs on long stories.”

“The dealership threw a big weekend bonanza, you know, with strings of colorful pennants and hamburgers and an obnoxious radio station van. They had this giveaway contest for new cell phones and put the winning tickets inside a few balloons, then filled them and a whole bunch more with helium, but not all the way so they'd fly off—­just enough to hover over the crowd until ­people could eventually snatch them. Except they apparently were giving away one of those super-­popular new smartphones that ­people have a hard time getting. A mob showed up with BB guns, fishing gaffs and crossbows.”

“That's why we don't like Miami,” said Vernon. “Would never happen here. At least not twice.”

“You got a nice community,” said Martin, looking around and nodding. “Steve told me how special it is. And what a beautiful drive up here.” Another nod. “I could see myself dropping anchor in these parts.”

“We'd love to have you.”

“Except the cell reception is terrible,” said Martin.

“And we like it that way,” said Vernon.

Martin opened the top of the canvas sack, and the others looked inside.

“Junk cars must be in style,” said Jabow.

“I won't need the bag back,” said Martin. “The zipper's broken.”

Vernon grabbed the sack—­“Wait here”—­and sauntered over to the teller window, where Glenda already had the cash counter out.

Large-­denomination bills fluttered through the machine. Martin grabbed a chair and joined the gang. “So what do you guys do for fun around here?”

“This.”

The counting finished, and Martin waved as he left. “Pleasure meeting you.”

“Don't be a stranger.”

The door closed.

“Nice enough fella.”

“Real friendly.”

“But not like Steve.”

“No, Steve is great.”

“Yup.”

“Mmm-­hmm.”

“Been meaning to ask,” said Jabow. “When did you learn how to launder money?”

Vernon grabbed the sports section. “I
don't
know how.”

“Then why'd you tell him you did?”