Coconut Cowboy (19 page)

“Surveyors?” said Vernon.

“We've been requesting your official annexation map for over a year,” said Highsmith. “The preliminary one we got looked like someone had drawn the lines freehand after drinking.”

“Someone needs to get their vision checked.” Vernon turned. “Peter, don't say a damn thing.”

The sheriff stepped up to the mayor nose-­to-­nose like a baseball argument. “I know exactly what kind of town you're running here. Speed traps, the subdivision, lost utility-­bill records and all the other off-­the-­books corruption. It stinks to high heaven!”

“That's slander,” said Vernon. “Phibbs, you heard that.”

“I haven't been able to prove anything yet, but you're dirty and I'm going to take you down,” said the sheriff. “In the meantime, I'm bringing the witness in for questioning. Peter, this way . . .”

Vernon's mind swirled at the ramifications: the fake geology report, groundwater pumping, everything. Peter was a city boy who wouldn't take well to a twelve-­hour interview in some outback shithole. He might crack and say anything.

“Sheriff!” yelled Vernon. “Mr. Pugliese is a hardworking, upstanding citizen of this community, and I strenuously object—­”

“Save it,” said the sheriff. “Let's go, Peter . . .”

 

Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR

LEAD BELLY'S

K
nock, knock, knock.

“We're closed.”

“Otis, it's me. Jabow.”

The door opened and he stormed inside.

Three young men sitting in a row saw him coming. They snapped their heads back, hitting the wall in succession.

“Don't hurt us.”

“As much as I'd like to . . .” Jabow bore down on them. “Where'd you bury the money and the body?”

“Just where we told you,” said Elroy.

“We dug up the whole place and then some,” said Jabow. “Didn't find nothing.”

“But it's there—­”

“Get in the truck!”

They raced back across town and turned up the driveway to the house. Jabow jumped out of the cab and ran around to the pickup's bed. “Get out!”

It was like the trio was spring-­loaded.

“Now you're coming with me!” said Jabow. “And you're going to show me exactly where you were digging!”

“Okay.”

The three climbed back into the bed of the truck.

“Dammit!” said Jabow. “How simple are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you to show me where you buried the stuff!”

“Right.” They sat still.

Jabow's face turned blood red. “What the hell are you doing?”

“We're going to show you,” said Elroy.

“So get the fuck out of the truck and get under my house!”

“But that isn't your house,” said Slow.

“Of course it's my house.”

“No, it's not.”

“I think I would know my own home—­” Jabow suddenly stopped and hung his head in exasperation. “Under exactly which house were you digging?”

“We'll take you there,” said Elroy. “It's just up the road, next turn.”

“You of all ­people should know where it is,” said Slow.

“You live there, after all,” said Slower.

T
he sheriff began walking Peter back to one of his cruisers.

Another car came up the drive. An expensive one. A distinguished man in an oxford shirt climbed out of the black Lincoln.

“Senator Pratchett,” the sheriff said respectfully. “What are you doing here?”

The senator placed a friendly hand on the sheriff's shoulder. “Heard there might be a tiny misunderstanding.”

“To say the least.”

“But this is the sort of thing that has a way of getting in the papers, and there's been a tad too much of that lately for my taste. Not good for anyone. I'd like to see if we can come to an amicable resolution.”

The sheriff pointed accusingly. “It's him! He gives a bad name to the whole county!”

Pratchett manufactured a pained expression and nodded with sympathy. “I'm familiar with the history around here. Give me a second and let me see if I can't reason with him. In the meantime, I would consider it a great personal favor if you could put everything on pause.”

“Anything to help you.”

The senator walked over to the mayor.

“You're up late,” said Vernon.

“Jabow called me.”

“Jabow?”

A '55 Ford pickup raced toward them and skidded to a stop.

“Vernon!”

“Jabow, what's going on?”

Jabow whispered in his ear.

Vernon's eyes flew wide. “Jumping saints in heaven! Can this possibly get any worse?”

Pratchett gestured down the driveway, where Peter was about to be placed in the back of a cruiser. “Yes, it can.”

“What do I do?”

The senator whispered in Vern's other ear.

“But won't that make everything worse?”

“Just do it,” said Pratchett. “It'll stop the bleeding.”

The pair walked down the driveway, and Vernon pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Peter Pugliese, you're under arrest for murder.”

“Hey!” shouted the sheriff. “You can't take my witness!”

“He may be
your
witness, but now he's
my
homicide suspect. That trumps.”

“Like hell it does.” The sheriff gestured across the driveway. “My coroner's van says otherwise. The medical examiner is a county office, which gives me the bigger bite of this pie.”

“Take it up with the judge in the morning,” said Vernon. “Which is me . . . Come on, Peter.”

Sheriff Highsmith looked toward the senator for help.

“I did my best.” Pratchett shrugged. “But you know how unreasonable he is.”

At the top of the drive, Vernon pressed Peter's head down as he stuck him in the backseat of his car.

“But I didn't kill anyone!” Peter protested.

“I know that,” said Vernon.

“Then why are you arresting me?”

“You're not really under arrest.”

“What?”

“Just shut up and look guilty.”

The car left the driveway, and Jabow followed in the pickup truck with three young men in the back bed.

“What happened to that house?” Slow asked Slower.

“They said a big sinkhole opened up under the bedroom.”

“Wow, I sure hope Jabow's okay.”

THE HOMOSASSA RIVER

A full moon rose on the horizon, gleaming through the trees.

Serge and Coleman were crawling again. This time leaving the park. Twenty more yards to their exit through the vandalized fence. Coleman glanced back at the captive's plight. “Can we stay and watch? It's going to be so excellent!”

“Wish we could.” Serge looked up at the trees. “But we need to get back to the boat and out of here before the moon lights up the whole river.”

They made it through the fence. Serge pulled the chain-­link flaps closed, then secured the breach by sewing the broken links back together with heavy-­gauge wire. “Coleman, go get on board.”

“Aren't you coming?”

“One last task.” Serge kept his head low, waiting and checking his glow-­in-­the-­dark wristwatch. The roof of a golf cart appeared right on schedule above some vegetation, and just as quickly it was gone. Serge pulled something from his backpack, stood up and attached it to the top of a fence post.

Coleman was waiting with a beer as Serge untied the mooring line from a tree and hopped back on the boat's deck, sending vibrations through the water.

“Shoot!”

“What?”

“Cut it too close.” Serge pointed at sparkling ripples in the river. “Moon's already up. We're exposed.”

“What do we do?”

Serge cranked the outboard engine with abandon and roared out of the park.

“There's another manatee,” Coleman shouted above the noise.

“Manatees! Shit!” Serge cut the engine. “You're never supposed to go above wake speed around them. I almost did something immoral.”

“Don't look now, but a golf cart is coming down the bank behind us.”

“There's cover of darkness under those trees up ahead,” said Serge. “If we can just get around this bend.”

“He's shining a flashlight in the water,” said Coleman. “I think he knows we're out here. The beam is coming this way.”

Serge grabbed Coleman's shoulders. “Get down!” The guard's searchlight swept through Spanish moss where Coleman's head had just been. The pontoon boat silently drifted out of sight.

The electric motor started, and the craft trolled to the nearest clearing on shore. Serge hopped out.

“Where are you going?”

“Just follow me.”

They only had to jog a hundred yards before coming across the chopper that Serge had hidden in brush on the side of an empty street. He pulled a small box from his backpack and tossed it deeper into the bushes, then climbed on the bike. “What are you waiting for?”

Coleman stood in surprise. “What a coincidence our bike was here.”

“Just get in the sidecar.”

M
att was peeking out the window of the budget motel when the chopper pulled up.

The door flew open. “Where have you guys been?”

“Just some housekeeping.” Serge pulled a canvas bag off one of the handlebars. “You like carrots?”

“What?”

“It's late,” said Serge. “Let's all get inside and go to sleep.”

“You're not telling me something,” said Matt.

“What? Me?” said Serge.

“We didn't do anything wrong,” said Coleman.

Matt eyed them warily as they turned down the covers.

“Since you're the guest,” said Serge, “I'm going to make the supreme sacrifice and sleep with Coleman so you can have the other bed.”

Matt stood by a nightstand. “Your arm. Is that blood?”

“Good night.” Serge turned off the lamp.

Matt slipped under the sheets. “Is something going on I should know about?”

“Coleman!” yelled Serge. “Did you fart?”

“Me?”

“That's it,” said Serge. “It's the Dutch oven for you!”

“No! Not the Dutch oven!”

Serge pulled the covers over Coleman's head.

“Let me out!” Coleman thrashed underneath. “It's like the gas chamber!”

Matt shook his head and rolled over on the mattress to face the other way.

Time passed.

Serge stood over Matt. He waved a hand in front of the young man's face. No response. He returned to the other bed and shook a shoulder. “Coleman, wake up.”

“What?”

“We have to get going.”

“Where?”

“Just don't make any noise.”

The pair crept out of the room and mounted the chopper again . . .

. . . Ten minutes later, the motorcycle returned to the motel parking lot. The engine was off as it coasted the last fifty yards to their room.

“Remember not to wake Matt,” Serge whispered.

Coleman climbed out of the sidecar with a small cardboard box they had just retrieved from the brush next to the state park. “What's in here anyway?”

“Remember the thing I attached to the top of the fence post just before we split on the pontoon boat?”

“I don't know what that was, either.”

“A mini video transmitter powered by a nine-­volt battery,” said Serge. “They're all over the Internet for ninety-­nine dollars. We couldn't stick around for obvious reasons, but there was no way I was going to miss the season finale.”

“So we'll get to watch it after all?”

“As many times as you want.” Serge took the package from Coleman. “The transmitter's great but has a limited broadcast strength. This box contains the accompanying portable receiver and digital recorder. I had to stash it within signal range. Now all we have to do is plug it into my laptop and watch our new nature documentary.”

“Remember
Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom
from the sixties?” asked Coleman. “How did their cameras always seem to be at the right place when shit went down?”

“It was uncanny,” said Serge. “One minute into every show, you'd hear Marlin Perkins's solemnly reassuring voice:
We have been on our quest for days, but the jungles of Madagascar have withheld their secrets . . .
Then, just off camera:
Okay, boys, release the rhinoceros with the trained chimp riding on its back smoking a cigar.
”

“Nature's cool!”

Serge swiped his magnetic room key. “Be as quiet as possible.”

They slunk inside and Serge configured the electronics to his computer. “Here we go . . .”

A finger pressed play.

A grainy picture in amber light.

Coleman touched the screen. “There's our guy lying on his back in the dirt, held in place with tent stakes.”

“Move your hand.” Serge swatted it. “I want to see Betsy make her entrance.”

“There she is.” Coleman's face glowed from the screen. “And she's eating your carrots. How'd you know?”

“Just a hunch, but they like almost anything.”

“Now the dude's head is twisting every which way like he's super scared.” Coleman leaned closer. “Uh-­oh, I think he just crapped himself.” Giggling.

“It's funny that he's defecating?”

“No, Betsy,” said Coleman. “The guy's terrified for his life, and Betsy's wearing that funny straw hat the farmer put on her, with little holes cut out for the ears to poke through.”

“Normally I'm against the anthropomorphic dressing of animals because house cats don't dig Brazilian beach thongs, but in this case it adds a detail that the reporters will be helpless to resist.”

“How'd you get the whole idea to begin with?”

“I was looking for something like Betsy anyway, regardless of whether I had a student to instruct.” He placed a hand over his chest. “When I heard that Lu had lost his soul mate, Susie, it broke my heart. I said to myself, ‘Whatever else I do before leaving town, I'm buying a donkey.' ”

“She's eating more carrots.”

“It's official now: love at first sight,” said Serge. “Lu the hippopotamus is following her everywhere.”

“That guy on the ground seems worried.”

“Why? They're not bothering him, and the park rangers are sure to discover his plight in a few hours,” said Serge. “This is probably the easiest bonus round any contestant has ever played.”

Coleman bent even closer. “Did you deliberately place all the carrots in a circle around that dude?”

“Me?”

“Betsy is stepping over him to get to her next snack . . . and here comes Lu . . .” Coleman covered his face with a hand, peeking through fingers. “I can't watch . . .
Ouch!
”

“That was just an arm,” said Serge. “He's got another. Imagine if that was his chest.”

“I don't have to,” said Coleman.

“Ooo.” Serge winced. “That tickled.”

“Humans are a lot like tomatoes,” said Coleman.