Coconut Cowboy (7 page)

 

Chapter
NINE

THE NEXT MORNING

T
V satellite trucks sat on the edge of a road.

“This is Jody Choice with
Eyewitness Six,
coming to you live from eastern Calusa County . . .”

Behind the news crew was an ornate brick entranceway with slate lettering. S
AGE
C
REEK
B
LUFF
G
LEN
E
STATES
. And behind that lay a grid of modest neighborhood roads stretching to the horizon. Lots of street lights and fire hydrants and surveyors' stakes marking property lines. No homes yet.

With one exception.

In the middle of the platted subdivision stood a single building, sort of.

A group of men in hard hats gathered in a front yard where a banner read M
ODEL
H
OME.

“What do you think, Peter?”

“Doesn't look good.”

It was one of those four-­bedroom mini-­McMansions constructed from the lowest-­bid materials and quickest methods. Two-­car garage, screened-­in pool, vaulted-­arch portico made from stucco on wooden forms.

“How do we fix it?”

“Bulldoze it,” said Peter.

“But it's the model home.”

“Guys,” said Peter. “The middle of the roof is practically at ground level, and probably lower by nightfall. You got a serious sinkhole. What test method did you use?”

The other hard hats stared at their shoes.

“Who did your testing?” asked Peter.

Still looking down.

“You didn't
test
?” said the insurance man. “We're pulling out!”

A black Lincoln Town Car rolled through the brick entrance and parked near the commotion. A man in a button-­down oxford emerged from the backseat. “Gus, what's your hurry? Where are you going?”

“Those clowns never tested the substrata,” said the insurance man. “That voids our underwriting!”

“Let's just slow down,” said Senator Pratchett. “You and I go way back. Come with me so I can talk to the others and see if something reasonable can be worked out.”

“Won't change anything.”

“Fair enough. Just a moment of your time.”

The pair returned to the rest of the group.

“Peter,” said the senator. “It is Peter, right? I didn't know you were on this project.”

“The mayor in Wobbly personally requested me,” said Peter. “They phoned my company just after the place fell in.”

“What a coincidence,” said Pratchett. “Glad to have you on board!”

The insurance man pointed. “We're not paying for that.”

“Gus,” said Senator Pratchett. “Fuck the model home. We're not even going to file a claim . . . Now, everyone, listen up. My ­people gave me the short version, and apparently there was some kind of testing issue.”

“That's an understatement.”

“Gus, just try to keep an open mind. That's all I'm asking.” The senator turned back to the rest of the group. “Here's what's going to happen. We'll be performing a thorough re-­testing.” He placed a genial arm around Peter's reluctant shoulders. “And we have the best man in the business to do it. So let's just get out of his way and allow him to go to work. And whatever he finds out, for good or ill, we'll let the chips fall where they may . . . Gus, how's that sound?
Gus!
”

“
All
right.”

“Peter?”

“I can't promise you'll like what I find.”

“We're not asking you to promise anything. Just do what you do and give us the honest truth.”

“Okay, I can have the equipment here in a ­couple hours.”

“That's the spirit. Here's a card with my private numbers. Feel free to personally call me anytime, day or night. Leave a message.” A squeeze of the shoulders. “Now let's all get out of here. Those TV ­people are making me nervous.”

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN MILTON AND BAGDAD

A '72 Comet rolled into the lot of Ed'z Dead Sleds.

Serge jumped out and tossed a just-­chugged 7-­Eleven coffee cup in the trash. “Still love those little amaretto creamers. I use five, same as sugar. Now I'm ready to rock! Are we out of the car yet? Yes, good, onward . . .”

Bear Claw was already waiting with a big smile. “You're going to love it—­completely finished and ready to ride.”

“You work fast,” said Serge. “Just like me. It's the only way. Can't tell you how insane I get when some human snail slows me down and there's nothing I can do about it, like at a tollbooth when a driver hasn't even started looking for change yet and begins searching seat cracks or digging through a purse the size of a beach bag, then leans their elbow out the window and becomes chatty with the toll collector about directions and good places to eat nearby. When I said before there's nothing I can do about it, there's
always
something I can do. But my rule is to leave a cushion of courtesy because it's only right to help the backward kids in the class keep up with the pack, like Coleman . . .”

Coleman grinned and raised his hand.

“ . . . I politely wait until the toll collector points in the third different direction, and if the driver is still yapping, I gently ease up to their bumper and give it the gas for their own good. Of course their foot is on the brake, so I have to spin my tires, generating a ridiculous amount of smoke—­“Off you go!”—­and they shoot through the tollbooth like a Matchbox car in a Super-­Charger. Hoo-­wee, the look on their faces in the rearview mirror, stunned that someone would care enough to turbo-­boost their lives. Remember those classic Super-­Chargers? But I opted for the Matchbox suitcase instead. Long story. G.I. Joe parachuted into the manger. How much time you got?”

“Thought you were in a rush,” said Bear Claw.

“Was I chatting?” Serge clapped his hands and glanced around. “Where's my baby?”

Bear Claw waved an arm. “This way.”

They turned the corner of the building. Serge froze with a hand over his heart.

Bear Claw stood like a proud father. “Told you it would clean up nice. The chrome actually sparkles now. And I got the leather jacket you custom-­ordered.”

Serge tiptoed over and caressed his new steed. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“And I found someone to take your Comet in trade,” said Bear Claw. “They haggled down a little on price, but—­”

Serge held up a hand. “It's all good.” His other hand pulled out his wallet. “Just remember to give the inside of the trunk a good scrubbing. You watch
Forensic Files
? They have microscopes.”

“What?”

“We'll also need some of those radio headsets you have inside so we can talk to each other on our journey and play rebellious theme music.”

Bear Claw chuckled. “Sorry for being annoyed the other day. You're a little on the eccentric side but the enthusiasm is, well, contagious. I watched the movie again last night and it's even better than I'd remembered.”

“I made Coleman watch it again last night, too,” said Serge. “It's a perfect film, like
Citizen Kane
.”

“Actually, there's a big blooper at the beginning,” said Coleman.

“You're talkin' crazy,” said Serge.

“No, really. When they sell all that cocaine to the rich guy by the airport, they didn't keep any for themselves.”

“Phil Spector, for those playing along. And that's not a blooper!”

“It most definitely is. Anyone knows that coke gets stepped on at every stage. The buyer expects it and is almost insulted if you don't. Those cats could easily have scraped off a few grams, tossed in some baby powder—­”

“Shut up!” yelled Serge. “I'm not listening to this blasphemy!”

Coleman stared down and kicked dirt with the toe of a sneaker. “Destroyed the realism for me.”

Serge scooped currency from his wallet. “Been a pleasure doing business.”

Bear Claw tucked the cash in his jeans. “I'll run inside and get the rest of your stuff.”

Coleman looked over at the chopper and scratched his tummy. “The motorcycle didn't look like this in the movie.”

“Necessary adjustment for the local market.”

Bear Claw returned with an armload. “Here are your helmets, the radio headsets, and make sure this jacket fits.”

Serge slipped it on. “Like a glove.”

“You've inspired me,” said Bear Claw. “Soon as I get a few days, I'm hitting the road. Where you guys off to now?”

“Several answers,” said Serge, handing a helmet to Coleman. “Geographically, we're tooling east across the Panhandle on Route Ninety, small towns all the way to Live Oak. Philosophically, the
Easy Rider
ethos. We're hippies now.”

“But you have short hair.”

“That makes us more radical.” Serge donned his helmet. “Society now mocks hippies as obsolete self-­caricatures, like all those ­people in the eighties who wore Michael Jackson
Thriller
jackets. But there's something to be said for a naive optimism that you can change the world with positive energy and lawn darts.”

Bear Claw nodded. “Then you get older, have kids and bills to pay.”

“Which leads to the third and most important reason for our pilgrimage.” Serge threw his right leg over the low-­slung seat and grabbed the handlebars. “Politically, we're on a search for what in God's name happened to the American Dream. The gap between the rich and the rest of us is now the Grand Canyon, and our pursuit of happiness has been swapped for a white-­knuckled struggle not to celebrate our seventieth birthday on the side of the road spinning a cardboard sign.”

“Tell me about it,” said Bear Claw.

Serge turned on the engine and gunned the throttle. “I'm so jazzed! This is like the beginning of the movie!”

Bear Claw smiled. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

“That's right!” Serge held up his left hand. “After Fonda climbs on his new chopper to head out for the first time, he symbolically discards a symbol of the plastic society, abandoning time and choosing to live in the moment.”

As in the film, Serge removed his wristwatch and threw it on the ground. He grabbed the handlebars again. He looked back at the ground. He leaped off the bike, retrieved his watch and got back on.

“What about the symbolism?”

“My symbols can't be late for appointments,” said Serge. “Plus I found a new symbol for what divides all of us from the top one percent. It's something everyone else enjoys like crazy, but you'll never, ever see a billionaire do.”

“What's that?”

“Eat a Dorito taco.” Serge raised a knowing eye of brotherhood. “Think about it. And no flavored potato chips either, because the rich are allergic to anything with a taste supplied by chemical dust that sticks to your fingers in the way the rest of us have grown to know and love . . . Come on, Coleman. Let's get tacos!”

Bear Claw waved as they roared off down the highway.

 

Chapter
TEN

WOBBLY

T
he sturdiest building in town was the bank, built in 1919 across the street from city hall. It had a clock tower. Tiny spikes on the roof fixed the pigeon situation.

As with many such small-­town banks from that era, it became something else. An art gallery in 1987, then an antiquarian bookstore, a showroom for Persian rugs, and a restaurant with private dining in the vault. Now it was a bank again. It had just opened for the morning.

A collection of wooden chairs sat in the lobby. A table with magazines. The chairs were filled with unhurried men reading newspapers, drinking coffee and chewing toothpicks. Overalls and grungy caps advertising tractors.

Big-­city banks tend to frown on loitering, but here it was more like getting a haircut or a slice of pie: a community gathering spot for gossip and politics. Most of the gang was present: Vernon, Jabow, Clem, Otis, Harlan. Their job of running the city involved a frantic schedule of racing from one location to another and looking laid-­back for the tourists: the bank, the diner, the rib joint, sitting in a row in front of Shorty's Garage. It was amazing how many visitors stopped to take their photos at the garage, because they deliberately framed themselves in perfect optical composition under the window with the fan belts. A consultant got a hooker for that.

The conversation this morning touched on all the day's high points.

“Yup.”

“Mmm-­hmm.”

“Hoo-­wee.”

Pfffffft
. “Ahhhhhhhh.”

“Did you just fart?”

Actually there had been a rare piece of real city business earlier in the morning that found the group gathered on the side of the highway, staring skyward in disbelief.

“Triple-­A put up a billboard saying we're a speed trap?”

“When did this happen?”

“Probably over the weekend.”

“They can't do that!”

“Apparently they have.”

“No problem,” said Jabow. “I'll get the boys to come out tonight with a can of gasoline.”

Vernon shook his head. “Already suggested that to Pratchett over the phone. He pointed out some problems. More like shouted them.”

“So we do nothing?”

Vernon's head shook again. “Ryan said we can always put up our own sign.”

“But theirs will still be up,” said Otis. “It'll hurt business.”

They looked down the road at flashing red-­and-­blue lights, where a half-­dozen motorists who had just passed the billboard were pulled over.

“Maybe not,” said Vernon. “Let's get back to our rounds.”

And now they all sat in a spacious marble lobby.

A page of a newspaper turned. A lone teller sat behind the counter filing her nails.

The heavy bronze door of the bank opened. The gang looked up. A man in jeans and a plaid shirt. Red stains on his chest and stomach.

“Steve,” said Vernon. “Barbecue sauce?”

“Tried it your way. Now back to utensils.”

Jabow slapped an empty chair. “Join us.”

“All right.”

One of their newest neighbors took a seat and set down a knapsack of deceptive weight.

“Slide it over,” said Vernon.

Clem grabbed a strap. “Cripes, you got rocks in here?”

Vernon hoisted it into his lap and removed a zippered deposit bag filled with checks. Then he gazed into the sack bulging with countless packs of American currency. “How much this time?”

“One-­sixty and change.”

“This I gotta see,” said Otis, leaning over the bag. He whistled. “There's really that much in auto brokering?”

“More than ­people think,” said Steve.

“How does it work again?” asked Clem.

“All those fancy new car dealerships will take
anything
in trade. Then they dazzle the customer: ‘Give you two grand.' And the customer thinks, ‘For that clunker? Hell, yeah!' But it's all built into the inflated price of the new car, and the dealer dumps the old one to an auction house. That's where I come in.”

“Sort of like a livestock auction?”

“Precisely like that,” said Steve. “Except scummier. You should see some of the other guys. And then I ship the junks to a bunch of dubious used car lots in Miami that sell to ­people with no credit.”

“No credit?” Jabow crunched his eyebrows. “Those are the ­people most likely to lapse on payments. Doesn't sound like good business.”

“It's
great
business,” said Steve. “The dealers charge down payments that are more than what they gave me, so they're already ahead. And every payment the customer makes afterward is pure gravy. At that point it's almost better if they
do
lapse, because the dealership will repossess and sell it again. Either way, the customers are fleeced.”

“How is that possible?” asked Clem.

“The simple math of trickle-­down economics,” said Steve. “It's expensive to be poor.”

A round of country chuckles.

Otis glanced at the bag again. “And that's from you going to these auctions?”

“No,” said Steve. “The rule in running your own business is to multiply yourself, whether it's opening more franchises or, in my case, contracting a bunch of guys to hit other auctions and go through the classifieds in small-­town papers. That's where the biggest margins are. Especially when the cars aren't running and we can lowball, then make cheap repairs.” He turned to Vernon. “By the way, thanks for the good word with Shorty and jumping me to the head of the line.”

“That's why nobody else around here can get their cars fixed.”

More mirth.

“But why so much in cash?”

“I'm guessing some of these Miami buyers are dealing under the table.”

“But aren't you worried carrying all that around?” asked Clem. “I'd use an armored car.”

“Extra cost,” said Steve. “And creates a big target. This way . . .” He swept a hand down the front of his low-­key attire. “ . . . You're invisible with a dingy backpack.”

“Speaking of backpack.” Vernon stood. “Let's get this put away safe in the vault . . . Glenda?”

The woman looked up from her nails. She opened an unseen drawer and removed a fancy electronic machine.

“A currency counter?” asked Steve. “You didn't have it last time.”

“Got one just for you,” said Vernon, heaving the bag up onto the ledge in front of the teller. “Always nice to see newcomers invest in the community.”

They all sat again to chat. Steve stretched and yawned.

Clem noticed a green cross on the back of his wrist. “Didn't make you for the tattoo type.”

“Youthful indiscretion.”

“I got an anchor from the navy,” said Otis. “But now it's all wrinkly and purple. Who knew?”

Glenda came out from behind the counter to hand Steve a receipt.

He thanked everyone and headed for the door. “Pleasure talkin' with you.”

“Until next time.”

The door closed.

“Interesting guy,” said Jabow. “You know how we get new city types in town, and we act all friendly to their faces?”

“But we secretly hate their guts?” said Clem.

“I kind of like Steve,” said Otis.

“He's a sharp one.”

“Yup.”

“Mmm-­hmm.”

Pfffft
.

The back door of the bank opened. Elroy, Slow and Slower loaded the just-­deposited cash into a pickup truck and headed out into the countryside.

U.S. HIGHWAY 90

The chopper raced through the towns of Chipley and Marianna. Serge adjusted the microphone on the inside of his helmet. “Coleman, sound check. One, two . . .”

“Loud and clear,” said Coleman, fidgeting his butt.

Serge looked over to his right. “How does that sidecar feel?”

“A little on the tight side.”

“It's either that or master the kickstand.”

“It's not that tight.” Coleman glanced back at his buddy. “How do you like your paint job?”

Serge stared down at a teardrop gas tank that now looked like a coconut, which matched the embroidered design on the back of his new black leather jacket. “Time for the opening tunes.”

“Coming right up.” Coleman pressed a button on an iPod, and harsh guitar chords filled their helmets.

“Get your motor runnin' . . .”

“Steppenwolf rules,” Coleman shouted into his microphone. “I love ‘Born to be Wild'! . . . One question, over.”

“Roger,” said Serge. “How may I feed your mind?”

“Why is the coconut on the back of your jacket wearing a cowboy hat?”

“Because
Easy Rider
was actually a Western.”

“Please explain, over.”

“They begin their journey with magnificent panning shots crossing the American West, while Hopper often refers to Fonda as Wyatt. And they eat lots of grub sitting around campfires. But perhaps the most emblematic moment of the horse-­cum-­motorcycle theme is when they stop at that rancher's hacienda to work on their bikes, and as Fonda reattaches the rear tire in the open barn, the foreground juxtaposes the rancher hammering a horseshoe on one of his mares.”

Serge and Coleman crossed a bridge into the eastern time zone in a rhapsodic panning shot of western Florida: the flow of the Apalachicola, goldenrod sunlight flickering through Spanish moss, heron taking flight.

“Are we really hippies? Over.”

“The late sixties were my wonder years,” said Serge. “I saw the whole counter-­culture evolve, but I was too young to understand. Like every Saturday my mom would take me shopping at the West Palm Beach mall, and her favorite department store was Jordan Marsh. I still thought she was trying to ditch me . . .”

“Snow-­cone machine.”

“ . . . Then one weekend everything changed. We went inside and they're playing rock music really loud against a total redecoration with posters of the Beatles and Woodstock. And throughout the store—­in a surreal twist from corporate America's concept of commercializing youth trends—­all these
Clockwork Orange
cubes of varying height with live go-­go dancers on top. A bunch of teenagers in the store were cackling their heads off while I wandered away from my mom and stared hypnotized up at something on the wall. Turns out my mom wasn't trying to ditch me after all because she ran over and hustled me out of the store in a panic. At first I thought she freaked because I'd briefly gone missing, but she was actually terrified by the growing drug fringe saturating the news, and found me in the men's-­wear department mesmerized by a black-­and-­white movie poster of two longhairs on motorcycles. Ever since, I've always felt I was born too late and missed out . . . So now we're heading to a special Florida place where the sixties still thrive.”

“I can dig it.” Coleman's helmet bobbed to the music. “We're going to stand in another field where something cool happened years ago. Or a place where old hippies who are now bums share Ripple.”

“Ah, but you're wrong,” said Serge. “This is a bona fide, living-­and-­breathing tear in the universe—­unlikely located in one of the most redneck swaths of North Florida—­where a new generation of flower children are vigilantly tending the eternal flame of the sixties.”

“Where's that?”

“We're heading to it right now.”

Serge twisted the throttle wide open, and the chopper thundered over the crest of a hill in the waning sky.