by Tim Dorsey
“I’m thinking of opening another business.”
“Bad idea,” said Hagman. “We’re getting a big enough profile with this operation; we don’t need to press our luck with a second scheme.”
“Not another scheme. A totally legal business.”
“Oh, I understand now. Then you set fire to the building.”
“No, I mean really legit. An honest operation.”
Hagman thought a moment, then shook his head. “How is that supposed to make any money? Sounds suspicious.”
“I don’t know.” Arnold twisted the joystick. “But I’ve heard about such places.”
“I think that’s an urban myth.”
“Maybe I’ll just invest with someone already running something,” said Arnold. “See how it’s supposed to work from someone with experience.”
The attorney sat back and ruminated on the concept. Then his thoughts drifted to the Kentucky bus pipeline. Inside his brain: A financial model rotated in 3-D. Lasers crisscrossed and connected dots. He tapped his chin. “You know, I think there’s a way to squeeze some more money out of this. A lot more.”
A dairy cow launched a shoulder-mounted rocket. “What do you have in mind?”
“Okay . . .” Hagman leaned against the front of the desk. “Here’s my plan. I know these guys who work the sugarcane fields—”
From down the hall: “Raid!”
“Quick!” yelled the lawyer. “The window!”
Arnold pulled a lever, and special springs jettisoned the glass. They crawled out through the hole.
Chapter Twelve
PALM BEACH COUNTY
A thumb pressed the record button on a camcorder.
Coleman’s nose filled the viewfinder screen.
“Serge? How can I tell what I’m filming?”
“By turning the camera around the right way.”
“I’ll try it,” said Coleman. “Hey, I can see stuff now.”
The ’76 Gran Torino headed south on U.S. 1 and took a right at Indiantown Road.
Coleman filmed across a small drawbridge. “You promised we’d hit a bar right after climbing that lighthouse.”
“And we will.” Serge made a right. “This is the pilot of my reality show. I’m continuing to trace the touchstones of my childhood and getting misty-eyed. Reality shows require crying or almost crying.”
“I’ve seen that.” Coleman zoomed in on Serge’s profile. “This one chick was competing to become a restaurant cook and fucked up the gravy. Completely lost her mind, and the camera crew’s banging on the bathroom door for her to come out, and she’s screaming, ‘No, leave me the fuck alone! I just want to die.’ I was thermonuclear stoned, thinking: ‘Gravy is intense.’ ”
“Then wait till you see my show.” The Gran Torino made another left. “There’s our first stop, 113 Center Street, Ralph’s Stand Up Bar.”
“You went to bars as a child?”
“No, but this is my home county, and Ralph’s is the oldest bar. I need to set up the backstory for my reality show from the time before my birth. They do it in all biography specials that start with century-old movie footage of people walking comically fast outside steel factories, fish markets and Chinese opium dens full of wrinkled old women with encouraging grins passing long pipes to the white man. And suddenly a baby’s born that makes everyone own a phonograph.”
“I think it’s the same story every time.”
“It is.” Serge cut the wheel. “Here we are.”
“I see a bunch of Harleys parked out front.” Coleman raised the camcorder. “Only Harleys.”
“And now a Gran Torino . . . Make sure to get plenty of stock exterior shots.”
Coleman panned across a plain tan concrete building with plain black letters announcing the bar’s name. The only distinguishing feature was a life-size silhouette next to the door of a cowhand leaning against a post.
“What do you do in Ralph’s Stand Up?”
“Stand up. That’s why I love Ralph’s. You stand up at the bar like it’s a Wild West saloon.”
“But all the motorcycles,” said Coleman. “Is it safe?”
“Of course,” said Serge. “But it never hurts to hedge bets in a local bikers’ bar.” He popped open the trunk and grabbed a pair of shirts, tossing one to Coleman. “That’s why I always wear black biker T-shirts to fit in. Of course, the shorts and sneakers make you not fit in, so the key is to constantly attract attention to your upper body.”
“How do you do that?”
“By waving your arms over your head and pointing at your upper body.”
Coleman removed his current T-shirt of a marijuana leaf over a quote: “I like skinny chicks, but never turn down a fattie.” He pulled the new black shirt over his arms and popped his head up through the neck hole, then looked down at the front. A classic skull and crossbones with wings coming off the sides of the head in the shape of Florida. A pirate banner over the top: SERGE’S DISCIPLES. Below, a motto: “I follow nobody.”
Coleman looked up. “Where’d you get these?”
“A gift from some codependents I met in the Keys. They started tailing me, thinking I had the answers. I do, but you can only take codependents in small doses for reasons obvious in their name.”
“But ‘Disciples’? ‘Follow nobody’?” said Coleman. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s existential. The bikers will get it. They’re road philosophers.” Serge pointed toward the intersection. “Here comes one now.”
The signature thunder of a Harley Twin-Cam 88 Fathead growled up the street. The rider pulled into a slot and dismounted. Barrel chest, American-flag head scarf, leather jacket and crusty jeans. His boots jangled with spurs.
He walked toward Serge and squinted at his T-shirt, then looked down more oddly at his shorts and shoes.
“Up here!” said Serge, waving arms in the air. “I seek acceptance of the road philosophers.”
The biker stared at the T-shirt again. “ ‘Disciples’? ‘Follow nobody’? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“So you get it!” said Serge. “To Kierkegaard.” He held his hand out for a fist bump that never came. The biker went inside.
Serge turned to Coleman. “Now that I’ve officially been accepted, it’s time to seal the deal by entering the bar with the swagger of total confidence.”
“But that guy didn’t swagger.”
“Because he’s a real biker.” Serge practiced by pacing in front of the building. “How am I doing?”
“Looks like you have jock itch.”
“That means I’ve perfected my swagger. Let’s rock. And because it’s a locals bar, keep your presence as low-key as possible to show ultimate respect. Our goal is to minimize their staring.”
Serge walked inside, loping bowlegged and dangling arms over his head like a chimpanzee.
He bellied up to the counter. “I love these joints at this time of day. Blazing hot and bright outside; in here, dark and breezy cool with the door open to remind you of the difference. Venerable wooden walls and graffiti.”
“It’s a bar,” said Coleman.
The bartender came over and took their order.
Coleman’s face was a question mark. “You didn’t order water. You always order a bottle of water.”
“Except in a local bikers’ bar. You never know. So I order a Diet Coke, and the bartender comes over with a rocks glass. The regulars are sipping beer and thinking, ‘Who is this mysterious stranger drinking hard liquor in the morning? Maybe that swagger really wasn’t fungus.’ ”
“Serge, they have chairs.”
“It’s better to stand.”
The bartender came back with a shot of bourbon for Coleman. He placed an empty plastic cup in front of Serge, along with a can of Diet Coke.
“Serge, he brought
the can. And he didn’t even pop the top.”
“A public-relations nightmare. Quick, call attention to your upper body.”
Coleman waved his arms. Serge turned his back and furtively poured the soda.
“Now, if I can just get rid of this can before anyone else sees . . .” He jump-shotted it toward a wastebasket behind the bar. It clanged off the wall and the rim of the garbage can.
“Serge, it’s still bouncing on the floor and making a lot of noise.”
“Not the mystique I was going for.” He placed a small canvas pouch on the bar and pulled a zipper.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
“A Bible cover.”
“But it’s camouflaged.”
“For evangelical campers.” Serge unfolded it on the counter. “There’s a compass on one of the pouches in which I can store my harvest of matchbooks, souvenir pins and poker chips. I must buy anything with a compass, even though I don’t need one in Florida unless I’m performing renegade survey work. Bible covers are the perfect size for my notebooks and guides and pens. We need to write our first script.”
“Scripting reality?”
Serge leaned over with a ballpoint. “My show will distinguish itself with lists.”
“What kind of lists?”
“You know: best of, worst of, one hundred reasons why making lists prevents you from doing something meaningful. Let’s start . . .”
“But why does your show need them?”
“Because reality TV needs controversy, and the whole purpose of lists is to start fights. People always argue over them, ever since the beginning of time. You know the first list?”
Coleman knocked back a shot of whiskey and shook his head.
“The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Largely credited to Philo of Byzantium. But since it was compiled in the third century BC, I’m guessing he called it the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. And even back then it pissed people off.”
“Why?”
“Because Philo did his research at the largest library of the time in Alexandria. And some people got the notion that the fix was in. At the top of the list, the Great Pyramid of Giza in Egypt—no argument there—and at the bottom, the lighthouse at Alexandria. The early Persians are like, ‘I thought we outgrew this hometown bullshit in the Neolithic. I mean, you can’t be serious. That lighthouse? When we’ve got the Apadana Palace of Persepolis? What are we, fucking Mesopotamians over here?’ ”
“What are your lists going to be?”
“Everything! Best beaches, best bars, best lighthouses—and I’m putting the one we just climbed ahead of Alexandria. That should start some fistfights. My list, my call.”
Coleman looked over Serge’s shoulder. “What are you writing now?”
“List of best things to do at a beach. Number one: build sand castles with real cannons on the walls. Number two: play water hockey except with special gloves and live jellyfish. Number three: line up lucrative scores to take down, potentially involving pain clinics . . .” He clicked the pen shut.
“Why did you stop writing?” asked Coleman.
“This reads like all the other mainstream beach lists. I need inspiration.” He zipped his Bible case closed. “And we’ve got some driving ahead. A lot of golf country to clear before we hit the landing zone, so better get a move on.”
“Do we need to do anything careful leaving the bar like when we came in?”
“No,” said Serge. “First impressions are important, but so is efficiency. That’s the whole key to life: Fuck what people think when you’re leaving the room.”
Serge backed out of the bar, taking a dozen photos, then sprinted down the sidewalk as an incoming jet roared overhead.
The jet was a southbound flight descending from thirty-five thousand and buffeting through a heavy bank of cotton-ball clouds.
“I never want to connect out of Atlanta again,” said Barbara McDougall.
“We’ll remember for next time,” said Patrick.
The airplane broke into the clear at ten thousand and banked over the Palm Beaches, following the coastline south.
Both their faces filled the oval window. Below: tiny yachts with little white wakes. More white foam where waves rolled into the sand.
“Look at all the condos,” said Bar.
“I don’t remember this,” said Pat.
“What’s the huge place on the water with the golf course?”
“The Breakers. That I remember.”
A tap on Pat’s shoulder. He turned around. “Yes?”
It was the flight attendant. “I’m sorry, but the seat-belt sign is on. We’re preparing to land.”
Before they knew it, the Boeing 737 had touched down at Fort Lauderdale International and was guided toward the gate by a man with a pair of orange batons.
As the McDougalls stepped from the plane onto the jetway, a blast of scorching hot air came through a seam in the accordion arm.
“We’re definitely in Florida,” said Pat.
If they weren’t sure, the air-side was a gauntlet of tiny shops selling tropical T-shirts, key chains, refrigerator magnets and citrus candy. Bar stopped and picked up a coffee mug with her name spelled in palm trees. “Should I get something?”
“We have all week. And it’s twice as expensive in here.”
“Look, key-lime marmalade.”
“We need to get to the luggage before someone steals our stuff.”
“Is crime that bad here?”
“No,” said Pat. “It’s just good to be careful.”
Chapter Thirteen
U.S. 1
The ’76 Gran Torino sped away from Ralph’s Stand Up Bar and cruised south from Jupiter, down through the most golf-rich terrain in the country, where top-flight courses take up as much real estate as the homes. Mirasol, Old Marsh, Turtle Creek, Frenchman’s Creek, River Bend, Tequesta, Loxahatchee, and the granddaddy of them all, PGA National.
“I used to play golf,” said Serge. “It’s a frightening game. Forget football or even NASCAR.” He whistled in awe. “Golf takes it to the brink.”
“That bad?”
“It’s the mental component. They try to hush it up, but the game can destroy the strongest men. Every year, dozens of ugly psychotic breaks. Frustration builds over a lifetime until a tee shot lands in the water of a sadistic island hole, and then a hedge-fund manager hurls all his clubs like tomahawks at the other guys in plaid knickers before stripping off all his clothes and making ‘snow angels’ in a sand trap, prompting a special unit from the pro shop to hustle him away through secret underground doors. Fortunately, I have the perfect emotional composition to excel at golf.”
“You don’t seem the golf type,” said Coleman.
“That’s what the other players said until they saw me in action.” Serge uncapped a thermos of coffee and chugged. “Let’s face it, golf is a slow sport. Which isn’t good for my constitution, so I tried to spice it up. First, since it’s called a sport, I’d run all the time, sprinting up fairways, hurdling small water hazards, hitting a nine iron and racing the ball to the pin, until they asked me not to run. So I got a golf cart and hung out the side with my club, playing like polo, but they didn’t dig that either. Finally I decided to aim for all the sand traps, because they’re like beaches and blasting out of one is the most dramatic shot in golf, but I made it even more dramatic. Instead of a sand wedge, I used a driver, just exploding with this massive one wood like an artillery shell had hit the trap. Of course, it took me seven or eight shots since it was the wrong club, and then they asked me to leave because I was allegedly ‘putting an insane amount of sand on our greens.’ See, that’s the thing about golf, a lot of technical rules you’d never think of.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“Because I love Florida golf courses too much.” Serge took
a left on PGA Boulevard and swigged more coffee. “We’re different from clubs everywhere else in the world. Even if you don’t play the sport, do yourself a favor and fork over the fees just to walk our great courses, especially the ones that incorporate the state’s raw beauty. I was constantly dizzy from natural intoxication: All manner of palms and palmettos and banyans, birds of paradise, crape myrtles, water lilies in the wetlands, reeds, and alligators, coral snakes, newts, geckos . . .”
“Serge . . .”
“ . . . Different geckos, herons, spoonbills, ibis feeding in the rough, gopher tortoises crossing cart paths . . .”
“Serge?”
“What?”
“Sounds like the opposite of a reason to quit.”
“That’s the thing about obsessive disorders.” He finished the coffee and capped the thermos. “Either all focus or none. Take basketball, no problem. I excelled because I could practice the same shot a hundred thousand times in a row. No distractions: just me, the ball, the basket, the sun repeatedly setting and rising. But golf, the majesty of the landscape, too much competition for my attention. Take that cloud, for example . . .” He pointed up through the windshield. “Shaped like Hemingway, but from the back. I didn’t realize how dirty this windshield was, but beach season is also love-bug season. My advice? Don’t let them bake on or it could eat the paint, so scrub gently with fabric-softener squares you throw in clothes dryers, which won’t scratch the coating of your vehicle.” Serge nodded to himself.
Coleman blinked a few times. “What about golf?”
“What? Oh, right. Golf is like falling asleep,” said Serge. “You can never pinpoint the exact moment it happens. One minute I’m chopping away in a sand trap, and the next I’m wandering the woods following a cute little rabbit. Other golfers thought I was looking for a lost ball, but then I climbed down from a cart bridge and started skipping stones across the pond and catching lizards, and they sent one of the staff after me: ‘Are you catching lizards?’ ‘Who? Me?’ Then I opened my hand and there was a lizard. ‘Sorry, got a little distracted.’ So I climbed back up to the course and grabbed a club. Played a little golf, chased a couple lizards, some more golf, saw a really cool butterfly, and by the way, I’ve met a lot of butterflies. But the staff was understanding and gave me a ride back to the clubhouse, even though I’d come screaming out of the woods: ‘Guys! You’ve got to see this fucking butterfly!’ . . . For some reason, I’ve never been able to finish a round.”
