by Tim Dorsey
“Give me a hand with the airboat.”
They sloshed into the water and dragged the hull off the sand. Serge held the boat steady a few yards from shore while Coleman climbed up into the high seat in back, grabbing a beer and stowing the cooler.
Serge thrust himself over the gunwale and settled into the low driver’s seat up front. He started the engine. The airboat zoomed away from the island with astounding acceleration. Serge gripped the control stick hard in his right hand, cheeks flapping in the high wind. Coleman was pasted back in his seat, sucking an aluminum can, rivulets of beer that had missed his mouth trickling upstream over his forehead windshield-style.
“You buckled in?” yelled Serge.
“What?”
“Good.” He made a sharp port turn around a mangrove point, catapulting Coleman into the water.
The airboat ripped across the flats. Serge tore up the channel on the windward side of Howe Key, then cut east, spraying water, making the wide pass between Raccoon and the Contents, yelling back over the deafening propeller.
“…Always wanted to do this, Coleman! Trace the historic route of Happy Jack and his merry band, the original Keys party animals! The books of the great historian John Viele bird-dogged me to the microfilm of the original Putnam’s and Harper’s articles from the 1850s. What a gang! Jolly Whack, Paddy Whack, Red Jim, Lame Bill, Old Gilbert and of course their leader, Jack himself. They drank whiskey and rum on the isolated north coast of Sugarloaf. When the booze ran out, they harvested vegetables and sailed to Key West to barter for more spirits. One problem: they started drinking on the way back and kept falling overboard….”
Serge tacked a gradual thirty degrees southwest, mangrove silhouettes all around. He skirted the Torch Keys, then Summerland and Cudjoe. The moon caught the white skin of the radar blimp tethered at five hundred feet. Serge opened the throttle wide for another screaming run across the flats.
COLEMAN WADED ASHORE on Big Pine and started walking up a deserted road. Headlights hit him. A station wagon stopped. The back door opened. Coleman got in with the vampires.
BIG FLOPPY SHOES slapped down a footpath on Coppitt Key. The trail led between a row of dirty headstones. Two men read checklists as they walked. Red rubber balls on their noses. Mr. Blinky stopped and fired up a joint. He handed it to Uncle Inappropriate, then bent down and touched one of the tombstones. He stood up and crossed it off his page.
The pair continued passing the joint as they strolled off into the darkness. On the other side of the cemetery, a sheriff’s cruiser rolled through the front gate.
Gus panned the searchlight across the tombstones. “What exactly did the dispatcher say?”
“You know, the usual. Some clowns in the cemetery…”
AN AIRBOAT BLASTED across the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge and slalomed through the Saddlebunches. Serge was in his element. “Over there,” he shouted. “Boca Chica, where the Navy jets touch and go. Used to have a historic dive. The men’s room door opened to the parking lot….”
The airboat straightened out and raced northeast, avoiding sandbars that were only visible on a map in Serge’s brain. He heard other boats now. Distant running lights from the fishing trawlers; no lights on the smugglers. Getting closer, skimming north of Stock Island, then the naval installations on Dredgers and Fleming keys. “Almost there, Coleman!…” A final cut due south through Man of War Harbor, on a dead bearing for the sparkling lights of Key West Bight.
Duval Street, Key West
DRUNK TOURISTS STAGGERED out of saloons, barefoot runaways begged on the sidewalk in front of St. Paul’s. A station wagon drove north through the intersection of Eaton. Five vampires read five sheets of paper.
“Let me off up here.”
The car stopped at the corner of Greene. Coleman got out. He stuck his head back in a window. “I think number eighteen is right over there. Serge takes me all the time.”
“Thanks.” The station wagon turned left. Coleman began walking east toward the string of bars along the harbor. All had doors open to the night air. Turtle Kraals, Half-Shell. Coleman entered Schooner’s and took a seat overlooking the big dock that ran parallel behind the restaurant. He ordered a rumrunner and opened his wallet to the family photo section stuffed with bar coupons.
Coleman had just finished his drink when a deep aviation drone came across the water, growing louder and louder until a silver airboat appeared out of the night. The boat pulled sideways up to the dock as Coleman trotted down the steps behind the bar.
Serge unbuckled his seatbelt and reached down for the mooring rope. “Coleman, get up on the dock and tie us off.” He turned and threw the line to Coleman, who wrapped it around a cleat.
Serge climbed out of the boat, and they headed off on the Night Tour.
In the parking lot at the end of the pier, headlights came on. A brown Plymouth Duster.
SERGE LED COLEMAN on a crooked path until he stopped and sat on a curb between the water and the end of Lazy Day Lane.
Coleman tried to get a wet lighter going. “Why are we stopping here?”
“There’s Jimmy’s secret studio, number twenty-two on the scavenger list. I want to see who gets it first.”
“What studio?”
“That plain, white-washed building with no signs. Looks like an ice house.”
“Buffett really records there?”
“Yeah, but nobody’s supposed to know,” said Serge. “I staked out the place two years ago when I heard they were about to start the new album. Sure enough, these fancy cars start pulling up, people looking around suspiciously before ducking inside. I recognized Fingers and Utley and Mac and finally Bubba himself. I figured that was my chance.”
“Chance for what?”
“To do some session work. I’ve always wanted to get in the liner notes. So I grab the door before it closed behind someone. You wouldn’t believe how many people are in there when they record. You got technicians and extra musicians and a million personal assistants getting coffee and Danish. People were tripping all over each other, so I tried to stay out of the way and stood in the back by the three microphones set up next to the keyboards. After ten minutes, the guy behind the mixer points me out to the bodyguards. Up till then, everyone just assumed I was with somebody else. The guards walk over and ask just what the hell I think I’m doing. I say, ‘Singing backup.’ So now I’ve got six guys on me. Jimmy was off to the side going over sheet music, but he finally looked up when we knocked over the cymbals. They had me completely off the ground, rushing toward the door. I yell, ‘Fine, Jimmy. I know when I’m not wanted. And for the record, it’s been an awfully long time since ‘He Went to Paris.’ Go ahead, put out another sonic-turd…Then I hit the sidewalk—”
“Someone’s coming.”
They looked across the street. A naked woman walked out of the darkness, reading a piece of paper. She stopped and pressed a palm against the white building. She walked away, grabbing the pen off her ear.
“I knew she’d be good at this.” Serge stood up. “Let’s rock.”
They headed back to Greene Street and went inside a bar with a giant grouper over the door.
“So this is Captain Tony’s,” said Coleman.
“Used to be the Blind Pig and the original Sloppy Joe’s.” Serge sniffed the air. “Still reeks of history! See that tree growing up through the roof? Used to be the ‘hanging tree’ when they still had public executions at the turn of the century. And look over here on the floor next to the pool table.”
“A grave marker?”
“Uncovered it when they were building on, so they just poured the cement around it. There’s Eric Clapton’s bar stool and John Goodman’s and Neil Diamond’s. Everyone comes to Captain Tony’s! Once I was sitting in here and we see this bunch of guys march past the door in combat fatigues. A couple minutes later they march back the other way.”
“Who were they?”
“Cuban military defectors. We’re always getting
them here, like the guy who landed his MiG at the airport. This group had pulled their patrol boat right into the harbor, completely undetected. They couldn’t find anyone to turn themselves in to, so they just wandered the tourist district with fully loaded Kalashnikovs. But nobody paid any attention because everything’s so weird down here. They finally came in Captain Tony’s and surrendered to the guitar player.”
Coleman looked up at an old photo on the wall. “Who’s this?”
“A young Captain Tony fishing with Ernest Hemingway, and here’s a poster from the movie they made about Tony’s life. It’s driving me nuts!”
“What is?”
“Everyone’s met him but me. I just have to talk to the captain! He’s well into his eighties now, the last living link. Done it all, running booze and guns, then this saloon, where Tennessee Williams hung out. Was even mayor for a while. You know what his motto is?”
“No.”
“It’s right up there on those T-shirts they’re selling. ‘All you need in this life is a tremendous sex drive and a great ego. Brains don’t mean shit.’ I disagree, of course, but still a nice sentiment.”
A Skunk Ape came in reading a piece of paper and put his hand against the hanging tree.
“Tony looks pretty old in this other picture,” said Coleman.
“He is old. But the sex-drive part isn’t just cheap talk. Women still flock to him in amazing numbers. Everyone around here knows all about the phenomenon.”
A PLYMOUTH DUSTER sat at the curb next to the Bull & Whistle. Combat boots climbed an old wooden staircase to the second floor, then around the landing and up another flight. The roof was a clothing-optional lounge. Except some weekdays in the summer were slow, like now. You could still go up and look over the side of the building for a bird’s eye of Duval, but the bar was closed. The combat boots crossed the roof. The access door at the top of the stairs had been jammed shut with a chair. Gloved hands snapped a folding stock in place and screwed on the silencer. The end of a rifle barrel soon rested on Spanish roofing tiles at the edge of the building. Serge and Coleman appeared in the scope’s crosshairs as they walked past a street artist doing caricatures. Vampires came toward them on the sidewalk.
“How many you got?” asked Serge.
“Eight,” said the leader, holding up his list with enthusiasm. “Would have had nine, but couldn’t catch the Hemingway cat. Wish me luck….”
“Satanspeed.”
Up on the rooftop, an eye stayed pressed to a rifle scope. Serge still in the crosshairs, waving goodbye to the teens as they parted in opposite directions. A leather finger curled around the trigger.
One of the vampires stopped on the sidewalk. He looked at his list, then at the Volkswagen driving by. “There’s number sixteen. An insane person’s car.”
“Where?”
“The Beetle completely covered with bumper stickers, seashells, bingo markers and religious figurines.”
They sprinted back up the sidewalk, passing Serge and Coleman. The fastest darted into the street and caught the car at a red light, slapping the fender. “Sixteen!” The slowest ran up behind Serge just in time to take a slug in the shoulder.
“Did you hear something?” said Serge.
“You mean like a yell?” said Coleman.
“Yeah. You heard it, too?”
“No.”
They kept walking.
Leather hands quickly disassembled the rifle. Combat boots ran across the roof and down the stairs.
THE END OF the night. Serge’s favorite time. The critical thirty minutes when the sky goes from its blackest to a tricky tease of light. Serge just had to be at the Southernmost Point, sitting on the seawall, legs hanging over and kicking with hope.
“My stomach’s making that noise,” said Coleman.
“You’re not watching,” said Serge.
The sky ran through a palette of grays and blues, the amorphous view toward the Gulf Stream separating into sky and water. A rooster activated in the distance. Serge stood and stretched. They began walking again, starting to see people, someone on the curb weaving five-dollar hats from palm fronds, someone else setting up a table of conch shells.
Serge picked up one of the largest shells. “May I?”
“May you what?” said the man behind the table.
“I’m going to be in that big conch-blowing contest next month,” said Serge. “I’d like to practice my chops.”
“Just don’t drop it.” The man began unloading another box.
Serge held the shell an inch from his mouth. “Okay Coleman, this is the winning entry for sure. I’ve been polishing it all year. Joe Walsh’s guitar solo from ‘Life in the Fast Lane.’”
“I love that song.”
“Here goes…” Serge pressed the shell to his lips.
Coleman tapped his foot to the catchy tune. Serge blew relentlessly into the third and fourth measures with big Dizzy Gillespie cheeks. The man behind the table looked up. “I’ve never heard anyone play that fast.”
“It’s ‘Life in the Fast Lane,’” said Coleman.
“His face is purple.”
“It gets that way.”
“Do his eyes roll up in his head?”
“Serge!” yelled Coleman.
Serge was still playing, reeling sideways off balance until he crashed into the bushes.
Coleman ran over and shook him. “You all right?”
Serge sat up and blew the spit out of his shell. “They might as well start engraving that trophy.”
They were on the move again, past the Southernmost House, the Southernmost Inn, the Southernmost transient, back around Simonton Street and up to a building that opened in 1962. On the roof, a suntan lotion sign with a dog tugging a little girl’s bathing suit.
Serge opened the door. Most of the gang was already seated around the U-shaped lunch counters of Dennis Pharmacy, comparing lists, spearing sunny-side yolks. Serge and Coleman grabbed stools and menus.
The front door opened again.
“Serge!”
“Joe!” Serge then noticed the eighty-seven-year-old man standing next to the owner of the No Name. “You actually got him to come!”
“I told you I would.”
The old man appraised Serge. “You look like a fucking tourist in that shirt.”
“I know. Isn’t it great? All the toll collectors wear them.” Serge faced the gang at the counter. “Can I have your attention? Our dysfunctional klatch is honored this morning by the presence of the one-and-only Captain Tony! Number thirty-seven on your lists.”
“That’s Captain Tony?” They quickly formed a line, one by one touching him on the shoulder.
The pharmacy window opened; Coleman was waiting behind a young woman with multiple piercings.
“…I’m telling you,” said the pharmacist. “I’ve known this doctor all my life and this isn’t his handwriting….”
“Yes, it is,” said the woman.
“…And he never gives fifteen refills for painkillers.”
“I’ll take one.”
The pharmacist picked up the phone. “You can either leave or be here when the police arrive.”
Two hungry sheriff’s deputies got out of their cruiser and walked toward the pharmacy.
“I thought you told me this was going to be a quiet night,” said Walter.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Gus. There was a piece of paper stapled to the telephone pole on the corner, a photocopy of a penis with a Mr. Bill face. Gus tore it down and crumpled it into a ball. “I’m just glad it’s finally over.” The front door flew open and smacked Gus in the shoulder. “Ow.” A young woman took off down the street.
The deputies went inside and walked past the pharmacist, who smiled at Coleman. “Now, how can I help you?”
Coleman slipped a prescription back in his pocket. “Uh, where’s the rest room?”
The deputies headed for the breakfast counter.
“Hey, there’s Captain Tony,”
said Gus. “The legend.”
A naked woman put her hand on Tony’s shoulder.
“He’s still got it,” said Walter.
Serge saw the deputies and energetically waved them over. “Join us!” He turned to the gang. “Some of you make room for hardworking law enforcement.”
“Serge, please,” said Gus. “I don’t want to take anyone’s seat.”
“Nonsense. You’re heroes.”
The deputies grabbed stools, and Gus opened his textbook.
Serge turned to the captain. “I was just telling my friend about your hanging tree.”
“Almost cut it down,” said Tony.
“What!”
“Didn’t know what it was. This was decades ago. The thing was wrecking my roof. And this old-timer says, ‘You can’t cut that down. It’s the hanging tree.’ He tells me that when he was a little kid, he saw them lynch a woman. Except she didn’t die right away, tongue sticking out and wiggling and everything…”
Walter made a butter pool in his grits, then pointed at his partner’s textbook with a fork. “You still on that psychology garbage?”
“I’m telling you, the test works.”
Walter salted his hash browns. “It’s a stupid test.”
“What’s a stupid test?” said Serge.
“We’ve been having an argument all night,” said Gus. “Maybe you can help us.”
“Name it. Always ready to help the police.”
“It’s not a big deal. Just a riddle.”
“Tell me.”
“A woman goes to her mother’s funeral and meets this hunk, and she’s smitten. The next week she kills her sister. What’s the motive?”
“What else?” said Serge. “She wanted to meet him at the next funeral.”
“There!” said Walter. “There’s your great test! You’ve asked one person so far. One hundred percent failure rate.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Gus. “They backed it up with all kinds of research. Less than one percent false results.” He looked at Serge. “How on earth did you know that answer?”
“What are you talking about?”
