Coconut Cowboy

by Tim Dorsey

  “That was the most insane shit I’ve ever seen in my life,” said Elroy. “I suggested we race gerbils this year. But ‘No, no, no, the ­people want pigs.’ ”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Yup.”

  “Mmm-­hmm . . .”

  After a third round of beers, they watched the brothers trotting back from the field.

  “All done?” asked Elroy.

  “Just like you told us,” said Slow.

  They headed toward the barn again.

  “What are you doing?” asked Elroy.

  “Going to turn it on.”

  “No!” said Elroy. “Not yet! Don’t you remember? That’s the most crucial part of the plan. We have to wait until the last possible second to minimize the chance of detection . . . What’s that behind you?”

  The brothers turned. “Huh?”

  “Why is the barn on fire?”

  Elroy and the brothers raced over and got to work with garden hoses. They quickly sprayed down a bale of hay.

  “That should do it.”

  They hung the hoses back on the outside wall and returned to the pickup. Elroy glared at the pair. “I don’t know what’s so difficult to grasp about avoiding attention—­”

  “Shhh!” said Shorty. “Listen . . . I think it’s him.”

  They all stopped and perked up as the familiar sound grew louder.

  “You’re right,” said Elroy. He called over his shoulder: “Guys, turn it on. No fires this time.”

  The brothers went into the barn and hit the switches.

  The field dramatically changed. Elroy and Shorty stood with open jaws.

  The sound became even louder.

  The brothers returned quite pleased with themselves. “What do you think?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to be?”

  “We strung out all those Christmas lights, just like you told us.”

  Elroy stared another moment in disbelief. “It was supposed to be two parallel lines marking the clandestine runway for the pilot.” He extended a palm. “I have no idea what this is.”

  “I think there’s an X,” said Shorty. “With a large S and maybe the number four.”

  “It’s hard walking straight in the dark,” said Slow.

  “We can fix it,” said Slower.

  “Too late,” said Elroy. “He’s about to land.”

  The form of a small aircraft cleared the trees at the end of the field and then seemed to veer with indecision.

  “He’s going the wrong way!” yelled Elroy.

  The plane touched down at a weird angle on the far side of the field and struggled to stop.

  “He doesn’t have enough room,” said Shorty.

  The plane disappeared into a ravine.

  “Come on!”

  Elroy and Shorty jumped into the pickup’s cab, and the brothers hopped in the bed. The truck raced across the field, ripping up Christmas lights. They approached the edge of the pasture, fearing the worst.

  To their astonishment, the bruised pilot came crawling up the embankment. Luckily the ravine didn’t have any hardwood, just reeds and more brush.

  “Boggs!” shouted Elroy. “You’re okay!”

  “No thanks to you guys.” He stood and dusted himself off. “What the hell kind of landing strip was that?”

  “Long story—­” Elroy spun. “Headlights! Get down!”

  They all flattened themselves on the grass.

  A Mercedes arrived. “You realize I can see all of you. The Christmas lights led me right to where they’re tangled up in the wheels of your truck.”

  “Oh, it’s you.” Elroy got to his feet. “Everyone, this is Martin, Steve’s cousin.”

  The new guest at the party looked left and right. “Where’s the plane?”

  The pilot stared in the direction of his prized possession. “The ravine.”

  “What’s it doing—­ . . . Why are all these lights still on? . . . Do I smell smoke?”

  “The barn!”

  They all ran for the vehicles.

  Suddenly:

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang . . . bang, bang, bang . . . bang, bang, bang . . .

  Everyone hit the ground again.

  Elroy looked up from the dirt. “Someone’s shooting!”

  “No,” said Slow. “Those are just our firecrackers.”

  “Your what?”

  “Yeah,” added Slower. “We went to the Founders’ Day fireworks tent and they had this great sale on black cats.”

  “You bought firecrackers?”

  “And just a few Roman candles . . .”

  . . . Bang, bang, bang . . . followed by a series of loud, shrill whistling sounds.

  They watched through the open barn doors as dozens of flaming balls ricocheted around inside.

  “What’s all that doing in the barn?”

  “We stashed them in there yesterday,” said Slow. “To be safe.”

  The roof began to burn.

  “But that’s it, right?” Elroy said sarcastically. “Just firecrackers and Roman candles. Nothing crazy?”

  “They were also selling these excellent air bursts! I think the law changed or they’re not enforcing it, but you can now buy these outrageous things like they use in real fireworks shows!”

  A large hole had now burned through the roof, leaving an escape route for a screaming meteor that shot high into the sky before exploding in a shower of red, white, and blue streamers. Then another, and another . . .

  The barn was now fully engulfed. Then a few last blasts toward the heavens, and the entire property soon turned to day, bathed by several points of incendiary phosphorus light that slowly drifted across the sky.

  Slower pointed up. “And we spent the rest of our money on some military parachute flares.”

  A half hour later, there was a needed intermission where nobody talked. They gazed solemnly at the smoldering embers where the barn had been.

  Martin took a heavy breath. “I don’t know, I could be wrong. I’m not from around here. Maybe, just maybe, when your kinfolk decide to smuggle a load of contraband that can land you twenty years in the federal pen and stealth is the top priority, that actually means go crazy with Christmas lights, burn things to the ground, and fill the sky with bright explosions.”

  Elroy cleared his throat. “We’re awfully sorry—­”

  In the distance, a stream of headlights came around the bend at the bottom of the hill.

  Martin ceased leaning against his car. “Now, who the heck are all these ­people?”

  A siren.

  “Police cars!”

  Martin stood rod straight. “Okay, everyone shut up and let me do the talking . . . and get that suitcase out of sight.”

  The cars skidded to a stop in front of the former barn. An older man in overalls leaped from the passenger seat.

  “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

  The 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 thin
k 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.”