Coconut Cowboy

by Tim Dorsey

  “Who are you?”

  “Serge Storms. You must be Steve.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “You will.” Serge waved the barrel. “Take a seat.”

  Steve eased himself down on the edge of the bed, buying time until he could reach for his own gun. “You have any idea what you’re doing?”

  “Do you like getting taken for a ride?”

  “What?”

  “Because that’s what those guys in the barbecue joint are doing to you.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Steve.

  “You laundered a lot of money with them and now it’s missing,” said Serge. “Don’t act surprised. I know because I also laundered with them and now mine’s missing, too.”

  “You must be thinking of someone else.”

  “I’ll bet they told you it was Peter Pugliese, the geologist,” said Serge.

  Steve was suddenly off balance. “How’d you know?”

  “Because I just had the same meeting with them at Lead Belly’s.” Serge held up a brass key. “And they gave me this. Look familiar?”

  “But how? Why?”

  “Peter’s dead.”

  “You killed him?”

  “Hell no,” said Serge. “Use your brain. I wish I had. I’m up here pacing around wondering why Peter isn’t in the room, because it makes no sense that he’d risk being out and showing his face right now. So I’m standing at the window scratching my head when I see you marching up the sidewalk from the restaurant. And I say to myself, ‘Isn’t that Steve from the bank?’ ”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “You were on your way out once when I was coming in with my own money. Vernon told me . . . So when I saw you walking toward this hotel a minute ago, I could have kicked myself. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you see?” said Serge. “Peter’s body is probably lying right now in an easily discovered location.”

  “They showed me a photo of a burned-­out car, but said it was empty.”

  “And you believed them? Probably wasn’t even his vehicle,” said Serge. “Then what did they persuade both of us to do next? Walk past the security cameras in the lobby, break into the room of a murder victim and get our fingerprints all over the place.” He stomped a foot on the ground. “What an obvious frame job! And I fell for it!”

  “But—­”

  “There’s more,” said Serge. “They sent us here one after the other, knowing you’d probably bump into me. If they got lucky, maybe one of us would shoot the other, maybe both . . . And they would only be doing all this if they’d already gotten the money. They’re playing the country hicks.”

  Steve clenched his eyes shut. He finally opened them with a sigh. “Dammit, I should have listened to my gut. Something just wasn’t right about their whole story, but everything you just said fits perfectly . . . So what now?”

  “Looks like we’re a team of necessity,” said Serge. “We should start by wiping down anything we’ve touched. Can I stop aiming this gun at you?”

  “Please.”

  They both grabbed hand towels from the bathroom and went to work.

  “What do we do next?” asked Steve.

  “ ‘Revenge and money’ has a nice ring to it.”

  Chapter THIRTY-FIVE

  THE NEXT DAY

  DeLand is a town much like Wobbly, except no speed traps, incest, corruption or murder. But other than that, a postcard-­perfect main street of restored brick buildings. Antiques, wine tastings, art strolls.

  Across the road from a fish house, in a motel room numbered 113, a mother hugged her son. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

  Matt wriggled. “Mom, stop squeezing so hard. You’re hurting me.”

  “Everything is going to be just fine from now on,” said a man in a tropical shirt loading a semi-­automatic pistol. “We’ve got it all under control.”

  The plump guy standing next to him nodded and chugged a Coors and burped.

  “Son,” said Peter Pugliese, “where exactly do you know these ­people from?”

  “It’s okay, Dad. I completely trust them.” Matt pulled a notebook from his knapsack. “Met them working on my thesis. If you’ve gotten yourself in any kind of jam here in Florida, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Peter turned as Coleman crumpled a beer can against the side of his head. He looked back at his son. “How long have you known them?”

  “Your skepticism is understandable,” said Serge, slamming the clip home in his pistol. “That’s because we barely spoke at our initial meeting. I was forced to react fast due to a dizzying series of events that prevented proper social graces. It happens a lot in my line of work. But after freaking ­people out, I grow on them.”

  Peter looked toward his son again.

  “I’ll vouch for that,” said Matt.

  The father released a deep breath. “It’s just that I’m not used to this. It’s been a crazy twenty-­four hours . . .”

  . . . Twenty-­four hours earlier, a gleaming chopper with a coconut gas tank rolled down a country road and passed a sign announcing the city limits of Wobbly, population 947. Serge turned the corner at a barbecue joint and parked down an alley. “We’ll enter through the back, just in case.”

  They sprinted a short distance past an old red caboose and opened the rear door of the Railroad Hotel. Ancient hardwood floor with faded area rugs that gave the lobby the whiff of an estate sale.

  “This way!”

  They ran up the staircase and approached the door of room 201.

  “Matt,” Serge whispered. “You knock. Me and Coleman are going to stay out of sight so we don’t alarm him when he looks out the peephole.”

  “Okay.”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  An eye went to the peephole. “Oh, it’s you, son.” Peter opened the door. “Sorry I seemed a little anxious on the phone, but some things have made me nervous lately—­”

  Serge burst into the room with a gun at the ready. “Nobody be alarmed.”

  The ­couple screamed.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Serge aimed his gun through a side doorway at a toilet and tub. “Bathroom’s clear!”

  The ­couple clutched each other and huddled in the corner.

  “Dad,” said Matt. “Everything’s okay.”

  “Actually it’s not,” said Serge, getting down on the floor and aiming the pistol again. “Bed’s clear!”

  “W-­w-­what’s going on?” asked Peter.

  Serge stowed the pistol under his tropical shirt. “No time to talk. Matt told me everything. Then I instructed him to call the sheriff, ostensibly to report you missing. They requested he immediately come in for questioning. Matt played his part perfectly, acting distraught, and he was able to milk them for details. They asked him about money laundering, a body, drugs, Steve and Vernon, the whole nine yards. Jesus, I said no time to talk, and listen to me babble! Bottom line is you’re in great danger. We need to evacuate you immediately.”

  “Dad,” said Matt, “I’ll explain later, but you need to do as he says as fast as possible.”

  “If you say so.” Peter took a rigid step toward a suitcase.

  “No time for luggage,” said Serge. “And I’ll need it for props anyway.”

  Matt took his mom by the hand. “We really have to go.”

  “But where?” asked his father.

  “I already got the address.”

  Serge glanced out the curtains. Someone left Lead Belly’s and turned purposefully toward the hotel. “Shit! . . . Go! Now! Out past the caboose!” He ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower. “It’s going to be close!”

  Matt raced them down the stairs and out toward the alley. The door closed behind them as the front door of the
hotel opened . . .

  . . . Back to the present.

  “I haven’t moved that fast down a flight of stairs in years,” said Peter.

  Serge checked out the window of the DeLand motel room. “Good thing you did, or Steve would have seen you for sure.”

  “So can you finally tell me what all this craziness is about?”

  “In due time.” Serge took a seat on a bed. “But right now I need to ask you some questions.”

  “What could I possibly tell you?”

  “Your geology business and every last detail about the sinkhole in your house.” Serge opened a door next to the dresser that connected to the adjoining room that he also had rented. “We should probably talk in private. Some of my questions might upset your wife and son.”

  “Too late,” said Mary.

  “We won’t be long.” Serge led Peter into the other unit and shut the door.

  Mary and her son took seats. Nobody talked for the longest time. She got a disgusted look on her face. Coleman was analyzing a booger. He looked up. “Sorry.” He pulled a fat one from over his ear.

  “You’re smoking marijuana?” said Mary.

  “I was going to give you some.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “But your son and I—­”

  Matt made a slashing gesture across his throat.

  Coleman closed his mouth and put the joint away. He fished in his pocket for an airline miniature of whiskey and sucked it dry.

  Mary glared.

  Coleman grinned.

  Silence resumed.

  The door to the next room opened.

  “Coleman, we’re all set.” Then to everyone else: “In a few hours, this will be nothing but a bad memory. Just don’t leave this motel under any circumstances until I come back and give the all clear.”

  “Why do you suddenly look so happy?” asked Matt.

  Serge smiled radiantly. “Do you realize what day it is? . . .”

  Chapter THIRTY-SIX

  FOUNDERS’ DAY

  Balloons, pennants, laughter, amplified bluegrass music. Kids bounced in the inflatable bouncing castle. Adults in wide-­brimmed hats filled the sunny street, holding corn dogs, cotton candy and fried elephant ears. A low-­grade Ferris wheel rotated slowly above the treetops behind Lead Belly’s.

  Men in overalls gathered outside the barbershop with steely eyes aimed up the street.

  “What do you mean we can’t make them leave?” asked Vernon.

  “It’s First Amendment,” said Senator Pratchett.

  The gang snarled again in the direction of countless satellite trucks parked on the edge of the historic district.

  “Why are they picking on us?” asked Jabow.

  “Because you served it up camera-­ready for television: a colorful country fair against the backdrop of legislative hearings to disband a scandalous town,” said Pratchett. “I kept warning you about the speed traps and water pumping, but did anyone listen?”

  “Well, we’ll see about their First Amendment,” said Jabow.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “A ­couple broken cameras will get the point across toot sweet.”

  “And give the other cameras better video than they could ever hope for?” said Pratchett. “Have you all lost your minds?”

  “Got a better idea?”

  “Any idea is better. But yes, I have one in particular: Be nice.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Romance the press,” said Pratchett. “They’re going on the air with a story anyway, and it’s one of the first axioms of politics: Half the viewership is already prepared to side with you if you’re simply polite.”

  “That actually works?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt to throw in some of the remarks I made during the senate hearing. Doesn’t need to be word for word. Just keep changing the subject and ­people will forget the original question.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Feed them.”

  “Feed them what? Information?”

  “No, literally. Reporters are notoriously cheap.” Ryan pointed over his shoulder. “I’m due at the dunking booth . . .”

  Back up the street, a smartly dressed woman checked her hair in a compact mirror before grabbing a microphone.

  “Good afternoon, this is Natalie Valdez reporting live from Wobbly, Florida, during the town’s annual Founders’ Day celebration. But despite the pleasant weather forecast, a dark cloud hangs over this year’s festivities as hearings at the state capitol are probing allegations of rampant corruption. Meanwhile, the search continues for a missing insurance underwriter while authorities investigate a suspicious overnight fire that burned down a Triple-A speed-­trap billboard—­ . . . Wait, I think I see the mayor . . . Mayor! Can we have a word with you?”

  “Absolutely!” Vernon strolled over with the city council in tow. “And I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to drive out here on our proudest day and showcase what a wonderful little community we have.”

  “Actually we came because a senate panel is looking into questionable—­”

  “Where are my manners?” said Vernon, addressing the entire press corps. “Everyone here must be absolutely famished!”

  The city council stepped forward with Styrofoam bowls.

  “Who wants some of our deeeeelicious strawberry shortcake?” said Vernon, turning toward a camera lens. “Available for only two tickets in our Down Home Vittles Tent.”

  “Mr. Mayor,” said Natalie. “As journalists, we’re not allowed to accept any gifts, no matter how small . . .”

  Several of the guys wearing battery belts raised their hands. Various camera shots became momentarily unsteady as the bowls were distributed and consumed.

  “Now then.” Vernon returned to the TV reporter. “You were saying about our wonderful jubilee here today?”

  “No, I was asking about the allegations of fraud and public misappropriation . . .”

  “And I understand the lame-­stream media bosses are forcing you to ask such questions even though you’re so sweet and would never want to taint this joyous occasion for our children and grandparents.”

  “Do you have any response to the charges?”

  “All the great folks in Wobbly want to get along with everyone. But no matter what we do, some ­people in big government just don’t like small towns.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because we base our lives on the teachings of the Bible,” said Vernon. “Last year they wouldn’t let us put the Ten Commandments on top of the city hall dome . . .”

  Otis glanced at Jabow. “We never tried to do that.”

  “Shhhh!”

  “ . . . But even though this is a special day,” said Vernon, “my faith won’t permit me to stand silent while big-­city politicians continue saying such horrible things about our Father in heaven . . .”

  As the interview continued, a red banner crawled across the bottom of the screen for the benefit of viewers watching from treadmills in health spas. MAYOR: DON’T BAD-­MOUTH GOD.

  Half the TV audience took his side.

  Vernon walked away and the reporter turned toward a blurry white lens. “You just heard it straight from the mayor’s mouth. This is Natalie Valdez reporting from Wobbly, Florida.” The correspondent continued smiling a few extra seconds. “Are we off the air? . . .” She threw down her microphone. “You got fucking whipped cream on the camera.”

  Back up the street, children waved colorful pinwheels as they passed a hotel courtyard and a red caboose. In one of the caboose’s windows, two pairs of eyes rose to the bottom edge and glanced back and forth.

  Nearby, a prom queen stood in a booth with her tiara, accepting pecks on the cheek for a dollar. A softball hit the bull’s-­eye and a local sen
ator splashed into the dunking tank. Judges placed a blue ribbon on a big yam.

  “Got to hand it to the senator,” Jabow told Vernon. “That TV stuff back there was a thing of beauty.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Mayor!”

  “Not another reporter.” He turned around to see a man in a tropical shirt munching a corn dog. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes,” said Serge. “I just moved here and wanted to say how much I admire everything you’ve done for the townfolk.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you,” Vernon said impatiently.

  “They always say never buy real estate in a small town, because of all the bullshit they can pull on you.” Serge reached in his back pocket. “But that’s just selfish ­people who move in and don’t put their best foot forward to show they’re on the team. So I’d like to make a campaign contribution.” He produced a giant wad. “How about a thousand? . . . Ah, make it two. You get what you pay for, after all.”

  “Jesus, put that down!” Vernon glanced over at the cameras, then surreptitiously slid up next to Serge and tucked the money away. “Sorry about that, but the press has been harassing us . . . Now then, I think you’re going to get along very well here in Wobbly . . .” He stopped and noticed a pudgy man behind Serge with cotton candy in his hair. “And I want you to know we’re tolerant of all lifestyles.”

  Serge looked at Coleman, then back at Vernon. “Oh, we’re not gay.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” said Coleman.

  “Of course not,” said Serge. “But we do have alternate lifestyles. More on that later. What I wanted to talk about is a problem of mutual concern.”

  “How can we help?”

  “It involves a person who’s caused me a great deal of trouble, a local resident I think you know quite well named Peter Pugliese—­”

  “Stop.” Vernon studied Serge’s face. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who got ripped off laundering money through Peter. I’ve been keeping this whole fiasco under surveillance for some time.”

  “Mister,” said Jabow, stepping up chest to chest, “just who do you think you’re messing with?”