by Tim Dorsey
Billy gave a respectful nod. “Ma’am.”
“I know I’m dropping this on you,” said Peter. “But if it’s okay, I’d like Billy to stay with us for a while. Since Matt is away at college, the house is kind of empty.”
“I’m sure that will be fine.” Mary smiled at the young man. “Peter, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Sure thing.” He looked back at Billy. “Be right back.”
Another polite nod.
The couple met privately in the hallway. “You’re bringing home strays now?” She wasn’t angry, but, well, it was just unexpected.
“He needs to get his GED, then hoping to attend trade school.”
“What’s the connection with this kid?” she asked. “You old war buddies or something?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m guessing there’s quite a story behind this.”
“Oh, there’s a story all right,” said Peter.
“Then why don’t you tell me over dinner?”
Peter sniffed the air. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Your new favorite.” Mary called down the hall: “Billy, why don’t you join us for dinner.”
The kitchen table was the kind of distressed wood now known as shabby chic. The two men took seats, and Mary opened the oven. Soon it was all bibs and ribs.
“Ma’am, this dinner is delicious.”
“Why thank you, Billy. More iced tea?”
He nodded with a mouthful of black-eyed peas.
“Okay, then, Peter. I’m ready to be knocked out.” Mary refilled her own glass of tea and squeezed a lemon wedge. “What’s this big story of yours?”
Peter finished swallowing and wiped his face with a napkin. “It all started a month ago during the last full moon. That was the evening, the investigators later told us, that Vernon and his gang went out to our house in the middle of the night. Remember?”
“Quite vividly.”
“They said that particular full moon was a blue moon. Everyone’s heard the term a million times, but I never knew what it meant until I checked it out on the Internet. Whoever came up with the cliché ‘once in a blue moon’ could have simply said ‘every two or three years’ . . .”
“The story?” said his wife.
“Oh, right. So just after dark . . .”
THE NIGHT OF THE BLUE MOON
Two shadows crept across the lawn behind an isolated farmhouse, and ducked under crime tape. Peter unlocked the back door with his own key. It was safe to turn on the flashlights. “This way.”
The pair reached the edge of a sinkhole where the bedroom had been. Two heavy canvas duffel bags hit the floor with a clang of metal.
Peter unzipped one and removed coils of recently purchased mountain-climbing rope. Then he pulled out a contraption that was some odd configuration of steel wheels.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to handle the line,” said the second man. “Wouldn’t want to be responsible for hurting you.”
“Won’t be a problem,” Peter said as he strapped himself into his harness. “That’s not like the old pulley. It’s a compound pulley.”
A facial reaction of non-understanding.
“Billy, that means it uses physics to divide the weight,” said Peter. “You’ll have to pull four times as much rope, but it’ll only be a quarter of the normal weight.”
Peter snapped a clasp to his harness and smiled at his new partner. “All right, Billy, now the easy part. Grab hold of that line.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure thing.”
“Why are you so nice to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You call me Billy.”
“That’s your name.”
“Nobody else calls me that. It’s always been ‘Slower.’ And you never say I’m stupid and stuff.”
“Because you’re not stupid.”
He looked askance. “I know what I am.”
“Hey, Billy, look at me,” said Peter. “You can’t be what other people say you are, especially if they’re unkind. I know you. You’re a really good guy.”
Billy looked down.
“Don’t go tearing up on me. We’ve got work to do.”
Billy wiped his eyes. “Sorry.”
“And don’t apologize.”
“I never thanked you for saving my life. I don’t think the others would have.”
“We’ll talk more about this later. Just don’t let go of that line.”
Peter stepped off the edge and swung gently over the center of the hole. He slowly descended as his helmet light split the darkness.
Billy kept letting out rope until it went slack. “You okay?”
“Just reached bottom.” The shovel came off his belt and dirt began to fly.
Nothing for the longest time as Billy concentrated on that line. He thought he heard a noise. Yes, he definitely did. Whatever it was kept growing louder until it echoed down the hole. Peter stopped digging. “Billy, what’s that sound?”
Before he got an answer, the room above lit up. “Are those headlights?”
Billy set the line down and ran to the front windows. “Oh no.” He raced back to the hole. “They’re here.”
“Who is?”
“All of them. Vernon, Jabow, the rest.”
“Shoot.” Adrenaline ran options through Peter’s brain in microseconds. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Darn, no reception down here . . . Billy, this is very important. You have to catch this and make sure you don’t fall.”
“Okay.”
Peter wound up and pitched the phone hard. It fumbled off Billy’s fingers.
“Sorry, it fell back in the hole.”
Peter’s helmet lantern searched the bottom. “Where is it? . . .”
Outside, a small platoon with shovels marched toward the house.
“What if something goes wrong like last time?” said Jabow.
“Nothing will go wrong,” said Vernon, ducking under the crime tape.
“Then why don’t you go down the hole?”
“Because I’m the supervisor . . .”
Inside, Peter reached back again and hurled. The phone flew over Billy’s head.
Crash.
“Did it break?” yelled Peter.
“Hold on, the battery just popped out.” Snap. “Still works.”
“Listen carefully,” said Peter. “You need to run out the back door and hide. And after you do, I need you to dial . . .”
A crowbar cracked the frame of the front door.
“The bolt’s still in,” said Jabow.
“Try again.”
This time the wood splintered but good. Vernon led the way with a Rayovac flashlight until they all stood at the edge of the hole. “Luckily the rope’s still here. Pull the line back up.”
Otis gave a tug. Then harder. “It’s stuck on something.”
Vernon shook his head in disgust, then tilted it. “Jabow?”
Jabow spit in his palms and rubbed them together, then grabbed the line. Several grunts. “He’s right. It won’t budge.”
“I’ll see what it is.” Vernon crawled to the edge of the hole and reached his hand down with the flashlight. The beam hit the far wall and began sweeping toward Peter, who cringed as he delicately eased the clasp off his harness. The beam reached his feet.
“Vernon, the line’s free.”
The flashlight turned off. “You’re up to bat.”
Jabow climbed in a harness. “Where do I snap the clasp to the rope? . . . Dang, it’s on backwards.” Another fitting of the harness. “Now my legs are in the wrong holes.” Another attempt. “That’s no good either . . .”
“What’s taking so damn long?” said Vernon. “
Slower could do it faster.”
“You want to try?”
“Every extra second is more risk of being spotted!”
“Good news.” He fastened the clamp to his properly arranged harness and swung out over the hole.
Otis began lowering him. Ten feet, fifteen feet . . .
A voice echoed up out of the depression. “You better not drop me.”
Otis dropped him.
“Ow, damn!”
Jabow stood and arched his back.
“What’s going on down there?” called Vernon.
Jabow’s head swiveled in darkness. “I lost my flashlight.”
“So find it— . . . Uh-oh.”
“What is it?” yelled Jabow, staring up as the room above grew brighter.
“Headlights,” said Vernon. “Somebody’s outside.”
They all ran to the windows. “Shit, it’s the sheriff,” said Otis. “What’s he doing here?”
“Quick, get Jabow out of the hole!”
Three people grabbed the line and reeled hard. Jabow’s feet leaped off the ground.
Dirt flew as Peter sat up quickly from his self-burial spot.
Sheriff Highsmith and three deputies came through the door. “I’d ask who’s in here, but judging by the cars in the yard, I’d be wasting my breath. Are you messing with a crime scene that’s still under dispute with the circuit judge?”
“Sheriff, no, we heard there might be a break-in, so we came out to investigate,” said Vernon.
“Yeah, I heard the same thing,” said Highsmith.
“You did?”
The sheriff looked at the still-swinging rope and the harness around Jabow’s waist. He laughed inside. “Looks like someone busted up that front door pretty good with a crowbar. Wonder who it could be.”
Vernon itched his neck. “Us, too. So we’re just going to take a look around.”
“No objection from me.”
“Okay, then . . .” Vernon smiled.
“Okay . . .” The sheriff smiled back.
They continued standing in place, silently grinning.
“So we’ll take it from here,” said Vernon.
“Go right ahead.”
“You’re staying?”
“Thought I’d stick around and learn from the best,” said the sheriff. “There isn’t any particular reason you want me to leave, is there?”
“Of course not.”
Vernon headed toward another bedroom, followed by a whispering Jabow. “There’s no way we can do anything with the sheriff snooping around.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Vernon checked a bathroom. “Let’s act like we’re clearing the house, then come back later.”
The mayor returned to the living room. “Looks like everything’s in order. Whoever was here ain’t no more, so we’ll just skedaddle.”
Highsmith tipped his Smokey the Bear hat. “Give my best to the missus.”
The brooding gang slunk out the door, followed by the deputies, and the sheriff was left alone.
In the crawl space under the house, Billy lay on his back with a cell phone that had recently dialed 911 about a burglary in progress. He stared up through slits in the floorboards as the sheriff’s shoes slowly creaked toward the I-beam.
Highsmith’s eyes moved from the pulley down into the hole. “What the heck is so important down there?”
BACK TO THE PRESENT
Mary Pugliese leaned over the kitchen table on her elbows. “So what happened?”
“Let’s take a walk.”
All three of them went outside to the driveway and circled around behind Peter’s car. He popped the trunk.
“Holy cow!” said Mary. “How much money is that?”
“Four million, give or take. Our share is two.” Peter patted Billy on the shoulder. “You’re a rich man.”
“I still want to get my GED and go to trade school.”
“Good for you.”
Mary was phasing in and out of shock. “This can’t be legal . . . We’ll be arrested! . . . Where did it come from?”
“The hole. Before that, it’s just unsubstantiated speculation according to the law.” Peter slammed the trunk. “We hired an attorney, who said the issue is rampant in Florida because people are always ditching money and other contraband, and innocent people are constantly finding it in the cushions of a love seat from a yard sale. We just follow his instructions to report it with the proper authorities, and if nobody comes forward within a specified period of time—which my lawyer says never happens in these circumstances—it’s ours.”
“I need to go inside and sit down,” said Mary.
“I need to get this to a bank.”
Matt Pugliese returned to New Jersey.
His thesis wasn’t officially rejected. But the ethics committee strongly suggested he withdraw it under grave overtones of making up shit.
“But it’s all true.”
“Many of the details, especially some of the more arcane history and culture, don’t show up anywhere, even on the Internet.”
“I thought you told us not to use the Internet for research.”
“It would be better if you remained quiet.”
“But it all came from this academic in Florida doing firsthand research,” said Matt. “That’s why I flew down there. My extra effort must count for something.”
“Son, we contacted Florida authorities, and your source’s website is connected to a suspect in multiple homicides.”
“What?”
But even before returning to Princeton, Matt had already decided to change majors. He withdrew the thesis without regret and walked across campus.
A week later he was back in another imposing university office.
A professor reclined in his chair and flipped pages. “Are you sure you have the correct department?”
“Creative writing, right?” said Matt.
“But you submitted a thesis.”
“Exactly,” said Matt. “It’s a novella in the structure of a college paper. I don’t think it’s been done before.”
The professor handed the paper back. “Too over-the-top. Even as fiction, nobody would ever believe Florida is this weird.”
Matt sighed and tried to imagine what Serge and Coleman were up to . . .
A chopper with a sidecar rumbled south down U.S. Highway 1 from Miami to Homestead.
Sign-spinner alley. Batman, Spider-Man, purple dinosaur, Gumby. CASH FOR GOLD, WE BUY HOMES . . . Female mannequins featuring breasts were beginning to replace some of the regular spinners because they attracted more attention and required no hourly wage.
“Radio check,” said Coleman. “Look at that next spinning sign. It’s for another one of those healthy fast-food places like we were at a few days ago.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” said Serge, angling the motorcycle into the drive-through lane.
Moments later, the chopper with a coconut gas tank pulled back onto the highway. Up at the corner, two gorillas shoved a blond mannequin into traffic in front of a city bus. Serge swerved around a plastic head rolling through the intersection as he and Coleman happily munched corn dogs.
“ . . . Born to be wild! . . .”
“Radio check,” said Coleman, mustard streaking back across his cheeks in the wind. “These things are pretty delicious for being healthy. I guess there’s no possible way to get a bad corn dog.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Serge said as they thundered off into the sunset. “Corn dogs are like blow jobs. If you complain about one, you’re the problem.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tim Dorsey was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of eighteen previous novels: Shark Skin Suite, Tiger Shrimp Tango, The R
iptide Ultra-Glide, Pineapple Grenade, When Elves Attack, Electric Barracuda, Gator A-Go-Go, Nuclear Jellyfish, Atomic Lobster, Hurricane Punch, The Big Bamboo, Torpedo Juice, Cadillac Beach, The Stingray Shuffle, Triggerfish Twist, Orange Crush, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, and Florida Roadkill. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
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ALSO BY TIM DORSEY
Florida Roadkill
Hammerhead Ranch Motel
Orange Crush
Triggerfish Twist
The Stingray Shuffle
Cadillac Beach
Torpedo Juice
The Big Bamboo
Hurricane Punch
Atomic Lobster
Nuclear Jellyfish
Gator A-Go-Go
Electric Barracuda
When Elves Attack
Pineapple Grenade
The Riptide Ultra-Glide
Tiger Shrimp Tango
Shark Skin Suite
CREDITS
Cover design and illustration by Christopher Sergio
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
COCONUT COWBOY. Copyright © 2016 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-224004-0
EPub Edition JANUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780062240064
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ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
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