Hidden, my pulse racing, now concerned that I might be discovered out, I watched a white truck pass me. The night became far too dark out to determine its make and model. I did see two passengers seated in the vehicle’s cab, smoking. Slowly, the truck meandered by, squeaking and grinding on the dirt road, going no more than four miles per hour, if that. Dust did not spin up into the night. I probably would have choked on the twisting bowl had that occurred. Instead, I stayed hunched down, being prey in the thick Everglades around me, and waited patiently for the truck and its passengers to enter the distant farm, leaving me unobserved.
Once the truck passed out of view, I escaped the sawgrass and continued walking toward the property, distant mysterious sounds, and three fires. I executed a slow and careful pace. No other vehicles or interlopers were on the dirt road behind me. Alone, I continued my walking adventure, careful with my footsteps.
Sign Farm opened up before me, welcoming me to approximately one acre of mowed lawn. Two white outbuildings and a barn comprised the property. A silo, which looked dilapidated and missing half of its aluminum shell, sat to the far right of the open area. Strap ferns, turtle grass, and slash pines decorated the flat lawn. They made good cover so I wouldn’t be seen. I exited the dirt road and hid behind a mound of strap ferns, staying there and becoming a voyeur.
Chapter 28: Underground Spectacle (Two)
Everglades
Sign Farm
10:17 P.M.
The three sky-reaching fires illuminated the night in an eerie and almost cult-like ambiance. A variety of cars and trucks were parked to the far left of the property. I guessed there were maybe thirty members of the club present, none of which were children. Most of the members were dressed in long black coats and matching chimney pot hats. Other members of Underground Spectacle wore a diverse arrangement of tattoos, piercings, split tongues, branded eyebrows, and long fingernails.
The crowd of thirty circled the fire beds and maybe watched in awe, perhaps waiting for an accident or emergency among firewalkers. Many of the club members were drinking out of aluminum beer cans, bottles of Jack Daniels, or stainless-steel flasks. And most of the attendees were smoking glass pipes or snorting powdered drugs up their noses. Joints were passed around like candy, filling the night’s atmosphere with the strong scent of marijuana.
In the center of the acre were three long beds of heated coals that bloomed with sporadic and miniature molten-red flames. Each bed seemed different in length. The far left bed looked ten feet long, I had guessed. The other two were twenty and thirty feet long. The trio of beds was three feet wide, and each occupied a firewalker. Two of the firewalkers, a woman and a man, both on the shorter beds, wore white shorts and white T-shirts. They slowly walked over the hot red- and amber-colored coals with their arms spread out at their sides for balance.
Bobby Pagino used the thirty-foot-long bed was. Barefoot and wearing white shorts and a white T-shirt, he stepped up to the end of the hot bed, bent his elbows, and pressed his palms together with his fingers pointing to the night’s sky. Thereafter, he bowed his head and hummed a language that I couldn’t decipher but had many vowel sounds.
Onlookers began to hum along with Bobby. Joints were temporarily not smoked, and flasks were unused for the time being. The thirty-person congregation began to sway to and fro in synchronized motion, humming the five major vowels, which continued for the next three minutes.
I saw Edgar Sign among the gatherers; gold attire from head to toe. He moved from one bed of hot coals to the next, weaving with a slow glide, and called out to the night, “Move with the fire, feel it, consume its healthy warmth, and retract it. We are all part of fire.”
Bobby’s show began after the humming and prayer, or whatever Underground Spectacle and Edgar Sign had just performed. Barefoot and standing at the edge of the hot bed, Bobby made one step forward with his right foot, placed its heel into the fiery embers, and hurriedly bolted over the glowing stretch of embers to its end.
Clapping, hoots, and hollers from onlookers filled the night when Bobby ended his firewalk. Thereafter, two blonde females copied his trek, also receiving praise. The trio continued their firewalking for the next ten minutes, taking turns on the red glowing bed, one after the next.
Other bizarre events occurred during the next hour:
A tall and thin performer named Mr. Inferno lighted three, two-foot-long wooden torches and began to juggle them. He spun the torches approximately ten feet into the dark night above his head, catching one after the next as they fell. Then he began juggling the trio with skill, without dropping them. His juggling included a hoop and his chimney hat, and he performed for his onlookers and peers with much excitement.
A man and woman team swallowed a variety of silver swords down their esophagus to their stomachs. Both leaned their heads back and extended their necks. Their upper esophageal sphincters became relaxed, opening a passageway to their stomachs. The duo controlled their retching and lubricated their swords with saliva. Gravity assisted their tasks. I imagined that the husband and wife team had eaten a large meal together prior to their act, which supplied their stomachs more vertical orientation. Both swords caused no mishaps on the farm, passing aortas, hearts, and lungs.
Three mustached men became human pincushions as they pushed long surgical needles, hat pins, and skewers through their arms, cheeks, nose cartilage, and the loose waddles under their necks. Prior to the insertions, the trio practiced pressure anesthesia, which entailed semi-penetration of the long surgical needles to numb those specific areas of their bodies for needle use. Arms were extended, and skin was pulled down opposite their elbows. The needles were pushed through the excess flesh, or null points. A few onlookers grimaced while others egged the three men to use more needles.
Ginger Flame, a long-legged beauty in a white one-piece bathing suit and matching headband, ate fire from a foot-long torch, swallowing the wooden torch in the back of her throat, practicing retention. The red-haired diva continued her act another four times, drinking glasses of water between flames. She created moonshots; the act of shooting fire vapors into the night’s sky, and kisses of fire. Other wiles included immolation, tongue rests, and teething, which she held her lit torch by the wick between her teeth. Following her tricks, she used her right hand and snuffed out the torch, although the crowd wanted more, urging her to continue.
Sisters, Gwendolyn and Mertle Moon, shared an amber-colored drinking glass. They bit somewhat large pieces off its rim and crunched the slivers of sharp material in their mouths. The hyalophagia sisters chewed the shards to smithereens, entertaining all the members. During twenty minutes, they fed each other a pair of violet drinking glasses. Following the Moon sisters’ festive and bloodless chewing, the two women bowed, giggled, and enjoyed their audience and applause.
Chapter 29: Leaving the Sideshow
Everglades
Sign Farm
11:58 P.M.
More applause waved through the freak show members as I made my escape. I knew the young men and women would continue their dangerous feats long into the night. And most of the cult members would end up spending the night at the farm, drinking and doing numerous drugs, Bobby Pagino among them.
Sex among Underground Spectacle looked heedless and carefree. Orgies were a big deal among the gatherers. Groups of men partied like rock stars together and shared spine-arching blowjobs, handjobs, and slamming anal sex that lasted until dawn. Women and men slept together in pop tents near the trio of fires. And women gathered in naked groups, tasting and pleasuring each other’s bodies.
I slinked away, attempting to return to my hidden Mercedes. The dirt road that bisected R28 to the farm seemed twice as long as when I had first traveled over it. My footsteps were sluggish, and I became exhausted. The midnight air felt thick and warm in my lungs with humidity, and my entire body became wet with a thin layer of sweat.
A pickup swerved left and right on the dirt road, coming right at me. Its headlights were bl
inding. I moved to the edge of the road, deciding not to hide inside the scrubgrass because I had learned everything I needed to learn about Underground Spectacle. The pickup stopped next to me, and I saw two shirtless young men inside the cab. Both showcased a variety of tattoos and piercings on their bare chests. And both were drunk and high.
The bald driver semi-leaned across his buddy and said, “You leaving the show?”
I nodded. “Doing a deed for Sign.”
“More coke?”
“Can’t say.”
The two men laughed. Eventually, the driver said, “When you get back, we’ll have a good time together. Just the three of us. What do you say?”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll find you two.”
The pickup headed for the farm. I walked deeper into the night and eventually came upon my unharmed Mercedes. Safe behind its wheel, I began my trip back to Hurricane Bay, driving the speed limit and lost in thought concerning Bobby Pagino and his mother, Margo.
I recalled the few people I had spoken to about Bobby, and they had all said that he wasn’t missing. Truth told, Bobby wasn’t missing. Rather, he had been with the sideshow all along. Obviously, his firewalking talent had become a great part of his life and a certain ability that his mother knew about. I only assumed that Margo would not approve of those antics because of her status as a well-known romance writer. She probably would have been appalled to learn of her baby boy’s association with Edgar Sign’s freak show. She’d likely feel disgusted and maybe find a way to disintegrate Sign’s cult, no matter how much money it would take her.
Bobby was safe, though, and alive, at least for the time being. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t an arsonist, though. Frankly, any member of Sign’s group could have been the firebug in Hurricane Bay. As far as I knew, there could have been two arsonists who had teamed up together and started the fire at the Flaming Flamingo. Did I have to start questioning each of its members, clarifying possible suspects or not? Did I even have the time to execute that task, and the payoff? I didn’t think so, concerning either situation. Perhaps I was misleading myself, though.
Maybe Sign’s sideshow cult didn’t have any significant relation to the fire at Peter Rotunda’s bar. But maybe it did. How could I think that way? I had no proof whatsoever that a member of Underground Spectacle had anything to do with the Hurricane Bay fire. Yet my intuition kept telling me that the fire and sideshow were somehow tied together. Only time would tell after I investigated both more closely, I surmised.
Chapter 30: Intuition
Hurricane Bay Beach
Bungalow 16
I arrived back at Casey’s between twelve and one in the morning. I quietly entered the bungalow. I fetched a plastic bottle of water from the refrigerator, downed half of it, and left the remaining contents on the kitchen counter for later. I went into the bathroom, took a piss, and thought about getting a shower since I’d been in the buggy Everglades. Exhaustion convinced me to take a shower in the morning.
To my surprise, Casey suffered from insomnia, reading a male-on-male paperback romance in bed by Jake Harding. He had the sheet pushed down to his navel, and his torso looked gorgeous. The reading light next to his bed illuminated his frame, and its iridescent light defined every muscle on my boyfriend’s body. He placed his paperback down upon my entrance inside the bedroom.
“You’re getting home late. What have you been up to?”
I undressed next to the bed and climbed in beside him. “Do you really want to hear where I was?”
“I do. Hit me with as many details you can remember.”
I snuggled in the crook of his left arm, smelled the clean scent of soap, breathed in his torso, and told him everything about my evening, which included the drive to Sign Farm, Ginger Flame, and the tattooed young men who wanted to mess around with me.
“Wow, you really did have an eventful evening.”
“I need to figure out how Edgar Sign’s freak show is connected to the fire at Peter’s bar.”
“There might not be a connection.”
“My intuition is telling me that there is.”
“Intuition is the process of over thinking,” he said. “I know you disagree with me when I say that, but that’s how I feel.” He rolled a hand down and over my flat stomach and pinched one of my nipples in a playful act, which caused a sublime amount of pain. “With that said, how do you think the two are related? If your intuition is working overtime, you have to back it up with a theory.”
“I think one of two people, or even both of them, at the freak show tonight are to blame for starting the fire at Peter’s bar.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Bobby or Edgar Sign.”
“Now tell me why you think this.”
I shrugged. “I have no idea why. That’s my problem.”
“You need to dig a little deeper. I’m sure you’re onto something.”
I turned to him. “I thought you didn’t believe that my intuition works?”
“I think it’s bogus, but I have full faith that you’ll figure this arson case out. You don’t need your intuition’s help. All you need is you.”
I let him squeeze me against him, which felt wonderful and cleansing. Then I asked, “Why are you being so nice to me, Casey?”
“Because I’m sweet on you.”
And maybe sweet on his assistant, Bruno. But I didn’t say that, keeping it to myself. Like the lack of evidence I had for the arson case, I also lacked proof that Casey carried out an affair with Bruno Grigade behind my back. When it rained few clues, it poured few clues in my life, I guessed, which sort of pissed me off. Life sometimes blurred, didn’t it?
“I’m sweet on you, Casey. Just so you know that.”
“Hush, go to sleep,” he said, squeezing me against his somewhat naked frame. He kissed my forehead and added, “Tomorrow’s another day to catch bad guys, Axle. Close your eyes and rest now.”
“Yes,” is all that escaped my slumberous body next to his, and then I drifted off to sleep, just as he instructed.
* * * *
The strong smell of smoke and burning stucco pulled me out of sleep and forced me awake. I opened my eyes and saw spirals of smoke waft inside the bedroom, spinning in circles. I heard boards crackle and burn. Windows exploded, and golden-orange light illuminated the bedroom, flashing on and off.
“Casey!” I said, jabbing him in the left hip with my elbow, attempting to wake him. “Casey, there’s a fire! Babe, get up! The bungalow is on fire!”
I quickly climbed out of bed and just about dropped to my knees and crawl to safety when I saw that the noise, flames, and smoke were coming from Bungalow Fifteen, next door on the beach, and not Casey’s residence. The night’s wind blew toward Casey’s bungalow, filling his bedroom with toxic fumes.
Panic surfaced inside me as the strong scent of gasoline and smoke filled my nose. If we didn’t escape the bungalow, we would die of asphyxiation. Smoke would gather in our lungs, and we would end up choking to death.
As fear raced throughout every muscle and vein in my body, I rushed back to the bed, pushed my right hand against my boyfriend’s chest, and yelled, “Casey, we have to get of here! We’re going to die if we don’t!”
He finally stirred awake. A bout of thick coughing made him realize the serious nature of our current situation. He looked from his left to right and saw exactly what I had seen: Bungalow Fifteen in flames, burning to the sandy beach, and smoke from its inferno billowing inside our bungalow.
“Fire!” he yelled, fully awake now. “There’s a fire, Axle!”
I helped him off the bed, and we quickly walked out of the bedroom and then the bungalow. We circled to the front of the stucco edifice and stood in the sand, hand collapsed inside hand. Flames licked the heavens, and bright sparks spiraled away from the fire’s heart. Cracking noises were loud and overwhelming, and personal belongings were ruined forever. Rocket-like explosions boomed inside the dark, echoing along the beach. Three con
secutive popping sounds told me that one of the bungalow’s owners had stored a handgun inside their house. That someone shot bullets off, not only endangering the HBFD workers, but also the onlookers.
The homeowners included Dodger and Samuel Brine, aged men in their late sixties. Both were away in Europe, traveling through most of Germany and France for the entire summer. Dodger instructed Casey to check on the bungalow almost every day. Casey usually contacted the pair in Europe by using Facebook and informed them that nothing shocking had occurred at their precious abode.
Tonight, though, trouble unfolded at Bungalow Fifteen. For the next hour, the HBFD attempted to tamp the fire with three hoses and nine firepersons, two of which were women. To no avail, though, the strong fire and heat produced destruction. The bungalow next door to Casey’s burned to a crisp for the next three hours, smoldering into a pile of hot ash.
Part 4: June 5, 20—
Chapter 31: Not Into Play
839 Treasure Gardens
8:54 A.M.
Because the interior of Casey’s bungalow had been covered in smoke residue for the next twenty-four hours, we spent the night at my stucco. Casey hired Toxic Mongrels to immediately clean his place up, which had cost him a small fortune, not that he had a choice in the matter. My box-shaped abode in Treasure Gardens was located in a private neighborhood along the Gulf, south of Casey’s place. My place had one bedroom, a tiny but very cute bathroom, miniature kitchen, and a living room that offered just enough space for a sofa. All the furniture was secondhand, a bit worn, but comfortable.
Although the stucco abode was next to the ocean, it was still small and deterred guests from sleeping over, unless they cuddled with me on the twin-size bed in my bedroom. Casey just happened to be one of those guests, and I awoke with the naked man on my chest, applying kisses to the length of my neck.
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