The Pope of Palm Beach

by Tim Dorsey

  “It’s on my résumé,” said Serge, removing a book from a shelf and holding it toward Kenny. “Your first novel. I love the almost photographic details, right down to the makeshift water tower and hurricane log, just like the day we met.”

  “Small world,” said Kenny, easing himself down into his lounge chair. “Okay, now I definitely know you’re on the level. You’re a real local who’s read my books. But seriously, what are you doing breaking into my house? What do you want from me?”

  “It wasn’t in my plans at the beginning of the day,” said Serge. “But now that we’ve had this uncanny introduction, you absolutely have to get your new books published!”

  “I told you, that’s never going to happen,” said Kenny. “Just put it out of your head.”

  “But you won’t mind if I finish reading this manuscript, and the others?”

  Kenny made himself comfortable in the lounger and closed his eyes. “Go crazy.”

  Serge grabbed the pile of pages and settled into the other lounger next to the author. He flipped a page, and another, and another . . .

  . . . A half hour later. “Pssst! Kenny, are you awake?” Serge waved a hand in front of his face with no response.

  He slipped into the kitchen and roused Coleman from a snoring blackout.

  “Huh, what? Where am I? I was having a wild dream. These giant house cats—”

  “Not now!” Serge grabbed a tool and cranked the bear trap open. “We have to work fast, before he wakes up.”

  Serge methodically moved through the house, opening drawer after drawer.

  Coleman yawned and rubbed his stomach. “What are you doing?”

  Another drawer opened. “Invading his privacy.”

  “Isn’t that wrong?”

  A drawer closed and another opened. “Used to be, but now it’s the coin of the realm. And forget Big Brother. The NSA has nothing on Google and Amazon. If you want to function at all in today’s society, you’re constantly checking off ‘Agree to Terms’ boxes at the bottom of documents longer than War and Peace that nobody can understand but grant corporations the right to track your roaming habits by satellite, archive your Internet search terms, and sell your consumer patterns to boiler rooms in Jakarta. Then you buy one dildo, and a United Nations assembly of sex workers paralyzes your in-box . . . Here we go . . .”

  Coleman looked over his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Address books, business cards.” Another drawer. “Unopened mail.”

  Serge stuffed it all in an empty shopping bag. “We’re on the move . . .”

  . . . A green Chevy Nova sat in front of the plate-glass fluorescence of a twenty-four-hour copy shop.

  Ka-chung, ka-chung, ka-chung, ka-chung . . .

  Pages fed high-speed in one side of a machine, and copies spit out the other.

  Serge stood at a nearby table, the contents of a paper bag dumped out, sifting through addresses and phone numbers. When he had what he needed, he gathered up the copies and made himself comfy at one of the computer stations. Clack, clack, clack.

  “What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

  “Writing a letter,” said Serge. “The key to letter writing is an opening that won’t send your letter directly into the wastebasket. That’s what happened when the apostle Paul first wrote to the Ephesians: ‘Open immediately! You may already be a winner!’”

  Serge finished his missive, printed it out and signed with flair. In another person’s name. He pulled a padded mailer off a shelf and addressed it. He approached the customer-service counter.

  Someone studying calculus looked up from a textbook. “Can I help you?”

  Serge licked the mailer and sealed it. “Any of those private mailboxes over there still available for rent?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want one,” said Serge. “You also mail stuff?”

  “Yes again.”

  Serge set the packaged manuscript on the counter. “Mail this.”

  Chapter 32

  The Next Morning

  Upbeat humming from the kitchen.

  Serge awoke to the aroma of eggs frying in a skillet. He usually arose before dawn “to get a jump on the others,” but it had been a late night at the copy shop. “What time is it?” He grabbed his watch off the nightstand in a back bedroom of the bungalow. “Seven o’clock! The others have the jump!”

  He jumped.

  Practically landing in his sneakers next to the bed. Serge quickly tied the laces and rushed down the hall. Something stopped him when he reached the living room. “What’s going on?”

  Warm, healthy sunlight streamed through all the windows. Blinds open wide. He slowly turned to appreciate the full impact of the space: the array of vintage surfboards hanging from the rafters, that stunning library in the sprawling bookcase, hard-pine walls, a painting of a royal poinciana, and finally—in the centerpiece spot over the mantel—the framed black-and-white enlargement of Darby Pope catching a wave in his prime at Singer Island.

  The smell of bacon.

  “Who’s humming?” Serge’s head swung around. “Coleman?”

  “Down here.” He crawled out from behind a lounge chair. “Didn’t make it to a bed again.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Coleman yawned and smacked his lips. “I just tuned in.”

  The humming grew louder. Then lyrics.

  “. . . I can see clearly now . . .”

  Serge followed the voice into the kitchen. He stopped again.

  Kenny was dancing a merry jig as he squeezed juice oranges into a ceramic pitcher. Wearing sandals, swim trunks, an old Riviera Beach Surf Club T-shirt.

  Serge’s brain didn’t know where to start. Kenny had told him he usually slept well past noon. Depression and skewed circadian rhythms from all the blacked-out windows in the house. And his appetite had been down to nothing. Something was going on.

  “Kenny, what time did you get up?”

  He stuck his hands in oven mitts. “Before dawn.”

  Serge inventoried the breakfast menu. “Where’d you get all the fresh meat and eggs?”

  “And citrus.” Kenny tossed Serge an Indian River grapefruit.

  “But you only have cabinets full of all that canned survival food for hydrogen-bomb attacks.”

  Kenny opened the oven and removed a tray of southern buttermilk biscuits. “I went to the store.”

  “You mean in the middle of the night? In a disguise?”

  “No, this morning right after my swim.” He set out three plates. “Help yourself.”

  Serge noticed Kenny’s still-moist spiked hair. “Where’d you go swimming?”

  “In the ocean.” Kenny unfolded the Post’s sports section and scooped hash browns with a fork.

  Coleman poured OJ from the pitcher and added an equal amount of Smirnoff. He grabbed a chair next to Kenny.

  Serge remained standing. “Sorry if I’m having trouble processing all this . . .”

  “Oh, and I know you like coffee,” said Kenny, munching a biscuit crammed with bacon. “I just brewed that pot over there.”

  “What? Coffee?” Serge loped across the room and grabbed a mug. Then they were all seated together like family.

  Serge rapidly alternated between the grapefruit in one hand and cup of joe in the other. “Kenny, man, you were a wreck yesterday, and now this. It’s such a startling transformation. What . . . happened?”

  “I have you to thank.” A big fork of scrambled eggs. “What was I doing with my life? What a serious rut!”

  “I’ve heard of fast rebounds,” said Serge. “But this is like giving a heroin overdose a shot of Narcan.”

  “You guys were just the kick I needed.” Kenny continued chewing like someone who had been rescued at sea. “You had so many questions, and once I started talking, the floodgate of memories opened wide, like the Peanut Man.”

  “The Peanut Man?” said Coleman.

  “Serge and I were jumping from topic to topic . . .”

  S
erge finished off his coffee. “I said, ‘Remember that old black guy who sat on the northwest corner of Old Dixie and Blue Heron, selling peanuts out of a baby carriage?”

  “He was an institution, planted there with that stroller for years as if he had taken root on that sidewalk,” said Kenny. “He was like the unofficial mayor. Everyone knew the Peanut Man.”

  “The midnight blowing of the horn on the SEC railroad,” Serge continued. “The blinking stacks at the power plant, the Trylon tourist tower, Captain Jack’s fishing report, nude ‘Air Force Beach’—the kids never stopped talking about that one.”

  Kenny wiped up his plate with one last bite of biscuit and took it to the sink. “What a great life I had growing up here! And then I looked around this dank house of despair and thought to myself, ‘What the hell are you doing, Kenny?’ . . . To think it all started with you breaking in through the window over the sink. I’d been hunkered down terrified of someone coming after me. And when you broke in and nothing bad happened, it was an epiphany. What are your plans for the day—”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Serge jumped up in alarm—“Who the hell is that?”—instinctively reaching for his waistband.

  Kenny remained calm. “Talk about role reversal.” He headed for the side door.

  “But Kenny,” said Serge, “why didn’t we hear any footsteps through the stereo?”

  “Because I turned off those stupid microphones.” He reached for the locks.

  “Wait!” said Serge. “Are you expecting a delivery?”

  “Not until Friday. And she only comes at night.” Kenny undid the bolts.

  “No!” said Serge. “Don’t—”

  Too late. The door opened.

  “Oh, hi, Chris,” said Kenny. “What are you doing here? It’s not Friday.”

  Chris smiled and lifted the single brown bag in her arms. “It’s my day off, and I thought I’d bring a few extra things by.” She angled her head to see around Kenny into the house. “Are your friends still here?”

  He swung an arm. “Right at that table . . . Join us for breakfast.”

  “Already ate.” She came inside. “Hi, Serge.”

  “Chris!” He jumped up and relinquished his chair. Serge was about to say something, but momentarily lost his vocal cords.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Chris. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Coleman pointed with a piece of toast. “You’re wearing plaid.” He dipped it in yolk.

  “Plaid?” She chuckled. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Serge blushed and adjusted his waistband. A forced grin. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. Or at least not this soon.”

  “Was in the neighborhood.”

  Coleman raised his hand. “I’m Coleman.”

  “Chris,” said Kenny, “what’s in the bag?”

  She began unloading cheese and bread and salads from the deli.

  Serge looked accusingly at her. “Don’t lie. You were planning a picnic, weren’t you?”

  Her turn to blush. She pulled out two bottles. “I got both red and white. Didn’t know which you liked.”

  “I don’t drink,” said Serge.

  Coleman lunged with outstretched claws. “Mine!”

  “Everyone stand back,” said Serge, grabbing his wristwatch. “It’s a marvel of nature.”

  Coleman chewed the seal off one bottle, then grabbed car keys from the table and began excavating the cork.

  “I do actually have a corkscrew,” said Kenny, but Serge waved him off.

  Coleman finally plunged the last broken chunk down into the bottle, where it bobbed as he upended it for a long slug. He slammed the bottle down. “Time!”

  Serge pressed a button on his watch. “Twenty-three-point-four seconds.”

  But Chris was still gazing at Serge. “So what are you up to today?”

  “Depends on Kenny. He’s made a remarkable breakthrough . . . Kenny, what’s on the slate?”

  “I’m going surfing.”

  “I surf, too,” said Serge. “Great memories of carrying my board through the Colonnades and seeing John D. MacArthur in the coffee shop all the time.”

  “It’s amazing he managed his vast empire from that table,” said Kenny. “So where do you want to catch waves?”

  “The Pump House?”

  “You do know the area,” said Kenny.

  “I surf, too,” said Chris.

  “You’re a surfer chick?” said Serge. “Oops, I didn’t mean anything by ‘chick.’ Grew up in a different era. But I have total respect. Like Eleanor Roosevelt, Susan B. Anthony and Mother Teresa. Incredible chicks.”

  Coleman raised his hand. “I surf.”

  “You do not!” said Serge.

  “Do too!”

  “When?”

  “All the time,” said Coleman. “When you’re not around.”

  “You lie—”

  Kenny clapped his hands hard. “Guys, are we surfing or not?”

  “Just one second.” Serge faced Chris. “This is a test, like in the movie Diner. The Peanut Man?”

  “Corner of Blue Heron and Dixie.”

  “You’re in.” Serge turned to Kenny. “Surf’s up.”

  Kenny grabbed a step stool, and they got the boards down for the first time in ages.

  “We’ll only need three of them,” said Serge.

  “I do too surf!” said Coleman.

  “What’s the harm?” Kenny asked Serge.

  “Trust me when I say the possibilities are endless.”

  None of the vehicles had racks, so they used beach towels and rope to lash the boards to the roofs.

  Kenny was up first at the Pump House, riding a strong wave off the sandbar like he’d never left the place.

  Then it was Chris’s turn, timing the next wave and standing up in a one-piece black-and-turquoise bodysuit. Even Kenny was impressed by the agility of her cutback.

  “It’s been a while,” said Serge. “Nobody laugh.” He stood up on his board in front of a small wave. No moves or anything, just maintaining balance, which was no small feat.

  Then, from the other side of a swell: “Okay, here I come!” yelled Coleman.

  It was a larger wave than usual, and Coleman suddenly appeared bobbing in the water with an inflatable swim ring around his stomach. The ring had the head of a sea horse, and a built-in beverage holder. “Yabba-dabba-doo!” He expertly crested the wave drinking a beer mixed with salt water.

  The foursome swam back out again. And they rode the next wave back in again, then the next wave and the next, each member of the gang pretty much executing the same respective styles, except Coleman was now drinking pure salt water.

  An hour later, they all hit the sand hard, wiped.

  “Man, I forgot how much the water and sun take it out of you,” said Kenny, lying back with his head on a rolled-up towel, smiling like the kid he used to be.

  Serge opened a beach umbrella and rammed it in the sand. Coleman opened a beer cooler and shotgunned. Chris opened a paperback and found a dog-eared page.

  “What are you reading?” asked Serge.

  She turned the book over to show. “MacDonald. The Long Lavender Look.”

  “Johnny D.!” said Serge. “I’ve read that whole series. Twice. Forward and back.”

  Chris turned a page. “I’m ten books in. Eleven to go.”

  “Allow me.” Serge unrolled a beach towel. “You shouldn’t have to lie in the sand.”

  She brushed herself off and was about to lie down again. “Where’d you get that thing?”

  “What? It’s my favorite towel.”

  “It’s ancient. One of those old maps of Florida with little symbols illustrating what each area is known for.” She got on her hands and knees. “This is so cool! There’s a mermaid, water skier, Bok Tower in the middle, oranges and alligators naturally, lighthouse in Key West, deco hotel in Miami, race car in Daytona—you can tell how old it is because there isn’t a rocket yet at Cape Canavera
l.”

  Serge became awkwardly coy. “I . . . could show you my View-Masters.”

  “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard to get me in bed.”

  “Me? . . . I? . . . What?”

  She laughed and lightly touched his arm. Sparks. “I love old View-Masters.”

  Kenny hopped up. “This is too great a day! I’m going back in!”

  “Me too!” said Coleman, grabbing a beer and blow-up sea horse.

  “Grab the end of my board!” said Kenny. “I’ll tow you out!”

  Serge watched the waves. “Now that’s a pairing I didn’t see coming.”

  “You used to live around here?” asked Chris.

  “This very town.” Serge pointed north. “I remember first coming to that beach when I was in diapers and a playpen. I mean, I remember the photos.”

  She began unconsciously twirling her hair with a finger. “So, uh, tell me about this big literary tour of yours.”

  “Okay!” Serge plopped down next to her cross-legged. “It’s really cool! . . .”

  The sun began to fade, and so did the surfers.

  They packed it all in and secured the boards back on the roofs.

  “Meet you at the house?” said Kenny. “We can shower, and I just read about this fantastic locals bar with the coldest beer for miles! They put bags of ice in the pitchers.”

  Coleman dove into Kenny’s vehicle.

  “See you in a while,” said Serge. “I’m going to give Chris the hometown tour.”

  They crossed back over the big bridge and parted ways.

  “. . . There’s Saint Francis, where I was an altar boy . . . there’s my Little League field . . . there’s where I launched rockets . . . here’s my house, where I climbed on the roof when I was six by shimmying up the old TV antenna . . . here’s the storm-drain access point where I explored under the city . . . that used to be Jack’s Coin Shop, where I got a little carried away about pennies . . . that Walgreens used to be the town theater where the nuns took us to see The Sound of Music because it’s the only movie where nuns defeat Nazis . . .”

  The Nova arrived back at the bungalow as Kenny was slipping into a golf shirt. “What a great day! Coleman’s hilarious! We’re heading out for dinner. Want to join us?”