by Tim Dorsey
Bang.
Fakakta fell forward into the mud.
“He’s crawling,” said Cabbage. “He’s not dead.”
Mozelle calmly crossed the thirty or so yards, until he had walked around in front of the slithering Fulgencio.
The sugar baron raised his face to see the barrel of a gun.
Mozelle cocked it again. “This is for Jacob.”
Bang.
“We’re definitely going to have to leave the state,” said Cabbage. “I got some relatives in Natchez.”
“First things first.” Johnson grabbed the initial crate and heaved. “Let’s get all this out of the ground.”
The wind and rain became a brutal impediment, but they were motivated. Soon, crates were spread everywhere.
“He just left all this in a hole?” said Mozelle.
“It ain’t going to spoil,” said Johnson. “Gold doesn’t even tarnish. We need to go back and get your brother’s pickup truck. And it’ll take more than one trip.”
Cabbage wiped water from his eyes and looked up. “Shouldn’t it already be getting light out?”
“We just lost track of time,” said Mozelle, falling down in the wind and struggling to rise.
“I’ll stay here and watch this,” said Johnson. “You guys go get the truck—”
There was a sharp cracking sound. Louder than a rifle.
“What the hell was that?”
Then another loud report. More and more followed in quick succession.
“It sounds like trees snapping, but that can’t be—”
“Shut up!”
They all stared silent at the woods a quarter mile north of the home. More savage cracking until it was a constant chorus. They strained with their eyes but couldn’t make out anything. The noise became a roar of ground-level thunder.
Finally, the last rows of trees on the edge of the woods gave way and splintered and were gone. They looked up in the darkness.
“What the hell is that?” said Cabbage.
Whatever it was, it was traveling fast, at least sixty miles an hour.
When they finally figured out what they were looking at, it was too much for their brains to process. A couple hundred yards away, they watched the plantation home explode and disappear.
Seconds later, it was right in front of them. Nothing to do but freeze and conjure one last thought: That fucking lake.
In surrender, they simply stared straight up into the black, twenty-foot-high tidal wave.
Part Two
Chapter 26
Rodeo Night
Serge drove north with a high-end tape recorder in his lap and a microphone in his hand.
Captain Florida’s Log, Star Date 376.693
The city of Okeechobee rests on the northern tip of the lake by the same name. You just have to love a town that runs off the cliff with its identity, and you never need to be reminded you’re in cattle country: the Brahman Theater, Brahman Restaurant & Lounge, Okeechobee High School (Home of the Brahmans), Cowboy’s Barbecue, the Cowtown Café, the Cattlemen’s Association rodeo arena. The economic center of downtown is the bustling Eli’s Western Wear. You can be driving down Main Street on a Tuesday morning and suddenly realize you desperately need a two-thousand-dollar saddle, lassos, spurs, rhinestone belt, and five-foot-long decorative steer horns to hang over the TV. You’re in luck! Eli’s has amassed a staggering supply. Then there are the cows themselves. Cattle dot the fields all over Central Florida, but nothing like here, where they vastly outnumber the humans, in herds not seen since buffalo covered the prairies in Dances with Wolves. Billboards everywhere along the pastures: Beef, It’s What’s for Dinner, next to grazing livestock unaware of the advertisements for their impending execution.
Speaking of downtown, Main Street is actually called Park Street and there are two of them laid out parallel through the center of the city. Between the pair runs a wide, shaded green space like a series of football fields, starting with a military display of a Vietnam-era Huey helicopter, M60 Patton tank and a couple pieces of heavy ground artillery. From there, the public park has nowhere to go but mellow, with quiet benches, picnic tables, thatched-roof huts and vintage-style lampposts. But wait! There’s more! Get ready to seriously crap yourselves! I’ve kind of been hung up on murals lately, and I’d completely forgotten my favorite part of Okeechobee! It’s Mural City, USA! Remember the batshit town-identity thing? And just when you thought the insanity had reached critical mass. That’s right: They found more mass! Most antique communities have lots of old brick buildings with empty brick sides, and the residents think nothing of it. Not the fine people here! Sometime back, they went on the mural version of a crack binge, and now you can’t throw a cow pie in this place without it sticking to public art. There’s a mural celebrating the arrival of the railroad in 1915 with scenes of ice delivery and catfish; another touts an important cattle drive with happy people waiting at the end; there’s a car dealership that opened in 1933, and a pioneer hardware store. The side of the Big O drive-through liquor barn has marsh birds flying over the lake, and a country restaurant sports a mural within a mural: a painting of one of those old postcards, Welcome to Okeechobee, with each of the giant letters in the city’s name a separate homage. And you know how a lot of main streets have abandoned buildings that are simply boarded up with plywood, and jerks spray-paint gang symbols and Fuck the System and giant penises? I think we can all agree that’s not going anywhere special. But at the historic and defunct 1923 tan-brick Okeechobee bank, instead of plywood, the town painted all the windows to look like a bunch of customers in period clothing are still inside conducting business! And finally the cherry on the sundae: There’s even a mural depicting the history of local phone service (“First Operator, Byrd Sizemore”). I thought something like that would only reach an audience of one. Me. But these are my people! I must stop dictating this now and interact with them . . .
The convenience store had cedar slats. It was sparsely stocked and otherwise empty except for a retired couple at the counter. A wagon wheel leaned against the front of the building, intended to drum up business, but now there were doubts.
Serge and Coleman walked up behind the old people.
The couple was taking an extra-long time with the clerk. An involved conversation, and it wasn’t about a transaction.
“Serge, are you going to do anything crazy like the other times?”
“No.”
“But when people take forever in convenience stores, you always flip out.”
“This is different. I want to listen to small-town talk.” Serge blew across the top of a Styrofoam cup. “I already have my coffee, so I can drink it while waiting. Legally they can’t touch me as long as I pay.”
The old woman clutched a purse in front of her with both hands. “When does Charlie come on?”
“He doesn’t work here anymore,” said the clerk. “Actually, I’m his son.”
“You’re Billy?” asked the old man. “You’ve really grown. I remember when you were this high.”
“Billy’s my older brother.”
“Then that makes you Donny,” said the woman. “You’ve really grown.”
“Where does your dad work now?” asked the old man.
“Retired,” said the clerk. “Just smokes cigars on the porch with the dogs.”
“We’ve always thought the world of Charlie. Your whole family,” said the woman. “Can you give him our best?”
“Absolutely.”
The couple thanked him and left, and Serge stepped up.
The clerk smiled cordially. “How’s your day been going?”
“Magically!” Serge set a cup on the counter. “I already love your family, and we haven’t even met!”
The clerk looked down. “It’s an empty cup.”
“I know the rules.” Serge slapped down a couple of dollars. “Technically, I’m still in my lane, so there’s no need for trouble.”
“No, I mean, don’t you want coffee i
n it?”
Serge patted his stomach. “Already in here.”
The clerk leaned over the cup. “Oh, yeah. I see the drops.” He smiled again and rang Serge up. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes!” Serge tossed the cup in the trash. “A side order of country-fried conversation.”
“Uh, what?”
“Like you were having with those old folks. I love small-town friendliness!”
“Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the clerk. “If we got any friendlier, people would think we were trying to sell something.”
“You are,” said Serge. “You’re a clerk in a store. Isn’t that the program here? Just because the wagon wheel out front didn’t fulfill the big dreams, the answer isn’t Communism.”
Coleman raised his hand. “You should get a mannequin of a hot chick and stick her by the road.”
“Coleman! Shhhh!” said Serge. “I’m talking to the guy here. The mannequins draw the wrong crowd, who just want to use the restrooms and aren’t too precise about it.”
The clerk chuckled. “You guys are funny. What brings you to town?”
“The town!” said Serge. “I love everything about it. Right now I’m mentally rocking out to your murals.”
“Oh, the murals,” said Donny. “Aren’t they fantastic? My personal favorite is the telephone one.”
“Me too!” said Serge. “Byrdie Sizemore! I know her name is Byrd, but I like to refer to her as Byrdie because it’s a free country. I’m always thinking about her. Was she musical? Petulant? Did she find her life’s work fulfilling, or just start smashing telephones near the end? And exactly what switchboard call was she connecting in that mural? A family reunion at the old Forsythe place? Gossip about the preacher and the Widow Milsap? An emergency involving moonshine and a two-person tree saw?”
The clerk chuckled again. “Never quite thought about it.”
Serge pointed at the duffel bag near his feet, then at the corner of the store. “Can we use your restroom? I actually made a purchase, so we’re not from the mannequin crowd. But I will need a while because we have to get dressed for work. Really important gig.”
“Take as long as you want,” said Donny. “If there’s a problem, I’ll tell everyone to use the women’s room.”
“You’re good people . . .”
Donny sat back on a stool and resumed flipping through a magazine with blueprints for patio decks. After a couple minutes, he thought he heard something. He leaned over the counter, looking down the hall to the restrooms. There was a muffled banging sound, then a crash and arguing in hushed tones. “Let go of me!” “Don’t screw this up again!” Another bang. A clanging noise. The door opened and Serge stuck his head out with a grin. “Almost done. There’s nothing unusual.” The door closed. Bang, bang, bang. “Dammit!” “Shit, my bad.” Then a suspiciously long pause. The door finally opened again.
Serge and Coleman stepped out, and Donny stepped back, scratching his head. “What exactly is this job you do?”
Serge told him.
“Ohhhh.” Donny nodded with understanding.
“Don’t fib,” said Serge. “At first you thought this was weird. Anyway, pleasure to meet, thanks for use of the restroom, and any damage in there was from the other guys.”
They left the store, and a gold Plymouth sped off north through the fading light on U.S. Highway 441. Pot smoke wafted out the windows.
“I’m beginning to see why you like country folk so much,” said Coleman. “First your little history helper at the motel desk, and now that cool guy in the convenience store.”
“Country folk are the best!” said Serge. “That is, most of the time.”
Puff, puff. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong: Everything is usually finger-lickin’ fantastic,” said Serge. “Until you get lost driving through deep fog in the woods at night with no cell service or GPS. Then you notice a tiny light on in the distance at an isolated farmhouse. So you knock on the door for directions, and the next thing you know, you’re handcuffed to a radiator while a family in bib overalls giggles and rubs mice on your face, and one of them says, ‘Go get the twins.’ And someone else opens a cellar door, and these two little albinos with pointy teeth show up, and you’re like, ‘Where in the fuck is this going?’ But you know that all the signs so far are not positive, and then somehow you free yourself and run outside. Your car is just feet away and the keys are still in your pocket, but for some reason you tell yourself, ‘That’s a stupid idea. I’ll run for a barn way out in that dark field.’ You dash inside the rickety structure to find all kinds of thick chains hanging from the rafters with hooks and rusty scything blades, and a mottled hand is reaching up from a fresh grave in the dirt floor. Then a chain saw roars to life outside and you dive behind bales of hay as flashlight beams pierce through slats in the barn wall. And that’s if you’re lucky. Sometimes the family is into Amway: ‘No, I don’t want to join!’ ‘It’ll change your life!’ And then they’re chasing you to the barn with pamphlets and brochures.”
“Amway,” said Coleman, shaking with the willies.
The Plymouth pulled off the road. “Here we are.”
Other cars were already parked, many more arriving. People streamed toward what looked like an old minor-league baseball stadium in Oshkosh. Erector-Set girders and rusty metal sheeting over the stands in case of rain.
Serge and Coleman made their way to the entrance of the rodeo arena. A cashier in the ticket booth gave their outfits a double take, then asked for the admission fee.
Serge shook his head. “We’re clowns. We’re authorized.”
“You’re in the show?” asked the cashier.
Serge adjusted the red ball on his nose. “Why else would we be dressed like this? Just because we decided to pretend like we work here?”
“But the clowns have already arrived.”
“They called for backup.” Serge flashed a clown badge. “There could be trouble tonight. I’d count on it.”
She shrugged and let them pass.
Coleman slapped floppy shoes on the walkway. “What do we do now?”
“Act like we belong.”
They arrived at a fence along the side of the dusty arena. A cowgal in scarlet-fringed riding chaps went by on a horse. Sandy-blond locks flowed out from under her black Stetson hat. She proudly raised a giant American flag as they played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Coleman nudged his buddy. “Look who it is.”
“I know,” said Serge. “My little history helper. Imagine that.”
Coleman nudged him again. “She’s wearing a plaid shirt.”
“Shut up.”
After a few preliminary announcements over the PA system, a galvanized metal gate burst open. A cowboy swung a free arm in the air as a bronco fiercely fought to dislodge him. After eight seconds, he hit the dirt in a nasty spill. The crowd stood in silent concern. The cowboy jumped right up and waved to them with his hat.
The PA announcer: “Let’s hear it for Sundance Cassidy.”
Wild cheering.
Serge wound his way through spectators along the fence—“Excuse me, excuse me, coming through . . .”—until he came to an access gate and a security guard. “Thank you for your service. Could you please open that?”
“Who are you?”
Serge looked at Coleman. “Who are we?” Then back at the guard. “Who does it look like we are? Is this your first rodeo?”
“But the clowns are already out there.”
“New liability insurance rule: more clowns.”
“I’m going to have to check with a supervisor.”
“Go ahead,” Serge said as a bronco thundered by, throwing the rider into the fence. “Meanwhile, someone gets hurt, lawsuits fly, and then you’re stuttering on the witness stand about why you withheld lifesaving clown procedures.”
PA: “Let’s hear it for Blueridge Grymes!”
“Well, okay, you seem authorized.”
Serge and Coleman waved to the crowd as they strolled across the dirt. Coleman stopped and looked at something stuck to the bottom of one of his big floppy shoes.
“Seriously?” said Serge. “Already?”
“It’s everywhere.”
Serge pointed. “There’s our command post.”
They took up positions behind a pair of oak barrels, leaning with their elbows.
“This is it? This is a job?” Coleman whistled. “Clowns have it all figured out.”
“The clowning life is extreme boredom punctuated by bursts of sheer terror.”
“I remember those birthday parties.”
PA: “Let’s hear it for Omaha Kid Sloane!”
Gate after gate flew open, and cowboy after cowboy flew through the air. More names from the PA were announced and applauded: Boone Cartwright, Doc Hickock, Austin Buck, Deadwood Dixon, Medicine Hat McCoy.
“What are those big animals over there?” asked Coleman. “They look nasty.”
“They are,” said Serge, resting his chin on top of a barrel. “Brahma bulls. Unlike horses, they have vicious horns. Only the bravest ride them.”
“People ride them?” said Coleman. “And we’re going to be out here? What if they come after me and I get scared?”
“Just get inside one of these barrels. That’s what they’re for.”
Coleman nodded. “You know what I’m thinking about now?”
“The panel is stumped.”
“My taste buds.”
“Still goose eggs. Please proceed.”
“You know how you loved some foods as a kid, but unless you make it a point, you don’t get the chance anymore?” said Coleman. “I miss SpaghettiOs.”
“This is your news flash?” said Serge.
“Just sayin’.”
“But I do feel your pain,” said Serge. “Our taste buds have changed, despite all my efforts. It’s no coincidence that Chef Boyardee has two different gustation formulas for kids and grown-ups, developed through rigorous kindergarten focus groups. Same thing with the little McDonald’s hamburgers. They needed a gateway drug to get kids hooked, but adults were unreliable test subjects, so the winning formula had to be the result of random permutations screened by the preschool set. How else would you explain the counterintuitive final strokes of adding a dollop of mustard and diced pieces of sautéed onions? I remember when I was five taking one of my hamburgers apart: ‘I must learn what kind of party is going on in this thing because Mom never comes close!’ And the next time she made hamburgers at home: ‘Mom, I’ll get the mustard and you grab the little translucent squares.’”
