by Tim Dorsey
“I’m doing you a favor.” Serge stretched out his shooting arm. “Play your cards right, and you could become an Internet heartthrob.”
“But—”
“You’d rather stay here with me? How sweet.”
“No, no!” Crack quickly ripped off his shirt and pulled down his pants. “I’ll skinny-dip . . .” He looked around. “But where is this person you were waiting for?”
“They’re arriving by boat.” Serge aimed his pistol. “You’re free to go. Swim . . .”
Crack didn’t need to be told twice. He dove in the water and swam like it was the Olympics. He neared the halfway mark across the river and found he was veering in the wrong direction. He lifted his head and corrected course. It happened two more times, but no matter how hard he tried, the captain always found himself swinging back to face Serge. What was going on?
Then it became clear. He didn’t know the name of the place he was at, but he understood the concept. Captain Crack began spinning wildly, screaming with abandon as he stared up at the large metal wall at the Ortona Lock and Dam towering over him.
And the violent, twenty-foot-wide whirlpool flushed him down like a turd.
Epilogue
As football signing day approached, college scouts again descended on The Muck like a migration of birds. Or locusts.
One particular scout from a perennial midwestern contender was interested in the star running back. The principal pulled him aside and reminded the scout that, years earlier, his university had recruited another of their running backs.
“That’s right,” said the smiling scout. “I remember him.”
Then the principal adopted a grave tone and explained how it would be.
Now, mere mortals cannot comprehend what the power and money of big-college football are able to accomplish, just short of interstellar travel. And even that’s arguable. It’s only a matter of motivation, and the college boosters really wanted this tailback. The principal’s conversation was highly inappropriate and totally the right thing to do.
A few weeks later, a knock at the front door of a modest concrete-block ranch house on Pahokee’s south side.
“Principal Jennings, what brings you around?”
“May I come in?”
“Be my guest,” said a former running back named Calhoun.
“Lamar, funny thing. We took another look at your situation, and it turns out there are no records whatsoever of any incident between you and a coach.” He opened a file with stamped pages. “We’ve received notarized statements from both the university and local police department that your name is squeaky-clean up there.”
“What? But how—?”
“Lamar, listen to me . . .”—telegraphing the unspoken with his eyes—“. . . there are no records.”
“Uh, okay.”
The principal headed for the door and turned around just before he left. “Why don’t you swing by my office Monday morning. I’d like to hear your plans for the team this year.”
The body of Captain Crack Nasty was discovered sticking halfway out of an underwater valve at the Ortona Lock and Dam. Due to his blood-alcohol content, nudity and other factors, it was officially ruled death by misadventure, as if someone had planned it that way. Some of the locals had other theories about an unusual stranger who’d breezed through town, but none felt the slightest inclination to come forward.
Cheyenne Lovitt actually cried after opening the letter that had been slipped under the motel office door in the middle of the night: “For reasons that are now all too obvious, I must go away for a while and not have any contact with you or your brother, for your own protection. I guess there are too many places we’ve both got to see. I can’t say when, but I promise after things blow over, I’ll find a way to get back in touch with my little history helper. Serge.”
Kyle Lovitt’s passion for the rodeo only grew, and he became a crowd favorite on the southern circuit. He was back home again a year later for the annual Okeechobee Rodeo. It immediately got dicey in the starting chute. An extra-ornery bronco named Diablo crashed and bucked against the railings. Until now, nobody had been able to complete a ride, and most no longer dared try. “Hold on!” yelled one of the rodeo hands trying to steady the horse. “No, I’ve got it,” said Kyle. “Just get that gate open fast.” He practically had to jump into the saddle, and the horse blasted off. It was a magnificent ride, and after the full eight seconds, Kyle jumped down to a standing ovation from the crowd.
Cheyenne had begun nursing school, but still always found the time to slip into her cowgal duds and proudly carry the American flag to open each rodeo. After Kyle dismounted Diablo, she ran out across the dirt to congratulate him with a hug. “You were fantastic! Listen to that applause!” As their eyes moved around the arena, taking in all the standing, cheering people, they happened to look at the far end of the dirt and a pair of barrels. Suddenly, two clowns popped up and waved. Then ran off into the night.
“Did I just really see that?” asked Cheyenne.
Kyle turned to his sister. “Is this good or bad?”
Chris never played organized sports again.
Instead, she received a full academic scholarship to Johns Hopkins University. She had the grades and aptitude to become a highly paid, top-notch specialist in any number of disciplines, but her personal calling required her to become a general practitioner.
After graduation, she hired a lawyer. He had never heard such a story, about a little kid who discovered treasure in a cane field and patiently carried a little bit home every day until, over the course of years, she had buried, well, a lot of it in the woods behind her grandmother’s apartment. He researched applicable law, and sure enough, the hurricane had given her the same salvage rights as if it had been a Spanish galleon. The question of a proper lease and trespassing were another matter, but the land had since changed hands, wiping the slate clean. She was free and clear. He set up a trust and took care of taxes.
Chris used the trust and her degree to return to The Muck, where she opened a much-needed pediatric health clinic. She accepted all kinds of insurance and Medicaid. If you didn’t have any of that, it was free. She couldn’t have been happier, and neither could the town.
This is how much the community loved Chris for all she had given to them: Four decades later, in the wrinkled winter of her career, they unveiled a bronze statue of a young girl running with a football.
A few days after that, Chris and her staff finished a Friday afternoon of treating the latest crop of local kids who came through her door. The staff and patients had all gone home, and Chris stayed behind to deal with some government forms.
A number of professionals in various walks of life like to decorate their offices with mementos of success: diplomas, plaques, trophies, medals and ribbons. Chris had her own idea of decorating.
She finished the paperwork and grabbed her briefcase. Just before turning out the lights, Chris did what she always did at the end of each day. She looked around at the various walls, completely covered with overlapping photos of children and thank-you cards.
Finally, Chris’s eyes went over to her favorite trophy, displayed on a bookshelf. And she smiled.
She was looking at a milk crate.
About the Author
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of twenty-two other novels: 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, Coconut Cowboy, Clownfish Blues, The Pope of Palm Beach and No Sunscreen for the Dead. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Tim Dorsey
Florida Roadkill
Hammerhead Ranch Motel
Orange Cr
ush
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
Coconut Cowboy
Clownfish Blues
The Pope of Palm Beach
No Sunscreen for the Dead
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
naked came the florida man. Copyright © 2020 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.
Cover design and illustration by Christopher Sergio
first edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition JANUARY 2020 ISBN 978-0-06-279595-3
Print ISBN 978-0-06-279600-4
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