He was third into my office, right behind his cologne. “So, Nedster, mind if I take a look-see? I don’t cut my next deal till 1:00. Got a little theatre sale up your way, in Buckhead. But I got some reading time now if you don’t mind….”
Each time we visited, Rocco would tell me what he was about to sell. Who knew if the deals ever got done? Who knew if Rocco could even read?
I decided to test that premise. Behind my desk, I pulled a copy of Larry’s first six chapters and handed the stack to white-toothed, deal-cutting Rocco. “These pages don’t leave the building, Rock. Got it? I want these back by the time you leave today.”
He clutched them to his chest like a kid with a doll. “Guard it with my life, Nedster. Say, you want some coffee? I’m buyin’ today.”
“The coffee on our floor is free, Rocco.”
“Still, I’ll deliver. Black, right?”
“With one sugar. Thanks.”
An hour later Rocco returned with a black coffee, four sugars, and three creams. He set them on my desk and stood there grinning. “Please, Ned, this had me giggling in the break room. I got twenty more minutes before I have to drive to Buckhead. Can I please read a little more?”
I dumped a pair of sugars in my coffee, nodded okay, and watched happy, grinning Rocco ease out of my office with chapter seven.
7
OYSTER SHELLS CRACKED and popped under the tires of DJ Ned’s Mercedes. On the drive toward the coast Ned and Lanny had bonded like two survivors, determined to battle a common enemy. Lanny had shared his work debacles, the Atlanta traffic report, and how he feared for Miranda’s life; Ned had recounted the strange new music, his lack of callers, and the renaming of Devil’s food cake. Now Lanny gazed through the windshield at the moored vessels of Bluewater Marina, hoping that Miranda was near. He sniffed salt air, heard gulls caw overhead.
“See her car?” Ned asked. He cut the engine and unlatched his seatbelt.
Lanny said nothing.
Ned waited all of four seconds. “Well,” Ned asked, “do ya see it?”
Lanny climbed out of the convertible, stood near the hood, and scanned the parking lot. He turned slowly, searching every spot. Finally, he stopped squinting and shook his head.
“She flew down, so she’d have driven her parents’ Explorer. But I don’t see an Explorer anywhere.” Lanny strode toward the marina and motioned for Ned to follow. “C’mon, let’s search the docks.”
Ned tended to pamper his possessions, especially his car, so he secured the convertible top before hurrying across the oyster shells in his sneakers. He came up behind Lanny. “My neighbor kept a boat here once,” he offered, not sure what to say but glad to be in the company of a fellow non-zealot.
They walked out onto the docks and turned left toward a row of impressive charter boats and pleasure craft. Lanny’s equilibrium tottered when he approached the first four vessels and noted their names: the I’m So Worthy, the I’m So Worthy 2, followed by the Formal on Sundays, and the Formal on Sundays 2.
From the available evidence, a complete maritime conversion had taken place.
“Seein’ a pattern here?” asked DJ Ned, trailing behind and making no effort to hide his sarcasm. “Ain’t no more Nina, Pinta, or Santa Maria.”
“That’s enough, Ned,” Lanny said over his shoulder.
Ned would not shut up. A psychologist had once told him that he was one of those people who relied on empty chatter and humor to cope with stressful situations. “Looks to me like the zealots beat us to the marina. In fact, it looks like the zealots now own the marina. By now, they probably own the entire planet.”
Ned struggled to keep up with Lanny, who surprised him by stopping and staring at the empty fifth slip. Below him were just docile waters and barnacled posts.
“What’s the matter?” Ned inquired. “You were expecting an agnostic boat?”
Lanny stared out to sea and saw nothing but gentle whitecaps under a blue sky. “Slip number five was where Miranda’s parents kept their charter.”
“What was its name?” Ned inquired.
“They named it for their first child,” Lanny said, on his toes and peering out to sea. “The boat is called The Miranda.”
Ned looked behind him at the boats they’d just passed. He glanced ahead at the sixth slip and noted its name. “Ya think the boat you’re looking for in slip five was renamed the Sanitized?”
Lanny shrugged. He had no clue about this lingo. “How did you come up with that?”
Ned lacked confidence in his suggestion, but it was all he had. “I was just thinking, given that there’s a boat called Sanitized 2 in slip number six, and considering the pattern for slips one through four, then slip number five must be—”
“Hush, Ned.”
DJ Ned was an optimist at heart. He’d been flirting with denial and was just now realizing the magnitude of the situation. His world suddenly felt smaller, pea-sized. Now, as he scanned the boats again, he even began to shake a bit.
A seagull swooped past, and Ned wondered if the bird might be only seconds away from turning into a dove. He watched it soar out over the ocean, and he was relieved, ecstatic even, to see that it remained a gull.
Lanny left Ned to birdwatch on the dock and jogged toward the marina office. “Be right back,” he called over his shoulder.
Murals of palm trees and ocean adorned the outer walls of the building, but Lanny ran past them without a glance. He opened the front door and went inside.
Two minutes later he came running back down the dock, only to find Ned leaned over the stern of the I’m So Worthy 2, touching its name.
“Paint’s still tacky on this one,” Ned proclaimed, rubbing his fingers together like a detective checking blood.
Lanny stood panting from his run, hands on hips. “I got scared, didn’t even talk to the manager. But a register listed the boat in slip number five as having left this morning. It wasn’t in Miranda’s handwriting.”
Ned wiped his fingers on his shorts, glanced at the office. “You think she’s on board?”
Lanny could not take his eyes off the empty fifth slip. “I think the manager could be a zealot. So Miranda and her parents probably fled when they found out what was happening. Mr. and Mrs. Timms own a time-share in Abaco. Plus, the hurricane is coming from the Gulf of Mexico, so Mr. Timms would have known the Atlantic was safe to navigate.” Lanny stood on his toes and peered out to sea. “I have to get to Abaco. But get this, Ned—a sign on the counter said no one can charter a boat unless management checks your ‘cleanliness status’ on some Web site.”
Ned glanced at the pocket of his shorts, where he’d just wiped the paint off his fingers, and realized that he wasn’t very clean either. Then he peered past Lanny and saw the marina manager at the far end, holding a USA Today, talking excitedly into a cell phone, and pointing at Lanny and himself. In the distance a siren wailed.
“We gotta leave the mainland,” Ned whispered to his new friend. “They’re on to us.”
Lanny turned and saw the manager staring at them and talking into his cell. When the manager ducked inside his office, Lanny and DJ Ned walked briskly off the dock and sprinted for the parking lot.
Ned again struggled to keep up with his leaner friend.
“Lanny, I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but I have—” Ned was hesitant to finish his thought, caught as he was between fear, generosity, and gasps for breath.
“Have what?” Lanny demanded. “Spit it out, man.”
“I have my pilot’s license.”
Lanny slowed to allow Ned to catch up. “No kiddin’?”
“No kiddin’… and a small plane, too.”
Lanny’s shock was exceeded only by his pleading. He stopped and grabbed DJ Ned by the shoulders. “I’ll pay you, Ned. Anything you ask. Just name it.”
Ned paused on the oyster shells, uncomfortable yet very aware of what was transpiring. Winded, he spoke between breaths. “You don’t have to pay me, man…. I wanna get outta her
e, too…. Maybe the lunacy is limited to the continental U.S.”
Lanny had no time to chew on such a premise. “Possibly. So, you’ll fly us to Abaco?”
Ned considered the hurricane coming from the west, the zealots overrunning both Florida and his talk show, and now the growing sound of sirens. “Yeah… I’ll fly us there. But do you even know where to look?”
Lanny cocked his head to the side as if a glimmer of hope had ridden in on Ned’s offer. “I know that her parents’ beach bungalow is near a lagoon on the east side of the island. Miranda wanted me to visit it this fall.” Lanny jerked open the Mercedes’ passenger door. “How far is the airport?”
Ned was still breathing heavily as he yanked his keys from his pocket. “My plane… It’s in Melbourne… just ten minutes from here.”
They were on the tarmac in eight.
DJ Ned’s plane was a six-passenger Baron, and he revved its twin engines and waited for the runway to clear. Through his radio he made his first attempt at being a poser—he told Air Traffic Control he was flying a Reverend Hoocher to the Caribbean for revival services. Air Traffic Control spoke into Ned’s headset, offering to play some special music for him and the Reverend before granting permission to take off.
Ned declined.
Strapped into the copilot seat, Lanny tried to imagine Abaco on a normal day, Miranda and her parents docking their boat, perhaps having a drink on the deck. He would not allow himself to think anything but positive thoughts, and he felt proud to have a girlfriend smart enough to flee zealots.
Ned felt proud of his plane, more proud of his ability to fly it, and prouder still of its sparkling clean interior. While they sat idling on the runway, he informed Lanny that no carbonated drinks were allowed in the front seats.
Lanny set his plastic bottle of Dr. Pepper in back and sat up straight. Confident that he could now fool zealots, Ned turned the Baron onto a long straightaway and checked his gauges. Lanny watched limber weeds swaying alongside the tarmac and wondered if he was doing the right thing. He fought his fear of flying by focusing on his desire to find Miranda.
“I hardly know you, Ned. You a good pilot?”
Ned adjusted his headset and grinned at his passenger. “Relax, man. Don’t you know where the best place to be is when the zealots take over America?”
“Where?”
Ned pressed the throttle and shouted over the engine noise. “The Bahamas, mon.”
Ned appeared to know what he was doing, and suddenly they were rolling very fast.
Lanny watched the weeds whiz by, then the airport terminal.
The Baron took off and soared over a thicket of palms. Ned banked right and motioned for Lanny to look down out his window.
Along the coastal highway a crew was installing a new billboard for a fast-food chain, one quite famous for its chicken.
KFP: We Do Pagans Right
Lanny’s jaw dropped. “Ned!… They’re wanting to fry us extra-crispy.”
Ned shook his head. “Wrong, Lann-o. They don’t wanna cook us. They wanna get us into their store so they can capture us.”
Lanny peered down at blue waters for a long while. “Nah, I think they really wanna cook us.”
8
BY THE TIME NED and Lanny arrived at the entrance to Abaco Marina, neither had spoken another word. They were as quiet and cautious as marines patrolling a Vietnamese delta.
Before leaving the sidewalk to descend the stairs to the docks, Lanny stepped up on a bench and borrowed Ned’s binoculars. He scanned first for Miranda, second for The Miranda.
“I see a billboard advertising Red Stripe beer,” he whispered “That means—”
“Means we’re safe,” Ned replied, stepping aside on the sidewalk to let two bicyclists pass. “But what about the boat you wanted to find?”
“Can’t tell.” Lanny jumped down from the bench and they hurried down the steps to the entrance.
A kind of calm overcame both men as they walked. Both knew this was largely due to location—the island breezes, no sign of zealots.
Still, Ned held to a measure of caution. Though he noted the sun stroking the palms, the clear aqua waters, and even a few teeming schools of fish, he kept turning and peering over his shoulder at any passerby, especially the ones coming and going from Abaco’s sundrenched marina.
This marina was circular and modest, holding maybe forty boats, total. Both Ned and Lanny felt relieved to see that the first two they passed—a white yacht and a pale blue sailboat—were dubbed Sea Princess and Come Sail Away, respectively.
“Free at last,” Ned muttered to himself.
Lanny slung the binoculars over his shoulder. “There’s no biblical character named Sea Princess, is there?”
Ned admired the yacht and said absentmindedly, “Nah, I’m pretty sure there’s not.”
Lanny walked ahead on the circular dock. “Guess we’re safe, then.”
Ned was still admiring the yacht when a small, caramel-colored hand reached out and tapped him on the arm. The boy appeared to be no more than twelve. He wore an Abaco Marina Staff T-shirt, and he smiled up at Ned.
“I wash your boat, mister. I’m dock boy. My job.”
Ned took a step back and shook his head. “Um, son, I don’t own this boat. But I do own an airplane.”
The kid was not impressed with Ned’s aeronautic possessions; he just wanted to earn a tip.
Lanny hurried back to speak to the boy. “Do you know this marina well?”
Dock Boy stood proud and smiled. “Yes, very well.”
“Have you seen a charter called The Miranda?”
Dock Boy shook his head. “No. We have a famous fishing boat called The Matador, but no Miranda.”
Lanny pressed further. “What about a charter called the Sanitized?”
Dock Boy looked confused. “The Sani what?”
“The Sanitized. We think it could have been commandeered by religious freaks.”
“Ahh,” said the dock boy, cocking his head and pointing at the visitors. “You two are preachers, and you come to the islands to preach commandments.”
“No, no, no,” Ned replied with waves of his hands. “We are not preachers. We’re not even religious.”
Dock Boy nodded. “That’s what many on island say.”
Lanny grew impatient, and he moved in front of Ned in order to address Dock Boy. “So, are any zealots here on the island?”
“Zeelots?”
“You know—people wildly religious, offering rewards for capturing non-religious folks, and changing the names of boats to suit their agenda.”
Dock Boy shook his head. “Ahh, no, no. Island as always…. Fishermen, tourists, sunbathers, and the flashy boaters like you.” He held out his hand and grinned. “You have nice tip for dock boy?”
“I told you we don’t own a boat,” Ned said. But he peeled a ten from his wallet and handed it to the youngster. “You’ll keep an eye out for The Miranda?”
“Yes, yes.” The boy pointed south to the white sands. “You go enjoy beach and fruity drink.”
Lanny also gave the youngster a ten. “And you’ll keep an eye out for a thin, auburn-haired woman named Miranda?”
“Yes, yes. You enjoy fruity drink as well.”
Lanny and Ned walked the rest of the circled dock back to the steps. He and Ned were already back on the sidewalk, striding in the shade of the palms, when Dock Boy yelled from the bow of a sailboat. “If you like movies, my cousin Manuel just opens Tiki Theatre. Just up street. Shows Americano classic every night.”
Ned waved over his shoulder to dismiss him. “Okay, kid. Sure.”
According to the maid Lanny spoke with in the Abaco rental office, no one had used the Timms’s beach bungalow since early July. Undeterred, Lanny led Ned on a search of the shopping district—Lanny asking questions and showing pictures of Miranda, Ned listening closely to every music lyric that sounded from storefront or boombox. No one knew anything; the islanders seemed shy with all respons
es.
In front of a beachware store Ned caught up to Lanny and tugged on his shirt. “Aren’t island people usually more friendly? Except for Dock Boy, everyone acts suspicious of us.”
Lanny dismissed the theory. “It’s just because we’re suspicious. That makes everyone suspicious in return. It’s a vicious cycle.”
By 7:00 p.m. both men were exhausted from walking and decided their best course was to blend in and get something to eat. Ned could blend with the best of them, and in no time he’d convinced Lanny to join him in purchasing Bermuda shorts from a street vendor.
Lanny went for dark blue shorts, Ned for lemon yellow. They changed in a public restroom and wore their wares to the local eatery next door.
After a dinner of grouper and boiled shrimp they walked out into the street at dusk, where Lanny stopped in mid-stride, eyes darting. Not again! Across the street, in the window of the post office, hung a WANTED poster—the same one they’d seen in the convenience store east of Orlando.
Both men ducked behind palm trees, scanning the street for bad guys.
Finally Ned whispered, “It’s only one poster, Lann-o. No one suspects us yet. Just wear your sunglasses and follow me.” Ned strode up the street as if he knew what he was doing.
Lanny walked briskly beside him, tugging his shades low on his nose to see in the twilight. “I say we leave the island.”
“No, I say we duck into someplace dark, somewhere public. This is no time to panic.”
Three minutes later they arrived late at Manuel’s Tiki Theatre. In the vacant lobby—which was crafted of bamboo poles and affixed with posters of classic movies—Ned checked to see which film was featured. The Tiki Theatre had only one screen, and on the door hung a small chalkboard:
Tonight our movie is the 1997 Academy
Award Winner, TITANIC.
Refreshments arc BYOC (bring your own coconut).
bring whatever, except for blenders.
Show starts at 6:45
Donation: $5.00
Lanny checked his watch—8:17 p.m. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” he said to Ned. “It’s too risky, plus the show will be halfway over at least.”
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