Tropic of Stupid

by Tim Dorsey

“Yes?”

  “Cuz!”

  “What?”

  “We’re family! I was sent by Ancestors R Us! You’re one of the hits from my saliva!” He took a bite from a loaf of bread sticking out of a long brown bag. “I stopped at one of your kickin’ bakeries. Ridiculous! I’m also on a mission to make you happy.” He extended the loaf. “Want a bite?”

  “Not right now.”

  “I also stopped for some of your local coffee. It comes in these teeny cups, but I’m here to tell you—shazam!—that stuff is radioactive!”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Serge Storms! Like I said, we’re related! I want to know all about my folks. Can we come in?”

  “Okay, I don’t get much company.”

  She took a seat in a lounger and put her feet up. Serge and Coleman plopped down on an old couch that farted dust.

  “Serge,” whispered Coleman, “I thought your family came to Florida from Cuba.”

  “They did,” said Serge. “But they were allowed to marry other people who had their own family trees.”

  The old woman stretched back in her chair. “So how can I help you?”

  “I’m here to get my Greek on!” Serge pointed out the front window. “Cool stone wall out front. I have a portable DVD player and the complete Sea Hunt collection in the car if you want. Do you know a guy named Dixon on the other coast? He’s related, too, and has life figured out. Tell me all about my kinfolk!”

  “But I’ve never heard of you.”

  “We’re third cousins. That’s how it works now. You pay money on the Internet and show up on people’s porches. I’m sure you’ve seen the ads. Birthday parties, relatives hugging, a moose attacking a car . . . Wait, that’s Farmers Insurance.”

  The woman smiled. “Funny thing. I said I didn’t get much company, but you’re the second person this week who showed up asking about my family.”

  “Really?” Serge sat up in excitement. “Another lost relative and link in the chain?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Serge fell back on the sofa. “Shucks.”

  “Nice young woman. She had a badge. I think her name was Heather.” The woman paused and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure it was Heather.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Just some family information for an investigation. But she said it wasn’t important.”

  “That means she’s looking for a serial killer.”

  “What?”

  “That’s also how it works now. Or so I’m guessing, because if I was trying to track down the Zodiac or something, that’s what I’d do: Get familial hits from the DNA companies and construct a family tree.” He turned to Coleman. “This is great news! Not only am I tracing my roots, but now we’re also on the trail of a serial killer!”

  “Oh my,” said the woman. “Am I in any danger?”

  “Naw.” Serge flicked his wrist. “The nearest serial killer is probably a million miles away. Got any family albums?”

  “Top shelf in that closet.”

  Serge ran across the room. “Hope you have some pics with those big diving helmets! . . .”

  An hour later, various photo albums lay open on the coffee table. The woman had a tray in her lap. “I don’t get out much with my legs now.” She took a bite of rice and grape leaves. “Can’t tell you how good it is to eat the old food. Reminds me of when my husband was still here.”

  “Glad you like it,” said Serge.

  “You didn’t have to go to the trouble of running out and getting this for me.”

  “Nonsense,” said Serge. “I asked you what I could do to make you happy. And a confession: I’ll go all the way to the Parthenon for authentic tzatziki sauce!”

  The woman pointed at the TV with a piece of baklava. “Hey, I know that house. I used to walk by there all the time when I was a little girl.”

  Serge nodded as he dipped a piece of lamb. “Isn’t Sea Hunt the best?”

  Chapter 15

  Forty-Five Years Ago

  Father Al sat back on the sidelines, enjoyably watching Bobby’s life unfold. They were still in contact, but Bobby now had a good grip on things, and the best choice was to give him space to bloom.

  That Bobby did. Plus there was a massive growth spurt, which nobody saw coming. He was as tall and strong as anyone in high school, and he was still in the eighth grade. And quite the ballplayer. The priest didn’t make his presence known as he stood behind the bleachers for one of Bobby’s baseball games. “Holy cow! . . .” He made it a mission to attend every one.

  Near the end of the season, the priest sat in a well-appointed office. Two other people smiled back.

  “Great to see you, Father Al!” said the principal.

  “What brings you around? Reliving glory days on the diamond?” asked a coach. “Heard you were a vacuum cleaner at shortstop.”

  “A lot has changed since I was here.” The priest gazed out the window. “That’s a pretty outrageous baseball stadium you’ve got.”

  It was. Massive red-brick and granite facade, box seats, oversize scoreboard. Far nicer than most professional minor league parks.

  The coach shrugged. “Some of our alumni have done quite well. They like to win state championships.”

  The principal grinned. “So what does bring you by?”

  “I’ve never asked this before, but there’s this kid,” said the priest. “His family barely has anything.”

  The principal maintained cheer. “Of course you realize what our waiting list is, and that’s for paying students. But I’d be more than happy to put him through our scholarship process. Except you know the long odds there, too.”

  “He can hit a baseball a country mile,” said the priest. “And he has a knuckleball that’ll make you get your eyes tested.”

  “I know every high school in the district,” said the coach. “If he’s such a phenom, why haven’t I heard about him?”

  “Because he’s still in eighth grade.”

  “What? Eighth-graders can’t throw knucklers.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe, but if you don’t come out to one of his games and see for yourself, you’ll be cursing the day you were born when you have to play against him next year.”

  There were zero expectations, but there was also the loyalty of history with Father Al. “Okay, I’ll be happy to take a look,” said the coach. “When does he play next? . . .”

  They sat together in the visiting stands. During the fifth inning, the pair craned their necks back to watch a ball clear the outfield lights. In the bottom of the seventh, they watched a young knuckleballer put the finishing touches on a no-hitter by striking out the side. After the game, the coach simply looked at Father Al without speaking, and hurried to his car.

  The next evening the priest was back at Bobby’s duplex, and it wasn’t dinnertime.

  His mother sat on the couch and looked puzzled at the priest. “So what’s this big surprise you mentioned on the phone?”

  “I’ve been following Bobby’s progress through school, and he’s kept up his grades,” said the priest. “To a degree.”

  She turned toward her son. “I keep telling you there’s no reason for those B’s.”

  “I think there is a reason,” said Father Al. “He’s bored.”

  “He’s not working hard enough?” She turned to her son again. “Bobby, is this true?”

  “If I may,” said the priest. “I’ve had many talks with Bobby over the years, about the Bible, his subjects at the elementary, other stuff. He’s extremely inquisitive.”

  “Always asking questions, that child.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, he goes to a good school,” said Father Al. “But the curriculum is broad because the student body is so large. Kids with minds like Bobby’s don’t thrive unless they’re challenged.”

  “Then I’ll challenge him plenty.” Another stern glance at the boy.

  “I’ve given this some thought,” said the priest. “You know Jesuit? Th
e school?”

  “Yeah, the Catholic one. The expensive one. They wear suits to class.”

  “How would you like Bobby to go there next year?” asked Father Al.

  “I’d love it, but it ain’t going to happen,” she said. “We don’t have the money for a regular private school. We don’t have any money.”

  “I can take care of that,” said Father Al. “Actually, I already have.”

  “What are you talking about? Priests don’t have any money, either.”

  “No, but the Jesuit alumni do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Bobby has become quite the ballplayer.”

  “Thanks to you,” said his mom. “But I still don’t understand.”

  “The alumni love their baseball team and championship banners,” said the priest. “They’ve set up a number of scholarships to lure star players from public schools. I talked to the principal and the coach today after Bobby’s game last night, and one of the scholarships is now sitting on the table for your son. He’ll go for free. All you have to do is agree.”

  Instead she jumped up and hugged Father Al harder than ever, and cried.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said the priest.

  A knock on the door of a private room in the rectory. “Father Al, that kid Bobby is here again.”

  “Coming.”

  They met outside on the front steps and took a seat together, just like that first day when a bicycle went missing.

  “You made my mom crazy happy last night. She was dancing and singing like she was drunk, but she doesn’t drink.”

  “I’m happy, too.”

  “You probably have a free dinner waiting at our house every night for the rest of your life.”

  “Your mother is a good woman.”

  “I have a question,” said Bobby. “You’ve written me letters from time to time. I know a few friends who’ve also gotten letters encouraging them. I really appreciate it.”

  “I appreciate the opportunity. You’re all children of God. So what’s your question?”

  “Why do you sign all the letters Shalom?”

  “It’s about peace.”

  “Isn’t that Jewish?”

  “Yes, but there are also more than a dozen references in the New Testament, according to academics, except many have been translated. It’s just something I feel.”

  “I get it. Following your heart. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Fire away.”

  “I’m appreciative and all, but I need some advice about Jesuit,” said Bobby. “Most of the students there grew up differently.”

  “Their families have a lot of money, and you’re wondering if you’ll fit in?”

  “Pretty much,” said Bobby. “And everyone wears a coat and tie to class.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t have a coat.”

  “Mom started a jar last night called ‘coat.’ There’s some pocket change at the bottom.”

  “Wait here.”

  When Father Al returned, Bobby saw something worse than a girl’s bike.

  “What kind of coat is that?”

  “Corduroy.”

  “It’s brown.”

  “It’s what I wore when I went to Jesuit.”

  “What about your other coats?”

  “Just this,” said the priest. “Jesuit wasn’t the fancy place it is today, but just as good academically . . . I don’t know why I saved it all these years. Sentimentality, I guess. I want you to have it.”

  A weak “Thanks.”

  “You’re worried about the other students having nicer coats. Don’t,” said the priest. “You’ll be on the baseball team. You’ll do fine.”

  The priest was more than right. Straight out of the gate his freshman year, Bobby started in right field and did some relief pitching, and it only got better. His sophomore year, he anchored the starting rotation and batted fifth, behind the cleanup spot. The next year, he was cleanup. The corduroy coat never came up.

  Father Al fell out of the picture by his own design. There was a whole new crop of at-risk children. But for the next four years, he dutifully read the newspaper’s sports section and checked for Bobby’s name in prep box scores. It was always an occasion to smile.

  His senior year, Bobby’s school went deep into the playoffs, only to lose the title game. But he was named first-team all-state, and had his choice of scholarships. He picked the University of Florida in Gainesville, where he resumed tearing it up on the diamond.

  “You know,” said the coach. “We can arrange for some clothes in a way that won’t affect eligibility.”

  “I’m fine.” And soon everyone on campus knew the guy in the corduroy jacket. Before he realized it, graduation was upon him and so was the major league draft.

  He sat in a dean’s office.

  The dean stared back. “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Mets drafted you, and not a bad signing bonus I hear. Everyone was expecting you to be reporting to camp.”

  “Drafted in the twenty-second round,” said Bobby. “That means probably a year in rookie league, and if I’m lucky a jump to double-A, and then it’s a crapshoot.”

  “I just assumed it was your dream.”

  “Continuing my education at your school is my dream.”

  “Well then, if what we offer eclipses pro baseball, I’m sure we can work something out . . .”

  Bobby stayed in Gainesville for his graduate work, which to nobody’s surprise he completed a year early. He went for his first job interview.

  The potential employer was also a graduate of Florida and a staunch alum. “Saw you pitch a few times, and hit the cover off the ball. Heard you were drafted by the Mets.”

  “Twenty-second round.”

  “Most of the guys here would give their eyeteeth to be drafted at all.”

  “This is my calling,” said Bobby. “If you give me a chance, I’ll give it my all. You won’t be sorry.”

  “Tell you a secret,” said the interviewer. “You were hired before you walked in the door. I know the demands a big-time university sports program places on a student, but you also excelled academically and went on to grad work. Your reputation speaks for itself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just two things.”

  “Name it.”

  “Lose the corduroy.”

  “Done. What’s the second?”

  “The name Bobby.”

  “Yeah, everyone’s always called me that since I was a kid.”

  The interviewer held up a résumé. “From your middle name, Robert.”

  Bobby nodded.

  “What’s wrong with your first name?”

  Bobby shrugged.

  “For our clients, your first name would be a much better fit. Do you think you could live with that?”

  “Why not?”

  The lawyer stood and shook his hand. “Then welcome to the firm.”

  “Thank you,” said Nathan Sparrow.

  Chapter 16

  The Present

  A blue-and-white Ford Cobra pulled through an official state entrance in the upper Florida Keys.

  Serge ran inside a building and slapped a small green book open on the counter. “Hit me!”

  A park ranger happily stamped the page. Serge pulled out a magnifying glass to inspect the seal: Windley Key Fossil Reef Geological State Park.

  “Have you been here before?” asked the ranger.

  “Many times, but that was before the temptation of the passport book, you devious bastards!” Serge flipped pages. “Can you also hit me for the offshore Indian and Lignumvitae Keys parks? If you need an affidavit that I’ve been there . . .”

  Stamp. Stamp.

  “Excellent work,” said Serge. “You should see what the guy selling bait did to my book at the Skyway Pier. Actually, I will show you. Check out this nonsense. Is the process really that complicated? . . . We’re off!”


  Serge led the way to a trailhead that descended down an incline of dirt and big roots. He pulled out his cell phone and hit buttons. Then waited and listened awhile before hanging up. “Damn!”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.

  “The third distant cousin from my Ancestors R Us report,” said Serge. “I’ve been calling and calling for days but no answer.”

  “Why don’t you just drive to his house?”

  “Because it’s in Vermont.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Somewhere near the Arctic Circle,” said Serge. “Let’s hike . . .”

  And they did, down the trail, around trees, past interpretive signs. Coleman stopped on the path. “A little dizzy. Let me catch my breath.” He reached toward a tree for balance, and Serge seized him around the waist. They both went tumbling, rolling over and over down the steep trail and ending up against a wall.

  Coleman got to his knees. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Because you were just about to grab a poisonwood tree. The sap on its peeling orange bark will give you a rash to beat the band.”

  “I thought you said this was a nature park.”

  “It is.” Serge hopped up and unsnapped a water bottle from his waist. “One of the best. Also one of the most overlooked because everyone’s racing by for the Duval Street bar crawl in Key West!”

  “Then why is there a huge wall here in the middle of nature?”

  “That’s the park’s unique feature!” A long chug. “Over a century ago, when Henry Flagler was building his Overseas Railroad, he stopped on this island to quarry tons of limestone for construction material. But now after all these years, nature has reclaimed it with tree growth strangling the former signs of man, and our state had the wisdom to preserve it. It’s one of the few parks that you climb down into, taking winding trails through trees and brush until you come to an eight-foot-high, geometrically precise wall and have to turn at a right angle. And other trails here take you along the tops of the walls. Where else can you get that?”

  “This wall looks weird.”

  “Isn’t it great?” Serge’s fingertips explored the texture. “The crews were just looking to quarry limestone, which was left over from the ancient coral reefs that gave rise to this archipelago. In the process, they inadvertently created a magnificent record of the Keys’ geological history. It emphatically underscores how high the sea used to be and how solid the bedrock is. That’s why Ernest Hemingway got mad at one of his four wives.”