by Tim Dorsey
“You sailed before?” asked the cashier.
“Many times.”
“This reef?”
“First time.”
“Here’s a depth chart.” He handed over the folded map. “Go slow on your approach and watch the water or you’ll lose your propeller deposit.”
The customer grabbed the key on a flotation fob and motored off from the dock . . .
Serge checked his waterproof watch. A minute left in the hour at the first dive site. He waited for the last scuba guy to clear the ladder, and climbed back aboard right on deadline.
Katie just smiled and shook her head. “All right, we’ll be at the second location in about ten minutes, and then another hour in the water. And remember, if you don’t have a watch, when we lower the dive flag to half-mast it’s time to get back in.”
The Kokomo cruised toward a red buoy on the other side of the reef.
Serge was over the moon. Everything he loved. And he had formulated a foolproof plan to get his gang back over to a spot on Sugarloaf Key that nobody would ever find. Nothing to worry about now except how to strangle every second of life from the next hour in the water.
“Uh-oh.” Serge stood.
“What is it?” asked Heather.
“Nothing. Just forgot some receipts to expense this on my tax return.” But Serge’s gaze was unwavering. He’d casually been keeping track of the other dive boats without real concern. Now there was a new arrival, a rental from one of the services he recognized. One person aboard. Which still wouldn’t arouse any worry. Except its occupant was the only person out on the reef with binoculars. He was looking at the Kokomo.
Serge kept watching, and so did the occupant of the other boat. He was too far for Serge to make out his face, but he was wearing a black wetsuit. Serge saw a scuba tank resting against the stern. What was he up to? It was too far to swim. Did he plan to move the boat?
That’s when Serge noticed it. The device was yellow, standing upright in the bow: a small, encased battery-powered propeller with handlebars that divers use to cover distance. So that was his plan. Serge hadn’t expected such organization, given the clutter of that bedroom he’d seen in Homestead, but then there was that shelf of textbooks. He nodded to himself. “Okay, two can play at this game.”
“What did you say?” asked Heather.
“Nothing.”
“You seem distracted.”
“Just admiring the view.”
The binoculars kept a bead on the Kokomo. Serge knew what the guy was waiting for. He wanted them in the water.
Serge glanced around before reaching in his backpack for one of his last-second souvenir purchases from the dive shop, and strapped it to his right calf. Then he grabbed the other purchase—a tiny canister—and stuffed it in a pocket of his swim trunks.
He clapped his hands sharply and smiled at Bobby and Heather. “This location is even better than the other. You’re going to have a whale of a time.”
Heather grabbed her mask. “I don’t know. The last one was pretty exciting, especially the reef sharks.”
“Trust me,” said Serge. “The excitement has only started.”
The crew unsnapped the railing chains again, and Serge plunged over the side. Then the rest of the passengers came in with a series of plops. Serge was usually off in a burst with his huge ocean fins, doing manic laps around the boat, but this time he just bobbed and looked east.
“Serge,” said Heather. “We got a giant grouper under the boat again.”
“And there’s a moray eel in that hole,” said Bobby.
“Get ready,” said Serge.
“For what?” asked Heather.
A school of yellowtail suddenly swarmed around them. They all looked up at the boat’s railing.
“Coleman!”
“I’m good.” He waved. “Wait. Nope . . .”
More fish swarmed.
“This way,” said Serge. “I think I see a tarpon . . .”
And so on. “There’s a parrotfish eating coral,” said Heather.
Bobby had a laminated identification guide on his wrist. “Is that a triggerfish?”
“And another barracuda,” said Heather.
Serge continued treading water, continued keeping tabs on the rental boat. Finally he witnessed the man pull a tank up on his back and grab the handlebars of the yellow propulsion device. He dove over the side. That was the signal Serge had been waiting for.
“Hey, Bobby, Heather,” said Serge. “Why don’t you guys get back in the boat?”
“But we just got in,” said Heather.
“The sea’s about to change.” Serge felt down the side of his right leg. “It could get a little rough out here.”
“The water looks calm,” said Heather.
“I can read the sky,” said Serge.
“The sky couldn’t be clearer,” said Bobby.
“Trust me, this is my turf,” said Serge. “Can you just do it as a favor?”
“Something’s wrong,” said Bobby. “I can tell.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Serge felt the contents of his pocket. “It’s real nice up on the boat. A lot of divers like to lounge, and they sell snacks and everything.”
Bobby gave him a wary eye. “If you say so.”
Serge followed the pair as they paddled back to the boat. Once they were up the swim ladder, Serge grabbed the bottom step. “Captain Katie!”
She walked over and looked down. “What’s up?”
“You got a weight belt lying around somewhere?”
“Sure, but you’re snorkeling, not scuba.”
“I’d like to try some free diving down to the bottom,” said Serge. “I saw a couple of nurse sharks but too far away for my GoPro. And I’m naturally buoyant in every sense of the word. Just need a few pounds.”
“You got it.”
She dangled the belt over the side, and Serge strapped it on. “You’re the hostess with the mostest!”
Then he turned and flattened out and pumped fins, building velocity.
Soon he was a hundred yards from the Kokomo, uncharacteristically ignoring the fabulous spectacle of rays and turtles. He stopped and popped his head up, looking east and west, respectively toward the two boats. Gauging the most direct route between them. He took off again, this time circling wide around submerged debris from the eighteenth century. Serge found the spot he wanted. And waited.
It didn’t take long.
Serge had guessed the correct vector and the visibility was ideal. Moments later, slowly appearing out of the deep blue, a form began to take shape. First a blob like a manatee, then human characteristics. It was being pulled through the water by a yellow mini scooter. The small propeller inside wasn’t meant for speed, just to cover distance that would otherwise be too physically taxing.
The diver holding the handlebars was intent on his path to the Kokomo. He didn’t notice Serge treading water off to the side by a ridge of brain coral. When the scooter had passed, Serge flattened again on the surface and took off.
It required tremendous leg strength, but Serge was in a motivation zone. He kept pumping through the cramps, until he was only a few body lengths away.
That’s when the other diver stopped to stick his head out of the water and check his bearings. And when he submerged again, he saw Serge coming at him a bit sooner than Serge would have preferred.
The diver pressed a button on his leg and unsheathed a frighteningly large serrated dive knife.
Serge pressed his own leg button, pulling out an equally intimidating blade.
Then, with the other hand, he reached in his swim trunks for his other recent purchase: a tiny pressurized canister with a mouthpiece. Called Xtra Air, often carried by the scuba crowd for an additional ten minutes of breathing in case the unexpected came up.
The other diver released the scooter’s handles, and the two raced toward each other.
They clashed near buoy 15, grabbing each other’s wrists holding the knives, and the due
l was on. They savagely twisted in the water as the tips of the blades swept past their masks. They kneed each other, and clawed and even a head butt to the chest.
Neither was getting anywhere but exhausted. Artemas decided that since Serge was snorkeling, he’d pull him down and let the biology of oxygen give him the advantage. They dropped ten feet, but he hadn’t counted on the canister in Serge’s mouth. The fight dragged on, each with a vise grip on the other’s weapon hand.
Serge chose boldness. And risk. He would only have a split second before he’d be stabbed. He released Tweel’s wrist, and the other diver couldn’t believe his fortune. His knife went for Serge’s heart, but before he could complete the thrust, Serge used his free hand to knock off Art’s mask, and salt water flooded his blurring eyes. In panic, Art let go to refit and purge the mask, and that’s all the time Serge needed to slice his air hose. He also made a few last slices with the knife for good measure. Then he reached over his opponent’s shoulder and yanked a cord to the dump valve, emptying the buoyancy compensator and dropping Art in depth. Serge leisurely swam away.
Bubbles filled the water.
A lot was going on for Artemas. He desperately tried to breathe the air stream straight from the severed hose while simultaneously working on his buoyancy system to get to the surface. Then he remembered his own canister of emergency air in one of his dive vest’s pockets. He stuck it in his mouth, which straightened his thinking. Then he unbuckled and dropped his weight belt and calmly fiddled with the compensator. Things appeared to be finally looking up.
Here was the thing: Those final slices from Serge’s knife? They had been across Art’s legs, cutting through wetsuit rubber and skin. Nothing serious, just a bunch of flesh wounds.
In all the years, the sharks had never bothered the divers at Looe Key. But a sufficient amount of blood in the water tends to shuffle their morning plans. The first to arrive was a lemon shark, nipping his arm. Then a tiger shark, grabbing his ankle. A blacktip joined the party. It was turning into a bad day for Artemas.
The sharks continued thrashing their heads side to side, tearing off chunks. Then one got the inner part of a leg, bursting the femoral artery, and fate was determined. After a half minute of generating a large red underwater cloud, Artemas Kenilworth Tweel gave one last spasm and became still, and what was left of him floated down to the bottom, amid the anchor and cannonballs and other rusted metal from the frigate HMS Looe.
Epilogue
Kokomo Cat II
Hands fished through the cooler for cans of beer and soda. Bags of chips ripped open.
The passengers were all abuzz about the sights from the dive, comparing species they encountered. “Hawksbill,” “Rock beauty,” “Butterflyfish,” “Bermuda chub.” Some passed around cameras, sharing underwater video on preview screens.
Captain Katie checked her watch. Serge was always the last out, but also never late. She could bet the bank on him being near the foot of the swim ladder when the dive flag was lowered to half-staff. Now she scanned the horizon from behind polarized glasses.
In an unexpected direction and distance, she spotted him swimming flat-out toward the boat at full speed. He reached the ladder and climbed aboard.
“You had me worried for a minute,” said Katie.
“What? Am I late?”
“No, right on time as usual. Almost to the second.”
Serge pulled off his fins. “Exactly.”
“But you’re usually near the boat,” said Katie. “Where did you go?”
Serge pointed with his snorkel. “Buoy fifteen.”
“But that’s a freakin’ long swim.”
He continued stowing gear in the mesh backpack. “Never seen the wreck of the Looe. Figured today’s visibility made it as good a time as any.”
“Typical Serge,” said Katie. “And what’s with the knife? Snorkelers don’t need one, and I’ve never seen you with it before.”
He pulled a drawstring tight. “I’m a sucker for impulse purchases.”
“Okay, but in the future if you ever decide to set out on an expedition like that, can you give me a heads-up?”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
It was a Friday night, and the tiki bar was rocking. The live band plowed through the usual set of Bad Company, Deep Purple, Tom Petty. Couples danced and the Jäger flowed. Patrons famished from a day on the water scarfed up battered shrimp, smoked fish and conch fritters. Coleman’s hands dug into a box of Dion’s fried chicken.
Serge was holding court as usual at a table covered with his collection of vintage National Geographics. As an added attraction, he had a laptop open, playing a DVD from a complete-series box set. The whole gang was there, including the boat crew.
“Don’t you just love Sea Hunt?” said Serge. “And check out this underwater knife fight. Isn’t it ridiculous? Here it comes, here it comes! The air hose just got sliced, every time.”
It was gradual at first, unnoticed. Then it was obvious. The normally raucous bar began quieting down until it was hushed. Total attention turned to the flat-screen TVs all around the tiki hut that had been showing a Tampa Bay Lightning hockey game.
“. . . Breaking news at this hour as scuba divers exploring a shipwreck off Ramrod Key made a grisly discovery. The body of another diver has just been recovered by the Coast Guard, and while cause of death has yet to be determined, authorities have identified the victim as a Homestead, Florida, man named Artemas Tweel. More on this as details develop. Now back to the hockey game . . .”
“. . . A one-timer from Stamkos on the power play. . . . He shoots! He scores! . . .”
The rest of the bar was back to full volume. Except at Serge’s table. Bobby, Heather and Captain Katie were staring at him.
“What?”
The Miami field office of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement was credited with clearing more than a dozen related unsolved homicides stretching back decades. They even received a formal visit from the state commissioner, personally thanking them.
For her role, Heather Sparrow received a commendation and promotion to deputy director of the Miami office. And due in no small part to her input, the demise of one Artemas Kenilworth Tweel was officially ruled death by misadventure.
Bobby Sparrow put in for a transfer. His daughter’s career was on the move and required her to work where she was assigned. Bobby was free as a bird.
Each morning, he left a cheap apartment in Miami’s MiMo district for a quick drive across the Rickenbacker Causeway. Shortly after reporting to his new ranger position at Bill Baggs State Park, he sat in a lawn chair at the base of the towering Cape Florida Lighthouse, greeting visitors and occasionally offering to take family group photos.
He was in his chair when he saw something in the distance on the approaching walkway through the corridor of tall old-growth palms. He stood up to greet the visitor.
“Heather, what are you doing here?”
A smile that stretched as far as anatomy would allow. “I want a tour.”
Ranger Bobby returned an even bigger smile.
The sun was high and clear as pickup trucks with fishing boats sat at the gas pumps. Customers streamed out of the convenience store with twelve-packs and energy drinks. Others banged bags of ice on the ground before filling coolers. Recreation and partying always went hand in hand in the Keys. As they say, another day in paradise.
A blue-and-white Ford Cobra pulled in, and the doors opened.
“Sandy,” Serge said across the front seat. “Thanks again for meeting on such short notice.”
A grin. “What other kind of notice is there with you?”
“Beer,” said Coleman.
Serge uncapped the gas tank. “You two stay right there. I have to show you something.”
Coleman pointed at the store. “Beer.”
“You already said that.”
“Serge,” said Sandy, “why are you jumping up and down like that?”
“Come have a look!” Serge continu
ed bobbing victoriously on the balls of his feet. “I’m not taking this shit anymore from The Man!”
She came around the side of the vehicle. “I don’t get it. You’re just putting gas in the car.”
Serge joyfully wiggled hands in the air. “Notice I’m not holding the handle.”
Coleman looked at all the other pumps. “Everyone else is. How’d you do it?”
“Look closer.” Serge bent down and pointed. “I used my emergency car tools from the trunk to machine a perfect homemade universal pump handle shim! No more having to wait in agony for pumps with slow numbers. Over the course of my remaining life, this could add up to weeks . . .”
“Where are you going?” asked Coleman.
“Productively using my added life time to buy Gatorade in the store,” said Serge. “My body tells me it needs electrolytes. I think the message is potassium.”
Sandy followed. “And I need herbal iced tea.”
“Beer,” said Coleman.
The trio prowled the aisles, loading up on beverages and pretzels. Serge dropped it all on the counter, tapping the side of a glass case. “And I’ll take two of your toxic hot dogs that have been turning on those rollers since time immemorial . . .”
They headed back to the Cobra, loaded down with bags. “Yes sir, I feel the beginning of a great day,” said Serge. “Micro-victories over The Man are what make it all worthwhile.”
Sandy stopped and crinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”
“I don’t know, but it’s strong,” said Serge. “Maintenance is going to have to fix something around here.”
“Serge!” said Coleman. “A ton of gasoline is pouring out of the car!”
“Shit, a huge pool’s spreading everywhere. It’s almost to the street.”
“What do we do?”
“Drive away!”
Stunned onlookers stood in silent unison as they watched the blue-and-white Cobra take off down the Overseas Highway just before the fireball.
About the Author
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of twenty-three 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, No Sunscreen for the Dead, and Naked Came the Florida Man. He lives in Florida.
