Coconut Cowboy (10 page)

“Duh! Because ­people might see what we're doing. You want to work your way up in this town or not?”

The trio continued slithering under the home and dragging a duffel bag as a tiny flashlight led the way. Elroy, Slow and Slower.

“Why can't I ever get the flashlight?”

“Because you're slow!”

“How much farther?”

“Three more floor joists, maybe four,” said Elroy.

“I never noticed this before.”

“What?”

“So these pipes are how they do plumbing?” said Slower. “I always wondered what happened after it went through the floor.”

Elroy blinked hard. “Please stop talking.”

They crawled in silence. Slower reached up to touch a toilet line, but decided not to comment.

“There's the spot.”

“Where?”

“That beam I marked,” said Elroy. “How many times have you been here?”

“Ten or five.”

“Just start digging.”

Three small camping shovels went to work.

“Are there snakes?”

“What about scorpions?”

“I'd be more worried about Jabow,” said Elroy. “You know his temper.”

“Why doesn't he just let us hide it
in
his house?”

“Because of something called a search warrant, you idiot.”

“Why doesn't he bury it himself?”

“You two suddenly have a thirst for knowledge?”

“I'm just saying we're always the ones getting dirty.”

“Because he and Vernon are at the top. And once you're there, it's easy lifting and sleeping in clean sheets. You assign all the filthy jobs to the young guys at the bottom who—­and I may only be speaking for myself here—­want to make their bones and reach the top themselves. Wouldn't you like to sit at the big table in Lead Belly's someday?”

“Heck, yeah.”

“Then shut up and keep digging!”

A few more minutes and then, “I think I hit something.” The shovels were cast aside and bare hands swept soil off the top of the discovery. “Yeah, it's where we buried the last shipment.”

“Start unloading.”

They reached into the duffel bag from the bank, grabbing large, waterproof bricks of tightly wrapped hundred-­dollar bills. The new packs were piled on top of all the previously buried ones, which went down into the ground who knew how far.

 

Chapter
THIRTEEN

THE NEXT DAY

T
he coconut chopper rolled into a time-­frozen town and down another main street of brick storefronts and bygone lamp posts. It slowed near the junction with another highway. Serge planted his feet on the ground at a traffic light and aimed his camera up at the verdigris dome of a clock tower.
Click, click, click.
“The Suwannee County courthouse, built 1904, which means this is our turn.”

The light became green. Serge hung a lazy left and gunned the throttle north on Highway 129.

“Radio check,” said Coleman. “What's our next stop?”

“A big one.” The chopper raced under an interstate overpass. “Remember I mentioned a spot where the sixties were still alive and kicking in Florida?”

“Nope.”

“And in the most unlikely place,” said Serge. “We're up here near the Georgia line, out in the sticks, the deepest part of the Bible Belt. As far as the eye can wander in every direction: red state and rednecks.”

“Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

“Absolutely not,” said Serge. “They're free to play for their team, and I respect that.”

“It's just a lifestyle choice, after all.”

“Actually they were born that way, so you can't be prejudiced,” said Serge. “In fact I've come to accept that I'm part redneck.”

“Which part?”

“The genetic marker that likes to see things blow up. I'm just illustrating what an extreme anomaly of geographical culture this upcoming place is,” said Serge. “Like finding Santana playing the Alamo.”

“A bunch of cars are slowing down.”

“That's our destination.” Serge hit his blinker.

The chopper eased off the highway and through a wooded entrance with a sign:

S
PIRIT OF THE
S
UWANNEE
.

The surrounding fields were crammed with every kind of parked vehicle, from late-­model Jeeps to VW microbuses. Trickles of ­people dripped from various origins and formed a single human river. The narrowness of the chopper allowed Serge to pass through. ­People waved cheerfully and flashed peace signs.

“This is unreal,” said Coleman. “Look at all these young ­people. And they're all cool!”

“It's like that footage from the Woodstock movie of massive throngs coming up the road.” Serge chugged the caffeine dregs from his travel mug. “I'm getting goose bumps looking around. Hundreds of kids in tie-­dyed shirts, American-­flag pants, Jamaican knitted caps, and flowers everywhere: in their hair, hanging from their necks, painted on their cheeks.”

Coleman pointed. “I dig that one babe with a wreath on her head, wearing a bikini top, cutoff jeans and boots, doing the hula hoop.”

“It's a magical place.”

“But what
is
this place?” asked Coleman.

“A giant campground in the middle of nowhere that holds dozens of weekend-­long music fests each year. It's so remote, the kids are free to be themselves.” They parked the motorcycle and grabbed knapsacks of luggage hanging from the back. “This weekend's jamboree is called the Purple Hatters Ball.”

“What's that?”

“In memory of Rachel Morningstar Hoffman, this fun-­loving, footloose hippie chick who was a student at Florida State University, the kind of daughter any parent would love to have. She inspired an act of the legislature called Rachel's Law.”

“Explain?”

“She smoked some pot and got busted.”

“But it was college.”

“Exactly.” Serge led Coleman to the back of a long line. “Now, you know what a huge supporter of law enforcement I am. But every once in a while a few of them will go a bit cowboy. So in a plea deal completely out of whack with her transgression, they said they'd drop the charges if she made an undercover buy, and sent her out with thirteen thousand dollars to score a bunch of cocaine and a gun from these really bad dudes. Did not end well.”

“That's awful.”

“But out here her spirit lives on.” Serge shuffled forward toward the ticket booth. “Rachel was known for her irrepressible smile and fondness for big floppy purple hats. Every year they host this festival.”

Serge crouched down in a starting position like a track star.

“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

“Only one more person ahead of us in line.”

“And he's leaving.”

Serge lunged at the counter with an open wallet. “Two tickets to the sixties, please. I need my wonder years. Only three channels and no remote control, sitting in a box with Tang till two a.m., national anthem, prayer, fade to static. Today, YouTube has shifted the collective consciousness from moon landings to elevator beat-­downs. But the sixties ruled in every way except musicians choking on their own vomit. The squares always bring that up, but the fifties had separate drinking fountains, which more than outweighs spit-­up.” He checked his wristwatch. “What time is the Age of Aquarius? I can't wait! I've never actually seen love steer the stars!”

“Uh, do you want tickets?”

“Yes! That's what I've been talking about this whole time.” Serge forked over cash. “I've rededicated my entire life to being a hippie.”

“But you have short hair.”

“That makes me more radical.” Serge snatched the stubs, then noticed a stack of souvenirs behind the counter.
“
Ooo! Ooo!”
He opened his wallet again . . .

The pair hoisted knapsacks and joined the sea of latter-­day flower children heading into the park. Leather-­fringed vests, bandannas, bell-­bottoms, maxi dresses. Some held up tall sticks, literally flying freak flags.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “You look funny in that floppy purple hat.”

“You do, too,” said Serge. “That's the beauty of all this. The youthful joy of being foolish.”

They arrived at a row of cabins.

“I thought we were going to camp.”

“Right, indoors. Never let others define your camping,” said Serge. “I made a reservation online and there should be a key under the mat. Drop your gear inside, then meet me back at the golf cart.”

“Golf cart?”

“Comes with the cabin. The noise of the chopper would shatter this tranquillity.”

Moments later, they zipped off with silent electric power.

“Man, I can't believe what I'm seeing,” said Coleman. “This is heaven. What are those kids doing in that field?”

“Yoga circle. That's the
Karate Kid
position.”

The cart headed up the incline of a hiking path. On both sides of the trail, psychedelic-­colored dome tents sprouted like mushrooms throughout the woods. Young ­people lounged in canvas chairs drinking Mountain Dew and munching granola bars.

“I thought this was all gone,” said Coleman.

“Me, too.” The cart struggled over a rocky crest. ­“People are always pooh-­poohing today's youth, but this is the
anti
–spring break. No beer funnels, destroyed motel rooms or guys demanding to see tits like it's a birthright.”

They passed another campsite with a giant flag of the African continent that said: C
OME
C
HILL
. The path ended at a high embankment, and Serge climbed out onto an overlook, surveying a mighty river.

“Is this the Mississippi?” asked Coleman.

“The Suwannee, you knucklehead.”

“That would make more sense.”

“Let's go to the cabin and prep our staging area for tonight's concert.”

“Now you're talking!”

The golf cart headed back down, much faster this time, hopping rocks and potholes. They swung by the country store to load up on provisions. More kids shot peace signs and toted bouquets of balloons. When the cart approached the cabin, a young man was out front by the road, sitting on a backpack.

The duo smiled as they passed him and headed up the driveway.

From behind: “
Serge?
”

Serge hit the brake pedal and turned curiously. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

“Then how'd you know my name?”

“Tracked you down.” He walked over and extended a hand. “Just came all the way from New Jersey. Name's Matt.”

 

Chapter
FOURTEEN

MIAMI

T
owering glass-­and-­chrome condos had just surpassed business high-­rises for dominance of the city skyline. They were clustered downtown, and south in Brickell, and north along Bayshore overlooking Biscayne.

The sun was setting as track lighting illuminated the forty-­eighth floor of one such tower, which was the top. Almost everything in the penthouse purposely white: leather sofas, bar stools, cabinets, area rugs. The rest of the space remained minimal. Some artwork: impressionism, watercolors, signed lithographs. A shelf of rare first editions. Saltwater aquarium that included an octopus.

In the middle of the room sat a long, low coral table, where a pair of aspiring actresses cut lines of white powder. The two other ­people in the room, men with strong arms and semiautomatic pistols in shoulder slings, sat in chairs on each side of the suite's entrance.

The owner, a tall black-­haired man about thirty-­five, strolled barefoot in a white silk bathrobe. He was considered severely handsome in most cultures, particularly those that found wealth attractive. His hand held a remote control that dimmed the lights, turned on the oven and piped in jazz from hidden speakers. Miles Davis. He approached the aquarium and spoke in soothing cadence as he coaxed the octopus to the surface with a piece of lobster.

The two armed men remained in their seats by the door without opinion, where they had been for hours, because they were required to. The women could sit anywhere they wanted.

The owner moved toward floor-­to-­ceiling windows overlooking the bay's swank islands, which had begun to twinkle. He placed palms against the glass as his eyes followed tiny cars crossing the water on the Venetian Causeway. One of the women approached from behind and pressed herself against his back. She slid both hands around his waist and down between his legs.

“Not now.”

She retreated, also without opinion, and rejoined her friend at the table. There was a squawking noise from the wall. One of the guards answered the intercom.

“Sir, it's Martin.”

“Send him up.”

Moments later, the doors of the penthouse—­a private elevator—­opened, and a slightly shorter version of the owner emerged.

The owner didn't turn around. “What happened?”

“They tried to rip us off.”

“And?”

“So we ripped
them
off. They could have been enjoying the fruits of a good deal. Instead, we still have our stuff
and
their money . . . The guys are waiting.”

The owner pulled a cell phone from a pocket in his bathrobe and sent a text:
!

He continued facing the window. “Binoculars.” No need to raise his voice. One of the women ran to a closet and raced back with two pairs, regular and night vision. He grabbed the thermal model and aimed it southeast at a darkened part of the bay just outside a keyhole inlet.

A pleasure yacht provided pleasure. The boat slowed, and one of the deckhands released the anchor. The boat continued on because the anchor's chain wasn't attached to the yacht. Two sets of ankles were yanked off the stern's swim platform.

Splash, splash.
Show's over. The condo's owner tossed the binoculars at the couch.

A woman: “Ow.”

He approached the visitor named Martin, who simply handed him a briefcase.

Their similarity of appearance was no accident. Cousins. The owner was meticulously procedural and cautious. Only blood relatives were trusted for hand-­to-­hand transactions.

He gave the briefcase to one of the women, who knew that meant the floor safe. The other knew to get the Rémy Martin.

The cousins headed for the promptly evacuated sofa as cognac arrived with equal timeliness. The owner accepted the drink in a hand that had a green cross on the back. “Everything else?”

“Couldn't be smoother,” said Martin, taking his first sip. “It's odd since you've been spending so much time away.”

“Problems?”

“No, just different.” He swirled the glass under his nose. “Glad it's you and not me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Stephan . . .”—­he pronounced it
Stef-­awn
—­“ . . . my head would explode if I had to spend so much time around those ­people.”

“It's about establishing patterns. And start calling me Steve.”

“What for?”

“You'll understand once you meet these ­people.”

“But you're down there, what? Four or five days a week? With a bunch of shit-­kickers?”

“It's the perfect setup,” said Steve. “Miami's far too big for us to have any influence, too
disorganized
. But up there in that small pond, I've bought off the whole town, mayor to beat cop, even a state senator. And they're laundering our money at the town bank. Couldn't be sweeter.”

“I've never known you to trust strangers like this.”

“Here's what I trust: their
dis
trust.”

“You're confusing me.”

“They've been wedged in that town for generations and almost everyone's related. If there's one thing they hate, it's outsiders poking around.” Steve took his own sip. “Here in Miami, there's no honor anymore. Everyone offers to snitch before the police even have the cuffs on. But up there, if anyone starts snooping into my business with them, they know how to keep their mouths shut.”

“Sounds like you respect them.”

“Respect isn't the precise word.” He thought and drank. “You know how in this city's business circles, we're required to rub elbows at all those cocktail parties and be charming?”

“But secretly we hate their guts?”

Steve nodded. “I actually think I'm growing fond of these guys.”

“Bullshit.” Martin idly sniffed a foreign smell in the air. “There's something else going on.”

“Well, they got these young guys running errands for me. For
free
. They're making their bones. And making my life so much easier.”

“I get it,” said Martin. “You like the disciplined structure of this outback clan.” An ironic laugh. “Like if
Duck Dynasty
went over to the dark side.”

“Can't tell you how relaxing it is up there, because the whole security issue isn't an issue.” Steve savored another sip and let the expensive burn roll out his nostrils. “Any outsider comes under the entire town's collective glare. Unless you're like me and arrive spreading the green. Then you're the golden goose that they protect behind the incestuous walls of the kingdom. It's a standing army waiting for hire.”

“But I'm guessing I know another reason.” The cousin glanced out the window in the direction of a yacht leaving Virginia Key. “If things go south with them, they have no idea the type of ­people they're dealing with.”

“Well, there's that, too.”

“We better start getting ready since it's a long drive tonight . . .” Martin stopped and sniffed the air. “Is something cooking?”

“Oh, forgot I turned that on.” Steve checked the remote control's liquid blue display. “It's ready.”

Martin followed his cousin into the kitchen. “What's ready?”

Steve opened the oven. “I never knew I loved barbecue.”

SPIRIT OF THE SUWANNEE

Serge skeptically shook a young man's hand. “Excuse me, but what exactly do you mean that you tracked me down?”

“It was easy,” said Matt. “I followed your current research project on your website, charted your future probability track like a hurricane, made a few educated guesses and here I am.”

Serge stared at a knot in a tree. “I must be losing my edge. If you can find me . . .”

“Why?” asked Matt. “Do you have a lot of trouble with fans bothering you? If I'm intruding, please tell me.”

Serge and Coleman exchanged nervous glances. “Does anyone else know . . . I'm . . . here?”

“Nobody.” Matt stood and hoisted his backpack with a grin. “Can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to finding you. But I'm sure you hear that all the time.”

“Thankfully, not enough,” said Serge.

“I was waiting by the park's main gate and saw your chopper drive through. I tried to keep up, but by the time the cabin was in sight, you were already tooling away in the golf cart. So I just waited here.”

“Forgive me for being direct, but what are you doing tracking me down in the first place?”

“I go to Prince­ton. Working on my thesis.”

“And you took a break to enjoy the weather?”

Matt shook his head. “
You
are my thesis.”

“Come again?” said Serge. “I had an ear malfunction.”

“It concerns the decay of the American Dream, and Florida as the bellwether of collapse.”

“Let's go up on the porch so you don't have to keep standing there with that sack,” said Serge. “And I can get these bags of ice in the freezer.”

They reclined in outdoor furniture, and Serge uncapped a bottle of domestic water. “Where were we?”

“I needed a hook for my thesis and noticed that Florida is so weird and unraveling much faster than the rest of the country. It's the perfect symbol for the larger picture. Then I researched on the Internet—­professors hate that, but I did it anyway—­and stumbled across your blog. You've been discussing the same themes, except in the voice of psychotic rants. It's a howl! Where did you ever learn to write expository speeches like that? Anyway, I finally realized an in-­person interview was absolutely essential for my paper.”

“You really are on the level? You're not . . . working for someone else?”

“Here are my notes.” Matt unzipped his backpack and handed over a spiral-­bound book.

Serge flipped pages. “This is impressive. Okay, I'm sold. But how
exactly
did you find me?”

“The first time I noticed your website, you had just posted a picture planting that flag in Louisiana to start your own country. I nearly fell out of my chair laughing. And in the photo, you were able to fake such seriousness and authentic enthusiasm that I said to myself, ‘This dude's completely wired in. He's got life all figured out: synthesizing 1920s surrealism and Swiftian satire while slipping in an essential disquisition to embrace our heritage, yet self-­deprecating at the same time. Because otherwise it would have been completely ridiculous.' ”

“Obviously,” said Serge.

“I kept following your posts: picking up the
Easy Rider
chopper, the courthouse, Ray Charles's childhood home, and teasing about your next stop at a little-­known Shangri-­la where the sixties thrived in a most unlikely location. Then it was just a few minutes on a search engine, and when I found this music park way out in the woods in one of the most remote swaths of Florida, I figured this must be it. So I hopped a flight down here.”

“That's it? That's all it took to find me?” Serge took a deep breath and stared up at the porch's ceiling fan. “I'm going to have to be more careful.”

“That's why I asked if I was intruding,” said Matt. “I'm sure you have lots of followers trying to locate you.”

“That's one way to put it,” said Serge.

A small stream of young ­people migrated past the cabin in purple hats, earth-­friendly sandals and the oxymoronic long shorts. Throwing Frisbees, playing bamboo flutes, juggling bowling pins.

Serge flipped through the spiral notebook. “Casey Anthony trial, Zimmerman trial, exploding corpse damages neighbor's condo, topless woman destroys inside of McDonald's before sucking ice cream from spigot, man sprinkles fiancée's ashes in LensCrafters prompting hazmat evacuation, man in giant hamster ball fails to cross ocean to Bermuda, gubernatorial debate delayed by debate over electric fan . . . You've really done your homework.”

“And that's just the low-­hanging fruit,” said Matt. “What's up with your state? It's like a Twilight Zone of insane phenomena.”

Serge continued reading. “ . . . Nike missile battery ruins in Key Largo, Apollo solid rocket booster ruins in Everglades, Jonestown massacre Kool-­Aid jug in Captain Tony's Saloon . . . Where'd you get all this stuff?”

“From you,” said Matt. “I went back and read years of your blogs. Such obscure tidbits they could only come from someone with Florida deep in his blood. That's when I knew you were crucial for my thesis . . .”

More youth walked by with butterfly kites and Dr. Seuss leggings, the stream steadily becoming thicker as night fell.

“I think the concert's starting,” said Coleman.

Serge stood and stretched. “Matt, let's pick this back up over at the shows. I need to tap into what these kids are all about.”

They locked up the cabin and joined the mellow march over hill and dale. Distant music grew louder through the trees. The path opened into a large clearing anchored on opposite ends by a pair of stages a ­couple hundred yards apart. It was a carefully planned arrangement, a band playing on one stage while roadies set up at the other, then the venues switched, and the crowd simply turned around, then switched back again, on and on through the night, a dozen bands in fluid performance.

The trio stood in the middle of the audience. Purple and pink spotlights swept the stage. More luminescence out in the crowd: glow sticks and glow hoops and hats with glowing insect antennas.

“I'm impressed.” Serge nodded to himself. “I expected it to be good, but not like this.”

“What do you mean?” asked Matt.

“Just look.” Serge's right arm panned over the crowd. “They're so well behaved. Just enjoying friendship and good music. No marijuana smoke or other drug use, nobody falling down . . .” He looked at the ground where Coleman was trying to get up. “ . . . No
kids
falling down.”