Coconut Cowboy (15 page)

A page crinkled as it turned. “Because I like the sound of an eight percent fee.”

“But what if he wants his money?”

“We give it to him, minus our cut, and tell him it's clean.”

“Will it be clean?”

“Not really.”

“I don't know,” said Jabow. “I mean, look what business he's in. Appears harmless enough, but do we actually have any idea what he and his cousin are capable of?”

“Who cares?” Vern turned another page and scanned the obituaries with a mixed sense of dread and hope. “There's no possible way he can ever find out the money isn't actually being laundered.”

Outside, a Mercedes left a metered parking space. “Which way did I come from?” Martin glanced around as he rolled slowly along a side street. The car neared the edge of the bank, where Martin happened to notice an old '55 Ford pickup sitting in the alley by the back door. “Man, that thing still run?”

Three young men emerged from the rear of the bank and began cramming themselves in the truck's cab.

The Mercedes came to a stop. Martin chuckled. “Not those clowns who burned down that barn . . .” He stopped and stared.

The last of the trio carried a canvas bag. The same one Martin had just deposited with the town leaders. Judging by its ballast, the heft of the contents hadn't changed.

“What the hell?”

 

Chapter
NINETEEN

THE NATURE COAST

A
chopper thundered away from Neon Leon's.

Serge pulled out his camera as they passed a restored two-­story cottage with an oversized veranda on the waterfront. “The old Homosassa Lodge, landmark sportsman's paradise,” Serge said into his helmet mike. “My favorite painter, Winslow Homer, first visited this area in 1904, taking a steamer up from Key West. While here, he'd stay at the hotel, where some of his finest watercolors emerged, including the iconic
Red Shirt,
depicting a tiny man in a canoe wearing such apparel as he fishes along the tall palms guarding the banks of this river. Now housed at the National Gallery of Art. Watercolors are the best! I just realized I like some colors way more than the taste. Avocado.”

“Can we stay at the lodge?” asked Matt.

“Negative,” said Serge. “It's now a private residence, which is why I refuse to divulge the address because I'm all about privacy. The nearby state park is another matter. They're paid to be pestered, and I'm all about getting bang for my buck.”

They circled back to Highway 98 and followed the signs before entering a parking lot filled with out-­of-­state plates.

“Look at all the tourists!” said Coleman.

“The ones with taste.” Serge grabbed a clipboard from his knapsack and led them inside the welcome center for Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park.

A young man in a smartly pressed uniform greeted them inside the door.

“What's your name?” asked Serge.

“Kevin.”

Serge jotted on his clipboard. “Kevin, what's ‘Homosassa' mean?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Native American for ‘place of many pepper plants,' ” said Serge. “Where's the Winslow Homer display?”

“Who?”

“That was another test,” said Serge. “I already know where it is. It's the small room at the end of that hall on the left with a barely noticeable sign because it's tragically become an afterthought. Please get that fixed. There's a framed photo depicting how the old fishing lodge looked in the early part of last century, along with a page from the guest register that indicated the famous artist paid eighteen dollars a week. He was from New England, but I'll give him an honorary Floridian waiver just for
Red Shirt
alone. You need to know this in case the tourists ask, and if they don't, tell them anyway because it's important. Are you getting all this?”

“Excuse me,” said Kevin. “Are you with the state?”

“You have no idea how much.” Another notation on the clipboard. “I'll check back with you in a month and expect a full report . . . Come on, guys . . .”

The three companions neared the end of the hall.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “I think we have trouble.”

“Why?”

“It looks like the kid back there is talking with his supervisor and pointing at us.”

“Let him.”

They went inside the room.

“You're right,” said Matt, bending his neck close to the wall. “Here's his lodging receipt. Looks like he hired a boat for three dollars and bought lunch for his fishing guide.”

“And here's a letter to his brother Arthur.” More scribbling on the clipboard. “Bragging about the climate and catching trout.”

Coleman tugged Serge's shirt. “Don't look now, but the supervisor's here.”

An older man in another uniform approached the visitors. “I'm sorry if there was some miscommunication with one of our new hires.” He tried to sneak a glance at the clipboard. “And we'll get a bigger Winslow Homer sign.”

“There's nothing to worry about.” Serge placed a hand on the man's shoulder. “We're all in this together.”

“Glad you feel that way.”

“There's no other way to feel . . . Where's Lucifer?”

“Lucifer?” The park supervisor took a reflexive step back, then remembered: “Oh,
Lu
.” He pointed. “Outside by the water . . .”

The threesome took a twisting path down to a rippling lagoon of unnatural ice-­blue clarity. “Here we are at one of Florida's most magnificent springs, bubbling thousands of gallons a minute up from the aquifer and forming the headwaters of the Homosassa River, flowing nine miles to the Gulf of Mexico. Did I mention it stays a constant and pleasurable seventy-­two degrees?”

“I believe those are West Indian manatees,” said Matt.

“You have a sharp eye.”

“But what was the deal back there with Lucifer?” asked the student. “You kind of threw him off balance.”

“The clipboard already did that,” said Serge. “But to answer your question, they shortened Lucifer's name to ‘Lu' for public digestion.”

“I still don't know who Lu is.”

“Follow me.” Serge launched another short expedition guided by a map in his brainpan.

They waited at the back of a visitors' line before descending stairs into a small, dim room of emerald-­green light. The walls of the chamber were lined with angled-­out panes of thick glass, and everything had an unsteady sensation of equilibrium.

“Whoa.” Coleman grabbed a railing for balance. “I got a little more messed up last night than I thought.”

“It's not you,” said Serge. “This is a floating underwater observatory, nicknamed ‘the fishbowl,' one of the funkiest remaining 1950s-­era roadside attractions in all the state.”

“Look at all the sea life!” Matt's hands pressed against the glass. “There are thousands schooling all around us.”

Serge pressed his own palms. “Sheepshead, crevalle jack, channel bass . . .”

“And there's a manatee,” said Matt. “He's turning and coming toward us. Now he's right up to the window looking at us.”

“Hope your hair is combed.”

“What a magnificent creature,” said Matt. “I never knew until I viewed one in a setting like this.”

Serge knocked on one of the observatory's steel beams. “It's the perfect way to see aquatic life. Other marine attractions capture stuff and put it in tanks and ­people look in from the outside. I don't know about fish, but I get the strong feeling that sea
mammals
understand the difference. Dolphins and killer whales keep swimming around wondering, ‘What's the deal with this? I just keep going in bullshit circles. I had bigger plans.' But here, the humans are in the container and everything else gets to swim free in their natural environment, and if they choose to come look at us, they can. Then they go on their merry way, straight, serpentine, abrupt angles, all of them thinking: ‘This is way better than circles.' ”

“But what about Lu?”

“Next stop.”

The gang climbed back up to ground level and marched a brief distance down a curving trail until Serge overlooked an enclosure. “There's Lu.”

“A hippopotamus?” said Matt.

“Been here since 1964.”
Click, click, click.
“An exotic-­animal company used to winter down at the springs and lease their critters out to Hollywood for the big screen. Lu, here, starred in many notable jungle films and the smash-­hit TV series
Daktari,
plus guest appearances on
The
Art Linkletter Show
and Herb Alpert specials, becoming a sixties wildlife celebrity, though it's murky whether the Tijuana Brass was involved.”

“I remember
Daktari.
” Matt pulled out his notebook. “Not the hippo.”

“The noble animal eventually ended up in the hands of the state, along with others from the traveling Ivan Tors Animal Actors troupe,” said Serge. “Conservation officials—­with the best of intentions—­scheduled deportation because Lu didn't fit the indigenous habitat.”

“But he's still here.” Coleman convulsed with a beer belch. “I should lie down.”

“Lu had stolen the locals' hearts and they took up the banner,” said Serge. “In 1991, Governor Chiles granted the hippo state citizenship so he could remain. Lu is now well past normal life expectancy due to diligent care, and ever since he turned fifty in 2010, local newspapers royally report each birthday complete with bio tidbits like Lu's best friend was another refugee from the animal company, a donkey named Susie, whom Lu would faithfully follow wherever she went. It was never a problem if officials needed to move such an immense African land mammal to another part of the park. They'd just get the donkey. Unfortunately Susie passed away, and I'm getting misty thinking about Lu's empty heart.”

“I'm sincerely in awe,” said Matt, writing fast and flipping pages. “How did you discover so much trivia? How do you
remember
it? . . . Mostly useless but still entertaining.”

“Useless on the surface.” Serge tapped his chin with the wisdom of experience. “But you never know . . .”

WOBBLY

Martin waited until the vintage pickup began moving out from behind the bank. Then he turned into the alley and followed. Based on the antics of the truck's occupants the previous night, he wasn't worried about being spotted.

A short, peaceful drive later, the Mercedes sat on a lonely road with a clear view of an even lonelier trailer and a '55 pickup parked outside.

Martin pressed buttons on his cell phone. “Damn, no reception.”

Two strategies presented themselves. One: Frontal. Knock on the door with pointed questions. Which would result in lies and messiness. Or two: Be patient and find out what these idiots were really up to. Martin tossed the phone on the passenger seat and sat back and waited.

And waited.

Night fell. A TV lit up the mobile home.

After a while, the door opened. Empty Budweiser cans flew outside. The door closed.

More waiting.

The door opened again. Three young men came out and fired off bottle rockets for a period of mild amusement. They were down to their last firework and had a brain-­drizzle. Slower dropped his pants and bent over as they inserted the bottle rocket's stick a ­couple inches into his rectum.

His brother aimed a cell-­phone camera to capture the festivities for social media.

“This is going to be so great!”

They lit the fuse.

The opposite of rocket science. The force of the propellant fell short of dislodging the stick from Slower's derriere, and a shower of sparks singed his butt and chased him, jeans around ankles, waddling and screaming until the climactic explosion of the rocket that sent him headfirst into the side of the trailer, knocking himself unconscious.

The others poured beer on him as the antidote. He woozily came around and they high-­fived and popped more beers and went inside to see how many Internet strangers approved.

Martin squinted through his windshield. “What is wrong with these ­people?”

Eventually, just before midnight, the trio stumbled out with the canvas bag from the bank.

Martin threw the Mercedes in gear. “Now we're talking.”

The two vehicles wound through the night countryside, past horses and rusty windmills and abandoned tractors. The pickup finally turned down one of the nicer dirt roads in town and headed up a driveway until it reached a dark residence. Martin cut his lights and parked a hundred yards back. At first he thought they were going to the home for some kind of secret meeting. But then, “What on earth are they doing?”

The trio removed a loose piece of lattice from the side of the house and wiggled into the exposed crawl space, dragging the canvas bag from the bank.

Martin got out of his car. “Just when I thought it couldn't get weirder.” He checked his cell phone. Crap, still no reception. He decided to send a text, which would automatically go through as soon he hit an area of better coverage. He stuck the phone in the console between the seats and weighed options again. He grabbed an automatic pistol from the glove compartment, racked the chamber, and walked toward the lattice. “Okay, let's see what kind of brainlessness we're dealing with . . .”

Underneath the house, Elroy continued leading the way with a collapsible camping shovel. “Where's Slower?”

“Back here. I think I got a splinter in my butthole.”

“I ain't breaking out the tweezers, so deal with it.”

The shovels snapped into open position, and a familiar routine of flinging dirt began.

“Elroy—­”

“Don't even start again about why we're the guys who always have to crawl under houses.”

Slow closed his mouth.

Another spade full of dirt flew. Elroy realized the hole was taking longer than usual. Because only two shovels were in play. He looked around with his flashlight, then barked the loudest whisper he dared without waking Jabow. “Slower! Where are you?”

An echo from a distant part of the crawl space: “Digging the hole. I was wondering where you guys were.”

“You dolt! . . .”

Martin got down on his hands and knees—­“Steve owes me big-­time”—­and shimmied under the house . . .

A shovel hit something. Elroy's hands swept dirt away from the previously buried cash. “Hand me that bag.” New cash went on top of the old.

Martin continued crawling with stealth, led by the sound of curt whispers up ahead. Occasionally there was a flicker from a thin flashlight, then darkness again. He reached in his pocket for the pistol.

“Is that the last of it?” asked Elroy.

Slow turned the canvas bag inside out. “It's empty.”

Elroy's arms began herding displaced soil back into the hole. “Let's fill this sucker up and get the heck out of here.”

Slow felt something pressed against the back of his head.

“Nobody's going anywhere!”

A startled Elroy raised up and smacked his head on a floor beam. “Ow, shit! . . . Who's there? . . . Jabow, did we wake you?”

“It's Martin from the bank. I believe that's my money.” He shoved Slow down in the dirt. “Somebody better start explaining fast.”