SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (11 page)

“I want to watch more TV,” said Coleman. “Camping’s cool!”

Chapter
FIFTEEN

MEANWHILE

T
he Sawgrass Expressway separates the Everglades from the western sprawl of Broward County. A white Toyota Camry headed north, a half hour after leaving downtown Fort Lauderdale. The Camry had the no-option package but the fabric seats were clean. A decal in the back window suggested that someone believed Florida State was “#1” at something.

“Shelby,” said Brook. “Are we being followed?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re constantly glancing in the rearview.”

“That’s how you have to drive down here.” Shelby looked at the mirror again and leaned over the steering wheel. “South Florida drivers are the worst. They tailgate at eighty and change lanes without clearance. So if you just stay in the right lane and leave extra separation from the car in front of you, you’ll be fine. As long as you keep watching—” He looked up again.

“The rearview?”

“In South Florida, all the trouble comes from behind.” Shelby gave the Camry a brief burst of gas and swung over to the side of the lane. The shoulder’s warning strips rumbled under his right tires. A black Corvette whipped around and blew by like they were standing still.

“Good God,” said Brook. “If you hadn’t sped up and scooted over, he would have clipped your back end.”

“Got the address?”

Brook opened a file in her lap. “Why did Mrs. Wozniak want to meet at such an ungodly hour?”

“Says she’s a night owl. Likes to watch infomercials and preachers.” Shelby tapped the brakes and swerved. A Camaro whipped in front of him. “Maybe tomorrow we can go see Ziggy. He left a message.”

“What about?”

“Didn’t elaborate,” said Shelby. “Or couldn’t over the phone.”

“Which is it?”

Shelby shrugged. “You’ll just have to meet Ziggy.”

“Why don’t you simply call him back and ask?”

“You need to meet Ziggy anyway,” said Shelby. “It’ll eventually come up.”

“What will?”

“Keeps calling with strategy and stuff. You’ll start getting calls, too. Still thinks he’s lead counsel on the case.”

“But the firm absorbed it,” said Brook. “That’s standard. He just has to kick back and collect his fee.”

“You have to meet Ziggy.”

Moments later, the Toyota turned left into the Coral Shores trailer park, which was fifteen miles inland. The entrance had wooden signs with pelicans and an empty space on the pavement where a guard shack had once stood. A retired man on a three-wheel bicycle pedaled across the road in the dark. He wore a blue baseball cap that said he had served on the USS
John C. Calhoun
. In the bicycle’s handlebar basket was a pet iguana that seemed to either enjoy the ride or was utterly confused by this turn in his life. Shelby continued winding through trailers, looking for the address. The park was still and quiet, except for all the other senior citizens with blank expressions and giant tricycles who slowly pedaled back and forth in the dark like a mellow zombie movie.

The Camry finally parked in the dirt next to a double-wide. It was one of those trailers where the front steps were surrounded with way too much stuff to compensate for it being a trailer. Flags, gnomes, dead potted plants, giant frog statues, tiny windmills, wind chimes, birdhouses and a signpost with various arrows indicating the mileage to London, Nova Scotia and Bangkok.

The lawyers climbed the steps and knocked.

A voice from inside: “Who is it?”

“Shelby and Brook.”

“Who?”

“Your attorneys. We called.”

“One minute.”

Muffled sounds, glass clinking, shuffling, something fell over, coughing. Shelby and Brook glanced at each other. More coughs, a horribly violent clearing of a throat, then the door opened.

“Make yourself at home.” An older woman in a nightgown turned and retreated back into the dimness of the trailer.

The lawyers took seats on a sofa covered in plastic. At the end of the couch was an embroidered pillow of a dalmatian. The beginning of a trend. The pair’s eyes moved around the room: a giant floor-standing ceramic dalmatian; framed paintings of dalmatians; shelves filled with dalmatian stuffed animals, figurines and commemorative plates. A model fire engine had a spotted dog behind the wheel.

“Thank you for seeing us,” said Shelby. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

“You’re no bother. I’m glad to have the company,” said Mrs. Wozniak. “It’s been hard for me since the colonel passed away.”

“Your husband?”

“No.” She pointed. “My dalmatian.”

The lawyers turned toward what they had previously believed to be another stuffed toy, but was actually the work of a taxidermist.

Brook whispered sideways, “Awkward.”

“Mrs. Wozniak,” said Shelby, “the reason we’re here is that we need to go over your testimony for the trial.”

“Call me Ruthy. I don’t understand why I have to testify.”

“Because you’re a named plaintiff,” said Brook.

“I still don’t know what any of this means. What’s a class action?”

“Remember when you talked to that other lawyer at our firm?” asked Shelby. “If the finance company only treated you badly, then there would just be your lawsuit. But we’ve found many, many other people that the company also treated unfairly—” Shelby stopped.

Mrs. Wozniak had begun petting something invisible in her lap. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“Uh, anyway, so the judge considers all of those other victims part of the same class, which is why it’s called a class action.”

“Would you like some tea?” She stood up. She sat back down. “I don’t have any.”

“Ma’am,” said Brook. “We just need to go over what you will say in court.”

“Will all those other victims be in court?” asked Ruthy.

“No, they’re not named plaintiffs like you are,” said Shelby.

“I still don’t understand.”

“It means you get more money,” said Brook.

“But I don’t want to go to court,” said Ruthy. “I want to stay in my trailer.”

Brook got up and took a seat alongside Mrs. Wozniak, placing a hand on hers. “That’s why we’re here. Everything will be fine.”

“You’re so sweet.” She began petting air again. “Okay, what do I have to do?”

Brook thought of the right way to say it. “First, it’s best if witnesses keep their hands folded in their lap.”

“Like this? That’s easy.”

“Good; now then, we’re going to ask you some simple things, like what the mortgage people said when you were applying for a loan, and what documents they required.”

“What about the other lawyers? On TV, they’re mean and trick you.”

“We won’t let that happen,” said Shelby. “We’ll object if they try anything.”

Brook stroked her hand. “Here’s the important part. The lawyer is going to try to blame you.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

“We know that,” said Brook. “Except a lot of people think you should have been more responsible for the amount of money you took out on the house.”

“I just did what they said. I told them I didn’t understand about money, but they were so polite and said they could get me a house much nicer than anything I ever dreamed of.” She got out a hankie and dabbed tears. “Then they took it away from me.”

“And that’s all you’ll have to say. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Should I tell them about the colonel?”

“You might want to leave that part out.”

Chapter
SIXTEEN

FLAMINGO

I
t was darkest just before dawn. The overnight sky had undergone a shift change of constellations. Waves lapped the shore, mosquitoes buzzed, owls hooted, frogs croaked, a Ford Cobra idled.

An instrument gauge said the gas tank was half empty.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

Serge’s eyes remained shut. “It can’t be morning already.”

Bang, bang, bang . . .

He opened one eye. Jet black outside. His glow-in-the-dark wristwatch said five
A.M.
He closed the eye.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

“I don’t want to get up.” Serge shifted his weight. “He’ll stop if I ignore him.”

Bang, bang, bang . . .

Serge sighed and kept his eyes closed.

Then another sound. “Serge? Can you hear me?”

Serge groaned and adjusted the T-shirt pillow. “Coleman, go back to sleep!”

“Is it morning yet?”

“You idiot, can’t you tell it’s still dark?”

“I can’t see anything,” said Coleman. “Could you give me a little help?”

“Leave me alone . . .”

Then Serge realized the voice wasn’t as close as it should have been. It was also quite warm despite the A/C, and mosquitoes were biting again. “What the hell?”

He turned and saw the passenger door wide open. In his stupor, Coleman had somehow spilled out of the car.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

Serge gave a heavier sigh. “Now I
have
to get up.”

He grabbed the tire iron and made another pass by the trunk—
crack
—then continued around the car. “Coleman, where are you?”

“Down here.”

“Where— . . . Oh, Jesus, don’t move!”

“I don’t think I can,” said Coleman. “What’s going on?”

Serge urgently reached in the backseat for tools. “The biggest freaking Burmese python I’ve ever seen has dislocated its jaws and is beginning to devour you headfirst.”

“It’s down over my eyes,” said Coleman. “Can you do something before it gets to my mouth? I won’t like that.”

“Just hold still. The snake has rearward-facing teeth to latch onto its prey.” Serge wedged implements on both sides of Coleman’s head. “Since the jaws are dislocated, it doesn’t have much clamping strength.”

“Serge, why didn’t it squeeze me to death first?”

“Normally, it would have.” Serge gripped a pair of channel-lock pliers over the bridge of Coleman’s nose. “Unless the snake thinks its meal is no longer alive, and you sleep like the dead.”

“I thought I was too big for a snake to eat.”

“You are, but it doesn’t stop them from trying, like the one python in the news that ruptured itself trying to ingest an alligator. And this baby must have a huge appetite, because you’ve got one big-ass melon on your neck.”

“I prefer ‘special-headed person.’ ”

“It’s starting to coil in defense,” said Serge. “I’m going to have to finish fast, and as soon as you’re free, I need you to find the tail.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be grabbing the neck. They don’t have much resistance to humans stretching them out, but once they start to wrap, it gets ugly fast.” Serge grunted and heaved a final last time with the pliers. “There! You’re free! Find the tail, find the tail!”

“There’s goo in my eyes.”

“Hurry, it’s got my arm!”

“Is this the tail?”

“No, my ankle! Find the tail!”

Coleman fell over backward. “But I’m still really fucked up.”

“Can’t fix that now.” Serge flopped over on his back, wrestling with massive jaws trying to get at his face. “What’s taking so long with the tail? It’s got my other arm now!”

“Okay, I got a part of the snake. How do I find the tail?”

“Just keep going the opposite direction from me. And make it snappy. I’m losing feeling in my arms and won’t be able to hold the neck much longer.”

“I think it’s working. I’m feeling my way along,” said Coleman. “Spoke too soon. I can’t go any farther.”

“Why not?”

“It’s got my leg.”

Serge rolled over with the jaws. “So pull it loose.”

“I need to do something else first.”

“Coleman, what can be more important?”

“One of the coils is going around my neck.”

Serge rolled the other way. “This is critical: As fast as you can, get one of your arms up next to your throat so when it starts squeezing you can breathe for a couple more minutes.”

“Okay, now it has my leg, neck
and
arm,” said Coleman. “Camping is starting to be bad again.”

“Damn, it’s got both of us,” said Serge. “Forget the tail. Emergency Notification System: We both start crawling as fast and hard as we can away from each other. That should stretch it out.”

“I’m crawling,” said Coleman. “But it’s taking everything I got to just move an inch at a time. And it keeps flipping me over.”

“Same here.” Serge involuntarily rolled to his left and dug his feet into the ground. “Just don’t stop.”

Coleman clawed at dirt with his free hand. “Serge, when they announced the python hunt, wasn’t there a safety class people were supposed to take?”

“That’s for amateurs. Keep crawling!”

“I’m getting too tired . . . don’t . . . think . . . I can . . . make . . . it . . .”

“You have to!” Serge realized Coleman was about to go down for the count, so he summoned his last bit of strength for a single burst. “Give it all you can one last time—now!”

Both yelled for that extra oomph and strained ahead.

“It’s working,” said Coleman.

“I know.” Serge got one arm free. “He’s starting to uncoil and deal with what we’re doing to him.”

“It let go of my leg . . . and my neck.”

“Can you get to the tail?”

“I think so . . . yeah, got it!”

Serge yanked his other arm loose and stood with hands around the snake’s neck. “Pull!”

This was a much easier task. The pair stretched the snake into a long reptilian rope.

“Good God,” said Coleman. “It must be a hundred feet long!”

“Closer to seventeen,” said Serge.

“What do we do with it now?”

Serge looked around. “Put it in the car.”

The full moon was high, backlighting dragonflies and vultures as the swamp world made a sizzling racket. Serge pinned the snake’s neck with his foot while he fished keys from his pocket and opened the driver’s door.

“Coleman, I’m going to climb through the car with its head and go out the other side. Then we’ll bunch him up and slam the doors. But he’s going to coil, so it’ll have to be a quick release.”

They completed the task and stared through the windows.

Coleman slapped his neck. “It’s exploring.”

Bang, bang, bang . . .

Serge glanced at the trunk, then turned to Coleman with his mouth open.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Eureka!” said Serge. “You’re a genius!”

“I am?”

Serge ran to the campsite for his duffel bag. “You just gave me the last organic inspiration I needed for my science project!”

“You’re welcome . . . Where are you going?”

“To get your sleeping bag!”

Serge quickly returned with the sack, brushing dirt off the side. “None the worse for wear. And glad your zipper isn’t broken like mine. Help me get the python inside this thing.”

“I like him in the car better.”

“Coleman! There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ve seen it on TV a million times. I’ll grab the head and stick it down inside, and then you quickly feed the rest of the snake into the bag.”

Serge opened the driver’s door, where the snake was curled up nicely on the seat. “There you are! . . .” Moments later, the snake’s tail disappeared into the bag and Serge pulled the drawstring tight, locking it with a plastic snap.

Coleman panted with hands on his knees. “I need a drink.”

“Good thinking.”

“Are you serious?” Coleman dove in the car for his bottle. “Because usually you nag about me getting messed up.”

Serge dragged the heavy bag. “Not this time. Bring the fifth with you.”

Coleman stood next to the campfire pit, holding the bottle by the neck. Serge was inside the tent, connecting wires with a crimping tool. He punctured a hole in the floor with an extra plastic stake, securing the tiny motor that was connected to the solenoid switch and an array of small dry-cell batteries. Another stake held the end of the sleeping bag in place.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “You left the tent flap open. Mosquitoes are getting in.”

“That’s crucial to the plan.” Serge ran another wire from the battery to the electroplate, then to the capacitor, which was routed back to the solenoid. “Just keep drinking.”

“No need to tell me twice.” The bottle went skyward.

Serge exited the tent and pulled a plastic box with a red cross from his duffel, removing a syringe and a glass vial.

Coleman took another slug and wiped dribble with the back of his hand. “What’s that?”

“Some stuff I added to my first-aid kit because the ones in the store never come with everything you need, like a syringe and paralytic agent when you need uncooperative patients to remain still.”

Serge jammed the needle in the vial. He pulled back the plunger to fill the chamber and ran toward the Cobra’s trunk.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

The trunk popped open. Linus Quim thrashed like a landed fish, screaming under duct tape. Serge patted his head. “You’re just going to hurt yourself that way.” The needle stabbed Quim in the butt, and he fell inert.

Coleman continued chugging as instructed, watching Serge in the moonlight as he dragged their captive by the ankles. Then he carefully positioned Quim inside the tent.

Serge stepped back outside and beamed with satisfaction. “Coleman, what do you think?”

“I’m drunk.”

“You have impeccable timing.” Serge held the tent flap open. “Now get in there and do your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Have another drink.”

Coleman went inside the tent and sat cross-legged with his bottle. “Camping’s getting better again.”

Serge sprayed himself liberally with insect repellent, then stepped inside and took a seat beside his pal.

Coleman lowered the fifth. “What’s going on?”

“Mother Nature taking its course,” said Serge. “I just redirected the route a little.”

A mosquito landed on Coleman’s arm, then another, and another. They took off in wobbly flight as others found exposed flesh.

“Oooo, almost forgot,” said Serge. “Stay here.”

Coleman forged on into intoxication as mosquitoes flew away from him like children participating in that sadistic initiation of spinning around with their foreheads on the end of a baseball bat. Bugs staggered around the tent’s floor.

Serge returned with a long, clear tube and a roll of duct tape. He inserted one end of the tube in Linus’s mouth and taped it in place. The rest of the tube ran the length of Quim’s body and was taped to one of his ankles. Serge sat next to Coleman again. “There, now nature has clear sailing.”

“Getting a little wrecked here,” said Coleman. “What am I looking at?”

The first mosquito flew in a corkscrew pattern and landed on the electroplate with a tiny flicker.

Serge canted his head. “There’s the first charge to the capacitor.”

“That means I’m seeing triple.”

Flash
.

“There’s the second. I don’t know how many it will take since this is all organic. But when it hits the tipping point, the capacitor will fire a charge to the solenoid, which will turn on the little motor . . . Hey, Linus!”

“He can’t hear you,” said Coleman. “He’s out cold.”

“No, that’s the paralytic agent,” said Serge. “He’s fully awake and can hear fine. Just can’t move . . . Yo! Quim! What kind of deranged upbringing would cause you to prey on parents’ worst fears?”

“He’s not answering,” said Coleman.

“He can’t talk either, but super fortunate for us it was a rhetorical question.”

Flash, flash.

Serge snapped his fingers. “Quim, listen up, because this is your bonus round. I always give my contestants a way out. We’re leaving soon to give you some privacy so you don’t have to worry about any embarrassing photos ending up on Facebook. And after we do, a certain series of events will take place, ending with that little motor turning on. As you can see here, there’s a wire running from its axle to the clasp locking the drawstring on the sleeping bag holding a big honkin’ Burmese python. You definitely don’t want that motor releasing the drawstring. Hoo-wee! . . .”

“Oh, I get it now,” said Coleman. A mosquito took off from his arm and joined a small squadron flying inverted before stumbling around the floor.

“ . . . Here’s the thing about major constrictors: They often underestimate the size of dinner and try to tackle something too large.”

Coleman nodded. “I would have ruptured him.”

“He’s right,” Serge told Quim. “Coleman definitely would have given him a tummy ache. But you, on the other hand, are a sniveling, skinny little drink of water, so it’s on the bubble.”

“Is that the bonus round?” asked Coleman.