SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (3 page)

Chapter
THREE

THE GULF STREAM

A
catamaran sat anchored six miles southwest of Key West.

It had left the dock crammed cheek to jowl with fifty tourists who had suddenly decided to take up snorkeling. They were instructed how to fasten and blow up their yellow flotation vests, making the deck even more crowded. Locals called it a cattle boat.

It had a large sail that was stowed so it could quickly motor out to the reef and get those paying customers in the water. They now surrounded the boat, bobbing in the sea like a school of spastic lemon jellyfish.

A head rose from the sea and spit out a snorkel. “I think I saw a fish.”

“Where?” said Ethel.

“Down there,” said Edith.

“I don’t see anything,” said Edna.

“They promised all this fantastic marine life,” said Eunice. “Why aren’t we finding it?”

Because the best underwater viewing was at Pennekamp, Looe Key and the Tortugas. And the fiercely competitive Key West snorkeling racket depended on turnaround time, which meant the nearest reef, which was barren.

“I see some rocks,” said Edna.

But it was still the Gulf Stream, and a few stray fish couldn’t help but swim by. Then visitors from Indiana and Ohio who didn’t know any better would go home happy. It was a sound formula: People not used to treading open ocean quickly tired of waves and tide, returning to the boat long before their snorkel time was up. On the way back to Key West they were served unlimited free Rum Runners that they lapped up in the manner of people offered free liquor everywhere, and by the time they staggered onto the dock, the four scrawny fish they had seen turned into a Jacques Cousteau expedition.

“I definitely see one this time,” said Ethel. “That little guy.”

“I see one over there,” said Eunice. “That makes two.”

Edith was looking the other way. “I think the guys running the boat are hotties.”

“Edith, they’re all seventy years younger than us.”

“Exactly.”

“I have to admit I’m with Edith on this one,” said Edna.

“I’m exhausted,” said Eunice.

“Me, too,” said Ethel. “Let’s go drink a shitload of those Rum Runners.”

“What about you, Edith? . . . Edith? . . . What’s that look on your face?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“So go already. It’s the ocean.”

“No, it’s not—”

“Wait,” said Edna. “You don’t mean number two.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

“Just hold it until we get back on the boat!”

“Have you forgotten?” said Edith. “At our age that’s not always in the cards.”

“No! Stop! Whatever you do . . .”

Edith closed her eyes, and exhaled with satisfied relief.

“Dear God in heaven!” The other three frantically splashed away from her.

Back on deck, the boat’s crew circulated with giant red pitchers, filling dozens of plastic cups held out by the beckoning mob. The crew was motivated; it increased tips. Four crouched women with white hair elbowed their way through. Ethel held a cup over her head. “Hit me!”

“That’s your fourth,” said Edna.

“And this train ain’t stoppin’ now.”

“Whoa!” Eunice jumped back, arms dripping with red liquid from the pitcher. “What’s the deal?”

“Sorry,” said the crew member. “Someone just pinched my ass.” He spun around to see a giggling Edith worm her way out of sight into the crowd.

The anchor hoisted. Those with better cameras migrated starboard to shoot the setting sun through girders of the nearby Sand Key Lighthouse, which began service in 1853. Since it was a reef light, it wasn’t one of those round concrete jobs but an iron skeleton in the shape of a steep pyramid. The sand of Sand Key was underwater. One of the shutterbugs with a Nikon pointed off the port bow. “A waterspout!”

“I’ve never seen a waterspout before,” said Eunice.

“It looks so pretty,” said Edna.

“You wouldn’t say that if you saw it on land,” said Ethel. “They’re called tornadoes.”

“Except this one’s just harmlessly sucking up water.”

“And some fish that don’t like it,” said Eunice.

“Maybe that’s where all the fish went that we were supposed to see today,” said Ethel.

“Have another drink,” said Edna.

The crew started the engine. They had a strict no-ocean-littering policy, because of staunch fines from the ever-vigilant Coast Guard. So there was immediate concern when a passenger with a video camera panned wide-angle along the side of the boat. “What the heck is that floating over the reef? . . .”

A half hour later, the gangway lowered onto the dock, and the crew steadied its customers as they wobbled ashore.
“Here’s ten bucks for your tip bucket! . . .” “Never seen so many fish! . . .”

The old ladies climbed down next.

Eunice reached the dock and covered her eyes. “Jesus, Edith! I’ve never been so embarrassed in my entire life!”

“I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”

“Edith! The first mate used a net on a long pole to fish your diaper out of the ocean!”

“Fuck it, let’s find a bar.”

“I know a good one.” Edna pointed across a sunset crowd surrounding jugglers and tightrope walkers and a guy turning blue in a straitjacket wrapped with chains. “Just on the other side of Mallory Square.”

The elderly quartet finally reached the top step outside their destination, and Edna grabbed the door handle. “What do you think?”

“Look at that view!” said Eunice.

“Told you it was a great place.”

They went inside Havana Docks. Eunice stopped and pointed at the face entirely filling the flat-screen TV. “Look! It’s Serge!”

“You’re right!” yelled Edna. “It
is
Serge!”

“What’s he done now?”

Serge’s eyes flew wide at the sound of his name echoing through the bar. He pulled Brook deeper into the alcove outside the restrooms and urgently tapped her cheeks. “I know you’re woozy, but we have to get out of here!”

A waiter passed by and stopped. “Is she okay?”

“Just needs some air.”

The waiter was about to leave, but stopped again. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“No!”

Brook managed to steady her legs. They hurried east toward Key West Bight. Every passing bar seemed to have a TV with their faces. “Wrong way.” Serge jerked her south, ducking in the first souvenir shop they saw. The clerk rang them up. “Have we met somewhere before?”

“No!”

They ran out of the store with bright Conch Republic baseball caps pulled low over their faces bank-robber style. “This way . . .”

They reversed course, moving west on Greene Street. Up ahead, a large grouper marked their sanctuary. It hung over the doors of Captain Tony’s Saloon, the original Sloppy Joe’s where Hemingway used to kick back after his daily writing quota of five hundred words. A drunk tourist now stood on the sidewalk, throwing quarters backward over his head in a long-standing tradition of trying to get pocket change in the grouper’s mouth for good luck. Serge knew that Tony’s didn’t have a TV and was cave dark. He also knew something else.

Quarters bounced and rolled on the sidewalk as Serge and Brook ran hand in hand into the bar, past pool tables, some real tombstones and the old lynching tree that grew up through the roof. They reached the back of the lounge; Serge’s fist pounded a door that said P
RIVATE
.

From inside “What now?” It was opened by an extra-tall, lanky man who used to pitch for the University of Miami Hurricanes. His eyes bugged out. “Serge!” He quickly checked to see if anyone was looking, then pulled them both inside and slammed the door.

“Jesus, you’re all over the news, every station. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

“I can explain.”

The man held up a hand. “I don’t want to know.”

“I need a favor.”

“That I knew.”

“It’s too hot for us in Key West,” said Serge. “We need to get off the Rock, but people are starting to recognize us on the street . . .”

“ . . . And you need to get to Big Pine.”

“Can you help us, Joe?”

Joe rubbed his forehead. The full name was Joe Faber, who bought the bar from Captain Tony two decades back, allowing the local celebrity to remain on his bar-stool perch by the front door—right up to his death in ’08 at the age of ninety-two—taking donations for autographs and, if the women were sufficiently hammered, getting in a little fondling. Faber also owned the infamous No Name Pub, a converted 1930s trading post and brothel back in the banana trees on Big Pine Key.

“Man, Serge, when you show up, you bring the band.” Joe grabbed his keys off a hook. “We’ll go out the back . . .”

Chapter
FOUR

THE OVERSEAS HIGHWAY

J
oe Faber loved his classic ’96 Cadillac DeVille. Serge had also once owned a Caddy and was familiar with the roomy trunk, but this was the first time he was getting the ride.

“What are you doing?” Brook asked in the dark next to the spare tire.

“Counting bridges,” said Serge. “That last one was Ramrod, and Little Torch is coming up. Then one more to Big Pine.”

A couple minutes later: “We’re stopping,” said Brook.

“First red light since Stock Island after leaving Key West twenty-six miles back. Then we turn north into the backcountry.”

Serge finally heard rocks under the tires. “We’re here.”

The car stopped and the trunk popped open in blinding sunlight.

Joe helped Brook climb out. “I pulled us around back by the gas tanks so nobody would see.”

“I owe you,” said Serge.

“I know.” The Caddy slung pebbles and sped off.

Quiet again except wind and occasional cawing gulls over Bogie Channel.

Serge headed toward a whitewashed two-story clapboard building—the combination marina and motel office. The rear door opened before he could knock.

“Good God, Serge, get in here before anyone sees!” Hands yanked them inside. “You’re all over the TV!”

“It’s this crazy twenty-four-hour news cycle,” said Serge. “When I was a kid, just three channels, the national anthem, a prayer, test pattern, go to bed. And the 7-Eleven closed at
eleven
. It was a healthier time.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“My manners,” said Serge. “Brook, I’d like you to meet Julie. Julie, this is Brook.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

Serge cleared his throat. “I need a—”

“Favor,” said Julie. “Okay, we got a free cabin.”

“Cabin number five?” Serge pumped his eyebrows. “You know how I feel about ol’
casa cinco
.”

“Serge, you’re not exactly in a position to be choosy.”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Serge. “But if you have number five.”

Julie sighed and pulled a plastic fob off a pegboard. “Here’s the key. And can you come back sometime when you’re not using my place as a fugitive hangout?”

“You say that like it’s bad publicity.”

“Because it is.”

“Excuse me.” Brook asked Julie, “How well do you know Serge?”

“Well enough not to get into a trunk with him. Girl, take care of yourself.”

The pair pulled their baseball caps down again and walked briskly across a white gravel parking lot.

“How exactly do you know all these people?” asked Brook.

“I just have a knack for collecting friends,” said Serge. “And they’re always offering to do favors. It’s odd.”

They continued toward a row of tiny cabins. The Old Wooden Bridge Fishing Camp. The wood part of the bridge was gone, now a modern concrete arch festooned with fishing poles and cast nets, connecting Big Pine to the hardy residents of No Name Key and their thriving hermit village of generators, septic tanks and cisterns.

Serge reached the door. Since time was critical, he only briefly kissed the number five as he unlocked it.

It was a cozy cottage. Could easily have been a single room, but a thin wooden divider separated two small beds from the sofa and tube TV. Serge’s favorite part was the full wall of windows along the front of the cabin that overlooked the magnificent waters of Bogie Channel. He could spend hours watching the rhythms of nature through that glass.

Serge quickly closed all the blinds and pulled Brook to the couch.

She looked searchingly into his ice-blue eyes. “What happens now?”

“Strategize,” said Serge. “I’ve seen this movie before, and I know how cops tick. The first thing we need to do is split up.”

“But, Serge, I want to stay with you!”

He shook his head. “I knew that’s how you’d react, but it’s non-negotiable. This isn’t your world.”

“But why?”

“Operationally, it’s a no-brainer. They’re looking for a couple traveling together. More important, though, is your future. It’s me they want, and the sooner we part, the better it will go for you.”

“But I didn’t do anything, and anything I did do was legally justified.”

“You’re fond of me?” asked Serge.

“So?”

“So we hung out. That’s aiding and abetting a known fugitive.” Serge got up and peeked through the blinds. “The longer police can’t capture someone, the more pissed off they get. Go figure. Then they target anyone who might have helped you remain free. Usually it’s relatives with addresses that have been under surveillance. The police know you haven’t stayed there, but they fuck with them anyway, hoping to rattle their cages and get them to phone you on a wiretapped line. But you fall into a worse category.”

“What’s that?”

“Someone who’s been seen rolling with me.” Serge began pacing. “The only option is to immediately turn yourself in and minimize the damage.”

“I don’t want to turn myself in.” Tears welled. “I mean, I thought you and me—”

“Stop!” He knelt in front of the couch and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Look, if I didn’t also have feelings for you, I’d let you come along—”

“Serge!”

“Who knows what the future will bring? Someday down the road, long after you’ve gotten your law degree and have a corner office with a successful firm, the phone will ring out of the blue and it will be me, hopefully not because I need a lawyer.”

“But there must be a way we can stay together.”

“When I said there was only one option, there’s another: You become a lifelong fugitive. Is that really what you want? Always looking over your shoulder, flinching every time a car backfires, running out the back door whenever there’s a knock at the front, carrying bags of marbles to throw on the sidewalk in the event of a chase? Actually, I used to throw the marbles in general as a preventive measure, but that just
created
chases. Not to mention constantly escaping through Chinese kitchens with crashing food trays and Cantonese hysterics. Personally I couldn’t live any other way, but are you prepared to pull all that chow mein out of your hair?” Serge idly grabbed the TV remote and clicked the set on. Brook’s face filled the screen. He clicked it off.

She was crying now. “I—I—I don’t know what to do.”

“What you do is let me think for both of us from now on.” Serge took a seat next to Brook and held her hand. “Right now I need you to compose yourself and pay attention. Can you do that?”

She wiped her eyes and nodded.

“Okay, the only way this will work is if I kidnapped you. Anything they ask about, pin it all on me. Tell them everything even if I didn’t do it. Agree to testify.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to,” said Serge. “When you turn yourself in, there are only two untasty items on the menu: They’ll either think you started out as a kidnap victim but I brainwashed you into becoming an accomplice. Or they might actually believe your story. But they’ll still bluff as leverage for details to track me down.”

“Then what do I do?”

“Give them details.”

“Make them up?”

“No, tell the truth.” Serge stood and stretched. “The point is you have to convince them, and they have this annoying way of figuring out when you’re lying. So the more candid you are about me, the more it will buttress our kidnapping charade. Tell them everything: my routines, frequent haunts, jaunty attire, charismatic quirks, love of country, disdain for eleven items in the express lane, passion for folding road maps back correctly. Just stick to the story that I had a gun on you the whole time.”

“But details will help them capture you.”

“I can take care of myself.” Serge checked his wallet for cash reserves. “Then it’s settled.”

“What about your car?”

“It’s a memory. We have to wait while Faber gets me another ride with clean plates and retrieves our luggage from the Southern Cross. Man, he’s going to hold this over my head so long it’s almost not worth it.” He stopped and tapped his chin. “But I have the oddest feeling I’m forgetting something. It’s been nagging me all day. What could it possibly be?”

“Serge,” said Brook. “Where’s Coleman?”