SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (4 page)

Chapter
FIVE

KEY WEST

A
nother anonymous fleabag motel on Truman Avenue. And what do we have behind door number three?

The third door flew open. A naked man ran across the parking lot with clothes bunched in his arms and a spiked dog collar around his neck.

Back in the doorway stood a curvaceous woman with an irrepressible mane of fiery red hair. A shiny Smith & Wesson .38 pistol gripped loosely in her left hand. “Come back! It was just role-playing!”

The fleeing man never broke stride through honking traffic.
“You’re a crazy bitch!”

The woman frowned and closed the door. She clicked on the TV. An episode of
Desperate Housewives
was interrupted by breaking news. Serge’s face filled the screen.

“Cocksucker!”

A .38 bullet blasted the picture tube in a shower of glass and sparks. She casually stuck the gun in her purse and headed out the door.

Brakes screeched on Truman Avenue. A pickup rear-ended a Miata. Frat boys on mopeds shouted propositions. Guys on bicycles turned around and doubled back.

The woman ignored them all and continued down the sidewalk in the kind of chin-up, aggressively sexual strut that made men forget the fear of death and glance over with their wives present.

She reached the entrance of a corner bar with all the windows open and wooden ceiling fans set on lazy.

A bartender happened to turn; his eyebrows jackknifed. He huddled with the others.

“You serve her.”

“I’m not going to serve her. You serve her.”

“Are you crazy? . . .”

She settled onto a stool at the far end. A salesman quickly moved to the stool next to hers and offered a drink. She slowly turned toward him. He abruptly left the building.

“What are you guys afraid of?”
asked the newest bartender.

“That’s Molly.”

“Who’s Molly? . . .”

The TV over the bar flashed a news bulletin.
“ . . . Authorities are looking for this man . . .”

Molly’s hand swiftly went into her purse.

“Change the channel! Change the channel! . . .”
yelled one of the bartenders.

Trembling fingers fumbled with the remote and clicked coverage over to a Belgian soccer game. Molly withdrew her empty hand.

“I still don’t know who Molly is,”
said the clueless bartender.

“Serge’s wife.”

“Serge has a wife?”

“Been separated almost a decade, but she refuses to sign the divorce papers. Whatever else you do in this life, don’t mention his name . . .”

B
ack on Big Pine Key:

“Coleman!” Serge jumped up. “That’s right! We left that idiot in the Million Dollar Bar on Truman. See, that’s the thing about my A-tour of Key West. Coleman’s all cool with it at the beginning, but then, ‘I just need to lie down a minute,’ like when we lost him in the cemetery.”

“And I found him snoozing between those crypts,” said Brook. “You’d have thought those ant bites would have woken him up.”

“Not when he goes to the dark side.” Serge flipped open his cell. “So I figured we’d straighten him up with some
café con leche
and get him to the Million Dollar. At least I could count on him staying put there . . . Damn, he’s not answering his phone.”

“Why do they call it the Million Dollar?” asked Brook. “It’s just a small locals’ dive.”

“Believe it or not, that’s what real estate goes for down there.” He dialed again. “Hello? Who’s this?”

“Don. Who’s this?”

“Serge. Is Coleman there?”

“Yeah, he’s resting.”

“Where?”

“On the pool table.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Me, too. You know how hard it is getting urine out of green felt?”

Serge covered his eyes. “I’m good for it. Listen, can you get him in a cab for the Old Wooden Bridge? And pin a note on his shirt saying there’s an extra key to cabin five waiting for him in the office.”

“I want him out of here more than you do.”

“I can understand,” said Serge.

“No, you can’t. Molly’s here.”

“Molly! What’s she doing there?”

“How should I know? She’s your wife. You almost owed me a new flat screen.”

“Has she seen Coleman?”

“Hell no! I got Lubs and Boomer at the pool table shielding her view until Mike can drag him out the back.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” said Serge.

“Expect a bill from the pool-table people.”

The phone went dead.

Serge heaved a breath of frustration and turned around.

Brook was staring. “Who’s Molly?”

“My wife?”

“Your
wife
!”

“Separated for years. Won’t sign the papers.” Serge grabbed his room key. “The important thing is they’re retrieving Coleman.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to get out of here.”

“But we’re not supposed to show our faces,” said Brook. “You keep checking out the blinds.”

“Cabin fever is the natural enemy of strategic judgment. Plus there’s a really cool place I want to show you!”

He opened the door.

“Serge, there’s a tiny deer waiting at the bottom of the steps.”

“It’s one of the endangered miniature Key deer that only live on Big Pine and No Name Key.”

“He seems to know you.”

“His name’s Sparky. He likes Cheetos.” Serge petted the deer on the head as he went past. “You’re not supposed to feed or touch them, but those big eyes wear you down.”

He led her along the isolated street in growing darkness. Silent except for their footsteps.

Brook looked up at wild palms bending in the cool night breeze. “Where the heck are we going?”

“No Name.”

“It doesn’t have a name?”

“No,
that’s
the name.”

Brook chuckled. “Who’s on first?”

“It’s a pub.”

She stopped on the center line. “We’re going to a bar? Don’t you think that’s a little risky?”

“Relax, it’s the No Name. You’ll see . . .” Serge walked around the side of the building and grabbed the handle on a screen door. “This place is totally cool. They’d never rat me out, and everyone’s sly enough not to attract any undue attention toward me.”

They stepped inside.

“Serge!”

“You’re all over TV!”

“Did you really do all that shit?”

Serge pulled out a stool for Brook. “Can you guys dial it down a tad? I think Interpol heard you.”

Brook rotated in place where she sat. “Wow, the bar is completely wallpapered with signed dollar bills. Ceiling, too . . .”

“Mine’s up over that little pass-through window to the kitchen where they send out the world’s greatest pizzas,” said Serge, looking out the screen door as a pink taxi went by.

The cab turned at the corner and parked in front of cabin number five. The dashboard air freshener was a tiny voodoo mask. The driver was from Senegal. “Okay, big fella, enough beauty rest.”

“Wha—?” Coleman sat up in the backseat with caramel peanuts in his ears.

The driver steadied Coleman until they reached the picnic table in front of the cottage. Coleman climbed on top and went back to sleep. The cab pulled away.

Back at the No Name, Serge huddled with Brook. “The next step is to anticipate the cops’ questions. So we need to rehearse your answers, which means remembering all the public places where there might have been surveillance cameras or witnesses.”

“Let’s see,” said Brook. “We took the tram out to Pigeon Key, toured Fort Martello, went for a biplane ride over the Marquesas atoll, slow-danced in the Green Parrot, had ice cream at the southernmost point, you gave me a piggyback ride on Smathers Beach . . . what’s the matter?”

Serge’s forehead was on the bar. The same reel of images flickered inside his own skull: one long gooey montage from a chick flick starring Reese Witherspoon, who turns down the Stanford grad for true love with the hometown boy who grinds keys in the hardware store.

She leaned over and rubbed his neck. “Are you okay?”

Serge raised his head. “We have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“The kidnapping jazz isn’t going to fly.”

Brook’s face brightened with a big smile. “Then I get to stay with you?”

“No.” Serge fiddled with the label on his water bottle. “There’s only one alternative left.”

“What is it?”

“I have to turn myself in.”

“That’s crazy,” said Brook. “Why would you do that?”

Serge wouldn’t look at her. “I’ve had a good run. No regrets. The sole way to get the heat off you is to give them what they really want.”

“I won’t let you do it.”

“You won’t be able to stop me,” said Serge. “I’ll tell them I lied and manipulated you. They won’t go for it—not totally. So in exchange for details about certain cold cases, I’ll demand immunity for you.”

“Stop talking like that!”

“You’re the most decent thing I’ve got going.” Serge took a long sip and stared up at a collage of police patches from across North America. “It’s more than worth it. You’ve got so much to look forward to, and my luck is long past the expiration date.”

“There has to be another way.”

He shook his head. “A moment comes in every life with a choice that defines who you are, and this is mine.”

“But you’ll go to prison for life, maybe even death row.”

“I’ve always wanted to be an escape artist.”

“Shut up! . . .”

. . . The moon rose behind cabin number five. Coleman pushed himself up on the picnic table. He groaned and pulled out a sticky peanut—“Now I can hear better”—then he looked down at himself.

“What’s this?” He plucked the note off the front of his shirt, staggered over to the office and knocked. No answer. He pressed his face to the glass. No lights on. He stumbled back to the cabin and tried the knob. Locked. He sat back down on the picnic table. Something licked his hand. He fed the deer a peanut . . .

. . . Inside the No Name, Brook lit up and raised a finger of epiphany. “I’ve got it! I know another way out of this!”

Serge guzzled the rest of his water. “Like what?”

“Look at me.”

“Yeah?”

Brook got off her stool and stood in front of him. “I want you to beat me up.”

“This is no time to joke.”

“I couldn’t be more serious. Hit me. Hard!”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“It’ll make them believe the kidnapping tale,” said Brook.

“There’s no way I’m hitting you. That’s final.”

“I’ll say it’s what you did to me after my escape attempt,” said Brook. “Then I tried again and succeeded the next day. That way you won’t have to turn yourself in, and we can later secretly reunite and be together.”

“Even if we did try your plan—which we’re not—cops always see right through that,” said Serge. “Someone makes a murder look like a robbery by giving themselves a flesh wound in the meaty part of their arm. Really convincing.”

“It’s convincing if you beat me badly enough.”

“You’re wasting your breath. My freedom is a small price to pay for your happiness.”

“Serge, I love you and can’t let you do this for me,” said Brook. “Remember a minute ago when you mentioned a choice that defines a life? That’s a two-way street, and I’ve made my choice.”

“This conversation’s over.” Serge brusquely hopped off his stool and threw open the screen door.

The couple didn’t speak on the trek back toward the cabin.

Suddenly, a whoosh of wind went by.

The sight stopped them. Flickering blue lights. A police car skidded around the corner into the fishing camp. Then another whoosh and more flashing blue.

“How’d they find us so quickly?” said Brook.

Serge didn’t answer as he took off running toward the camp.

Brook shouted ahead into the night: “What are you going to do?”

Serge silently sped up.

Brook broke into her own sprint. “Don’t turn yourself in!”

Chapter
SIX

CABIN NUMBER FIVE

S
erge reached the corner, and sure enough, both police cars were parked at impromptu angles in front of his cottage. The rest of the cabins had emptied a crowd of onlookers that surrounded the eventfulness.

He walked purposefully toward one of the officers.

Brook snapped a whisper from behind: “Don’t confess or I’ll get mad!”

Serge ignored her and strolled directly to the closest uniform. “Good evening, officer. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually there is,” said the corporal. “Are you staying in this cabin?”

“Yes, I am.”

The officer opened a notebook. “What’s your name?”

“Serge A. Storms.”

“We’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m sure you have,” said Serge. “I’ll tell you everything. Where do you want to start?”

Brook stood horrified in the background. She made her right hand into a fist and gave her chin a light test punch. “Ow.”

Serge pointed at the officer’s belt. “Shouldn’t you get out your handcuffs?”

“Depends on how things go.”

“That’s an enlightened view.”

The officer waved. “Follow me.”

They walked around the back of the cottage to a tipped-over garbage can. Above it was a jimmied-open window with a pair of thick legs protruding outside. The window had slid closed on the middle of a generous derriere, apparently trapping someone trying to get inside. Legs kicked with anemic energy and rhythm.

The officer looked back at Serge. “Recognize this man?”

He nodded. “I’ve seen those legs before, and in even less usual context.”

A muffled voice from inside the cabin. “Serge, is that you?”

“Coleman, what are you doing?”

“Entering our cabin,” said Coleman. “Looks real nice.”

“What about your back half?”

“Still working on that.” Feet wiggled. “The note on my shirt said there was a spare key in the office, but by the time I regained consciousness, it was closed. Luckily I found this window unlatched, and then it fell down on me when I was crawling through.”

“How long have you been stuck?”

“Maybe a half hour.”

“What are your plans?” asked Serge.

“Watch TV.”

“Not later,” said Serge. “I mean right now.”

“I
am
watching TV right now. I was able to reach the remote on the arm of the couch.” Fart. “You’re all over the news, dude.”

Serge turned and smiled at the officer.

The officer didn’t smile back. “Is this man staying with you?”

Legs kicking harder.

“Unfortunately,” said Serge. “Is that what this is about?”

“We got a couple burglary calls.” The corporal closed his notebook. “Please latch your windows.”

“I think I got it,” said Coleman. “I’m coming loose.”

“No,” said Serge. “Let me come inside and lift it off you.”

Crash, thud.
The window busted out of its frame and the legs disappeared.

The officer headed for his car. “There goes your deposit.”

“Not the first time,” said Serge.

The squad cars backed up from the cabin and drove away. The couple went inside.

Coleman pushed the window off his head and got up. “What’s for dinner?”

Brook tapped a fist to her nose. “Beat me up.”

Serge turned his back and opened the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some air.”

“Don’t give yourself up,” said Brook.

“Bring back something to eat,” said Coleman.

C
rickets.

Bullfrogs.

Waves lapped a low-tide shore in moonlight. Seaweed wrapped the island-expanding roots of red mangroves that dangled and grabbed down into the surf. Overhead, stars. Billions. The Big Dipper. It told Serge midnight was afoot. He stared out across the black water from the dead end of the ancient ferry ruins at the far edge of No Name Key. He had a gift for reminiscing about times before he was born.

After the Labor Day hurricane of ’35 took out the railroad, they decided it should be a highway, since automobiles were now around. Except it couldn’t be built in a day. The last gap was the watery run from Marathon to the lower Keys, and for a time, all the cars heading to Key West had to be ferried ashore at this then-bustling port that had since been abandoned to nature. Today’s so-called ruins were but strewn and somewhat-submerged concrete with rusty underpinnings. A bunch of boulders were placed on top, at the end of the road, by authorities who feared wrong-way departures from the No Name Pub would end up driving off the island into the drink, which they would.

Serge set a foot upon one of the large stones, an elbow resting on his raised knee. He gazed south at the string of tiny headlights racing down U.S. 1 across the Spanish Harbor Keys. When he left the cabin earlier, his brain was in a vise. But he knew his state’s foolproof spots for emergency mental decompression. The foot came off the boulder, and he pivoted for the three-mile return walk to the cottage. After crossing the island, he headed up the incline of the Bogie Channel Bridge. The night fishermen were out in ritual, casting lines and spinning lead-fringed nets into the air. Serge eventually made out cabin five in the distance. “What in the name of—” A solitary porch light blazed. Two people dancing outside. The distant thumps of a cheap boom box skipped across the waves:
“ . . . Play that funky music, white boy . . .”

Moments later, Serge strolled up to the scene. Coleman was on his back again, babbling atop the picnic table. On the steps, Brook swigged from a fifth of Jack Daniel’s and let a tiny deer lap M&M’s from her hand.

“Brook . . .” said Serge.

“Beat me up.”

“Did you go somewhere?”

Another swig. “Coleman and me got a cab for Big Pine Liquors and the Winn-Dissy, I mean Dixie.”

“You’re drunk.”

“That’s the plan.” Brook’s attempt to stand landed her on her butt. “I’m not good with pain. And figured you wouldn’t feel so bad hitting me if I couldn’t feel it.”

“There’s no chance I’m hitting you.”

“Then I’m going to find a flight of stairs or some shit.” She raised the bottle again.

“I’ll take that.” Serge pulled the whiskey from her stubborn fingers. “Now let’s get you to bed.”

“Beat me up . . .”