Serge made a few quick trips to the car, returning with a custom-cut piece of plywood and a bunch of cement blocks. “. . . We also went to Sam’s Club . . .” More excursions outside, each time Serge laboring with an outrageously heavy sack, until ten were stacked against the wall. “I know I’m not supposed to like Sam’s Club, but the quantity prices are insane!”
“Another science experiment?” asked Coleman. “What is it?”
“Actually our guest gave me the idea.” Serge ripped the tape off again and got face-to-face with the captive. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you. Actually I do, but that’s not in the cards. Sorry, dealer’s choice. The best you can hope for now is the bonus round.”
“W-w-what’s the bonus round?” asked the hostage.
“I’m so glad you asked!” Serge patted him on the shoulder. “If you thought you were in a quandary before, it’s going to get exciting in a big hurry. And the bonus round is this: I used a spray-mist bottle on your cell phone instead of, say, dropping it in the toilet. That way there’s still the possibility it can come back to life. Or maybe not. Who knows or even cares? You obviously didn’t when you splashed me.” He playfully pinched the man’s cheek. “That’s the whole joy of the bonus round! It so unpredictable! . . . If that thing eventually comes back on, you can call 911 before it’s too late. And the bonus round takes points off for lateness.” Serge shivered at the thought. “So here’s the most important part that you must remember above all else. If you turn your phone back on too soon, before it’s sufficiently dry, it’ll fry the circuits. You taught me that concept as well, so additional kudos if I don’t see you again. And if the phone fries, it’s game over. Game over is really bad . . . Well, that’s about it. Welcome to my latest science project!” The tape went back over the mouth for the last time.
A finger pressed a button on the boom box. Sly and the Family Stone came on.
“. . . Dance to the music! . . .”
Serge and Coleman locked arms for a do-si-do square dance, twirling in a circle.
Serge singing: “Welcome to the science world . . .”
Coleman: “Let’s give it up for science world . . .”
“Edison, Newton, the periodic chart . . .”
“Did you know you can light a fart? . . .”
The pair continued crooning as they spun the chair around and tilted it backward until the man’s feet left the floor. Then they began dragging it backward toward the bathroom.
“Mmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm! . . .”
“Will he survive the bonus round? . . .”
“No one freaking knows . . .”
The bathroom door slammed shut.
Chapter 26
The Next Day
A knock on a door in the Miami Women’s Legal Aid Clinic.
“Come on in.”
The office assistant named Danny took a seat. “I just wanted to thank you for all your help again on the lottery-ticket thing.” She opened her purse and pulled out a large plastic bag full of paper stubs.
“Jesus!” said Brook.
Danny placed the bag on the desk. “There’s so much goodwill toward you in the community that if you ever moved there, you’d never pay for another meal the rest of your life.”
Brook stuck the bag of tickets in a briefcase. “I’ll get moving on this right away.”
“Thanks. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
Danny left and the phone rang.
“This is Brook Campanella . . . Wait, what kind of case? . . . He’s being held where? . . .” She got out a yellow pad and pen. “Okay, back up to the beginning, and don’t leave anything out . . .”
. . . The Florida Keys are unto themselves. No point in trying to make sense. They’re just the Keys being the Keys.
The only road to the string of islands is U.S. 1 out of Florida City. In 1982, the U.S. Border Patrol established a checkpoint on this route outside the Last Chance Saloon, looking for illegal immigrants and drugs. If you know anything about local geography, the bottleneck at Mile Marker 126 is bad enough as it is, the worst possible site for a federal choke point. Traveling by car to the Keys became unworkable. The tourism-dollar lifeblood was cut off. Objections from area officials went ignored.
So they declared independence from the United States.
No kidding. But this time Keys logic actually was logicaclass="underline" If there was a border-crossing station for anyone attempting to either enter or leave the islands, then they were essentially being treated as a separate sovereign state. So they called themselves the Conch Republic. It was all tongue-in-cheek, very silly and quite savvy. The mock celebrations were tailored for TV, and the story made news across the country and overseas. There were T-shirts and hats and beer koozies and even fake passports. The official blue flag with a conch shell began flapping from flagpoles. The U.S. government bowed under the pressure of embarrassment, and the border station was closed.
But the movement became such a hit that sales of Conch Republic keepsakes remain brisk to this day. A huge sign on the runway at the Key West airport welcomes visitors to the fictitious nation. And locals began a contest of sorts. The souvenir passports didn’t just look kind of official; they were dead on. The goal was to see how many times you could use it to enter a foreign country without detection and get it officially stamped. It was great fun and games, especially when showing them off in bars.
There was no official tally, but a man named Ennis Keefe was arguably in the lead with twenty-two official stamps.
Then came 9/11. Homeland Security. The Patriot Act.
Ennis was still sailing smoothly, until he decided to go for the most coveted customs stamp of all. The United States of America.
A twin-prop commuter flight from the Bahamas landed at Miami International on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. Ennis arrived at the international air side and presented a small leatherlike booklet from the Conch Republic. He was still smiling when they slapped on the cuffs.
“It’s just a joke,” said Ennis. “I’m really a U.S. citizen and my regular passport is in that bag, so you can release me now.”
Customs people were on phones and walkie-talkies. More agents arrived. Then a transport van.
“Seriously, guys, I do this all the time,” said Ennis. “It’s harmless.”
“I’m listening,” said a senior agent. “What exactly do you do all the time?”
Ennis exhaled with relief. “Thank you! Finally someone reasonable! Just call anyone in Key West. It’s this game we play in the bars to see how many stamps we can collect.”
The agent flipped the pages of the ersatz passport. “How many foreign stamps have you collected in this game?”
“Twenty-two! I was in the lead but someone just tied me,” said Ennis. “So if you’d be kind enough to just hit that thing with your own stamp, it would really make my day.”