“I’m burnin’ up, with that island fe—”
“…But not now. And Scanlon Elerbee, who peddles caffeine tabs as bootleg speed over the Internet to fraternities, and Yulee Richloam, who sells inferior roadbed to the state, and Perky Sneads, who signs off that roadbed for the state, and Eddie Perrine, who’s in between gigs and has a job, and Bud Naranja here, who keeps getting fired from newspapers and abandoned his car on the side of U.S. 1 next to the chamber of commerce…”
“I know that car,” said Coleman. “Some guy’s living in it.”
Daytona Dave raised his hand. “That would be me.”
“…And finally we have Rebel Starke,” said Serge, “who eluded a massive manhunt in Tennessee.”
“Wow, you’re really a fugitive?” said Coleman.
“Tell him,” said Serge.
“Not as bad as it sounds,” said Rebel. “Was living in Knoxville at the time and got mixed up with this cult that was deep into Sartre and Kierkegaard, only it was really about door-to-door cleaning products. Anyway, I get this existential license plate for my car: UNKNOWN. A year later, they put in those cameras that automatically take pictures of drivers who run red lights. If they can’t make out the license number in the photo, they manually type in, you guessed it, ‘unknown.’ In the first month I get like a hundred tickets. I went down to city hall at least a dozen times, and they always said they’d fix it, but I was still being pulled over two and three times a day. It was easier to just move.”
There was a series of loud crashes out the back door, metal garbage cans falling over.
“What was that?” said Coleman.
“Roger.”
“Roger?”
“Classic Keys story,” said Sop Choppy. “You may think we’re crazy, but you’re looking at the solid citizens, the ones who bend in the wind….”
“Only two social rules on this island,” said Bud. “Don’t mess with the miniature deer and don’t steal the No Name dollars off the walls. Otherwise, anything goes. People who aren’t used to the freedom lose their minds.”
“Like Roger,” said Sop Choppy. “Used to be a lawyer, good one, too. Then he started deep-sea fishing down here. It was the eighties, so naturally he hung out afterward with the other guys at the Full Moon and the Boca Chica. Roger didn’t have a single bad habit, never even tried pot. But after three or four trips down here, he’s into everything. Drinking till dawn, snorting lines of blow as wide as your thumb. One weekend, he never goes home at all. His wife starts calling the police, and they find him barricaded in a suite at the La Concha.”
“He’s under one of the beds screaming about giant flying snakes,” said Bud. “The cops finally called animal control, and they dragged him out by slipping one of those lasso-sticks around an ankle, and he bites one of the officers, which got him ninety days in the Stock Island jail. On the seventy-fifth day, he runs away from a road detail and disappears into the mangroves, where he’s been ever since. There are still warrants, but the police just want to help him more than anything. He’s harmless except when he tears up the garbage cans all over the island — worse than the raccoons.”
The trash cans banged around some more.
“That’s Roger?” said Coleman.
Bud nodded. “The Skunk Ape.”
“Man, you guys have some great stories!” said Coleman, surreptitiously peeling a dollar off the wall.
Serge slapped Coleman’s hand.
“Ow.”
“You haven’t even heard the best ones,” said Bob the accountant. “No Name Key.”
“What’s No Name Key?” asked Coleman.
“Right across that bridge you saw when you came in,” said Rebel. “One scary island. People you never want to mess with. No sewer lines or power or anything. Just a bunch of no-trespassing signs at the ends of spooky private roads winding back to places you can’t see.”
“Bud,” said Serge. “Remember the time you got kidnapped?”
“You got kidnapped?” said Coleman.
Bud nodded. “This will tell you everything you need to know about No Name Key. I was doing freelance real estate photography of a stilt house back up one of those roads. I go and take my pictures, no big deal. I’m heading out and this woman in a Dodge Dakota is coming the other way. She blocks me with her pickup, gets out with this big gun.”
“Some crazy old hag?” asked Coleman.
“No, a real looker,” said Bud. “Asks what the fuck I think I’m doing on private property, can’t I read the signs? I tell her about the photos, even show her my real estate paperwork. Doesn’t care, just waves the gun. Orders me to turn my car around and drive off this little sandy spur that leads God-knows-where. The road goes deeper and deeper into back country and we come to another stilt house, totally secluded in the salt flats and mangroves. Makes me get out of the car and walk around behind the house to a patio, where she makes me sit in this lounger with my back to the building. Tells me not to turn around or she’ll shoot. Then she climbs the stairs and goes inside. I’m really shaking now, all kinds of horrible stuff running through my mind. You wouldn’t even have to dispose of a body there, just let nature take its course. I’m about to make a run for it when I hear a door open and footsteps on the stairs. Then this scraping noise. She’s dragging another lounger and sets it up right next to mine. I look out the corner of my eye and can’t believe what I’m seeing. She’s completely naked. And fine. No supermodel’s got anything on her. She sets the gun on this little cocktail table on the other side of her lounger, which also has a pitcher of lemonade and one of those bottles of Jack Daniel’s with a handle. Then she fires up this huge Bob Marley spliff, lays down in the sun and starts reading a magazine like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this picture.”
“So did she kill you?” asked Coleman.
“No. But I didn’t move a muscle for an hour. Finally she gets up, grabs the gun and goes in the house. I wait a few minutes just to make sure, then take off running like a bastard. I get around the side of the house and there she is, walking back up the road from the mailbox, still buck naked, nonchalantly thumbing through envelopes, the gun dangling upside down by the trigger guard from one of her fingers. Doesn’t even look up, just says, ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ So I’m back on that lounger. Another hour goes by, and suddenly there’s this crashing in the brush and some big lumberjack type in jeans and tattoos jumps out and charges at me, screaming and swinging a baseball bat. Chases me all over the yard. We make several circles around the naked woman on the lounger, and she’s just reading her magazine, la-de-dah, and finally says like she’s really bored, ‘You wanna fool around or you wanna fuck?’ She puts down her magazine and skips off into the swamp. The guy drops the bat and runs after her undoing his pants. I made a break for it, never looked back.” Bud took a long sip from his draft. “And that, my friend, is No Name Key.”
“Whoa,” said Coleman. “Some story!”
“That’s not even the best,” said Rebel. “There’s this drug kingpin who lives over there named—”
“Shhhhhh!” said Shirtless Bob.
“Give me a break!” said Sop Choppy. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to even say his name!”
“Keep your voice down,” said Bud.
“I don’t even believe he exists,” said Sop Choppy.
“You better,” said Rebel.
13
THE PETITE WOMAN took off her sunglasses for the first time. She dabbed tears, put them back on. She turned her head in the direction of No Name Key. “I just know he was behind this.”
“Keep your voice down,” said the man sitting across from her. He scooted his chair closer. “Of course he’s behind it. That’s why we have to get you some place safe. And a new identity.”