“What’s this?” asked Jerry, catching it against his shirt.
“Spare key. Take it whenever you want.”
“I couldn’t—”
Serge started cranking the boat onto the trailer. “Why not?”
“Because it’s yours.”
“Jerry, I like you.”
“You do?”
“I’m not into possessions, just moments. And anyone who’s into Gentle Ben deserves a moment.”
“You sure?”
“Take her anytime.” Serge threaded the trailer straps. “Don’t even bother to ask. Just don’t wreck it.”
“All right,” said the bartender. “But I have to do something to repay you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. Where are you going to keep it?”
“I don’t know. Probably parked at Coleman’s trailer.”
“Don’t do that,” said Jerry. “It’s a hassle every time you want to go out. You need to keep it near the water.”
“I don’t have a place like that.”
“I do. Over on No Name Key. Bought a parcel way back. Was going to build but waited too long and construction went out of sight with the freight charges. I camp there sometimes. It’s got this break in the mangroves that I smoothed out to launch my skiff. Not a proper ramp, but serviceable.”
Serge pulled a strap hard. “It’s a deal.”
“Why don’t we go out there now?”
Serge and Jerry drove off. They tied up the airboat on the edge of the flats and returned to the No Name Pub, where the petite woman in sunglasses was sitting alone again at a table in back.
A man walked over and grabbed the chair across from her.
“I got your call,” said Anna. “What made you change your mind?”
“Did some thinking.”
“You’re really going to help me kill him?”
“I liked your brother a lot. This has to stop.”
“You got an idea?”
“A couple. But I’m going to need a little time to sort this out. Until then we can’t be seen together.”
“What do I do?”
“Don’t do anything. Just stay in your cottage until I call. And keep that Trans Am hidden.”
21
Friday night, six o’clock
A WHITE JAGUAR WITH a blue tag hanging from the rearview pulled into a handicapped slot in the lower Keys. Four men in yachting jackets got out.
“Here we are,” said Troy Bradenton, looking up at a big wooden sign with words written in nautical rope. LOBSTER TOWN.
Troy and the roofing salesmen could have found their way to the bar blindfolded.
The lounge at Lobster Town was their favorite place in all the Keys. Heavily lacquered wood with brass portholes peering into saltwater aquariums full of coral and clownfish. It was also the annex of a great restaurant, where they could order food over to the drinking side and not miss the babe action. Only thing missing was the babes. Wouldn’t have made any difference if they were around. Troy and the boys had what might be termed an indelicate touch. They decided if their pickup lines weren’t going to work, then they really weren’t going to work. The construction site principle: Next best thing to scoring was impressing the other guys with how rude you could be.
The beer came in frosty mugs and soon the food. A waitress set up a folding stand behind their stools. It held a big round tray ready to collapse under their orders. Giant lobster tails with all the fixin’s! They strapped on the bibs, grabbed nutcrackers and tiny forks, and went at it like pigs with thumbs. “Can we have more bread?”
Lemon mist and shell splinters filled the air. The waitress returned with an extra loaf.
“You have such lovely blond hair,” said Troy. “Does the rug match the curtains?”
The waitress left quickly. The gang cracked up.
“Hey, guys,” yelled the bartender. “Want another round? Happy hour’s almost over.”
Troy looked at the ship’s clock over the bar. Two minutes till seven. “Set ’em up!”
Sugarloaf Key Community Center
ONE OF THE classrooms was full of people in Serge T-shirts. But where was Serge? This was the first scheduled meeting he’d called since they had accosted him outside the library. They quietly stared at the clock over the chalkboard. Two minutes till seven.
They heard running footsteps out in the hall. The door burst open and Serge marched to the front of the room. He dove right in, pacing and gesticulating, lost in thought like a field-goal kicker who blocks out the crowd. “…And then Neo took the red pill so he could see the truth. He was the Chosen One, ready to save the city of Zion….”
A man in the front row raised his hand. “So we should smash this Matrix?”
Others nodded. “Smash the Matrix!” “Smash the Matrix!”
“What are you talking about?” said Serge.
“The army of Morpheus. We’re ready to join!”
“Smash the Matrix!”
“No,” said Serge. “It’s just a movie. I told you that at the beginning. We’re here to talk about my favorite flicks.”
“Oh, that was a movie.”
“Weren’t you listening?” said Serge. “Now I want to discuss the oeuvre of Paddy Chayefsky. Network is one of the all-time greats, number sixty-six on the American Film Institute List….”
A hand went up. “We should smash this Network?”
“Smash the Network!” “Smash the Network!…”
Serge banged his forehead on the blackboard. He spun around. “Everyone, shut the hell up!”
The room stopped. All eyes on Serge. “That’s better.” He began pacing again. “You want a Matrix? Okay, I’ll give you a Matrix. There’s an elaborate world of illusion out there designed to control all facets of our daily lives, but it’s not made of computer codes. It’s made of words….”
They glanced at each other with concern.
“It’s the calculated packaging of your entire life, a twenty-four-hour reality manipulation on a hundred channels. Cell phone minutes that set you free, instant stuffing that makes your thankless family sit up and take notice, deodorant soap that turns a shower into a life-affirming epiphany… Enough already! I say, Kill the advertisers!”
“Kill the advertisers!” “Kill the advertisers!”
“Are you nuts?” said Serge. “It’s just advertising. If you can’t see that, you’re already toast. In fact, I want to be manipulated. If I have to watch a commercial, at least don’t give me the same dreary heartbreak I see every day on the street. Briefly balm me with cheerful, slow-motion footage of an orange slice spraying the air with droplets of that citrus goodness, and I’m ready to face another day!… No, the real problem is lawyers. Scum-sucking, double-talking, soul-selling leeches with legs. Everything that comes out of their mouths is a feckless belch of duplicity, their entire culture communicating in a regional accent of velveteen, overly qualified, triple-couched, can’t-nail-it-to-the-wall-like-Jell-O, circumlocutious fibbery. If you and I walked around nozzling this kind of fiction on a daily basis, we’d all be friendless, divorced and fired. But our justice system rewards their morning-noon-and-night press conferences pointing nine different directions away from the bloody client: ‘It was drug smugglers, the ex-boyfriend, the “Alphabet Soup” killer, Satanists in a windowless van that was the dark shade of a light color, and I vow never to rest as I travel the globe in my personal search for the real killer!’ And I’m thinking, yeah, well, you might want to save your frequent-flyer miles because I think I caught a glimpse of the ‘real killer’ today. He was sitting next to you at the fucking defense table!… There’s only one Shakespearean solution. Kill the lawyers!”
“Kill the lawyers!” “Kill the lawyers!…”