“What for?” asked Coleman.
“So you can fill other tanks. Regular scuba or the minis. You can’t take this giant thing to parties. Suggest you get one of those little emergency tanks we have. Fits in your pocket. Five minutes of air…” The salesman stuck the regulator in his mouth.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” said Coleman. “That’s my gas!” He jerked the regulator away and stuck it in his own mouth.
“C’mon. This is a quality job,” said the salesman. “Gimme a bump.”
“All right, but just a little.”
A short while later, Coleman picked up the tank and stepped over the passed-out teen. They got back in the Buick and continued west. More bridges, Tavernier, Upper and Lower Matecumbe. They started across the Long Key Viaduct.
“Coleman, check this out.” Serge wiggled his finger inside a hole in the driver’s door. “I think I feel a bullet…. Coleman?”
Coleman was slumped against the far door with the regulator in his mouth, a puddle of drool on his shirt. Serge plucked the rubber mouthpiece from Coleman’s lips, and it came out with the sound of someone popping a finger in a cheek.
A minute passed; Coleman sat up. “What did you do that for?”
“There’s a bullet hole. I told you I didn’t break your window. Somebody was shooting at us. It shattered the glass, traveled across the car and lodged here.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been getting an odd feeling lately that I’m being followed.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“How do you explain the bullet?”
“South Florida,” said Coleman. “Probably a stray from all the people shooting for reasons that don’t concern us.”
“Think so?”
“Remember that celebration after the Miami Heat playoffs where they shot those guns in the air, and one of the slugs came down and dropped that guy sticking videos in the overnight box?”
“Guess you’re right.” Serge looked off the south side of the bridge. “I spy… another waterspout!”
“I see them all the time in the Keys.”
“The conditions are just right in the Gulf Stream.”
“Maybe it’ll bring us good luck.”
A few miles back, a brown Plymouth Duster began crossing the Long Key Viaduct.
25
The night before the wedding
SERGE WAS A WRECK. He paced back and forth at a boat ramp on the northwest end of Big Pine.
The sun started down over the Gulf. A wavering orange furnace reflecting off the incoming surf. All three types of clouds in attendance. A bank of stratus burned red on the western sky. Straight and high above, wispy cirrus glowed pink from the underlight. To the east, a front of purple and gray cumulus from an approaching storm. Serge stopped on the boat ramp and raised his camera. He snapped the shutter as a lone gull crossed the center of the bright ball filling his zoom.
Serge always had to wait until the very end. Once the sun touched the horizon, it would go fast, quickly halfway down, then a brilliant arc on the rim of the earth. Finally, a last pop of light and it was gone, leaving Serge consumed with the same postcoital emotion he had after every session of strenuous sex: He wanted a pizza.
Serge had to stay till the end because he was still hoping to see the elusive Flash of Green that John D. MacDonald had written of so eloquently — an extremely rare emerald ignition over water at the exact moment of sunset. Diehard Floridians were always chasing it. Some people, like Serge, went years without success. A few old-timers said they’d seen it two or three times. There were many competing theories for the flash. Others thought it was just a fairy tale. Serge was not one of them.
On this particular evening, Serge stood beside the ramp and took the last of his photos as the sun dipped deep into the sea. Almost gone. Time to look for the flash. He let the camera hang from the strap around his neck and crossed his fingers. “Please, please, please…” He squinted at the last bit of light wavering on the horizon. It disappeared.
Serge gasped and put a hand to his mouth. “Oh, my God. I saw it! I finally saw it!” He turned and began running across the island toward the No Name Pub. “I saw the flash! I saw the flash!…” Serge noticed a big green spot down the road ahead of him. Serge stopped and held a hand up to his face, a green spot in the middle of the palm.
“Shit, of course. The sun was almost solid red at the end. It’s just a damn reverse-image afterspot on my eyeballs from staring too long.” His shoulders slumped as he trudged on toward the pub. “Now I’m depressed.” He reached the parking lot and looked up at a tiny jetliner, its lengthy contrail catching light from over the horizon to form a bright streak across the darkening blue sky with a green spot in the middle.
The No Name was rockin’. J. Geils on the juke. Early Whammer Jammer stuff. Serge opened the screen door.
“Serge!”
He grabbed a stool and sagged at the counter. Jerry the bartender came over with a bottle of water. “Why so down?”
“I just saw the Flash of Green.”
“That’s great!” said Jerry. “I’ve never seen it and I’ve been looking forever. Where? On the north shore?”
“It’s still here.” Serge reached out with his finger and touched a point in the air between their faces. “It’s just a damn spot on my eyeballs. There’s no magical flash.”
“Yes, there is. It’s an atmospheric condition. You just stared too long.”
Serge noticed a commotion at the pool table. “What’s going on over there?”
“Bar bet. They’re working on Coleman.”
Serge looked at his hand again. “I think I’ve done some kind of damage.”
“It’ll fade.”
Serge picked up his water and headed for the pool table, where three guys were gripping Coleman’s head from different angles, trying to dislodge the cue ball stuck in his mouth.
Serge walked up to Sop Choppy. “How are they doing?”
“Almost got it out. You ready for tomorrow?”
“Really nervous. I don’t understand it. I never get this way.”
A cue ball bounced across the floor.
“It means you’re normal,” said the biker. “Even the toughest guys get the shakes.”
“You know how to get rid of a green spot on your eyeballs from staring at the sun too long?”
“Look at the pool table. It’ll blend in.”
Coleman came over. “Whew. Another close one.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Serge. “Got a piece of mail for you.”
Serge checked the address through the cellophane window. The Grodnicks. “Perfect!” He tore open the envelope and stuck the credit card in his wallet. “Just in time for the wedding.”
The screen door flew open. “Son of a bitch!”
The gang didn’t even have to look. Gaskin Fussels. Sop Choppy’s head fell. “Not again.”
Fussels charged up to the bar and jumped on a stool. “I’m going to have to kill someone!”
“What happened?” said Jerry.
“I just got ripped off! One of those little mom-and-pop motels. Oh, they’re so fuckin’ sweet and countrified when you arrive. You know what they did to me? They stuck me in the last room over the office. Then after they closed up, all the heat rose and the window unit couldn’t handle it. I had to check into another motel!”
“Didn’t you ask for a refund?” asked Jerry.
“Of course! I called the after-hours number, but they refused!”
“That’s not right,” said Jerry.
“I’m going to get them!” said Fussels. “I’m going to get them so good!”
The gang at the pool table was having difficulty focusing on their game with Fussels yelling and pounding the bar with his fists. Sop Choppy concentrated on a shot. He pulled the stick back.