It was quiet again in the living room except for the light saber rolling across the wooden floor with a sound representing husbands in deep shit everywhere.
Serge pushed Coleman away. “You idiot!” He finished untangling himself and ran to the bedroom. Molly was inconsolable, her head buried deep under the pillows. Serge caressed her back, but she wouldn’t stop crying. He removed the pillows and helped get the helmet off.
It was no use, nothing Serge could say or do. Only more tears. He came out of the bedroom. Coleman was rummaging through the refrigerator.
“I’m new to this marriage thing,” said Serge. “But I’m guessing this is the part where you need to leave.”
“Let’s go someplace.”
“Coleman, I’m married now.”
Coleman closed the fridge. “Damage is done. You’ll only make it worse by staying here. I suggest you head to a bar with me and wait for this to blow over.”
“You really think so?”
“Do it for Molly.”
THE WIND HAD picked up again, blowing the stout beginnings of a good rainstorm. Perfect drinking weather. The ’71 Buick Riviera pulled up to the No Name Pub. TV news was going in the background when Serge and Coleman came through the screen door and climbed on their favorite stools.
“…A Wisconsin scuba diver was arrested just before dawn for public intoxication, burglary and other pending charges after breaking into the Key West Aquarium and spearfishing. The staff is mourning the loss of the lovable tarpon Bernie…”
The owner was doing paperwork behind the bar. “Hey, Joe. How’s it going?”
The owner didn’t look up. “Hey.”
Serge turned to the others. “He’s usually in a good mood.” Then he noticed the two men in dark suits. They were standing at one of the walls, writing in notebooks.
“Joe, who are those guys?”
“IRS.”
“What are they doing?”
“Counting the dollar bills. It’s considered income.”
“…Another body was discovered inside a sand castle on Smather’s Beach. And from Duval Street, police are still puzzled by a Vermont man’s head injuries….”
“Serge, that was a beautiful wedding,” said Sop Choppy. “How’s married life?”
“Molly’s crying and refusing to come out of the bedroom.”
“That’s normal,” said the biker. “What you need to do is wait it out in a bar. That’s what I always do.”
“But you’re divorced,” said Serge.
“Problem solved.”
“Hey, Coleman,” said Bud. “Where’d you disappear to after the wedding? We were supposed to meet back here.”
“Had a little trouble when I tried to return Serge’s tux,” said Coleman. “Gave me shit, like, they’re not for scuba diving or something.”
“Get it straightened out?”
“No, I had to run away.”
Daytona Dave pointed at the TV. “Look!”
A young female reporter appeared on the screen in a red rain jacket. She walked backward along a bridge railing, talking in her microphone. “This is Eyewitness Five correspondent Maria Rojas coming to you live from the Seven-Mile Bridge where an intense human drama is currently unfolding. Authorities have blocked off traffic while they attempt to talk a distraught woman out of committing suicide….” The reporter looked up the bridge, where a half dozen police spotlights converged at the top of the span. The cameraman focused over the reporter’s shoulder and zoomed in. A drenched woman had one leg over the railing.
“Check it out,” said Coleman, popping a pretzel in his mouth. “It’s Brenda.”
“You need to call the police,” said Serge.
Coleman chewed and washed it down with some draft. “Why?”
“Whenever a person is threatening suicide, they’re always looking to put them on the phone with someone close.”
“Get Coleman a phone!” yelled Sop Choppy.
A cell phone appeared. Bud Naranja hit nine-one-one and passed it to Coleman, who took a last quick sip and placed it to his ear.
“Hello? Yes, I know the woman on the TV. No, not the reporter, the jumper… Right, I’d like to help. I think she may want to talk to me…. Her boyfriend… yeah, I’d say we’re pretty close…. I recently asked her to marry me. Sure, I’ll hold.” Coleman covered the phone. “They’re patching me through.”
“Wait a second,” said Maria Rojas, placing a hand over the tiny speaker in her ear. “The woman seems to be yelling something. Let’s see if we can make it out….” The camera zoomed even tighter on the top of the bridge. The TV station turned up the volume on the directional microphone pointed at Brenda. The wind whipped strands of wet hair across her eyes. “I don’t want to live anymore!… I can’t face myself!… I… fucked… Coleman!…”
The guys in the bar slapped Coleman on the back. “Way to go, dude!”
Coleman grinned, then waved them off. “Shhhh! I think they’re putting me through!”
On TV, a police negotiator held a waterproof phone at the end of a long pole. He inched toward Brenda, urging her to take it. Brenda finally agreed and answered it tentatively.
“Uh, hello?”
“Hey, baby!” said Coleman. “What’s shakin’?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Coleman! Your sugar daddy! Remember our special night?”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
The cameraman pointed over the side of the bridge to catch Brenda’s fatal plunge into the stormy sea.
It was like a tomb inside the pub. Coleman quietly closed the cell phone and picked up a pretzel. The others stared at the floor and the ceiling. Rain pattered.
The station cut to an older man behind an anchor desk. “We must remind our viewers that Eyewitness Five news brings you the best in live, unedited coverage and cannot be responsible for content….” He shuffled papers and turned to a second camera, so the station could show it had a second camera. “In other news, a suspected drug kingpin was found shot to death execution-style in his home on No Name Key. Police have sealed off the area, and aren’t commenting. However, sources close to the investigation, who are those same police officers, have told us that they’re closing in on the suspect as we speak…. In sports, more arrests…”
The screen door creaked open. A soaked Gaskin Fussels stuck his head inside.
The gang jumped off stools and ran to the door. “Get in here!”
They dragged him to a table and sat him down. Gaskin closed his eyes and began weeping. “He’s dead.”
“We know he’s dead,” said Sop Choppy. “It was just on TV.”
“What happened?”
“Did you kill him?”
Fussels shook his head emphatically. “I swear I didn’t! He was already dead! You gotta believe me!”
“We believe you,” said Bob the accountant. “But you have to tell us everything you saw.”
“I didn’t see anything. Just a big pool of blood and this butterfly chair facing the other way. So I crept around it and there he was, shot through the eyes!”
“They were sending a message,” said Sop Choppy.
“What kind of message?” asked Bud.
“I don’t remember the message code. But I think that’s a strong one.”
“All of you, shut up!” said Bob.
“What am I going to do?” pleaded Fussels.
“Just stay calm. We might be able to work this out. Is there any way they can connect you to this? Think hard! Did you leave any clues?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, we need to get you out of town—”