“Thanks.” The station wagon turned left. Coleman began walking east toward the string of bars along the harbor. All had doors open to the night air. Turtle Kraals, Half-Shell. Coleman entered Schooner’s and took a seat overlooking the big dock that ran parallel behind the restaurant. He ordered a rumrunner and opened his wallet to the family photo section stuffed with bar coupons.
Coleman had just finished his drink when a deep aviation drone came across the water, growing louder and louder until a silver airboat appeared out of the night. The boat pulled sideways up to the dock as Coleman trotted down the steps behind the bar.
Serge unbuckled his seatbelt and reached down for the mooring rope. “Coleman, get up on the dock and tie us off.” He turned and threw the line to Coleman, who wrapped it around a cleat.
Serge climbed out of the boat, and they headed off on the Night Tour.
In the parking lot at the end of the pier, headlights came on. A brown Plymouth Duster.
SERGE LED COLEMAN on a crooked path until he stopped and sat on a curb between the water and the end of Lazy Day Lane.
Coleman tried to get a wet lighter going. “Why are we stopping here?”
“There’s Jimmy’s secret studio, number twenty-two on the scavenger list. I want to see who gets it first.”
“What studio?”
“That plain, white-washed building with no signs. Looks like an ice house.”
“Buffett really records there?”
“Yeah, but nobody’s supposed to know,” said Serge. “I staked out the place two years ago when I heard they were about to start the new album. Sure enough, these fancy cars start pulling up, people looking around suspiciously before ducking inside. I recognized Fingers and Utley and Mac and finally Bubba himself. I figured that was my chance.”
“Chance for what?”
“To do some session work. I’ve always wanted to get in the liner notes. So I grab the door before it closed behind someone. You wouldn’t believe how many people are in there when they record. You got technicians and extra musicians and a million personal assistants getting coffee and Danish. People were tripping all over each other, so I tried to stay out of the way and stood in the back by the three microphones set up next to the keyboards. After ten minutes, the guy behind the mixer points me out to the bodyguards. Up till then, everyone just assumed I was with somebody else. The guards walk over and ask just what the hell I think I’m doing. I say, ‘Singing backup.’ So now I’ve got six guys on me. Jimmy was off to the side going over sheet music, but he finally looked up when we knocked over the cymbals. They had me completely off the ground, rushing toward the door. I yell, ‘Fine, Jimmy. I know when I’m not wanted. And for the record, it’s been an awfully long time since ‘He Went to Paris.’ Go ahead, put out another sonic-turd… Then I hit the sidewalk—”
“Someone’s coming.”
They looked across the street. A naked woman walked out of the darkness, reading a piece of paper. She stopped and pressed a palm against the white building. She walked away, grabbing the pen off her ear.
“I knew she’d be good at this.” Serge stood up. “Let’s rock.”
They headed back to Greene Street and went inside a bar with a giant grouper over the door.
“So this is Captain Tony’s,” said Coleman.
“Used to be the Blind Pig and the original Sloppy Joe’s.” Serge sniffed the air. “Still reeks of history! See that tree growing up through the roof? Used to be the ‘hanging tree’ when they still had public executions at the turn of the century. And look over here on the floor next to the pool table.”
“A grave marker?”
“Uncovered it when they were building on, so they just poured the cement around it. There’s Eric Clapton’s bar stool and John Goodman’s and Neil Diamond’s. Everyone comes to Captain Tony’s! Once I was sitting in here and we see this bunch of guys march past the door in combat fatigues. A couple minutes later they march back the other way.”
“Who were they?”
“Cuban military defectors. We’re always getting them here, like the guy who landed his MiG at the airport. This group had pulled their patrol boat right into the harbor, completely undetected. They couldn’t find anyone to turn themselves in to, so they just wandered the tourist district with fully loaded Kalashnikovs. But nobody paid any attention because everything’s so weird down here. They finally came in Captain Tony’s and surrendered to the guitar player.”
Coleman looked up at an old photo on the wall. “Who’s this?”
“A young Captain Tony fishing with Ernest Hemingway, and here’s a poster from the movie they made about Tony’s life. It’s driving me nuts!”
“What is?”
“Everyone’s met him but me. I just have to talk to the captain! He’s well into his eighties now, the last living link. Done it all, running booze and guns, then this saloon, where Tennessee Williams hung out. Was even mayor for a while. You know what his motto is?”
“No.”
“It’s right up there on those T-shirts they’re selling. ‘All you need in this life is a tremendous sex drive and a great ego. Brains don’t mean shit.’ I disagree, of course, but still a nice sentiment.”
A Skunk Ape came in reading a piece of paper and put his hand against the hanging tree.
“Tony looks pretty old in this other picture,” said Coleman.
“He is old. But the sex-drive part isn’t just cheap talk. Women still flock to him in amazing numbers. Everyone around here knows all about the phenomenon.”
A PLYMOUTH DUSTER sat at the curb next to the Bull & Whistle. Combat boots climbed an old wooden staircase to the second floor, then around the landing and up another flight. The roof was a clothing-optional lounge. Except some weekdays in the summer were slow, like now. You could still go up and look over the side of the building for a bird’s eye of Duval, but the bar was closed. The combat boots crossed the roof. The access door at the top of the stairs had been jammed shut with a chair. Gloved hands snapped a folding stock in place and screwed on the silencer. The end of a rifle barrel soon rested on Spanish roofing tiles at the edge of the building. Serge and Coleman appeared in the scope’s crosshairs as they walked past a street artist doing caricatures. Vampires came toward them on the sidewalk.
“How many you got?” asked Serge.
“Eight,” said the leader, holding up his list with enthusiasm. “Would have had nine, but couldn’t catch the Hemingway cat. Wish me luck….”
“Satanspeed.”
Up on the rooftop, an eye stayed pressed to a rifle scope. Serge still in the crosshairs, waving goodbye to the teens as they parted in opposite directions. A leather finger curled around the trigger.
One of the vampires stopped on the sidewalk. He looked at his list, then at the Volkswagen driving by. “There’s number sixteen. An insane person’s car.”
“Where?”
“The Beetle completely covered with bumper stickers, seashells, bingo markers and religious figurines.”
They sprinted back up the sidewalk, passing Serge and Coleman. The fastest darted into the street and caught the car at a red light, slapping the fender. “Sixteen!” The slowest ran up behind Serge just in time to take a slug in the shoulder.
“Did you hear something?” said Serge.
“You mean like a yell?” said Coleman.
“Yeah. You heard it, too?”
“No.”
They kept walking.
Leather hands quickly disassembled the rifle. Combat boots ran across the roof and down the stairs.
THE END OF the night. Serge’s favorite time. The critical thirty minutes when the sky goes from its blackest to a tricky tease of light. Serge just had to be at the Southernmost Point, sitting on the seawall, legs hanging over and kicking with hope.
“My stomach’s making that noise,” said Coleman.
“You’re not watching,” said Serge.