The sky ran through a palette of grays and blues, the amorphous view toward the Gulf Stream separating into sky and water. A rooster activated in the distance. Serge stood and stretched. They began walking again, starting to see people, someone on the curb weaving five-dollar hats from palm fronds, someone else setting up a table of conch shells.
Serge picked up one of the largest shells. “May I?”
“May you what?” said the man behind the table.
“I’m going to be in that big conch-blowing contest next month,” said Serge. “I’d like to practice my chops.”
“Just don’t drop it.” The man began unloading another box.
Serge held the shell an inch from his mouth. “Okay Coleman, this is the winning entry for sure. I’ve been polishing it all year. Joe Walsh’s guitar solo from ‘Life in the Fast Lane.’”
“I love that song.”
“Here goes…” Serge pressed the shell to his lips.
Coleman tapped his foot to the catchy tune. Serge blew relentlessly into the third and fourth measures with big Dizzy Gillespie cheeks. The man behind the table looked up. “I’ve never heard anyone play that fast.”
“It’s ‘Life in the Fast Lane,’” said Coleman.
“His face is purple.”
“It gets that way.”
“Do his eyes roll up in his head?”
“Serge!” yelled Coleman.
Serge was still playing, reeling sideways off balance until he crashed into the bushes.
Coleman ran over and shook him. “You all right?”
Serge sat up and blew the spit out of his shell. “They might as well start engraving that trophy.”
They were on the move again, past the Southernmost House, the Southernmost Inn, the Southernmost transient, back around Simonton Street and up to a building that opened in 1962. On the roof, a suntan lotion sign with a dog tugging a little girl’s bathing suit.
Serge opened the door. Most of the gang was already seated around the U-shaped lunch counters of Dennis Pharmacy, comparing lists, spearing sunny-side yolks. Serge and Coleman grabbed stools and menus.
The front door opened again.
“Serge!”
“Joe!” Serge then noticed the eighty-seven-year-old man standing next to the owner of the No Name. “You actually got him to come!”
“I told you I would.”
The old man appraised Serge. “You look like a fucking tourist in that shirt.”
“I know. Isn’t it great? All the toll collectors wear them.” Serge faced the gang at the counter. “Can I have your attention? Our dysfunctional klatch is honored this morning by the presence of the one-and-only Captain Tony! Number thirty-seven on your lists.”
“That’s Captain Tony?” They quickly formed a line, one by one touching him on the shoulder.
The pharmacy window opened; Coleman was waiting behind a young woman with multiple piercings.
“…I’m telling you,” said the pharmacist. “I’ve known this doctor all my life and this isn’t his handwriting….”
“Yes, it is,” said the woman.
“…And he never gives fifteen refills for painkillers.”
“I’ll take one.”
The pharmacist picked up the phone. “You can either leave or be here when the police arrive.”
Two hungry sheriff’s deputies got out of their cruiser and walked toward the pharmacy.
“I thought you told me this was going to be a quiet night,” said Walter.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Gus. There was a piece of paper stapled to the telephone pole on the corner, a photocopy of a penis with a Mr. Bill face. Gus tore it down and crumpled it into a ball. “I’m just glad it’s finally over.” The front door flew open and smacked Gus in the shoulder. “Ow.” A young woman took off down the street.
The deputies went inside and walked past the pharmacist, who smiled at Coleman. “Now, how can I help you?”
Coleman slipped a prescription back in his pocket. “Uh, where’s the rest room?”
The deputies headed for the breakfast counter.
“Hey, there’s Captain Tony,” said Gus. “The legend.”
A naked woman put her hand on Tony’s shoulder.
“He’s still got it,” said Walter.
Serge saw the deputies and energetically waved them over. “Join us!” He turned to the gang. “Some of you make room for hardworking law enforcement.”
“Serge, please,” said Gus. “I don’t want to take anyone’s seat.”
“Nonsense. You’re heroes.”
The deputies grabbed stools, and Gus opened his textbook.
Serge turned to the captain. “I was just telling my friend about your hanging tree.”
“Almost cut it down,” said Tony.
“What!”
“Didn’t know what it was. This was decades ago. The thing was wrecking my roof. And this old-timer says, ‘You can’t cut that down. It’s the hanging tree.’ He tells me that when he was a little kid, he saw them lynch a woman. Except she didn’t die right away, tongue sticking out and wiggling and everything…”
Walter made a butter pool in his grits, then pointed at his partner’s textbook with a fork. “You still on that psychology garbage?”
“I’m telling you, the test works.”
Walter salted his hash browns. “It’s a stupid test.”
“What’s a stupid test?” said Serge.
“We’ve been having an argument all night,” said Gus. “Maybe you can help us.”
“Name it. Always ready to help the police.”
“It’s not a big deal. Just a riddle.”
“Tell me.”
“A woman goes to her mother’s funeral and meets this hunk, and she’s smitten. The next week she kills her sister. What’s the motive?”
“What else?” said Serge. “She wanted to meet him at the next funeral.”
“There!” said Walter. “There’s your great test! You’ve asked one person so far. One hundred percent failure rate.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Gus. “They backed it up with all kinds of research. Less than one percent false results.” He looked at Serge. “How on earth did you know that answer?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That answer is supposed to indicate someone who thinks like a serial killer….”
Serge laughed unnaturally. “Ha, ha, ha… Oh! Those tests!…”
“But how did you get the answer?”
“Well, I, uh… read a lot of murder mysteries,” said Serge. “That’s it. It was in one of the plots.”
“I rest my case,” said Walter. “Unless you want to arrest Serge…”
37
Captain Florida’s log, star date 736.973
Molly! The woman’s driving me crazy! Remember those tiny little doubts about marriage I mentioned? They’re now a full-blown crisis of faith! To the news: I leave the apartment to go see Coleman, minding my own business and checking what’s in the Dumpster like I always do. I notice trash from our apartment, and I can’t believe my eyes. She’s thrown out my favorite tennis shoes! There they are, under the Maxi-pads. I fish ’em out with a stick and the poor things are full of soggy corn flakes. I’m on the verge of tears. I march right back upstairs and confront her. I figure this time she’s the guilty party so I’ll be in control of the debate. Know what I learned? Women are ninjas! Suddenly I’m back on defense! Says she’s
embarrassed
to be seen with me in those shoes. I say, “But they’re my favorite shoes.” The silent treatment again except for all the slamming. I didn’t know the apartment had that many doors. I call my married friend in West Palm again, and he says, “Are you crazy? You have to
hide
your favorite tennis shoes.” I say, “I didn’t know.” He suggests the wheel well of the car. I get off the phone and say, “Okay, honey. I want you to be happy. I’ll throw the shoes out.” Guess what? She catches me! The trunk lid was up and I didn’t see her coming. So now I’m dishonest in the relationship, which I was informed is worse than bad shoes. I say, “Time-out! I’m just trying to retreat here. Now I can see how marriage turns the most honest men into sneaks.” Whoops. That didn’t lead anywhere I want to visit again. Speaking of which, I was right about her period. We discussed it, and come to find out, she’s not responsible for anything she says or does three days a month. I ask if I can have three days, too, and she says, “No.” I suggest we at least put a calendar up on the refrigerator and mark the days so I have time to dig a foxhole. Holy shit! Can that woman throw! Didn’t even see her pick up the flowerpot. I call my friend again, and he says, “Are you nuts? You can’t ask her to post her period on the fridge!” I say, “Why not? I’ve never lived with a woman before. I’m going through my first one and, Jesus, can you believe those fucking things? How can husbands everywhere be going through this and there hasn’t been anything about it on the news?” He just said, “Welcome to family life.” I decide to drive to the supermarket and get a balloon to buy a fresh start. I come home and she’s got a wooden box in her hands. My matchbook collection! I say, “What are you doing?” She says I’m a pack rat! Ladies and gentlemen, this could be the deal-breaker. I grab the box out of her hands and call my friend again in West Palm. There’s screaming in the background on his end. He says I have to stop calling — his wife overheard our last conversation. I say it’s important. I’ve lost all domestic territory except a little corner in the closet, and now that’s under siege. If I give it up, I’ll have to start walking around the house with a backpack all the time. He says the last piece of turf is important, and he wishes he still had his. Do I have a garage to hide stuff? I say, “I don’t.” He says, “You’re screwed.” Then more screaming on his end and the line went dead.