Serge took a deep, satisfied breath and slowly closed his journal. He gazed out the window at the soothing waters. “Can you feel it? Peace and solitude, nothing but tranquility in every direction.” He nodded to himself. “Sometimes it’s good to be alone with your thoughts.”
He smiled and sat perfectly still. He jumped up and ran out the door.
6
THE NO NAME Pub’s screen door flew open.
“Serge! You’re back!”
Serge joined them at the bar. He sat next to one of his favorite regulars. A sensitive but self-destructive journalist named Bud Naranja, who first came to the Keys after being fired from a South Florida newspaper for writing a caption on a hurricane aftermath photo of a looter running down the street with a shopping cart. Except it was a bank president delivering relief supplies — and a major advertiser. Guards hovered over Bud in front of the whole newsroom as he packed belongings in a cardboard box and cut his giant, inflatable “news flamingo” down from the ceiling. Didn’t even go back to his apartment, just climbed in a 200,000-mile Toyota and began driving with no purpose but an earnest devotion to the principle: How can I make this worse? He headed south until he ran out of land and kept going. The Toyota started smoking on Crawl Key, and Bud had to drive across the Seven-Mile Bridge with his head out the window. The engine finally took pity and threw a rod on Big Pine, and he caught a ride with a local housepainter in splattered overalls on his way out to the No Name Pub, where Bud got drunk and slept in the woods behind the building and never went back. Decided to stay and reinvent himself. He reinvented himself as a fired journalist for a Key West newspaper who now did occasional freelance for a variety of free weekly shoppers distributed throughout the islands.
“Bud, what’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You look like someone died.”
Bud pointed at the TV. “Have you been following the airbag murder case in Miami?”
“No.”
“How could you miss it?” said Sop Choppy. “It’s been all over TV for weeks. It’s a big story.”
“So I missed it. I’ve been on the road. What’s the deal?”
“These mechanics reconditioned deployed airbags by filling them with sand to save money,” said Bud.
“What’s wrong with people?” said Sop Choppy. “How low does the bar get?”
“Not this jerk again,” said Bob, gesturing at the local TV newscast, which had switched to a regular investigative segment called “Consumer Bloodhound.” “I don’t know who’s worse, the scam artists they report on or the obnoxious reporter who chases them across parking lots and shouts questions at slammed doors.”
They stopped and listened to the story about a contractor in Fort Lauderdale who tells people they need whole new roofs when they don’t.
“I know that scam,” said Sop Choppy. “Used to work construction. It’s so common in Florida it’s a cliché. They go up on top of your house and find rust on shingle nails and say everything’s about to cave in. But it’s so humid down here you can find nail rust in the finest roofs.”
Next on the tube:
“Global-Con!” said Sop Choppy. “Don’t get me started! Why doesn’t anybody do anything?”
“A bunch of shareholders have sued,” said Bob the accountant. “But no criminal indictments, probably never, because of campaign donations.”
“I read in the papers where he’s moving down here,” said Bud. “Started building a giant mansion in Marathon.”
“Who?” asked Sop Choppy.
“The Global-Con guy. What’s his name?”
“You don’t mean Donald Greely,” said Serge.
Bud nodded.
“There goes the neighborhood.”
“But how’s that possible?” asked Sop Choppy. “I thought the courts froze his assets after the lawsuits.”
“They did,” said Bob. “But he’d already homesteaded and sheltered twenty million in construction under Florida’s no-forfeiture law. It’s the first thing they teach in accounting school.”
“That’s typical,” said the biker. “They seized my hog last year for one stinkin’ joint in the saddlebag. Then this guy steals all those retirement accounts and there’s a law
Jerry the bartender came over. Jerry was even more sensitive than Bud. He was naturally likable, with a chronic insecurity about being liked that got on everyone’s nerves.
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Jerry, tipping a draft handle.
“The stock market.”
“That’s a good subject.”
Serge looked at his watch. “How long have I been sitting here?”
“You just arrived,” said Bud.
Serge hopped off his stool. “I gotta move around.”
