Serge was a wall-looker. Restaurant, hotel, bar, whatever — had to case the whole interior for history. Plaques and photos and clippings and stuff. He could get hung up for hours in the No Name with all the dollar bills. Serge had been coming here for years and was still only a quarter way through. He resumed where he’d left off last time behind the pool table. “The Brennans were here 11-12-02,” “Tami, Dansville Mich., Try God.” A red maple leaf drawn over George Washington’s face: “Canadian and Proud!” Without looking, Serge reached over to set his bottle of water down. There was nothing to set it on. He turned and waved his hand through an empty space of air. “Hey, Joe…” — Joe was the owner — “didn’t there used to be a cigarette machine?”
“Had to take it out,” said Joe, writing in a book of receipts behind the bar. “Always full of dollars torn off the wall.
“The common good,” said Serge. “It’s not hip.”
Joe nodded politely and returned to his paperwork. He liked Serge, despite everything. Besides, Joe was a fellow history buff. He had purchased Captain Tony’s Saloon in Key West, then the No Name, more out of preservation than business.
“Can you take me upstairs?” asked Serge.
Joe added a column of figures. “I’m busy.”
“I want to see the brothel.”
“It’s not a brothel anymore.”
“I’ll use my imagination.”
“Later.”
Serge pointed up at the ceiling. “Is it true you have the fifty-caliber deck gun from Captain Tony’s boat up there? Back when he made midnight runs to Cuba for the CIA?”
Joe nodded.
“Can I see it? I won’t touch. Okay, maybe I will. Sometimes I can’t help myself, so no guarantees.”
Joe exhaled in exasperation and started adding the numbers again from the beginning.
“If you won’t take me upstairs, can you go get Captain Tony?” said Serge. “Everyone’s met him but me. You promised.”
“He’s probably doing something.”
“But Tony’s the last living link to the Old Days. I have to meet him before it’s too late!”
“Serge, he has a life. He’s not some antique car I can just roll out of the garage whenever I feel like it.”
Serge stared at Joe a moment. “Then can we go upstairs?”
Joe took his work into the back room. Serge resumed his circuit around the pub. More dollar bills, then a bulletin board. Church raffle, baby shower on Guava Lane, missing person last seen walking down a deserted road on No Name Key at three A.M. Serge came to a Xerox of a meeting notice. Paradise Obsessive-Compulsive Association. There were a bunch of little tabs with phone numbers at the bottom of the sheet. He tore one off. The tear did not make a straight line. So he tore off another.
Jerry the bartender walked up. “Serge…”
“Hey, Jerry.”
“Can I ask a question?”
“Sure. What is it?”
Jerry looked around, then lowered his voice. “Do people like me?”
THE FLORIDA KEYS are home to the largest per-capita concentration of twelve-step programs in the nation. Some of the support groups meet at the municipal building on Sugarloaf Key, next to the fire station. The building has a long hallway of low-bid, peel-and-stick tiles.
The third room on the left was full of teens in defiant slouches. A court-ordered early-intervention program for at-risk youth arrested on petty charges. Two older men in sheriff’s uniforms stood at the front of the room. Both were out of shape, but one more so. He held up a hand-rolled cigarette.
“This is
The kids:
Gus set the joint on a table up front. “It is what is known as a gateway drug….”
A teen raised his hand. “Where’d you get that?”
“Evidence. After a trial.”
“Weren’t you supposed to destroy it?”
“We did. But sometimes we save a little for training purposes.”
“That’s against the law.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Do you have a court order?” asked the youth.
“What?”
“I’m going to be a lawyer. There are very strict condemnation procedures for scheduled substances. Outside of that, only a few high-security federal research facilities are allowed to keep pot. Right now you’re guilty of possession.”
“And showing it to minors,” said a girl chewing gum.
“This is just a class,” said Gus. “If you’d all be quiet, we can wrap this up and go home—”
“You told us that possession of even a small amount of pot is a serious offense.”
Another boy in baggy jeans pointed at a phone number on the blackboard. “Maybe we should call the anonymous tip line.”
Gus turned to his colleague. “Walter, help me here.”
Walter shrugged. “I’ve never seen the guidelines. Maybe he’s right.”
“Thanks, Walter.”
A banging came through the wall from the next room. All the kids were talking now.
“Everyone, please be quiet!” said Gus. “We’re here because we care what happens to you. Drugs aren’t healthy….”
A hand went up. “I saw on TV where obesity is a leading killer. You might consider a diet.”
Another hand. “How are you supposed to catch anybody? I’ll bet you can’t get over a fence.”
Gus was red-faced and speechless.
