“Looks like it’s already up.” A swarm of workers in white caps painted the outside with rollers.
“It’s a monstrosity,” said Serge. “It’ll wreck my views from the Seven-Mile.”
They came off the bridge. The Buick pulled into a strip mall on U.S. 1 and parked in front of Marathon Discount Books.
Ting-a-ling.
“Hi, Serge.”
“Hi, Charley. You got the new Keys history book in? That Viele guy?”
“Right in front of you.”
“Coleman, come here.”
“What?”
He swept an arm over the local-interest section. History, fishing, zoology, cooking, oversized pictorials — all faced out. “Charley values tradition. Let’s go to the bathroom.”
Charley watched skeptically as they walked to the back of the store, squeezed into the tiny, one-person rest room and closed the door.
They came back out. “Cool,” said Coleman. “Autographed literary posters while you take a leak.”
“The chains don’t understand anything.”
Charley rang up Serge’s book. “Twenty-six, fifty-seven.”
Serge tapped the counter. “Listen, Charley, do you think maybe you could put it on the tab?”
“Serge!”
“Charley!”
“No way! I was going to talk to you about that. You still haven’t paid from last time.”
“The only reason I didn’t pay was because that motel took all my money.”
“Why’d they do that?”
“I stayed there.”
“That’s how it works.”
“No, I mean they ripped me off. All the cottages were taken so they gave me the last converted unit over the office. Except after they closed the office and turned off the AC downstairs, all the heat rose and the little window unit couldn’t handle the load. It turned into a furnace. I called the after-hours number, but they refused to listen.”
“Serge, you know the Keys. You
“I want to believe in people.”
“Take the book. It’s too much aggravation.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure I won’t get paid.”
“What about that aerial photography book. I’ve also kind of had my eye on—”
“Serge!”
“Okay, just this one. I’m boning up on my pioneer research. I built a kiln the other day.”
“Ceramics?”
“No, the old charcoal kind they used to have in the back country.”
“Those were huge,” said Charley. “Where’d you build it?”
“In my mind.” Serge held up the new book. “I plan to reenact the life of Happy Jack, tracing the rum route from Sugarloaf to the Old Customs House that he and his merry band used to navigate in handmade sailboats. This book will help me faithfully re-create the experience down to the last primitive detail.”
“But the route took days, even in good weather.”
“That’s why I’m getting an airboat.” Serge casually flipped through his new history book. “What’s with that humongous building going up on the north end?”
“The house?” said Charley.
“That’s a
“Donald Greely’s new place.”
“That’s Greely’s place?” said Serge. “I heard he was building, just didn’t know where.”
“Who’s Greely?” said Coleman.
“You’ve never heard of Donald Greely?” said Serge.
Coleman shrugged and picked up a mini-booklight, flicking it on and off.
“You don’t remember all those news stories about Global-Con? The telecom-energy conglomerate that cooked the books and wiped out all those retirement accounts?”
“No.” The booklight stopped working. Coleman put it back. “Must have been watching another channel.”
Charley sat down in a chair behind the counter and leaned back with his hands behind his head. “Heard it cost twenty million. Put the yacht in his lawyer’s name and parked it out back.”
“But how’d he get clearance for that kind of construction?” said Serge.
“Bribes. But they couldn’t prove anything. Even had people come in at night and cut down mangroves…. Serge, your face is all red….”
THE BUICK PULLED away from the bookstore and continued east on U.S. 1.
Coleman had his hand out the passenger window, flying up and down in the wind. “Where to now?”
“Get my airboat.”
“I didn’t know they had any airboat places down here.” Coleman lit the roach he’d left in the ashtray. “Just on the mainland by the swamp.”
“DEA seizure auction in Islamorada. Saw my boat on the Internet.”
“What are you doing now?”
Serge was looking ahead and squinted hard, stiffening the muscles in his arms. “Concentrating on life so it doesn’t pass me by. From time to time I force myself to strip away all rationalization and gaze into the naked essence of existence. This is my truth stare.”
Coleman exhaled smoke out the window. “I have my own truth stare. I look in the opposite direction and hope it goes away.”
Coleman jumped. He picked his roach up off the floor. “What happened?”
“Found myself in the utter horror at the moment of birth. Let me tell you, it was no picnic…. Lower the roach — here comes a sheriff’s car.”
The Buick passed a green-and-white cruiser heading the other way. Deputy Gus was behind the wheel, popping Ibuprofen and chasing with coffee.
“Gonna eat your stomach lining,” said Walter.
Gus scanned the side of the road for cars from the all-points bulletins.
“Why won’t you tell me how the Serpico nickname started?” said Walter.
