Jerry worked hard with the towel on a particular spot. “Yeah, it sounds like something he’d do.”
“Who?”
“The owner.”
“You know the owner?”
“A total asshole.”
“Jerry, I’ve never heard you talk bad about anyone.”
“This guy’s different.” The bartender slung the towel over his shoulder. “Biggest jerk I ever met in my life.”
“You’re preachin’ to the choir.”
“I know how you can get even with him.”
“You do?”
“Definitely. I know what he loves. That’s what you attack.”
“Jerry, this is a completely different side of you,” said Fussels. “I like it!”
“Believe me, this will completely burn his ass.”
“I’m all ears.”
Serge went sprinting by in the background.
“I know where he lives,” said the bartender. “He’s out of town right now. What you want to do is go over to his house….”
A three ball bounced across the top of the counter between Fussels and the bartender.
“Jerry!” yelled Sop Choppy. “Quick! Get me all the ice you got!”
“What’s the matter?”
“We got some people down.”
26
SERGE HAD SLEPT all night in his white tux. At the first hint of sunrise, he leaped from the couch in Coleman’s trailer. There was much to do before the wedding.
He’d told Molly not to worry about a thing. Just leave the planning to Serge. He reached under the couch and grabbed a tickle stick used to catch lobsters. The sticks were long Lucite wands with a hook on one end and a scuba diver’s wrist strap at the other. If you saw antennas twitching out a hole in the coral, you stuck the stick inside and “tickled” the lobster on the tail, and it would jump out into your grasp.
Coleman was dead to the world.
“Wake up! I’m getting married!”
A groan and a head buried in the pillows.
Serge poked him in the ribs with the tickle stick. “Wake up!”
Coleman swatted blindly behind him.
“Wake up!” Poke.
“Ahhhhh!” Coleman rolled onto his back and swatted wildly with eyes closed.
Poke.
Coleman reared up and grabbed the end of the stick. Serge struggled expertly with the other end like an alligator poacher. “There we go, big boy…. Easy now…”
Coleman suddenly stopped and opened his eyes. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m hungry.”
They wandered into the kitchen. Coleman rubbed his ribs. “Why do you always have to use the stick?”
“Because you always swing.”
“Automatic reflex,” said Coleman. “From those times I’ve woken up in jail with some guy straddling my chest punching me in the face.”
“Need to shake a leg.” Serge dragged three already packed gear bags from a closet. Coleman plopped down on the end of the sofa next to his nitrous tank. He turned on the TV and grabbed the regulator.
Serge yanked it out of his mouth.
“Hey!”
“We have to get moving!”
“But the wedding isn’t till this afternoon.”
“I’m expecting a lot of traffic.”
He wasn’t kidding. It was going to be a huge day in the lower Florida Keys, and not because of the wedding. One of the largest annual community events was about to kick off. That was no coincidence. Serge couldn’t conceive of getting married without a cultural tie-in. He’d approached the organizers, who loved the idea. A wedding would be great publicity. Lots of photos for the newspapers. Serge was going to get married at one of his favorite places on earth: Looe Key.
Looe Key wasn’t like the other keys. You couldn’t get there by highway. And even if you could, you’d be in trouble. Looe Key was submerged.
It was named for the HMS
For twenty-one years, the locals have hosted the annual Looe Key Underwater Music Festival. Water conducts sound much better than air, and divers come from all over to feel the tunes pulse through their bones. The music is broadcast by WCNK — “Conch FM” — and pumped down to the reef with special underwater speakers from Lubell Laboratory. Some of the divers arrive in wacky costumes. They jump in the ocean with guitars and trombones and whatnot, forming string quartets and marching bands. Some dress like pop stars. Tina Tuna. Britney Spearfish.
The concert lasts six hours. The minister would arrive during the third. The vows would be exchanged under water. Serge had written them himself.
Gear bags flew into the Buick’s trunk and the lid slammed. Serge checked his watch. “Still on schedule. You got the ring?”
“Ring?”
“Coleman! You’re the best man!”
“What ring?”
“I gave it to you last night. I was extremely clear. I said, ‘Coleman, put down the bong and pay attention. This is the ring. It is of utmost importance. Screw up everything else, but don’t lose the ring. The ring is everything. The ring is life and death. Do you understand?’ And you said, ‘Sure,’ and I handed it to you.”
