A VAN SAT in the parking lot of Paradise Transmission. On the side, a smoked bubble window and an airbrush mural of a Yes album cover. The back of the van was full of people crouched on the shag carpet like a S.W.A.T. team.
The walkie-talkie on the dashboard squawked.
Sop Choppy was behind the wheel. He turned to Mr. Blinky in the passenger seat. “Are we Tango Zulu?”
The clown passed a joint back over his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
Sop Choppy grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Are we Tango Zulu?”
“Sop Choppy.”
“Tango Zulu here.”
Sop Choppy looked back. “Yep, they’re ready.”
Sop Choppy glanced at the metal cylinder Mr. Blinky was holding between his legs, Coleman’s old nitrous tank that had been refilled with O2. “Check.”
A METALLIC GREEN Trans Am rested under a tarp in the driveway of a waterfront home on Big Pine Key.
Anna Sebring was alone inside her late brother’s vacation place. She sat at the kitchen table, gazing out the back windows at the fishing boats filling Bogie Channel. The weather was perfect.
Anna looked down at the table. A big brass safety deposit box key lay in the middle.
She looked at her watch and took a deep breath.
“Now or never.”
She stood and picked up the key.
THE SOUTHERN SHORELINE of Key West was crammed before noon.
South Beach, Higgs Beach, Rest Beach, Smathers Beach, wall-to-wall cabanas, bikinis and umbrellas sprinkling the sand with bright primary colors. Two cocker spaniels chased each other through a volleyball game on Dog Beach. The swim areas were full of happy, splashing bathers dodging Jet Skis. Farther out, an ocean highway of pleasure craft. Bowriders, cabin cruisers, sailboats and catamarans that bobbed in the wakes of cigarette boats, which in turn were passed by giant hydroplanes and open-sea racers in paint schemes for Budweiser and Little Caesar’s pizza. Beyond that, on the horizon toward Cuba, fleets of shrimp trawlers with boom-arrays extending from both sides. Overhead, news helicopters, parasailers, an ultralight with pontoons and six circling Cessnas pulling banners for drink-till-you-drop specials in Old Town. Atlantic Boulevard and South Roosevelt were jammed with parked cars, traffic at a standstill, convertibles and rentals and VW microbuses with competing music. Matchbox Twenty, 50 Cent, Third Eye Blind.
The sun approached zenith, but it was only ninety degrees with a light breeze that smelled of salt, tanning oil and hot dogs cooking in a relentless line of sidewalk stands. Also, Sno-Kone stands, cotton candy stands and stands with battery-operated blenders serving alcohol-free daiquiris and piña coladas that were openly spiked. Standby ambulances sat at strategic intervals, paramedics already running stretchers back and forth across the beach in front of the concert stage. Passed-out exposure victims burned down one side of their bodies, a college kid who tried to stand on the seat of his jet ski, the ultralight pilot who crashed into the giant inflatable Corona bottle.
Nothing would stop the party. And what a party it was. Donald Greely was paying for it all with his own personal money, which used to be other people’s personal money. He wasn’t supposed to have the money under the court agreement, so it was filtered through judgment-proof combinations of lawyers and Caribbean accounts. It wasn’t cheap. Ten thousand free hot dogs, gallons of soda, city overtime, insurance, upcoming concert by the Beach Boys tribute band and, finally, after sundown, the big offshore fireworks extravaganza. Total bill: thirty grand. Greely had gotten the idea from the block parties John Gotti used to throw in Queens after each acquittal.
All that was missing now: the big entrance.
A corporate jet helicopter skimmed over the breakers.
“Almost there,” said the traveling publicist. She rechecked her organizer, a full schedule of photo ops synchronized to the minute.
TV cameras clustered as the helicopter swooped in from the Gulf Stream and gently touched down. Greely, in a tropical shirt, got out, waving both arms Nixon-style. A crowd surged forward.
The publicist checked her organizer. “Eleven thirty-seven. Hot dogs.”
The mob moved with Greely toward one of the food stands on Rest Beach. An aide fitted a chef’s hat on Greely’s head as he grinned and tonged wieners into buns. People shouted from the back of the crowd.
The traveling publicist had paid them each twenty dollars and told them to wait till the cameras were rolling. Picking crowd-shouters was always an imprecise science, especially at events with alcohol.
