An emcee climbed the steps of the concert stage and grabbed the microphone. “Let’s kick this off with a real treat! We have with us today the legendary ‘Daytona Dave’ DeFuniak, singing his mega-hit ‘Island Fever,’ which appears on the new album ‘One-Hit Wonders of the ’70s: The Rehab Collection.’”
Dave walked out and waved to a smattering of applause. He turned to the band and snapped his fingers. “A one, and a two…
Mr. Blinky and Uncle Inappropriate glanced at each other from opposite sides of the beach and simultaneously lit cigarettes.
In another direction: demonstrators in Serge T-shirts ran toward Greely, shouting and waving picket signs. STOP DONALD’S DEVELOPMENT! FIGHT THE RESORT-IFICATION! WHERE’S MY LIFE SAVINGS!
The traveling publicist turned toward the noise. “Where the hell did they come from?… Security!”
The head of Greely’s security team barked into his own walkie-talkie. “Get him out of the sand! Now!”
The TV cameras swung from Greely to the demonstrators. A shoving match broke out between the protesters and the bodyguards. The security detail at the parasailing boat was called in as reinforcement.
From the concert stage:
“Daytona Dave’s having a seizure!”
Cops and paramedics rushed over.
Two clowns taped their cigarettes to long sticks and raised them toward the balloon bouquets.
Bodyguards pulled Greely from the sand and hustled him from the melee. At opposite ends of the beach, balloon-animal fireballs exploded into the sky. People ran screaming, crashing into each other — “Look! The Skunk Ape!” — a full-scale, multidirectional stampede. Sop Choppy’s biker associates arrived and joined the fray with the bodyguards, now spilling into the street. The remaining cops at the parasailing boat abandoned their posts and ran to help.
Serge and Coleman climbed aboard the vessel. “Hey!” yelled one of the parasail’s two operators. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
Serge produced a gun. “Down in the cabin. Both of you.”
The traveling publicist shuddered at the PR carnage. TV cameras pointing everywhere except at Greely. Ten reporters interviewed a naked woman. The publicist ran over to the head of Greely’s security team. “We have to save this.” She opened her organizer. “Twelve-forty-nine. Parasailing.”
ANNA RACED AWAY from the bank and parked behind the nearest gas station. She ran to the pay phones and dialed. The man at the next phone was on meth. Anna sprang up and down on her legs. “C’mon, answer!”
A dark sedan rolled up to one of the gas pumps.
Then, shouting. Anna jumped. The man on the next phone slammed the receiver. It bounced off the hook and swung on its metal cord as he stomped away. A click in Anna’s ear. “Hello?” She turned and burrowed into the phone booth. “I got it… no, just a photograph… you’ll understand as soon as you see it… right, I know the place.”
THE OFFICIAL ENTOURAGE whisked Greely down to the dock. The publicist grabbed a couple of TV cameramen along the way. “There’s nothing worth shooting over there….”
They arrived at the parasailing boat. One of the deckhands reached over the railing. “Let me help you aboard.”
Cameras filmed as twin three-fifties throttled up. The boat blasted away from the dock.
The deckhand fitted the ex-mogul into his Coast Guard — rated life vest and parasailing harness.
“Have to make sure this thing is good and tight,” said Serge, yanking up hard on the strap between Greely’s legs.
“Ow!”
“You’re all set,” said Serge. “Let’s get you back to the launch area.”
Greely stood in position on a specially welded platform and grabbed the chest-high safety bar in front of him. Serge screwed down the metal O-rings attaching Greely’s harness to the parasail, ready for deployment in its cradle. He bunched the little drogue chute in his hand and threw it into the wind, pulling the main sail out of the holder. It quickly inflated, yanking Greely a few inches off his feet. Serge grabbed the handle on the winch.
“Okay, I’m going to start unreeling you.”
Greely immediately popped up to an elevation of ten feet. Serge turned the handle faster, letting out more rope. Twenty feet. Greely pointed at the boat’s driver.
“Is he drinking beer?”
“A few.” Still unspooling. Thirty feet.
Greely had to shout now. “How much experience do you have?”
“Tons,” Serge yelled back. “Oh, you mean parasailing? This is our first time.”
Fifty feet. “I want to come back down!”
“What?” yelled Serge, still cranking.
Greely’s shouts grew faint. Serge finally tied him off at two hundred feet and went up front with Coleman. They made a swing by the dock. Greely saw the TV cameras and figured he better stop screaming and start waving.
He stayed up a half hour without incident, starting to relax, numerous happy passes by the dock for the cameras. “This is more like it,” said the publicist.
