Coleman crushed another beer can. “What about the rest of the time?”
“. . . Hydraulic fluid, Portnoy’s Complaint, the camel’s nose under the tent, vote motherfucker! . . . What?”
“The rest of the time?” said Coleman. “When it’s not a blessing?”
“Then there’s screaming and pointing, and we have to run away again.”
“I don’t see how a service animal can fix that.”
“When you say service animal, most people think of a guide dog leading the blind or performing other essential tasks for the handicapped.” Serge handed his camera to Coleman. “But there’s a whole other sub-category called ‘emotional support animals,’ who take the edge off mental conditions. Except that when you’re dealing with crazy, you get the kind of animal selections you’d expect. And you wouldn’t believe the growing list that is now confounding the transportation industry: from tiny pigs and iguanas to parrots and even boa constrictors, who are said to be able to detect certain seizures in advance and give a little warning squeeze. Other times the squeeze is a different warning—‘Get this fucking snake off me!’—so there’s an obvious downside. Even some animals have support animals. Thoroughbred horse breeders often place a donkey in a stall if one of their studs has a history of spazzing out.”
“That’s weird.”
“I’m thinking of getting a meerkat.”
“You mean those cute little guys on nature shows who stand up to look for trouble?”
Serge nodded. “A meerkat could level me out.” He walked to the front of the house and smiled. “Take my picture at Zora’s. Make sure not to get the sign . . .”
Meanwhile . . .
In a Cocoa Beach motel room: a ticking sound, then a loud snap.
Malcolm frantically pulled his wrists free from the time lock. He felt the top of his head. “Ahhhhhhhhh!”
He ran out of the motel room and into the office.
The jaundiced manager jumped back from the counter. “Ahhhhhhh! What happened to your head? . . .”
Ten minutes later, the motel parking lot swarmed with police vehicles. In the motel office, someone pulled a sheet over a body. The officer in charge looked up. “What the hell happened?”
The motel manager shrugged. “He came in here demanding bacon and then collapsed.”
An officer stuck his head in the door. “Lieutenant, I think there’s something you need to see.”
They rushed up the walkway and entered room number 7. The officer nodded toward a wall.
“Finger paintings?” said the lieutenant.
“I recognize it,” said the officer. “The Everglades mural from the Clewiston Inn. The lounge is closed now, but they’re really nice about letting guests in. You should go.”
The lieutenant glared. “I thought you had some key evidence.” He pointed in the general direction of the office. “What’s wrong with you? There’s a body getting cold back there.”
The officer told the lieutenant to take a closer look at one of the paintings.
He did.
It was signed by the artist.
Chapter 19
Four Years Earlier
A faithful stuffed wahoo with glazed eyes stared down from an office wall at a man cradling the receiver of a desk phone between his shoulder and neck. That left his hands free to take vigorous notes.
“Thank you very much for your time.” He hung up.
After that final international call to a Dominican Republic historical society, Captain Crack Nasty had everything he could possibly find on one Fulgencio Fakakta, right up until he fled the island in 1921. After that, the years in Florida were still a mystery that phone calls couldn’t solve. From here, it was in-person homework.
Time for a road trip.
Crack climbed into the cab of his Dodge Dakota pickup and headed west on Southern Boulevard. He left the outskirts of coastal development, passing the vintage Lion Country Safari roadside attraction, subconsciously thinking, How old are those animals? Then onward through Twentymile Bend, all the way out to where the first fumes of development picked up again as he neared the big lake. The road’s name changed to Hooker Highway. The schoolkids got a kick out of that.
The captain started at the Pahokee and Belle Glade libraries, looking through special collections of old newspaper microfilms. He drove past the hurricane monument on the way over to the courthouses for records of faded deeds. He cruised the back roads around the addresses he had jotted down. Then he widened his circles of driving out into the nearest sugarcane fields. He picked up a tail. Not law enforcement, but local young men in their twenties. He thought: What has gone insane in this world when blacks are allowed to follow whites in the Deep South? Except his surveillance wasn’t threatening; it was concerned. The three youths were watching out for their neighbors because Crack’s movements around town came off like he was planning some kind of crime. Which was accurate.
The salvager was more than relieved when he reached his next stop, the local police department. Crack asked to speak with their public-affairs spokesman, and was led into an office with a football in a display case on the desk. The captain said he was writing for one of those metal-detector hobby magazines, and he wanted to ask about some rumors he’d been hearing.
“Oh, so that’s why you’ve been driving around here all suspicious like,” said the sergeant.
“You know I’ve been driving around?” said Crack. “Then I need to tell you there were these dangerous characters following me.”
“How do you think we found out you were driving around?” said the sergeant. “The guys following you called us on their cell phones. And they’re not dangerous; they used to play on the football team. They just thought you were up to something. Are you?”
“Me? What? Huh?” Crack displayed upturned palms. “Just working on my article. I heard some folklore about a sugar kingpin who supposedly went missing in the 1928 hurricane, along with some artifacts of historical significance and maybe a couple coins.”
“I’ve heard the same.” The sergeant smiled. “And that’s exactly what that is. Folklore.”
“But I also heard that children playing out in the sugarcane fields have found a few of these coins over the decades since the storm.”
“Another bit of fanciful folklore,” said the sergeant. “In all the years, we haven’t known a single actual child who found anything. And do you think little kids can keep something like that a secret? They’d bring it to school and show it all around in class, and by the end of the day it would be confiscated by a teacher for depriving others of their education.”
“But I’ve learned so much about the history of this sugar guy from the Dominican that it seems more likely—”
The sergeant held up a hand. “My advice to you? And I mean this politely: Forget about your article. We’ve got a nice friendly town here, and we mean to keep it that way. Visitors are always welcome, especially all those college football scouts. But what we don’t need is a bunch of people running around like headless chickens with metal detectors, trespassing and digging up the whole place. Do you see how it could get messy?”