Coconut Cowboy Read online

  “The kinds of rural counties with anti-­drug signs are the same places where you’re most likely to find country gas stations selling bath salts in Scooby-­Doo packets.”

  “Bath salts?”

  “Synthetic designer drugs that act like coke and uppers.” Coleman pocketed his tiny pipe. “The white crystals look like bath salts, and they’re labeled ‘not for human consumption’ to avoid arrest. Those salts will mess you up! The kids love ’em.”

  “That’s terrible!” said Serge. “But obviously law enforcement’s hands are tied or they’d do something.”

  “Wrong again,” said Coleman. “They don’t even need to be concerned about the contents of the packets or drug laws. They can seize everything and make arrests for counterfeit goods and trademark infringement because of the licensed cartoon characters on the labels to attract kids. It’s just like if a cop sees cheap handbags on a corner in New York that say Gucci: Into the back of the squad car you go!”

  Serge scratched his forehead under his helmet visor. “How come you can suddenly sound so smart when—­ . . . Forget it. I already know the answer.”

  Twenty minutes later, Serge and Coleman rumbled alongside the tracks of the Seaboard Coast Line Railroad. The speed limit dropped again as they entered a town of 837 souls.

  “Where are we?” asked Coleman.

  “Greenville.” Serge swung the chopper south off the highway and cranked up the music in their helmets.

  “ . . . Hit the road, Jack! . . .”

  Thin tires crossed train tracks and rolled through the kind of quiet, tree-­shaded residential area that didn’t have sidewalks.

  Greenville was definitely green. Lots of lush trees and lawns and decorative shrubs showcasing sun-­parched old wooden homes with rusty tin roofs. Bright clothes drying on lines, bicycles against utility poles. A fifty-­five-­gallon barrel on concrete blocks burned trash. A beach umbrella stood over another charred metal barrel, where more smoke rose from lunch being grilled for the whole block. Then an abandoned pickup truck sinking into the earth, its decay toward ugliness having bottomed out, and, now that nature was reclaiming it with grass and vines, becoming kind of pretty, if you’re into that sort of thing.

  “Radio check,” said Coleman. “I haven’t seen a place like this before.”

  “Greenville is a historic African-­American town,” said Serge. “As southern and rural as they come. The economy definitely isn’t here, but they more than make up for it with pride and beautification. You can’t help but feel the bonds of community.”

  He pulled the motorcycle off the side of the road to check a map.

  A junky El Dorado came the other way and stopped in the street. The driver leaned out the open window. “Can I help you guys find anything?”

  “As a matter of fact you can.” Serge held out his map and told him.

  The old man pointed backward. “Keep going that way until you come to the stop sign. If you think you’ve gone too far—­don’t. There’s only one stop sign, way, way down. Then take a right and follow it to the bend. But don’t take the bend. There’s a road on the other side and you’ll see it.”

  “Appreciate the courtesy.” Serge stowed his map and took off.

  More old houses and freshly cut grass. In the middle of the homes was another small building with another tin roof, this one concrete and lime green. Bare four-­by-­fours held up a weathered porch roof below a sign: H&R GROCERS. There was an air pump and a row of three retired guys sitting against the front of the building and liking it.

  The old man’s directions were spot-­on. After the second right turn, Serge rolled a short distance to a stop at street address number 443. Just off the shoulder stood a compact four-­room wooden house with a chimney and simple open deck with rocking chairs.

  Serge removed his helmet. “You’re in for a real treat.”

  “Whose house is this?”

  “Glad you asked! From 1930 to 1935, it was the childhood home of the legendary Ray Charles, before his sight failed and he was sent to the Florida School for the Deaf and Blind in Saint Augustine.”

  “Ray Charles?” said Coleman. “I thought he was from Georgia.”

  Serge grimaced and pounded a fist on the coconut gas tank. “It’s like Allman Brothers déjà vu all over again! Duane and Gregg were from Daytona, and Ray was from Greenville!”

  “Easy now,” said Coleman. “You’re in a small town.”

  A camera clicked at a street sign: RAY CHARLES AVENUE. The motorcycle sped off.

  They crossed the train tracks again and took Grand Avenue through downtown Greenville, which was a block long: connecting brick buildings with some of the windows bricked up.

  Hardware store, closed pharmacy with mortar and pestle over the door, antiques place selling an ancient rust-­streaked sign for TALLAHASSEE MOTOR HOTEL. PHONES, POOL, TV.

  They turned the corner at Ike’s Bait and Tackle, which had branched into the deli business and featured a drawing of a rattlesnake, the mascot of the traditionally black Florida A&M University. Then another small building whose entire front was a roll-­down metal door below block letters that said FIRE DEPT and appeared to be out of business. The VFW hall advertised free breakfast for veterans. Serge stopped across the street.

  “Where are we now?” asked Coleman.

  “Hayes Park, the town center, a magnificent open space surrounding that tranquil lake. Playground, picnic area, and something few others have. A great place to slow down.” Serge took off running.

  Coleman caught up as his buddy aimed a camera at a bronze statue of a man in sunglasses playing the keyboard near the children’s slides. “I must touch Ray. You touch him, too . . . Our work here is done.” He took off back to the motorcycle. Coleman was barely able to jump in the sidecar before Serge screeched off and cranked up the stereo.

  “ . . . C.C. Rider! . . .”

  More hills and clouds went by.

  “Radio check,” said Coleman. “Can we take a break? All this slowing down is making me tired.”

  “We’re about to take a very long break up ahead.”

  “Another small town?”

  “Live Oak, established 1858 at the junction of two major rail lines.” The chopper approached a bridge and passed a sign containing musical notes.

  “What river are we crossing?”

  “The Suwannee.”

  “Like in the song?”

  “The same.”

  “Aren’t you saying it wrong?” asked Coleman.

  “No, I’m pronouncing it right. Su-­wann-­ee.” Serge gazed over the side of the bridge at a winding, tea-­colored tributary. “It’s three syllables. But in 1851, Stephen Foster needed a two-­syllable name of a river for his song, so he looked at a map and just lopped off part of the historic name like we’re North Korea.”

  “Fuck that shit,” said Coleman.

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Serge. “And then of all things it became our state song.”

  “Not good?”

  “Have you ever heard the original words? It’s titled ‘Old Folks at Home’ and was a minstrel song sung by a slave yearning for the plantation life. But aside from the controversy, there are so many better artists to choose from.”

  “Led Zeppelin!”

  “Let’s try to stay focused,” said Serge. “Yes, the heavy-­metal lads from Britain did play the long-­since-­closed Pirate’s World amusement park in Dania in 1969—­which I still can’t get my head around—­but the orgasm section of ‘Whole Lotta Love’ might be a hard sell to the legislature. We need someone more palatable.”

  “Like who?”

  “Ray Charles,” said Serge. “ ‘Georgia on My Mind’ was good enough for that state’s leaders. Can you imagine the Florida Senate swaying to ‘Unchain My Heart’?”

  “That would rule!”

 
“One can only hope.”

  “Serge, my tummy’s making those sounds again.”

  “And I need coffee. Here’s a convenience store.”

  They pulled past gas pumps that still had mechanical numbers. Signs in the window advertised tomatoes, a charity car wash and Newports. Serge went straight for a round glass pot with a burnt aroma. He stared down inside. “Still good.” Coleman loaded up on Snickers and Baby Ruths.

  The door opened. A neatly pressed khaki uniform came inside.

  Serge glanced furtively, then whispered the other way: “Coleman, be cool. It’s a sheriff’s deputy . . . Coleman!” Serge snatched a Scooby-­Doo packet from his hands. “No bath salts for you!”

  “Crap.”

  THAT NIGHT

  A power outage in Calusa County left most of the alarm clocks blinking 12:00, but it was really closer to three. The moon lit up a piece of decorative latticework that lay on the ground next to the crawl space where it had been pried loose.

  “Shhhhh!”

  “You shhhh!”

  “Don’t shhhh’sh me!”

  “Will you assholes be quiet? It’s hard enough crawling under here as it is.”

  “Who cares? It’s Jabow’s house.”

  “And he doesn’t like to be woken!”

  “Then why not come out here during the day?”

  “Duh! Because ­people might see what we’re doing. You want to work your way up in this town or not?”

  The trio continued slithering under the home and dragging a duffel bag as a tiny flashlight led the way. Elroy, Slow and Slower.

  “Why can’t I ever get the flashlight?”

  “Because you’re slow!”

  “How much farther?”

  “Three more floor joists, maybe four,” said Elroy.

  “I never noticed this before.”

  “What?”

  “So these pipes are how they do plumbing?” said Slower. “I always wondered what happened after it went through the floor.”

  Elroy blinked hard. “Please stop talking.”

  They crawled in silence. Slower reached up to touch a toilet line, but decided not to comment.

  “There’s the spot.”

  “Where?”

  “That beam I marked,” said Elroy. “How many times have you been here?”

  “Ten or five.”

  “Just start digging.”

  Three small camping shovels went to work.

  “Are there snakes?”

  “What about scorpions?”

  “I’d be more worried about Jabow,” said Elroy. “You know his temper.”

  “Why doesn’t he just let us hide it in his house?”

  “Because of something called a search warrant, you idiot.”

  “Why doesn’t he bury it himself?”

  “You two suddenly have a thirst for knowledge?”

  “I’m just saying we’re always the ones getting dirty.”

  “Because he and Vernon are at the top. And once you’re there, it’s easy lifting and sleeping in clean sheets. You assign all the filthy jobs to the young guys at the bottom who—­and I may only be speaking for myself here—­want to make their bones and reach the top themselves. Wouldn’t you like to sit at the big table in Lead Belly’s someday?”

  “Heck, yeah.”

  “Then shut up and keep digging!”

  A few more minutes and then, “I think I hit something.” The shovels were cast aside and bare hands swept soil off the top of the discovery. “Yeah, it’s where we buried the last shipment.”

  “Start unloading.”

  They reached into the duffel bag from the bank, grabbing large, waterproof bricks of tightly wrapped hundred-­dollar bills. The new packs were piled on top of all the previously buried ones, which went down into the ground who knew how far.

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY

  The coconut chopper rolled into a time-­frozen town and down another main street of brick storefronts and bygone lamp posts. It slowed near the junction with another highway. Serge planted his feet on the ground at a traffic light and aimed his camera up at the verdigris dome of a clock tower. Click, click, click. “The Suwannee County courthouse, built 1904, which means this is our turn.”

  The light became green. Serge hung a lazy left and gunned the throttle north on Highway 129.

  “Radio check,” said Coleman. “What’s our next stop?”

  “A big one.” The chopper raced under an interstate overpass. “Remember I mentioned a spot where the sixties were still alive and kicking in Florida?”

  “Nope.”

  “And in the most unlikely place,” said Serge. “We’re up here near the Georgia line, out in the sticks, the deepest part of the Bible Belt. As far as the eye can wander in every direction: red state and rednecks.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Serge. “They’re free to play for their team, and I respect that.”

  “It’s just a lifestyle choice, after all.”

  “Actually they were born that way, so you can’t be prejudiced,” said Serge. “In fact I’ve come to accept that I’m part redneck.”

  “Which part?”

  “The genetic marker that likes to see things blow up. I’m just illustrating what an extreme anomaly of geographical culture this upcoming place is,” said Serge. “Like finding Santana playing the Alamo.”

  “A bunch of cars are slowing down.”

  “That’s our destination.” Serge hit his blinker.

  The chopper eased off the highway and through a wooded entrance with a sign:

  SPIRIT OF THE SUWANNEE.

  The surrounding fields were crammed with every kind of parked vehicle, from late-­model Jeeps to VW microbuses. Trickles of ­people dripped from various origins and formed a single human river. The narrowness of the chopper allowed Serge to pass through. ­People waved cheerfully and flashed peace signs.

  “This is unreal,” said Coleman. “Look at all these young ­people. And they’re all cool!”

  “It’s like that footage from the Woodstock movie of massive throngs coming up the road.” Serge chugged the caffeine dregs from his travel mug. “I’m getting goose bumps looking around. Hundreds of kids in tie-­dyed shirts, American-­flag pants, Jamaican knitted caps, and flowers everywhere: in their hair, hanging from their necks, painted on their cheeks.”

  Coleman pointed. “I dig that one babe with a wreath on her head, wearing a bikini top, cutoff jeans and boots, doing the hula hoop.”

  “It’s a magical place.”

  “But what is this place?” asked Coleman.

  “A giant campground in the middle of nowhere that holds dozens of weekend-­long music fests each year. It’s so remote, the kids are free to be themselves.” They parked the motorcycle and grabbed knapsacks of luggage hanging from the back. “This weekend’s jamboree is called the Purple Hatters Ball.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In memory of Rachel Morningstar Hoffman, this fun-­loving, footloose hippie chick who was a student at Florida State University, the kind of daughter any parent would love to have. She inspired an act of the legislature called Rachel’s Law.”

  “Explain?”

  “She smoked some pot and got busted.”

  “But it was college.”

  “Exactly.” Serge led Coleman to the back of a long line. “Now, you know what a huge supporter of law enforcement I am. But every once in a while a few of them will go a bit cowboy. So in a plea deal completely out of whack with her transgression, they said they’d drop the charges if she made an undercover buy, and sent her out with thirteen thousand dollars to score a bunch of cocaine and a gun from these really bad dudes. Did not end well.”

 
“That’s awful.”

  “But out here her spirit lives on.” Serge shuffled forward toward the ticket booth. “Rachel was known for her irrepressible smile and fondness for big floppy purple hats. Every year they host this festival.”

  Serge crouched down in a starting position like a track star.

  “What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

  “Only one more person ahead of us in line.”

  “And he’s leaving.”

  Serge lunged at the counter with an open wallet. “Two tickets to the sixties, please. I need my wonder years. Only three channels and no remote control, sitting in a box with Tang till two a.m., national anthem, prayer, fade to static. Today, YouTube has shifted the collective consciousness from moon landings to elevator beat-­downs. But the sixties ruled in every way except musicians choking on their own vomit. The squares always bring that up, but the fifties had separate drinking fountains, which more than outweighs spit-­up.” He checked his wristwatch. “What time is the Age of Aquarius? I can’t wait! I’ve never actually seen love steer the stars!”

  “Uh, do you want tickets?”

  “Yes! That’s what I’ve been talking about this whole time.” Serge forked over cash. “I’ve rededicated my entire life to being a hippie.”

  “But you have short hair.”

  “That makes me more radical.” Serge snatched the stubs, then noticed a stack of souvenirs behind the counter. “Ooo! Ooo!” He opened his wallet again . . .

  The pair hoisted knapsacks and joined the sea of latter-­day flower children heading into the park. Leather-­fringed vests, bandannas, bell-­bottoms, maxi dresses. Some held up tall sticks, literally flying freak flags.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “You look funny in that floppy purple hat.”

  “You do, too,” said Serge. “That’s the beauty of all this. The youthful joy of being foolish.”

  They arrived at a row of cabins.

  “I thought we were going to camp.”

  “Right, indoors. Never let others define your camping,” said Serge. “I made a reservation online and there should be a key under the mat. Drop your gear inside, then meet me back at the golf cart.”

  “Golf cart?”