The Pope of Palm Beach Read online

  “They do occasionally patrol at night, but it depends on the beach. The ones with reputations for partying, public intercourse and drug deals get heavy coverage, but this is a calm one with only spot checks.”

  “But what if we’re unlucky and there is a spot check?”

  “First, you split. All they’ll find is that tied-up dude in the sea oats a hundred yards away from me. How am I responsible for that?”

  “But don’t you think you’ll look a little suspicious?”

  “I’ll look outrageously suspicious,” said Serge. “Digging a giant hole on the beach in the middle of the night. So what? I’ll explain that children dig holes in the beach all the time, and there’s no law against that. I’m just taking it to the next level because I have a sexual need to move sand.”

  “Stiffy,” said Coleman.

  “It’s a free country,” said Serge. “They’ll be totally off balance, looking at me like I have a second head growing out of my shoulder, but there’s little more they can do besides ask me to stop digging and find another outlet.”

  The pair walked in opposite directions. Serge launched a shovel of sand as Coleman plopped down in the darkness. Coleman smiled at their captive, quite still with all the rope and duct tape. He extracted a joint from his pocket. “Oops, almost forgot.” He stuck it away and smiled at the wrestler again. “I was going to share that fatty with you.” The captive tried to scream under the tape. Coleman nodded: “I know, I know, but the turtles have to come first.” He pulled out his flask and looked back at the beach. Sand continued flying like there was a sand version of a water sprinkler, and Serge became shorter and shorter in the hole.

  Coleman sipped his bourbon and squinted into the night, seeing double now, except where Serge had been. Serge was gone—just sand flinging up from the deepening hole. The sand stopped, and the shovel ejected high into the air, landing in the oats. Serge crawled out . . .

  . . . And now here they all were at the end of the night. Serge lay on his stomach. He planted elbows in the beach, propping his chin on his hands. He looked into the hole with a wild face.

  “How are you doing down there?”

  “Mmm! Mmm!”

  “Great! Glad you like it!”

  The wrestler was vertical in the hole, sand packed down around him to his neck. The top of his head stood a half foot below ground level, with a sufficient radius of free room to twist and jerk his face back and forth in the crater to assess his predicament.

  Serge’s knuckles knocked on the head. “Up here. Look at me . . . That’s better. Only polite when someone’s talking to you . . . I heard you say earlier that you had an interest in sea turtles. And have I got a National Geographic moment in store for you!”

  “Mmm! Mmm!”

  “Glad you asked! Of course there’s risk involved! Nature lovers have known that for years. Just ask Marlin Perkins from Mutual of Omaha. Actually, it would be better to ask his assistant, Jim, because Marlin was always back in the air-conditioned tent wearing an ascot and sipping mimosas while Jim wrestled anacondas in quicksand. Lucky for you, no quicksand here. In fact you are about to experience something I’d like to coin slowsand. And now for your bonus round. I always like to give my contestants a chance to win. I think you’ve already figured out the grand prize, as well as the parting gifts for losing contestants. So here’s your bonus . . .”

  Serge leaned over the edge of the hole and whispered. Then he sprang to his feet and slapped his hands together. “Well, that about does it . . . Coleman, come on! Give me a hand!”

  A late-arriving loggerhead finished her crawl at a desired spot and began flinging sand with flippers.

  “Grab that side,” said Serge.

  “But I thought you told me it was wrong to disturb the turtles, unless we were turning them back around after assholes messed with them.”

  “That’s correct,” said Serge. “I’m in the wrong here. But you’re a witness: I’m not thinking straight. On the other hand, I’m saving her the work of digging, so it’s really a wash. I should be a rationalization coach . . . Ready? Lift! . . .”

  The pair strained and shuffled sideways.

  “This one’s heavier than the others,” said Coleman.

  “Only a few more feet.”

  The captive looked up in terror as a moon shadow fell over his face.

  “Mmm! Mmm!”

  Serge and Coleman stood up and panted.

  “Her back flippers are flapping in the air,” said Coleman.

  “Give it a minute. She’ll soon figure out the digging requirement is complete.”

  “You’re right,” said Coleman. “Here comes the first egg.”

  “They’re in groups called ‘clutches,’ with more than a hundred eggs laid at a time.”

  “Wow,” said Coleman. “That’s amazing.”

  “It’s the wonderment of life on earth. Did you know that the eggs aren’t gender specific? The sex of the hatchlings is determined by the temperature of the sand in the underground nest. Lower, males. Higher, females.”

  “That’s a trip.” Coleman bent down and peeked behind the turtle. “His head’s getting pretty covered up in there.”

  “And he’ll be providing heat, which means more females, which means more eggs in the future,” said Serge. “In an ironic twist, he’s contributing to restocking the population.”

  “You planned that all along, didn’t you?”

  “Looks like she dropped the last egg,” said Serge. “Now she’s using her flippers to cover them up with sand.”

  “Mmm! Mmm!”

  They watched until the turtle finished up at the hole and began her journey back to the shimmering sea.

  Coleman upended his flask. “By the way, what was your bonus round?”

  “The eggs are spherical, so they create a natural honeycomb air pocket, and the sand isn’t packed very tight or deep.” Serge knelt and pulled a bunch of drinking straws from his pocket, jamming them down through the sand into the egg chamber. He blew hard on them to clear the clogs and provide air. “I told him if he kept his cool, the eggs would hatch, and the little turtles would bust through the surface and save his life. He was a major jackass, but I hate to ever write anyone off, and this is the best way to teach him that all us creatures, big and small, are in this thing together.”

  “So how long does it take the eggs to hatch?”

  “Shouldn’t be long, but I haven’t gotten that far in my marine biology book.” He pulled out his smartphone and tapped on the screen. An Internet page came up. “What? Eighty days! Oops! I think I owe someone an apology.”

  Suddenly there was a thrashing in the sea oats, accompanied by a weaving flashlight beam.

  Coleman aimed his flask. “I think one of the others came back.”

  Fifty yards away, an inebriated young man stumbled onto the beach, in limbo between buzz and hangover. Cursing, punching the air. He found a turtle. He got down on his knees.

  Serge smacked himself in the forehead. “I really want to go to bed.”

  The man struggled to rotate the turtle.

  Serge strolled over. “I thought we had a productive talk earlier. Was I stuttering?”

  He looked up. “You again! Get lost!” Then more slow rotating.

  Coleman arrived. “What’s going on?”

  “Another one straying from the herd.”

  “Should I get the shovel?”

  Serge shook his head. “I might be able to reason with him . . . Excuse me? Please stop rotating the turtle.”

  “Bite me.” The turtle continued turning.

  “Want the shovel now?”

  “No, I can’t ever play that contest again,” said Serge. “I didn’t know the eighty-day hatching time with the other guy, so that one’s really not my fault. But now that I’m aware, it would be wrong. You have to have principles.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “As I said before, the punishment has to fit the offense. He’s just being a dic
k, so if I overreact, that would be wrong, too. He has to become a bigger dick.”

  The young man was losing patience and strength with his task. “Fucking turtle!” He pounded the top of the shell with his fist.

  “Getting warmer . . .” said Serge.

  His fist became sore, and he picked up his baton flashlight, trying to bash the shell open. An errant swing broke a chip off the edge.

  “Ding, ding, ding!” said Serge. “We have a winner! . . .”

  . . . A half hour later, Serge and Coleman sat cross-legged under the edge of the sea oats. They watched calm waves roll in, creating a foamy shoreline in the moonlight. The waves had a rhythmic, tranquilizing sound that relieves stress and can be purchased in an electronic box from the Sharper Image for $199.

  “The key to life is all about relaxation,” said Serge.

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Coleman gestured ahead. “That guy’s way too tense.”

  “Aaaaauuuu! . . .”

  “He’s fixating,” said Serge. “I can always spot the type.”

  “You even explained the extra-easy bonus round,” said Coleman. “Because of all the rope.”

  “And the kind of duct tape I used will eventually come loose in water.” Serge nodded happily. “I’ve never done a double-header contest before, and this half is even better! If all goes according to plan, and he happens to win, he’ll be a celebrated pioneer like an astronaut, able to report key turtle data to advance their preservation. I’m actually envious of him now.”

  The pair lay back on the sandy incline and interlaced fingers behind their heads.

  “What a pretty night.”

  “You said it.”

  Two giant sea turtles that had just deposited eggs were halfway back to the ocean. The crawl was slower this time. Heavily duct-taped to their backs: knotted ends of thick rope. The ropes trailed behind them some distance and were tied respectively to each ankle of a turtle menace. His hands remained free, but the ankle knots and his inebriation posed a problem.

  “He keeps trying to sit up and reach his feet, then falling back down.”

  “People need to go with the flow,” said Serge. “I told him to enjoy the nice nature ride down the beach that few will ever experience, but he has too much negative energy.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid of the water?”

  “Why? I made sure the ropes were long enough so that even if the turtles dive under, he can still paddle on the surface and become famous as history’s first human tracking buoy.”

  The turtles reached the waves and began swimming.

  “What if the turtles swim in opposite directions?”

  “Hmm.” Serge pinched his lip. “Maybe I should have told him to do stretching exercises first.”

  The captive’s toes hit the water.

  “Aaaaaauuuuu! . . .”

  The turtles swam farther, and the man began to paddle.

  “I told him it would work,” said Serge.

  “He’s really being pulled out fast,” said Coleman. “I always thought turtles were slow.”

  “Don’t judge by their speed on land,” said Serge. “Now the screams are heading north. I would have sworn they’d swim south. The contributions to science on this guy.”

  “He just went under,” said Coleman. “Now he’s up again screaming. Now he’s under . . .”

  They waited in silence.

  Serge finally stood. “They dive deeper than anyone thought. Another research breakthrough.”

  Coleman joined him on the walk back to the car. “Two sea turtles dragging some guy across the beach and out to sea. How cool is that?”

  “It’s the beauty of creation,” said Serge. “Keep watching nature, and you’ll always see something new.”

  Chapter 16

  1989

  Typewriter keys sat silent.

  “I’m all out of gas,” said Kenny. “I don’t know what to write next.”

  Darby reclined in his lounger and stared up at the open rafters holding his retired surfboards. “This town’s always had a crusty history. I remember when Burt Reynolds’s dad was chief of police. A tough guy’s tough guy. Single-handedly disarmed two dudes waving knives in this dive on Blue Heron and snapped the blades off in the top of the bar.”

  “You want me to write about Burt’s dad?”

  “Just tuck it in for historic atmosphere. What I’m trying to say is there’s always something funky going on in this town. Like turtle eggs.”

  “Eggs?”

  “You need to tap into all the invisible worlds surrounding us every day that most people never imagine,” said Darby. “Riviera Beach has these subcultures believing the eggs of endangered sea turtles have mystical powers. There’s high demand to use them for religious ceremonies or aphrodisiacs or both, so they fetch ten bucks a dozen, and during nesting season the eggs are poached all up the coast to Juno Beach. For years, the cops had been scratching their heads: Who’s digging up eggs?”

  “That’s terrible,” said Kenny.

  “At least it makes business sense,” said Darby. “Not like drunken jerks who think it’s a hoot to pick the giant turtles up and turn them around so they head the wrong way trying to return to the ocean.”

  “Someone should kill them.”

  “Maybe you can in your next book.” Darby grabbed his cane and strained to stand. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  They pulled into a parking lot with a view of cargo containers and a dry dock.

  Kenny got out and looked up at an industrial crane. “The Port of Palm Beach?”

  “Some of the turtle eggs are smuggled out of here because they’re worth far more in certain Caribbean markets.”

  “That’s not economically logical for a few eggs.”

  “Few? Police caught one raggedy guy who harvested thirteen hundred eggs in a single night. And he was disorganized. You do the math.”

  They began a walking tour of the piers. Darby took a break and waved his cane toward a row of massive petroleum storage tanks. “If you know anything about history, ports are the nexus to the entire culture. And the source of the wildest stories. I used to work here.”

  “I know, arc welding.”

  “Twenty-six years. Didn’t pay the best, but financed a surfing lifestyle,” said Darby. “If you work anywhere that long, you tune into the daily cycles and notice all the little out-of-place stuff others miss. You’ve got a totally overlooked wealth of material out here for your next book.”

  “How so?”

  “When people think of ports in Florida, they picture Miami, Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale, Port Canaveral, Jacksonville.” They reached a boardwalk, and Darby took a careful step onto a board painted caution orange. “Few realize that the tiny town of Riviera Beach is home to one of the biggest ports on the eastern seaboard—and the eighteenth largest cargo destination in the entire country.”

  “You’re kidding.” Kenny looked around to recalibrate his impression: railroad spurs, semi-truck platforms, a busy swarm of forklifts. “I’ve lived here my whole life and just drive by.”

  “That’s because all the other ports are surrounded by metropolitan madness. But what’s around here?”

  “Just a tiny town.” Kenny watched a crane lift a steel container of pre-formed fiberglass motel bathtubs. “And this stretch of U.S. 1 is so empty it’s almost toxic.”

  Darby stopped to rest. “That’s why it’s so attractive to people who are doing everything they shouldn’t be doing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Like I said, you work long enough in a place, you pick up vibes.” His cane navigated another treacherous step near the new cruise-ship terminal with tinted green glass. “I want to introduce you to some people.”

  They arrived in a covered portion of a shipyard. Hard hats, echoes of clanging metal, acetylene torches and showers of sparks.

  “Brady.”

  No answer.

  Darby wrapped his hands around his mouth. “Brady!”

 
A welding helmet looked around. Then a hand in a thick glove raised the visor. “Darby!” The welder turned around: “Hey, everyone! Look who’s here! It’s Darby!”

  All work came to an abrupt halt as a crowd of fireproof aprons circled the former co-worker. Smiles and slaps on his back.

  “How’s it been hangin’? . . .”

  “You still look great . . .”

  “Been meaning to visit . . .”

  “Would have called, but with the kids in school . . .”

  They migrated over to a picnic table next to the Igloo ice-water dispensers.

  “What brings you here?” asked Brady.

  “I want you to meet my friend,” said Darby. “This is Kenny Reese . . . Kenny, the gang.”

  “The famous author?”

  Kenny blushed.

  “Still a little bashful,” said Darby. “He’s started a new book, and it might be about the port . . .”

  The pleasantries petered out as the workers had to get back to their torches. It was down to just Brady, Darby’s closest friend from the old job. The sun began to set, and they grabbed plastic chairs, moving out on the concrete deck overlooking the municipal marina next door.

  “Man, it’s great to see your face,” said Brady, rubbing arthritic knuckles. “Without you around, I’m the last of the old guard, and I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  “So take your pension,” said Darby.

  “And do what?” Brady flicked a wrist at a pleasure craft navigating the channel between Peanut Island. “Go sailing?” He turned to Kenny. “What do you think?”

  “I’m a neutral observer.”

  Darby watched a large yacht with a radar dome swing around in the turning basin. “I was starting to tell Kenny here about the glory days. Remember turtle eggs?”

  “And just when you think you’ve seen everything.” Brady faced Kenny again. “These eggs were headed for Port-au-Prince or some damn place. Customs did a routine sweep, and they were about to let the boat go when they heard this strange racket in some boxes. These were rookie smugglers who didn’t know about refrigeration. The eggs hatched! All hell broke loose, people screaming and diving overboard, knocking over boxes, little turtles flapping around everywhere.”