The Pope of Palm Beach Read online

  “Same old. How’s the family, Frank?”

  “Can’t complain. By the way, thanks for coming to talk to my kid’s class. You made my son a hero . . .”

  Beach Court was a block over from the shore and the shops. It had its own short row of buildings—the south end anchored by the uncommonly tall Sands Hotel, formerly the Beaumont, before they added the fourth story. It was the singular 1940s holdover that clashed with all the new low-slung, ranch-style roadside motels popping up along A1A and U.S. 1 with the now-required swimming pools that every station wagon full of tykes demanded.

  Attached to the hotel was a series of connected single-floor businesses, some retail, some office, always changing depending on the leaseholder. Like the people inside the address at 2441.

  The enterprise had started in the fifties as a fancy international magazine headquartered in Manhattan. That changed in the 1960s. Whether it was the rent or a need for new scenery, they decided to up and move to Florida because—hey, they were a magazine, they could plant their stakes anywhere—and of all places they ended up here.

  Inside, keys pounded a manual Underwood typewriter. Even though it was the holiday weekend, there was always a deadline. A young editor yanked a page from the roller and fed another. The editor was starting at the bottom but had ambition. He would reach fame in twenty years, but right now it was just another Sunday, and he had the office to himself. The perfect time to finish polishing one of his first short stories and see his own name in print between the magazine’s covers.

  He took a break to fetch notes from his car. A Dodge Dart spotted him and rolled into the parking lot.

  “Charles!” yelled the Pope, a ruddy arm hanging out the driver’s window to shake hands.

  “Hey, Darby.”

  “What are you doing here today?”

  “Writing. It’s quiet,” said the editor. “I’d ask what you’re doing, but I already know.”

  Darby got out, and they shook hands again, redundantly. The Pope knew everyone in town. Made it a point.

  Everyone.

  “Oh, I got that book you wanted.” The editor quickly ran inside and returned with the title.

  “Thanks. I’ll get it back to you.”

  “No rush. But I know it’ll only be a couple days. You read like crazy.”

  “You mean for a surfer?”

  “You know what I mean. Still welding at the port?”

  “Going on fifteen years. Hard habit.”

  The two friends stopped and stared east at the water a block away.

  “Charles, how come you never go to the beach?”

  “I have to write . . .”

  . . . A block east on the public beach, a skinny little boy lay on his stomach in the sand, digging industriously. He was bent over at the waist ninety degrees, and the top half of his body hung straight down into the hole. Handfuls of sand flew into the air and onto his mother’s legs.

  She lowered her copy of Look magazine. “Serge! What on earth are you doing?”

  “Digging.” Serge pulled himself up out of the hole and stared at the ocean again, gauging the incline to the shore. Then back down he went, clawing some more until he hit the water table, and it filled the bottom of his tiny pit. Theory confirmed. Check that off the list. He picked up a sand flea and examined it with his magnifying glass, counting legs.

  A short distance up the beach, a plumper child about the same age ran in giddy circles until he got dizzy and fell facedown. He would eventually pick up the nickname “Coleman,” for which he’d ever be known, but right now his parents still called him Seymour.

  “Seymour, what are you doing?” asked his mother.

  Seymour stood and took off along the shoreline. Some stuff had washed up on the beach. They looked like funny little balloons. Clear and thin with a tint of blue. Seymour gleefully giggled as he ran around popping them all with his bare feet . . .

  . . . Little Serge looked up from his magnifying glass when the lifeguard blew his whistle three long times.

  “Mommy, why is that boy screaming like that?”

  “Blessed Mary!” She sat up. “Why is he screaming like that? It’s like he’s being murdered!”

  Up the beach, lifeguards from three different stands converged on the hysterical crying from a child who had just stomped on a whole school of man o’ wars. Seymour had complicated matters by flopping around and rolling in the stinging tentacles.

  “Somebody grab him!”

  “I’m trying to, but he’s got them all over.”

  “Be an adult!”

  “Shit. Ouch.” The lifeguard grabbed a nearby beach blanket for insulation.

  “Hey!” yelled a sixty-eight-year-old retiree from Utica. “I was lying on that!”

  “Sorry, emergency,” said the lifeguard. “City will reimburse.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Portuguese man o’ war.”

  “The Portuguese? Jesus!”

  The rescuers eventually applied soothing first-aid balms, and Seymour’s cries dissipated into sobs.

  One of the lifeguards capped a tube of ointment and turned to a colleague. “Put up the jellyfish warning signs.”

  “Man o’ wars technically aren’t jellyfish, but colonies of zooids.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Just put up the signs already!”

  A shrug. A stick was hammered into the sand.

  Tranquillity returned.

  Back up the shoreline, Little Serge sat on the front of a beach blanket, eating Cheetos and examining his orange fingerprints with the magnifying glass. He looked at the water’s edge and noticed something. He put the glass down and reached into his mother’s beach bag, pulling out a children’s book of sea creatures. It had big pictures and few words. He flipped pages—hermit crabs, mollusks, fire coral—until he finally came to a picture he remembered. He looked up again at the shore and nodded to himself. He put the book away.

  Little Serge walked down to the surf and got on his knees. The magnifying glass scanned over his find. From his children’s book, he knew not to touch. He found a washed-up stick and slid it under the discovery.

  “Mom!” he yelled, running back to his family’s blankets and umbrella.

  She lowered her magazine. “Serge, what do you have dangling from that stick?”

  “It’s a Portuguese man o’ war . . . Oops.”

  It fell off the stick and onto her feet. Her head snapped up straight with wide eyes.

  Chapter 2

  The Present

  The noon sun hung high and unfettered over the Florida Keys. Two navy jets out of the air station on Boca Chica roared low over the Gulf Stream. Fly fishermen silently cast lures on the backwood flats. A seafoam-green 1969 Chevy Nova raced east.

  The Overseas Highway was a straight, two-lane shot through the Saddlebunch Keys. A thin ribbon of land surrounded by a canvas of emerald and turquoise water, so shallow and intoxicating in spots that it made travelers want to stop and walk out there, but they kept going.

  Screech . . .

  . . . Serge and Coleman stood thigh-deep far out in the water, nothing around, looking back at their tiny Chevy coupe parked on the side of the highway. The body of water was ringed by mangroves and dotted with little saplings reaching up for life.

  Serge wore a tarpon hat and nodded from behind polarized sunglasses. “Dig it.”

  Coleman raised a can of beer. “Whatever happened to your literary tour of Florida?”

  “This is it.” Serge studied a motionless great blue heron, which in turn studied the shallows before firing its long, sharp beak down into the water like a spear and coming up with a fish.

  Coleman stuck the empty can in a fanny pack and pulled out another. “What’s this got to do with books?”

  “Florida is all about water, and the authors knew this. Think about it: River of Grass, Cross Creek, Islands in the Stream—the last actually refers to the Bahamas, but the titular Gulf Stream is right over there.”

  “He
re’s what I know.” Burp. “Your reading tour blows serious chunks.”

  “Coming from you, that means it’s the perfect tour,” said Serge. “The Keys have ignited several literary flash points over the years, and all the greats saw this water. That’s why the tour started in Key West, with perfunctory stops for Hemingway and Tennessee Williams. But that’s low-hanging fruit I’ve seen a million times, which is why we just sped by taking photos. So now we’re drilling deeper into the 1970s movement of Harrison, McGuane, Thompson, and artists in different media like the painter Chatham, not to mention Jimmy Buffett, the fierce workaholic who marketed his unemployed-beach-bum persona into the economic might of a small nation. And it all started right around here, where he and the others reverently fished off skiffs as if this were a cathedral.”

  “Even more boring . . .”

  “It will become exceptionally nonboring this afternoon. An unavoidable errand to correct a moral misunderstanding.” Serge sighed. “Another working vacation.”

  “Let’s jump to that part now.”

  “Coleman, can’t you just stand still in a location of visual bliss and drink in the serenity? Please, join me.” Serge clasped his hands in front of his stomach and stared across the rippling water. “That’s enough serenity.” He took off running and splashing.

  “Wait for me!”

  The green Nova cruised onto Sugarloaf Key and made a right turn near Mile Marker 17. Serge placed a hand on his buddy’s shoulder. “Lucky for you, this next literary stop comes with a theme park ride to penetrate the marijuana tar pit of your brainpan.”

  “Really? What kind of ride?”

  “A natural one, so it’s also free.”

  The Chevy reached the southern end of the island, where Sugarloaf Boulevard meets old State Road 4A. To the left, a permanent barricade blocking off an abandoned stretch of the road.

  Coleman gestured with the last beer in the six-pack. “What’s the deal with all the no-parking signs? There’s like a hundred of ’em with nothing else around.”

  “That had me curious, too,” said Serge, parking a quarter mile away with an inexplicable number of other vehicles in the middle of the boondocks. “The first time I came here, I was the only person seeking it out for my own particular reasons. Little did I know that many young locals regularly visit the same location with completely different intentions.”

  They walked back to the corner and climbed around the barricade. Coleman stumbled and caught his balance. “So we’re trespassing?”

  “One would think, but no,” said Serge. “The barricade is to stop vehicle traffic, but it’s still a public road as far as pedestrians go. And believe it or not, this used to be U.S. 1 until they relocated the section a couple miles north.”

  They hiked down the lonely, bright gravel road. Silence except for rocks under their shoes. The air was still from overhanging branches blocking the sea breeze. Coleman wiped his forehead. “It’s damn hot.”

  Serge pulled down the flap of his tarpon hat to cover his neck. “There’s a great place to cool off up ahead.”

  “But you still haven’t explained any of this, and my eyes are stinging.”

  Serge swept a hand to the left. “Decades ago, people in boats on Upper Sugarloaf Sound were forced to navigate all the way around the island to get to the ocean, so they quarried a channel through the limestone to save time. And up ahead is the bridge over it.”

  “I’m starting to hear something,” said Coleman. “Voices.”

  “The locals,” said Serge. “The pass under the bridge has these flat limestone shelves along the edge of the water, creating the perfect spot to sun yourself, picnic, party or just hang out. And since there are no homes around, and the road is closed, it’s the perfect out-of-the-way place not to be hassled. The police know all about this and look the other way because it lets the kids blow off steam away from the rich residents and free-spending tourists.”

  Voices grew louder. The western end of the small span came into view.

  “Does this place have a name?” asked Coleman.

  Serge pointed at a sign.

  Coleman read it: “No jumping from bridge.”

  “So the locals call it the Jumping Bridge.”

  Up ahead, two teens climbed onto the concrete railing.

  Down below: “Jump! Jump! Jump! . . .”

  They jumped, knifing into the deep, cool water with a pair of splashes. Heads bobbed to the surface. “Did you get it?”

  Someone on a limestone shelf raised a cell phone and nodded.

  The next youth approached the railing. “Jump! Jump! Jump! . . .” Splash. And so on.

  “This place totally rocks!” said Coleman.

  “I knew you’d come around.”

  “Absolutely!” He stuck his head inside his T-shirt to light a joint. “No cops to mess with you for weed!”

  “Coleman, there’s more to it.” Serge spun around. “All the nature . . .”

  “Jump! Jump! Jump! . . .”

  Coleman took a long hit. “And you just tripped over this place?”

  “Jump! Jump! Jump! . . .”

  “A coincidence of the cosmos,” said Serge. “I had no idea any of this was going on out here. My whole reason for seeking this spot—”

  “Will you jump already! . . .”

  Serge and Coleman stopped talking. They realized they had reached the crest of the bridge. A line of kids waited impatiently behind them.

  “Serge, I think they’re yelling at us.” Toke, toke, toke. “They want us to jump.”

  Serge leaned over the railing and stuck two fingers in his mouth for a shrill whistle. “Everyone, listen up! May I have your attention!” He spread his arms down toward the crowds on the limestone lounge areas. “The celebrated jumping will soon resume, but first, some news that’s sure to jazz up your day! In 1973, a young author named Thomas McGuane published a groundbreaking novel and one of the finest books ever on the Florida Keys called 92 in the Shade. He knew all about this place you have here long before it was a thing. And when they made the movie in 1975, he had them shoot a crucial scene here where Peter Fonda, playing the lead role of Thomas Skelton, and Margot Kidder, as Miranda, catch fish off this bridge. Isn’t that swell?”

  “Boring! . . . Jump! Jump! Jump! . . .”

  “Hey, you idiots!” yelled Coleman, joint clenched in his teeth. “You need to listen to this man! He’s like really smart and shit like that! . . . Whoa! Aaauuu! . . .”

  Serge lunged to snatch the back of Coleman’s shirt but just came up with a handful of air. His friend was already over the side.

  Coleman executed one of those dives that gets a zero from the judges, like someone accidentally falling backward out a window. All arms and legs flailing before a belly flop.

  He popped to the surface with the buoyancy of beer fat. “I’m good.” Then dog-paddled to a limestone shelf, where teens hoisted him out of the water.

  “Dude, that was insane! Have a beer!”

  “Thanks,” said Coleman.

  “Man, I’ve never seen a belly that red! Have another beer!”

  “Righteous.”

  Someone held up a cell phone. “You’re already on the Internet! You’re getting hits! Have a joint . . .”

  Serge scrambled down the embankment. “Good Lord! Are you okay?”

  “I never want to leave this place!”

  “Unfortunately we have that other thing I need to tend to.”

  “Let him stay! . . .” “Let him jump again! . . .”

  “Guys, he’s in jumping retirement,” said Serge. “Reflect fondly on all he’s given you.”

  Coleman drained the longneck Bud in his left hand, then the one in his right. “I’m jumping again!”

  “Hooray!”

  Everyone else was able to walk up the embankment, but Coleman needed the help of his hands and knees.

  “Jump! Jump! Jump! . . .”

  Coleman stuck an index finger in the air to gauge the wind. “A cannonball!
” He climbed up on the railing but tripped, and it was another deranged cartwheel before an even worse belly flop.

  They pulled him out. “Here are your beers.”

  “Right!” Guzzle, guzzle, guzzle. “Jumping again!”

  “You da man! . . .”

  Dive after dive. Bigger splashes, larger red marks covering his body, until finally . . . well, let’s put it this way: If you’re a fan of classic rock, imagine Joe Cocker in the Olympics going off the ten-meter platform.

  “Coleman! Coleman! Can you hear me?”

  “Is that you, Serge? What happened?”

  “Professional exhaustion. We have to get you back to the car.” He grabbed his pal under the pits. “Hey, kids, can you give me a hand with your hero?”

  September 7, 1965

  Three rounded metal cups spun like a propeller above a roof on Ocean Avenue. The beach was empty and so were all the spaces at the parking meters. The sky churned purple-gray.

  A steel pole stood out on the sand. The storm-advisory pole. Today it flew two flags. Both red squares with smaller black squares in the middle.

  Hurricane warning.

  A lone city truck with a revolving amber light rolled slowly down the street. A worker got out and took down the flags before they ripped apart.

  Everyone had been so busy with Labor Day that they never saw it coming. And why would they? Because nobody had ever seen a storm-tracking chart like this one.

  Hurricane Betsy had indeed been chugging straight out to sea in a steady northeast direction until the storm was so far away that it was but a memory. Then, of all things, it simply stopped. Didn’t even make a U-turn, just went in reverse, backtracking its course and taking dead aim at South Florida.

  Crazy time.

  All Floridians knew the drill. Batteries, water, food, candles, radios, plywood. But there had always been a few days’ notice instead of a few hours. Store shelves emptied in a frenzy. Some of the plywood went up, but the rest—to hell with it. Stuff was already going airborne. An empty inflatable backyard pool took to the sky like a flying saucer. Anything else left outside was written off. Time to shelter in place and roll the dice.