Coconut Cowboy Read online

  “No problem,” said Jabow. “I’ll get the boys to come out tonight with a can of gasoline.”

  Vernon shook his head. “Already suggested that to Pratchett over the phone. He pointed out some problems. More like shouted them.”

  “So we do nothing?”

  Vernon’s head shook again. “Ryan said we can always put up our own sign.”

  “But theirs will still be up,” said Otis. “It’ll hurt business.”

  They looked down the road at flashing red-­and-­blue lights, where a half-­dozen motorists who had just passed the billboard were pulled over.

  “Maybe not,” said Vernon. “Let’s get back to our rounds.”

  And now they all sat in a spacious marble lobby.

  A page of a newspaper turned. A lone teller sat behind the counter filing her nails.

  The heavy bronze door of the bank opened. The gang looked up. A man in jeans and a plaid shirt. Red stains on his chest and stomach.

  “Steve,” said Vernon. “Barbecue sauce?”

  “Tried it your way. Now back to utensils.”

  Jabow slapped an empty chair. “Join us.”

  “All right.”

  One of their newest neighbors took a seat and set down a knapsack of deceptive weight.

  “Slide it over,” said Vernon.

  Clem grabbed a strap. “Cripes, you got rocks in here?”

  Vernon hoisted it into his lap and removed a zippered deposit bag filled with checks. Then he gazed into the sack bulging with countless packs of American currency. “How much this time?”

  “One-­sixty and change.”

  “This I gotta see,” said Otis, leaning over the bag. He whistled. “There’s really that much in auto brokering?”

  “More than ­people think,” said Steve.

  “How does it work again?” asked Clem.

  “All those fancy new car dealerships will take anything in trade. Then they dazzle the customer: ‘Give you two grand.’ And the customer thinks, ‘For that clunker? Hell, yeah!’ But it’s all built into the inflated price of the new car, and the dealer dumps the old one to an auction house. That’s where I come in.”

  “Sort of like a livestock auction?”

  “Precisely like that,” said Steve. “Except scummier. You should see some of the other guys. And then I ship the junks to a bunch of dubious used car lots in Miami that sell to ­people with no credit.”

  “No credit?” Jabow crunched his eyebrows. “Those are the ­people most likely to lapse on payments. Doesn’t sound like good business.”

  “It’s great business,” said Steve. “The dealers charge down payments that are more than what they gave me, so they’re already ahead. And every payment the customer makes afterward is pure gravy. At that point it’s almost better if they do lapse, because the dealership will repossess and sell it again. Either way, the customers are fleeced.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Clem.

  “The simple math of trickle-­down economics,” said Steve. “It’s expensive to be poor.”

  A round of country chuckles.

  Otis glanced at the bag again. “And that’s from you going to these auctions?”

  “No,” said Steve. “The rule in running your own business is to multiply yourself, whether it’s opening more franchises or, in my case, contracting a bunch of guys to hit other auctions and go through the classifieds in small-­town papers. That’s where the biggest margins are. Especially when the cars aren’t running and we can lowball, then make cheap repairs.” He turned to Vernon. “By the way, thanks for the good word with Shorty and jumping me to the head of the line.”

  “That’s why nobody else around here can get their cars fixed.”

  More mirth.

  “But why so much in cash?”

  “I’m guessing some of these Miami buyers are dealing under the table.”

  “But aren’t you worried carrying all that around?” asked Clem. “I’d use an armored car.”

  “Extra cost,” said Steve. “And creates a big target. This way . . .” He swept a hand down the front of his low-­key attire. “ . . . You’re invisible with a dingy backpack.”

  “Speaking of backpack.” Vernon stood. “Let’s get this put away safe in the vault . . . Glenda?”

  The woman looked up from her nails. She opened an unseen drawer and removed a fancy electronic machine.

  “A currency counter?” asked Steve. “You didn’t have it last time.”

  “Got one just for you,” said Vernon, heaving the bag up onto the ledge in front of the teller. “Always nice to see newcomers invest in the community.”

  They all sat again to chat. Steve stretched and yawned.

  Clem noticed a green cross on the back of his wrist. “Didn’t make you for the tattoo type.”

  “Youthful indiscretion.”

  “I got an anchor from the navy,” said Otis. “But now it’s all wrinkly and purple. Who knew?”

  Glenda came out from behind the counter to hand Steve a receipt.

  He thanked everyone and headed for the door. “Pleasure talkin’ with you.”

  “Until next time.”

  The door closed.

  “Interesting guy,” said Jabow. “You know how we get new city types in town, and we act all friendly to their faces?”

  “But we secretly hate their guts?” said Clem.

  “I kind of like Steve,” said Otis.

  “He’s a sharp one.”

  “Yup.”

  “Mmm-­hmm.”

  Pfffft.

  The back door of the bank opened. Elroy, Slow and Slower loaded the just-­deposited cash into a pickup truck and headed out into the countryside.

  U.S. HIGHWAY 90

  The chopper raced through the towns of Chipley and Marianna. Serge adjusted the microphone on the inside of his helmet. “Coleman, sound check. One, two . . .”

  “Loud and clear,” said Coleman, fidgeting his butt.

  Serge looked over to his right. “How does that sidecar feel?”

  “A little on the tight side.”

  “It’s either that or master the kickstand.”

  “It’s not that tight.” Coleman glanced back at his buddy. “How do you like your paint job?”

  Serge stared down at a teardrop gas tank that now looked like a coconut, which matched the embroidered design on the back of his new black leather jacket. “Time for the opening tunes.”

  “Coming right up.” Coleman pressed a button on an iPod, and harsh guitar chords filled their helmets.

  “Get your motor runnin’ . . .”

  “Steppenwolf rules,” Coleman shouted into his microphone. “I love ‘Born to be Wild’! . . . One question, over.”

  “Roger,” said Serge. “How may I feed your mind?”

  “Why is the coconut on the back of your jacket wearing a cowboy hat?”

  “Because Easy Rider was actually a Western.”

  “Please explain, over.”

  “They begin their journey with magnificent panning shots crossing the American West, while Hopper often refers to Fonda as Wyatt. And they eat lots of grub sitting around campfires. But perhaps the most emblematic moment of the horse-­cum-­motorcycle theme is when they stop at that rancher’s hacienda to work on their bikes, and as Fonda reattaches the rear tire in the open barn, the foreground juxtaposes the rancher hammering a horseshoe on one of his mares.”

  Serge and Coleman crossed a bridge into the eastern time zone in a rhapsodic panning shot of western Florida: the flow of the Apalachicola, goldenrod sunlight flickering through Spanish moss, heron taking flight.

  “Are we really hippies? Over.”

  “The late sixties were my wonder years,” said Serge. “I saw the whole counter-­culture evolve, but I was too young to und
erstand. Like every Saturday my mom would take me shopping at the West Palm Beach mall, and her favorite department store was Jordan Marsh. I still thought she was trying to ditch me . . .”

  “Snow-­cone machine.”

  “ . . . Then one weekend everything changed. We went inside and they’re playing rock music really loud against a total redecoration with posters of the Beatles and Woodstock. And throughout the store—­in a surreal twist from corporate America’s concept of commercializing youth trends—­all these Clockwork Orange cubes of varying height with live go-­go dancers on top. A bunch of teenagers in the store were cackling their heads off while I wandered away from my mom and stared hypnotized up at something on the wall. Turns out my mom wasn’t trying to ditch me after all because she ran over and hustled me out of the store in a panic. At first I thought she freaked because I’d briefly gone missing, but she was actually terrified by the growing drug fringe saturating the news, and found me in the men’s-­wear department mesmerized by a black-­and-­white movie poster of two longhairs on motorcycles. Ever since, I’ve always felt I was born too late and missed out . . . So now we’re heading to a special Florida place where the sixties still thrive.”

  “I can dig it.” Coleman’s helmet bobbed to the music. “We’re going to stand in another field where something cool happened years ago. Or a place where old hippies who are now bums share Ripple.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong,” said Serge. “This is a bona fide, living-­and-­breathing tear in the universe—­unlikely located in one of the most redneck swaths of North Florida—­where a new generation of flower children are vigilantly tending the eternal flame of the sixties.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “We’re heading to it right now.”

  Serge twisted the throttle wide open, and the chopper thundered over the crest of a hill in the waning sky.

  Chapter ELEVEN

  LATER THAT EVENING

  Another small town.

  This one had a modest dusting of snow on the ground.

  Nassau Street was a long road, but the buildings only went a few blocks. Barely any traffic except up at the Wawa convenience store because it was the only place to buy smokes after eleven.

  A few young ­people strolled the sidewalk in orange down vests with cold hands buried deep in pockets, their breath visible under the moonlight. They turned into a warm doorway beneath a sign: THE TIGER TAP. Its hardwood colonial facade made it look more like a Boston tavern than something you’d find in New Jersey. A lighted marquee next to the road said they allowed karaoke on Wednesdays.

  Inside, memorabilia on the walls. A poster of Russell Crowe because A Beautiful Mind was filmed in the town. A framed photo of movie legend Jimmy Stewart, class of ’32, and another of Brooke Shields, a more recent graduate. Variations on the tiger theme: stuffed animals, safari paintings, fake striped rug. And a felt pennant. PRINCETON.

  From the stage, an off-­key sound. “You’ve lost that loving feeling! . . .”

  The young man concluded his performance amid a smattering of sarcastic applause. He returned to a table where two pitchers of Sam Adams were under way. More down vests hung over the backs of chairs. Jeans, polos, L.L.Bean.

  “You might have just mangled that song worse than Top Gun,” said one of the gang.

  Matt didn’t care. He grabbed a pen. The other five around the table had textbooks next to their beers, because Prince­ton didn’t sleep. All working on theses. The more narrow the topic the better.

  Clockwise from the end chair: “Insurance Algorithm for Self-Driving Cars,” “Study of Sexual Differences in Stegosaurus Fossils,” “Long-Range Entanglement of Electron Spin Ensembles,” “The Use of Asymmetrical Tail-Hedging Strategies to Accumulate Wealth,” and something titled “Sympathy for the Lehman Brothers.”

  There are plenty of reasons not to like college kids. Arrogant and entitled, clinging and wormy, the ones who drive nicer cars than their professors. But these guys were cool. Not the classic cool, like big men on campus. The easy-­on-­your-­nerves cool. It was that Goldilocks just-­right mixture of deference, confidence and long hours in the library. Matt in particular was the average of averages. Healthy weight, five-­nine, short black hair, the ultimate everyman face. Matt was just athletic enough to play intramurals, but not more. Just handsome enough to have gone to his prom, but not more. Just likable enough to be likable. The only distinguishing feature was his smile. Not because it would land a toothpaste ad—­just an infectious, happy-­go-­lucky expression that was devoid of guile. He wasn’t old enough yet for life to have steam-­rolled over him. But Matt’s most endearing trait of all: He was constantly eager to learn from his elders.

  Someone finished jotting notes and looked up from his laptop. “Still stuck on your thesis?”

  “Not anymore.” Matt smiled and set a plane ticket on the table.

  “What?” A laugh. “You’re going to take a vacation in Florida instead of writing a paper?”

  “Florida is my thesis,” said Matt.

  “I thought it was the American Dream. Or rather its decline.”

  “That’s right,” said Matt. “Remember how you all told me it was too broad a topic?”

  “It is fairly encompassing.”

  “I got the idea watching CNN last night.” Matt turned his tablet’s screen to face the others.

  “Is that an elephant in the ocean?”

  “And notice how all the ­people on that busy beach are strolling along like nothing’s out of place,” said Matt. “Some woman rented the animal for her kid’s birthday party. The elephant needed cool-­down breaks in the water.”

  “What’s that got to do with your thesis?”

  “Haven’t you guys noticed the avalanche of weird news coming out of that state?” asked Matt.

  “Sure.” “All the time.” “They shoot each other over texting in theaters.”

  “And someone else pistol-­whipped a Dunkin’ Donuts clerk for getting his coffee order wrong.” Matt called up another item on his tablet. “The legislature also had to pass a law against using food stamps in strip clubs.”

  “Very amusing,” said the student delving into fossil sex. “But again, the thesis?”

  “There’s no arguing with all the empirical data that proves the American Dream of our grandparents is a memory,” said Matt. “Changing corporate cultures, merging conglomerates, corrupt campaign finance laws, and tilted tax codes have all opened a chasm between the classes. Fifty years ago, everyone was the product of post–World War Two teamwork, and companies honored the unwritten contract of mutual loyalty. If citizens worked hard and respected their employers, that respect would be returned in kind. But today, shareholders reign supreme, and too many companies are increasingly viewing workers at best as adversaries, and at worst as prey. A wholesale shaving of compensation, benefits and job security to please Wall Street. That kind of trend can’t continue, so where are we heading?”

  The other five shook their heads.

  “Florida,” said Matt. “It’s already the nation’s pace car of dysfunction. ­People laugh and think it’s just chaos, but my thesis will postulate that all this bizarre behavior is the spear tip of coming effects from the national sea change. You wouldn’t believe all the news stories I turned up about ­people throwing feces down there.”

  “But that’s just crazy ­people acting crazy,” said the Lehman Brothers advocate. “They’re not holding signs demanding better pay or tax reform.”

  “Who’s to say that the coming crash will look rational?” said Matt. “I believe Florida has become the classic canary in a coal mine. It just might be showing us the first signs of a new dissociative syndrome.”

  “Have to admit you’ve sufficiently narrowed the topic,” said the self-­driving car expert. “Excrement trajectories of the disintegrating social contract.”

  “I’m
leaving tomorrow.” Matt grabbed the plane ticket.

  “And go where?”

  Matt turned his iPad around again. “Found this great website.”

  They leaned closer. “Looks like some kind of kooky travel tour.”

  “I think it’s supposed to look that way,” said Matt. “But once you really unpack the site, it’s crammed full of academic data and cultural treatises that most tenured professors would envy. I believe he’s deliberately appearing wacky in order to make dry history lessons more entertaining and digestible, like a movie where Robin Williams plays an unconventional teacher at odds with the administration but who connects with his students through madcap antics and clown noses.”

  “Do we need to cut you off from the beer?”

  “No, really,” said Matt. “This guy must be one of the leading experts on Florida because only a bone-­deep knowledge could have produced this website.”

  “Or he could be just another nut job down there. You have no proof he’s a real professor.”

  “Has to be,” said Matt, pulling up a photo on his tablet. “Here he is with an automatic pistol, planting a flag in Louisiana to reclaim the Republic of West Florida.”

  “Nothing weird there.”

  “It’s his teaching technique to champion heritage studies,” said Matt. “Otherwise it would be unhinged behavior. If anyone can help me with my thesis, it’s him.”

  “So you’ve gotten in touch and set up an interview?”

  Matt shook his head. “No e-­mail or any other contact info on the site.”

  “Then you’re just going to roam around the third biggest state in the country and hope to randomly bump into him?”

  Matt tapped some more on his tablet. “I think I’m getting into the rhythm of the lessons. His current academic project is a road trip through small towns to quantify the American Dream—­which is how I first found him in the search engines. I’ll just have to pick up his trail and anticipate the next stop.”

  MIDNIGHT

  The proverbial sidewalks had been rolled up. Founders’ Day banners fluttered lazily in the dark. A light breeze through the trees. Eerily quiet. The only traffic signal blinked yellow.