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“Anytime.”

  As he limped back toward the car, Darby vowed never to return to the Pump House, and he never would.

  Chapter 10

  The Present

  The Nova stopped to let a snake cross the road. Coleman unscrewed a flask. “I remember this state park now. We were always taking field trips here as a kid.”

  “Everyone took field trips to Jonathan Dickinson,” said Serge, slowing the Nova at the train tracks. “Named after some dude who shipwrecked nearby in 1696. Normally being immortalized by a park is great tidings, but if Johnny were here today, I’m sure he’d say, ‘What is this bullshit? All the positive things I did in life, but no, I get in one little shipwreck.’”

  “I remember the swimming area down by the docks where they made all us kids go in,” said Coleman. “And there were alligators!”

  “Of course there were alligators. It’s a brackish stretch of a Florida river!” Serge parked near the picnic pavilions. “I remember looking at my parents: ‘What? Get in that water? And you were giving me static about Space Mountain?’”

  Serge led the way down toward the shore. “Right on time. Here she comes now.”

  A covered pontoon boat pulled up to the pier. Departing sightseers got out and Serge and Coleman got on.

  Soon they were quietly sailing up the remote, tea-colored Loxahatchee with all kinds of lush vegetation thriving from the banks. Three turtles perfectly lined up to sun themselves on an exposed log. An osprey circled before landing in a nest with a mullet.

  “Off to your left is a manatee,” the captain said in his tour-guide microphone. The boat listed to port as the tourists stampeded over.

  A woman shaped like a yam and wearing a too-tight Bon Jovi shirt raised her hand. “We live in Crystal River and we have lots of manatees.”

  “That’s nice,” said the captain, thinking, We’re out in undiluted nature and it’s still all about you. Coleman wasn’t thinking anything, clandestinely hanging over the starboard side to suck down half a flask of $1.99 vodka with a red-eyed scorpion on the label.

  “And if you look to your right,” said the captain as he pulled back on the throttle, “there’s an alligator up in those mangrove roots.”

  The boat tilted the other way. Cell phones snapped photos. Serge and Coleman glanced at each other and shrugged.

  After that, all the tourists were silent, transfixed by the water as the boat slowly pushed on. Bend after ever-narrowing bend, deeper into the jungle and a primordial sensation that nature was in total control.

  Out of the quiet came a prolonged, reverberating croaking noise.

  “Is that some kind of giant poisonous swamp frog?” asked a woman from Bismarck.

  “No,” said Serge. “A liquid lunch.”

  Coleman patted his stomach and covered his mouth. “Sorry.”

  The pontoons split the water as salinity fell and gator population rose.

  Coleman leaned sideways to pull a wedgie out of his underwear. “This reminds me of Apocalypse Now.”

  “Good analogy,” said Serge. “Based on Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. ‘The river wound through the park like a main circuit cable that plugged me straight into Trapper.’”

  “Trapper!” said Coleman. “Man, when I was in school, all the kids whispered about that crazy hermit who lived way upriver, and we were all scared shitless. But I don’t think anyone actually ever saw him.”

  “I did,” said Serge.

  “What? Really?”

  Serge nodded. “I stole a canoe when I was too young to get a penalty, because I wanted to meet him and see what the fuss was about.”

  “Jesus! What happened?”

  “He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t afraid. Then the people in charge of the park retrieved me because I was a missing kid. But first they had to catch me.”

  “Space Mountain.”

  “Trapper was better at it than my parents.”

  “Trapper trapped you?”

  “Poetic, isn’t it?”

  Coleman examined his fingernails and decided that their whole concept was freaky. “By the way, whatever happened to that literature-tour-of-Florida thing you were doing?”

  “We’re on it right now.”

  “We are?”

  “Trapper.”

  “Nelson again?” said Coleman. “But he didn’t write.”

  “No, but one of my all-time favorite Florida authors penned an excellent novel about him.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Guy named Reese,” said Serge. “Published three of the state’s finest books in the 1980s. He followed up his fictional account of Trapper with a pair of similar books on the Bahamian Conchs who founded my hometown, and a murder mystery set amid the east coast beach culture. Then inexplicably he just stopped. Nothing. Crickets. When the Internet came along, I figured there had to be some bread crumbs, but zero again, like he vanished off the face of the planet.”

  “Probably killed by a moose,” said Coleman. “That’s my bet. It could really happen, too, you know, if you made a false move on the moose. Man, am I high! He must have made a false move. But how can a move be false? It’s still a move. ‘Moose’ is another one of those words when you’re stoned. Moose, moose, moooooose.”

  “You’re starting to fuck this up again. Remember our long talk?”

  “No, really.” Coleman flapped hands erratically inches from Serge’s nose. “How can you tell me that’s false?” He took a swig from the flask and tapped the side of his head. “I’m always thinking.” Burp. “Moose.”

  Serge hung his face in his hands.

  The pontoon boat navigated a final bend and reached a lonely location so far upriver it became a creek filled with clumps of brush that prevented further passage. On the left bank, thin, cut-down trees stood upright in the muck to support the rusty metal roof of a primitive dock. The dock itself was nearly submerged at high tide. The boat nosed up and the passengers climbed out.

  A park ranger narrated as he led the herd in hiking shorts and straw hats and sneakers, first to the empty cages of the defunct personal zoo: rickety, nailed-together pieces of hewn wood gathered from the land and enclosed across the front with scraps of chain link. A few of the cages still had hand-printed signs for raccoons, wildcats, and alligators.

  “Hang back,” Serge told Coleman, tucking a coffee thermos under his arm and aiming a camera. Click, click, click. “I love people, but I hate tour groups. The guide will be trying to explain priceless history, and there’s always one or two who keep raising their hands to volunteer how it relates to their lives. Ruins the experience for everyone. ‘We had our own hermit back in Wichita, except he lived in an apartment. And he wasn’t technically a hermit, just dirty.’ Or worse, they try to top the tour guide: ‘Did you know I can bench-press three hundred?’”

  “Like the manatee woman back on the boat,” said Coleman. “Screw that noise.”

  “Amen.” Serge rotated in place. Click, click, click. He lowered his camera. “This place relates to my life. That thatched hut and lean-to are just like I remember when I took my canoe trip. But I really remember the spanking later. Isn’t it weird how the most vivid childhood memories are when the adults got excited over nothing?”

  “I remember all my spankings,” said Coleman.

  “Me too,” said Serge. “Like when my dad had to mow the lawn and went in the carport. Then he calls my mom out. ‘What is it, dear?’ ‘Look! Someone stole the lawn-mower engine!’ ‘That’s odd. Why didn’t they just steal the whole thing?’ ‘I can’t figure it out.’ And they’re still staring down at the empty chassis when a roar comes up the street, and I go zipping by in my new homemade go-kart. That was my go-kart spanking.”

  “I remember one,” said Coleman. “I didn’t really get spanked, but there was definitely a lot of excitement. It was when I was really little and got abducted.”

  “Stop right there!” said Serge. “Good God, you never told me you were abducted.”

  “I was so
young, what did I know?” said Coleman. “The only reason I remember now is because I was playing in the kitchen while my mom was making dinner, and I mentioned something about a playground, and she asks, ‘What playground?’ And I say the one that the nice man gave me a ride to. She grabs me hard by the shoulders: ‘What nice man?’ I say, ‘The one who pulled up in his car when I was playing in the yard and opened the door and told me to get in, so I did. And then later he dropped me back off at the house and left.’”

  “Jesus!” said Serge. “Anything could have happened to you!”

  “That’s what my mom said. More like yelled. She completely lost her shit and called the police, and then there were a bunch of cops in our living room, and they’re all asking me to describe the man and anything that might have happened. And then my dad comes in the front door, and I point and say, ‘There he is now.’ My mom says, ‘No, that’s your father.’ I said, ‘Right, that’s the nice man who told me to get in the car and took me to the playground.’ Now she’s shaking the daylights out of me. ‘You scared us half to death! Why on earth did you say a nice man took you to the playground?’ I said, ‘What? You mean Dad isn’t a nice man?’”

  Serge just stared with an open mouth.

  “Excuse me?” the ranger called out. “Could you catch up with the group?”

  “Better get moving,” said Serge. “This is a mandatory tour because they don’t want anyone stealing souvenirs.”

  “Everything you see here was made by hand,” said the ranger. “Trapper cleared the land by cutting down all these trees by himself with an ax. The slash pines have a large natural amount of turpentine, making them rot-free and bug-resistant. He used the logs to construct those two cabins and the other structures so sturdy that they’ve weathered countless hurricanes—”

  “Bang!” yelled Serge, collapsing to the ground and lying still with his eyes closed.

  Everyone ran over. Serge remained motionless.

  “Did he have a heart attack?”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Make room!” said the ranger.

  Serge hopped back up with an irrepressible grin. “That was just a re-enactment. This relates to my life. Did Trapper kill himself? Or was it murder? You make the call!”

  The ranger glared.

  “What?” said Serge. He picked his thermos up off the ground. “Time for coffee! I was saving it for The Special Place!” Brown fluid tricked down his chest as he chugged.

  The ranger just shook his head and led the gang into one of the cabins, stopping at a fireplace. “In April of 1984 some rangers were restoring these grounds and found a loose brick in this chimney that they were going to mortar back in position. Except the brick was loose on purpose. It was Trapper’s hiding place, where they learned that the legend of his secret treasure was true. Almost two thousand dollars in old coins were discovered and are now housed in a museum in Tallahassee.”

  Serge bounced on the balls of his feet. “Ooo! Ooo! Pick me! Pick me!”

  The ranger sighed. “Yes, you in back.”

  “I’ve been to Tallahassee! A lot of those coins are more than a hundred years old with rare dates and mint marks, pushing their true value into six figures. And when the park announced the discovery three decades ago, they put out a press release saying that Trapper’s homestead was thoroughly searched and no more treasure turned up. You had to say that whether you were thorough or not because waves of treasure hunters would come out and dig up the place until it looked like a bombing range. Were you really thorough or just farting around? This relates to my life because I used to collect pennies. I can bench-press three hundred.”

  A pregnant pause. “We were thorough . . . Now, if all of you will follow me to the next building . . .”

  Tourists dutifully filed out the door.

  “Coleman, come here!”

  “What?”

  “Give me a hand with this brick. I think it’s loose.”

  The ranger stuck his head back in the cabin. “What are you doing?”

  Serge spun around. “Nuthin’.”

  “Please keep up with the group.”

  The tourists left the last building and reassembled in front of the pens. The ranger placed his hand on the chain link. “And this is where Trapper kept the menagerie that he caught himself. Before his health declined and he became paranoid, tour boats often came here for picnic breaks, and Trapper charged a small admission to see his tiny zoo. He also entertained the northerners by wrestling alligators—”

  “Serge, stop! You’re hurting me!”

  “Hold still! I have to get my chin over the top of your head so I can stick my arms out.”

  The ranger stood at a loss. “What are you doing?”

  Coleman was on his stomach with Serge straddling his back. “Just alligator wrestling.”

  “We don’t actually have a rule,” said the ranger, “because nobody remotely envisioned the need. But please, no alligator wrestling with other people in the tour group.”

  “That kind of destroys the mood, don’t you think?”

  The ride back in the pontoon boat was universally quiet.

  “I don’t think he likes you,” whispered Coleman.

  “This is embarrassing,” said Serge. “Assigned mandatory seats next to the ranger so he can watch us. Is this what nature trips have come to?”

  The Nova pulled away from Jonathan Dickinson after its occupants were firmly requested to visit other parks.

  “What do we do now?” asked Coleman.

  “Visit other parks.”

  It was a brief drive to the sea spray of the blowing rocks at Hobe Sound. Serge leaped out of the car. “Let’s go watch the turtles!”

  They traversed the boardwalk over beach vegetation and hit pristine sands.

  “I don’t see any turtles,” said Coleman.

  “We have to wait until dark.” Serge plopped down on the shore. “Turtles are the best!”

  Chapter 11

  1984

  Florida grapefruit!

  Indian River grapefruit, to be exact. No other way to start the day.

  That had been Darby’s thinking since the early fifties. He always hurled himself into each new morning. Up before dawn to watch the sky unfold. Then newspaper and grapefruit. Later would come eggs and toast and the morning TV news with the fishing report.

  But first the grapefruit. And not poured from some container, but just off the tree, sliced in half. They delivered Indian River grapefruit to the long packing house with all the big windows sitting right up to the sidewalk on U.S. 1 near the Dairy Belle and Riviera Theatre. You could actually watch through those windows as the old-style citrus crates were packed and shipped every day. The stretch of U.S. 1 was called Broadway, making kids think the street in New York was named after theirs.

  Slicing the grapefruit in half was just the beginning. The only way for Darby to truly enjoy the ritual was to work for it—carving each anticipated bite from the rind with a special serrated spoon.

  “I’ve got your grapefruit!” Kenny came into the living room with a bamboo tray. “Already sliced it away from the peel with a knife and cut the bites to make it easier.”

  “Thanks.”

  Darby sighed, popped a pill and stared at his bookcase with a framed packing-crate label that people now collected. The Riviera Beach packing house was long since closed, along with the Dairy Belle, and the theater had gone X-rated before being leveled for a Walgreens.

  Darby’s evolution after the hospital stay was like a pro athlete at the end of a long and storied career. The perfunctory tearful press conference, well-wishes from everyone in the front office, camera flashes. Then: Now what?

  Instead of springing up from bed each morning, he lay there listlessly with the heart tugs from the missing piece.

  Surfing.

  Aging athletes handle retirement two different ways. Some passively wait for the missing piece to just go away, but it never does. The successful ones replace the piece. That’s wh
at Darby did, and those early waking moments of regret became fond memories. He even relented and allowed Kenny to hang a large black-and-white photo of Darby riding a wave in his prime.

  Darby found his replacement piece accidentally, and in a most unlikely place. Here’s what happened:

  The longer he lived with Darby, the more Kenny became fascinated with his hero’s . . . stuff. That’s the way guys are. Drink lots of beer and look under the hoods of muscle cars, look at tools in the woodshop, look at signed baseballs. Kenny started with the old surfing trophies stored in cardboard boxes—“Why don’t you put these out?”—his old ribbons and yellowed newspaper clippings—“You should do something with these”—then the closet—“I didn’t know you had guns.”

  “A few.”

  “You don’t seem like the hunting type.”

  “I’m not.” Darby read the sports section. “I could never shoot anything, I mean that’s alive. I just enjoy target practice. Something about it relaxes me.”

  “What’s this one?” asked Kenny, walking back over to a lounger in full recline.

  “Whoa!” Darby popped the chair upright. “Don’t move!”

  Kenny froze. “What’s the matter?”

  “First, never let the line of the barrel cross anything that you’d be sorry putting a bullet in. Point it at the floor.”

  “Okay.” He lowered it.

  “Next, every gun is loaded.”

  “This thing’s loaded?”

  “No, I never leave a loaded gun in the house,” said Darby. “But you don’t know that. So you always check the chamber. Even I check the chamber whenever I pick up one of my own rifles that I know I’ve unloaded.”

  Kenny looked at the alien mechanism. “I don’t know how to check it. I don’t know anything about guns.”

  “Bring it here.”

  Darby worked the bolt on the Remington. All clear. He handed it back. “Why don’t you put that away for now. Having a gun out without purpose is an unnecessary variable.”

  Kenny headed back to the closet. “You have ammo?”

  “Sure, what good’s a gun without bullets?”