Johnny Vegas sat in the background, tears trickling down his cheek.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“What do you mean a preexisting condition!”
Randall Sheets caught himself and lowered his voice on the phone. “It was not preexisting. She was in perfect health when we bought the policy… What? She already had it and we just didn’t know? That’s garbage!… But I don’t have the money and she’s going to die without treatment… Could you repeat that?… It’s classified as uncovered hospice care instead of corrective medicine?… Now you’re just making up reasons… Look, don’t think I won’t sue… Why can’t you talk to me anymore?… What company directive?… Because I mentioned litigation I can only talk to your attorneys from now on?… Wait! Don’t hang up!”
Click.
Randall slowly closed the phone.
“Honey…” The voice came from down the hall. Randall entered the master bedroom, his weak wife propped up on pillows. “Who were you talking to?”
“Nobody important.”
“Insurance people again?”
Randall pulled up a chair. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
He lightly grabbed her hand. “I’m supposed to be here.”
“I’ll be fine. You should go to work.” She smiled. “It’s not like we need the money or anything.”
“But-”
“Go ahead.” She grabbed a remote control. “One of my shows is coming on.”
Randall drove across town with a head full of thoughts.
An hour later, a Cessna came into view. It cleared the fence of another private strip, this one in southern Palm Beach County. The landing was more than shaky, skipping twice before the wheels stayed down for good. No cross draft.
The propeller slowed to a jerky stop. Randall removed headphones and turned to the dermatologist in the passenger seat. “Not bad for a first landing. Same time next week?”
They climbed down from the four-seater with cursive lettering on the side:
TRADEWINDS F LIGHT S CHOOL.
The student hopped in a Corvette and sped off. Randall headed the other way for his own car. Next to it, four men with arms crossed leaned against the front of a BMW.
“Randall Sheets?”
“How can I help you fellas?”
“We need to hire a plane.”
“You want flying lessons?”
Guillermo shook his head.
“Then what?” asked Randall.
“We’ll get to that later.” Guillermo bent down and released a handle.
“What’s the briefcase for?”
“You.”
Randall hadn’t been in trouble a day in his life, the proverbial community pillar, as far removed from criminal circles as one gets. But he’d also been a pilot in Florida during the eighties, and he’d seen this movie before-what temptation had done to other pilots he’d known.
“I think you should leave.”
“How’s your wife?”
Randall’s expression changed. “What about my wife?”
“If we’re going to be friends-”
“We’ll never be friends! Leave! Now!”
“Have we offended you in some way?”
Randall reached in his pocket. “I’m calling the police.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Guillermo opened the BMW’s driver-side door. “We’re late for an appointment.”
The others piled back in.
“You forgot your briefcase,” said Randall.
“No, I didn’t.” Guillermo started the car. “Give my best to Sarah.”
They drove off.
Randall stood motionless and stared down at the brown leather case for what seemed like an eternity. Brain racing. He finally crouched, set it on its side and slowly raised the lid. Breathing shallowed. Then he heard something, like a far-off explosion.
Randall looked up through yellow aviator glasses at the clear southeastern sky: a tiny fireball smaller than a dime a thousand feet above the horizon toward Bimini. At a range of thirty miles, the sound of the blast still carried, but nothing like what the boats below in the Atlantic heard as twisted metal fluttered into the ocean from a Cessna registered to Cash Cutlass.
THE PRESENT
Coleman and followers continued along the Daytona shore.
“What’s going on over there?” A student pointed up the beach. “Looks like a concert or a fight. There’s a big crowd.”
And getting bigger. Word spread about something happening at the historic band shell. People running over from the hotels, the water, the bars.
Coleman’s gang arrived at the back of the audience. Someone in a necktie took notes. A press ID hung from his neck. Davis.
“Why are you taking notes?”
“I’m a reviewer for the News-Journal”-not taking eyes off his steno pad.
“What’s the deal onstage?” asked a student. “Is that some DJ warming up for a band?”
The reviewer shook his head and kept writing. “Incredible mono-loguist, like Eric Bogosian or Spalding Gray. He’s been going nonstop for over an hour. I don’t know how anyone can jump rapidly between so many topics and keep it all straight, let alone memorize an act this disjointed and long.”
“I didn’t know they had monologuists on the beach,” said a student.
“Neither did I.” The reviewer flipped a page. “Nothing about it in our events calendar-going to complain to the city about not getting us a press release. Luckily, I was down here covering something else.”
Coleman felt a tug on his arm. “Melvin, what’s the matter?”
“Holy cow! Look who it is.”
“Serge!”
“You know that guy?” asked the reviewer. “My best friend,” said Coleman.
“What’s his secret?”
“Special diet.”
They looked back up at the band shell. Serge cartwheeled toward the front of the stage, doubled over and laughed until his sides ached.
“Ooo-gah-chaka! Ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang! Su-su-ssudio!” He stood upright. “Sorry, got the giggles. Just thinking about Florida’s first family. That’s right, the Hulk Hogans. They’re everything our state stands for: weird, dangerous, crazy, childish, attention addicts, but above all, a freakin’ hoot! Victimized by a car-crash victim! Hurts too much to laugh! They nearly killed the guy and tried to squeeze a reality show from his morphine-drip bottle! News flash: They already have a reality show, and all of us are in it, too. It’s called the Sunshine State. Watch any national news. It’s the local news: Passenger boards plane at Tampa International with three gunshot wounds and asks flight attendant for Band-Aids, youth sodomizes grandmother’s Yorkshire terrier named Duchess, man arrested for selling beach sand on eBay, body found in orange grove, body found half-eaten by gator, body found in line at Disney, ‘The lone clue was a sawed-off thigh bone,’ ‘Wesley Snipes’s tax attorney claims the truth will shock and surprise the public.’ And who can forget those future brain surgeon teen girls who beat the snot out of a classmate, videotaped it and posted it on the Internet? Then Dr. Phil invites one of the attackers on his show, and everyone gets bent in pretzels. I say, No! No! No! Those Rhodes scholar predators are exactly the global TV face we want to put on our state. How else are we going to stop this viral, doomsday overdevelopment? The Hogans and that chick posse deserve citizens of the year. They’re helping get the word out that the quality of people down here is so fucking bad, you don’t want to come near us.“ He doubled over again with giggles.”Whoa, just noticed my feet. Aren’t feet insane? All day long: left, right, left, right. How do they do it? I suddenly want five pizzas and a loud stereo. Look, there’s an osprey. It’s got a fish in its claws. Every time I see an osprey flying with a fish, I always think: Fish lives entire life in the sea, then at the end, he’s looking down at everything from hundreds of feet up, thinking, ‘Oh, now I get it.’ “ More giggling.”Actually, he’s thinking, ‘Hey, watch the talons, man.’ Back to the headlines! Trapped retiree dials 911 with big toe; hurricane reporters in Key West jeered and hit with Super Soakers; frozen iguanas rain from trees during cold snap, injuring five; more families opting to live in storage units; man attempts to avoid DUI by abandoning car and jumping on horse in pasture; armed bandits invade home demanding nothing but an egg beater. Let’s sing! Everybody, after me: Biscayne Bay, where the Cuban gentlemen sleep all day… Free-credit-report-dot-com… Don’t you love those ads? Here’s mine: Florida-crime-report-dot-com, don’t let winos pork your mom. F-L-A, that spells flaw, tourists goin home in a box, doodah. Is it me, or do colors seriously rock today? I’m looking in your direction, Mr. Green.“ Another giggle fit. Serge felt something and looked down at a growing bulge in his pants.”Yowza. Who out there owns a stereo, wants to fuck and eat five pizzas? But you say, ‘Serge, what can I do about development?’ Give money to every street-corner lunatic you see with a cardboard sign and pipe cleaners in his hair. It’s like those minimum-wage roadside people in gorilla suits, waving you off the road for tax preparation. Except in reverse: The cardboard-sign brigade drives would-be residents away. But again, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Serge, if we promote “crazy,” then what kind of place is left for us to live in?’ And that’s exactly the litmus test for any true Floridian. It may be crazy, but it’s our crazy, it’s fun crazy, and in Florida, being crazy is the only way to stay sane. That circus-geek colony in Gibsonton is now the most normal place we got. The whole state’s an asylum, and I love every last freak show, even the schizos at the bus station who yell at me, ‘Motherfucker, we know the planetary council sent you to implant transmitters!’ And I smile and go, ‘Say no more. You had me at “motherfucker.” ’… Speaking of transmitters, I’m picking up ten channels in my noodle: Rooftop bandits steal copper from strip mall air-conditioners, DNA proves restaurant’s grouper is Asian catfish, Patriot missile found in Ybor City junkyard, missing children, missing wives, drag queen bingo night, boot camp deaths, baby formula thefts, loggerhead die-offs, red tide outbreaks, ‘Anglo flight,’ Solarcaine beats sunburn pain… Why am I so hungry? Could eat a horse, don’t cry over spilled milk, all that and a bag of chips, Jimmy crack corn, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, proof’s in the pudding, plum tired, bought a lemon, selling like hotcakes, bun in the oven, on the gravy train, my meal ticket, since sliced bread, we’re toast, you’re dead meat, stick a fork in it… Coleman!… Where are you?… How… do… I… turn… this… shit… off!…”