Nuclear Jellyfish

THE NEXT MORNING

A two-tone Javelin sat next to a boat ramp on the cause-(way over the Intracoastal. The day had that deep-purple overcast. Then lightning laced the sky, sending smaller fishing boats back to shore.

Serge was in the driver’s seat, messing with a pair of cell phones. Coleman poured from a pint of vodka with a vulture on the label. “Where are we?”

“Phil Foster Park,” said Serge, trial-and-erroring his way through the phones’ menus. “Between mainland Riviera Beach and Singer Island.” He looked across the water at a forty-foot sailboat cruising under the giant, modern bridge arcing high into the sky before sloping back to Blue Heron Boulevard. “I love this place! Spent many a childhood afternoon here. I hate that fucking bridge.”

“Why?”

“Horrible development of the New Sunshine State. Many barrier islands have replaced their gloriously historic drawbridges with these towering new spans so people don’t have wait for boats. But the old bridge still lives in my heart. I’d ride my banana bike out here with my fishing pole, a barefoot Florida Huck Finn, tackle-box-of-hope sitting in the handlebar basket, which I got for my newspaper route.”

“You were a paperboy?”

“Another tragic turn of culture: No more paperboys because it’s now too dangerous for kids to ride around throwing papers before dawn, or collect weekly payment after sunset…” Serge navigated the phones’ on-screen displays. “… I fondly recall delivering the awardwinning Palm Beach Post. Only lasted three days, even though you’re looking at one of the best paperboys who ever pedaled a Schwinn.”

Coleman stirred his drink with a finger. “What happened?”

“Should have seen me in action, zooming down the sidewalk as fast as my legs could churn, slinging papers like nobody’s business. I could hit nine out of ten roofs blindfolded. Then it turns out they didn’t want roofs. I said, what about doors? They said doors were good. And could I hit doors! Wham! Nobody had any doubt when their paper arrived. But as I said, this was all before sunrise. I figured they needed to start getting up earlier anyway. To compound the growing ungratefulness, I went for style points and tried throwing while doing a wheelie. You break one picture window, and that’s all they want to talk about.”

“So you used to fish around here?”

“I wasn’t fishing. I was playing with sharks.”

Coleman chugged half the drink and clenched his face. Then drank some more.

Serge punched phone buttons.

“What are you doing?”

“Steve was our only connection with the gang who attacked Howard. Since that’s off the table, I’m correlating recent calls made by the respective phones I took from Steve and the bandits in that room yesterday.”

Coleman finished the rest of his drink and involuntarily shivered from the aftertaste. “You said something about sharks?”

“Excellent topic retention, Coleman. People swim around here all the time with no clue. We’re at the mouth of Lake Worth Inlet, incredible tidal flows, all kinds of giant fish. I’d hang out at the base of the bridge by the Crab Pot, where my granddad always took me for fried catfish before it was torn down by heritage-phobes. That’s where older dudes cast-net and spilled junk fish all over the ground, then sliced ‘em up for bait, the bloodier the better. They knew me-was like their mascot-so I’d always get a chunk, which I hooked to my line, go out on the bridge and throw it over the side.”

“You caught sharks?”

“Hell no. I was a puny nine-year-old and my tackle was too light. I just played with them, jerking bait chunks up and down, slapping the surface of the water to get a scent trail going. Once I had this giant hammerhead a good three feet out of the water, those freaky prehistoric eye-pods whipping back and forth, ripping the bloody hell out of my fish. All in all, excellent childhood.” He held the cell phones side by side. “Here we go. Last calls from both phones to the same number. Better use Steve’s instead of the foam-heads’ or they might get the idea I had something to do with that.”

“You did.”

“Why invite conflict?” Serge hit the call-back button. It began ringing.

A voice on the other end: “Steve?”

“Steve’s not here. This is Serge.”

“Who’s Serge?”

“Steve’s silent partner. I’ve taken over his operation.” Pause.

“My caller ID says you’re using Steve’s phone.”

“A rocket scientist.”

“What… uh, happened to Steve?”

“Don’t play dumb,” said Serge. “We both know what happened to Steve.”

“We didn’t do that.”

“Whatever. Listen: Since we’re going to be doing a lot of business together, I thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Serge.”

“You already said that.”

“This was the formal introduction. We need to build trust. What are your feelings about a blood oath? I’ll even let you pick the finger.”

“Buddy, I don’t know who the fuck you are.”

“The guy who’s going to get you out of a jam. Steve’s gone-your information stream’s fucked. I’m guessing your boss will want to make an example out of someone.”

“How do you know I’m not the boss?”

“You answered the phone?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not the boss.”

“This is bullshit. You don’t have any information.”

“Where do you think Steve got his?”

“I really don’t-“

“And I’m going to have to tax you for Steve, which you’re free to continue denying. An extra ten percent on the gross haul.” “Ten percent! The Jellyfish will kill us both.”

“Jellyfish?”

“Shit. I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

“You have my number.”

Click.

“What now?” asked Coleman.

“My daily tradition.” Serge started the car and headed back to the mainland. “Read the local paper.”

“Why are you always reading newspapers when we could be having fun?”

“Coleman, that is fun, one of the biggest joys of travel. Most people just visit a place like tourists and only skim the surface. But reading the daily paper lets you see through the eyes of a local. Plus this is my old hometown-I have to read the paper.”

The Javelin came off the crest of the bridge and approached the intersection of Blue Heron and Broadway.

“Serge, what if that guy doesn’t call you back?”

“He’ll call.” Serge searched the sides of the road. “He’s scared to death of this Jellyfish character, and screwed without Steve.”

“So he needs you.”

“I always try to put myself in the position of helping others … There’s a news box …” He pulled over. “I love this intersection!”

“It just looks like a million others.”

“The pawnshop’s still here-and the Dairy Belle! We used to walk there from my house when I was a kid and get ice cream. It’s just about all that’s left to remind me of my childhood …” He pointed toward the other side of the street. “… Those Mayan ruins used to be a Publix supermarket with the old chevron logo where I’d ride in the shopping-cart kiddie seat, back when they still had mechanical cash registers.”

“What happened to it?”

“Probably the same thing that doomed the venerable Spanish Courts motel and the Bazaar market with the trilon sightseeing tower-my old Riviera Beach got too dicey a proposition after it became a crack flea market. I’m getting the paper now.”

“Rip it up.”

Serge returned and flipped through sections, gleaning the meat of articles. “… Missing person’s body found in bedroom after six weeks; relatives thought the smell was dead Norwegian rats in the wall … Members accuse condo association of holding secret meetings in Canada … Superhot teacher has sex with her student…”

“That makes fifty-one now.”

“Fifty-two … Cuban refugees land in middle of coastal defense exercise … Immigration uncovers plot to smuggle Eastern Europeans into Orlando as circus performers …” Serge turned another page. “Oh my gosh!”

“What is it?” asked Coleman.

“This is a great day!” Serge held the page toward Coleman. “Look who’s giving a lecture.” “Don’t know him.”

“Coleman, he’s a Florida legend! I’ve wanted to meet him my whole life and now I get the chance. All because I read the local paper.” Serge looked at his watch. “Shit.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Looks like we missed it. But if I hurry, maybe we can catch him on the way out.” Serge threw the car in gear.

“But what about those people you want to kill?”

“I know this is irresponsible, but sometimes you have to treat yourself.”

The Javelin made record time across West Palm Beach, turned onto Okeechobee Boulvard and skidded up to the curb in front of a giant modern building with glistening glass facade. A crowd walked down the front steps.

“We’re in time,” said Serge. “They’re just getting out.”

“What is this place?”

“The fabulous Kravis Center for the Performing Arts.” Serge pointed with a quivering arm. “And there he is!”

In the middle of the exiting audience, people shook hands with a distinguished older gentleman in a cowboy hat.

“Come on!” Serge jumped from the car and sprinted across the lawn. He was out of breath by the time he’d pushed his way through the crowd and finally reached the cowboy hat. He thrust out an enthusiastic hand. “Howdy! I’m Serge! Honor to meet you! Missed your talk-bet it was a doozy! I’m Serge!”

The man graciously shook the hand. “You okay?”

“Couldn’t be better now that I’ve met you!”

The man laughed. “Not everyone feels that way.”

“Give me their names!”

Serge suddenly stumbled forward as someone crashed into him from behind.

“Coleman! Behave!” Serge turned back around. “Sorry about that. This is my associate, Coleman. Coleman, this is Claude Kirk, the oldest living governor of Florida, elected 1966, also known as Claudius Maximus for how he shook the good-ol’-boy power structure to its knees and sent rascals scampering back under their rocks. I’m Serge!”

“You mentioned that,” said the governor, shaking other hands. “So what are you doing after this? Fighting crime?”

“Going home.”

“Got a ride?”

“Someone’s supposed to pick me up.”

“We’ll give you a lift!”

“Appreciate the gesture.” The governor looked at his watch, then scanned the edge of the street.

“Coleman,” said Serge. “You’ll love this. A few years back, the governor was being questioned on the witness stand in some court case by F. Lee Bailey, who asked Kirk to identify himself, and state for the record what he used to do. And he said he was a former governor of Florida. And Bailey asked what he was now, and Kirk said, A has-been, just like you.’”

The governor laughed. “That really pissed him off.”

“Coleman, why I really admire this guy is his unbridled passion for Florida, or at least what it could become if they’d only listen to him. After all these years, still battling the dark side.”

The governor glanced at his watch again. “Sounds like you really care about this state.”

“You have no idea!”

The governor took off his cowboy hat and wiped his forehead as he stared at the street again. “Damn hot out here in the sun. Maybe I will take you up on that ride.”

“Let’s rock!”

“Shotgun!” said Coleman.

“Have manners,” said Serge. “Shotgun goes to our special guest.”

The Javelin headed north on 1-95.

“Tell me son, are you a Republican?” asked the governor.

“No, a Whig. I’m leading the comeback.” Serge turned sideways, photographing the governor with his digital camera.

“Shouldn’t you be watching the road?”

“It’s okay.” Click, click, click. “I do this all the time.”

“I’d rather you watch the road.”

“Got enough pictures anyway.” Serge faced forward. “So what’s on the governor’s mind these days?”

“Sugar industry.”

“What about it?”

“I want to sink ‘em.”

“Why?”

“Special-interest lobbyists control all the politicians and keep price supports in place. If it wasn’t for that, Americans would have more affordable sugar.”

Serge punched the dashboard. “Sugar prices!”

“Even worse,” said the governor. “In the process of raising the cane, they’ve altered the flow of the Everglades, killing what’s left with fertilizer runoff. Then they leave town before having to clean it up.”

“I’m on board!” said Serge. “We’ll get some bricks and clubs and kung fu throwing stars …”

“Absolutely not!”

“But I thought you wanted to sink the sugar daddies.” “Within the system. That’s always been my philosophy. Work within the system for change.”

“Can I start my own system?”

“No.”

“Allllll right.” Serge reached under his seat and pulled out a yellow legal pad. He handed it back over his shoulder to Coleman: “Start a todo list. Action Item Number One: Sink big sugar within the system.” He turned to his right. “What next, governor?”

“It’s all about water. Between thousands of new residents moving into the state and the decline of the Everglades, we’re running out…”

“Dear God!”

“… Nobody’s thinking ahead,” continued Kirk, “and it’ll be too late when the people start screaming. It’s already started.”

Serge grabbed his chest. “Tell me, governor, what can we possibly do to thank you for caring.”

“Well, I do have one wish. I’d like to be buried on the capitol grounds.”

“Coleman,” Serge said over his shoulder. “Action Item Number Two: Bury the governor on the capitol grounds.”

“Now?”

“No, you idiot! After he dies … Sorry about that, governor …”

The drive continued into a residential neighborhood west of the interstate, next to a canal with familiar reptilian eye-knots poking out of the water.

“Coleman,” said Serge. “The governor almost single-handedly saved the Florida alligator from extinction.” He turned toward the passenger seat. “They were down to less than three hundred, right?”

“Poaching was out of control,” said Kirk. “And you know the importance of alligators?”

“Females dig alligator holes.”

“You really know your stuff. The life cycle of the Everglades. And when droughts come, those holes are the only place for the rest of the animals to get water. So people said, well, we got to get a bunch of people out at night to catch the poachers. I said that’s bullshit. You can’t catch a poacher if he doesn’t want to be caught. What we need to do is go after demand. All those stores in New York selling alligator purses. Stop making purses, you’d be surprised at how fast they stop poaching alligators. But they wouldn’t listen.”

“Holy mother!” said Serge. “What did you do?”

“Some guys came down from the Department of Interior, and to prove it was pointless going at it from the poacher end, I took them down to Punta Gorda, and I was going to be a poacher. Went out alone after dark in an airboat, and they had everyone in the world looking, but they couldn’t find me for anything.”

“Coleman, you listening?” said Serge. “He was like a superhero, sneaking around the swamp at night in an airboat and shit. Now that’s how you govern.”

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