Nuclear Jellyfish

THE FLORIDA KEYS

Serge’s funeral was held at one of his favorite places on earth.

Mahoney had made the arrangements, faithful to the request on a sheet of paper Serge had given him at the Mai-Kai.

The sun was high and strong, humidity brutal. Mahoney stood in the concealment of a nest of banana trees on Big Pine Key, fedora in hand, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief. It had flamingos. To the east, a small bridge arced over Bogie Channel to No Name Key. In the middle of the span, Coleman stood with a plastic tube. He was joined by a collection of diehard regulars from the venerable No Name Pub, along with members of a Keys twelve-step cult deprogramming group who had become devoted disciples of Serge’s a few years earlier, all wearing identical T-shirts with their guru’s face over his motto: i follow nobody.

Mahoney’s mind raced back through the events of the last forty-eight hours:

Standing in that hotel room, Serge suddenly sticking the gun back in his mouth, Mahoney yelling, “Noooooo!” Lunging forward, a step too late. Serge pulling the trigger.

Then Mahoney, freezing in shock. “What the hell?”

And Serge, smiling. “You didn’t really think the gun was loaded?” He tossed it on the bed.

Bang.

A mirror shattered.

Mahoney’s mind sped back up to the present. He stared at the top of the Bogie Channel Bridge and wiped his face again, then turned to the person standing next to him in the trees. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Got you good, didn’t I?” said Serge.

“I should turn you in.”

“Thanks for the funeral.”

“Least I could do.” Mahoney looked across the channel at a pair of sedans on the opposite bank. Men in white shirts, thin black ties, aviator sunglasses. One aimed a telephoto lens at the mourners on the top of the bridge. “Gave my word, but then I unintentionally brought all that state heat down on you with my crazy chasing around.”

“You’re a good man,” said Serge.

Mahoney peeked through the trees again at the other agents in the distance. “This ruse should give you a couple days head start.”

“They actually put you on indefinite suspension for meeting with me?”

“No, they don’t know about the meetings. But I violated about a thousand regulations conducting my own private investigation without filing reports. They frown on that.”

“I’ve seen the police shows. What now?”

“Bought a fishing pole.”

“Why don’t you come over to our side? You’re practically there already.”

“Criminals?”

“No, freelance law enforcement. We have lots of fun.”

“I don’t approve of vigilantes.”

“We can take care of them, too.”

Mahoney shook his head. “Hear the bonefish are biting off Boca Chica.”

“That’s hard to compete with. If you change your mind …”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Have some business to tidy up in Miami.”

“Story?”

Serge nodded.

“You had me completely fooled. Can’t believe she was in on it the whole time.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“I know: You want to protect her. I guess Howard wasn’t as in coherent in the hospital as I thought when he met with his sister and mentioned you. She needed an ally going after the gang.”

Serge just smiled.

“How’s the kid doing, anyway?”

“Just released from the hospital. Story said he still looks like shit and has to wear that wrap around his chest for the ribs.”

Mahoney looked back at the bridge. Coleman twisted the lid off the plastic tube. “He really thinks you’re dead?”

Serge shook his head. “Just gets weepy at sentimental gatherings.”

“Got to admit, he played his part surprisingly well.”

“He wasn’t playing,” said Serge. “We had to keep him in the dark and put on a show-for everyone’s safety.”

“So he really didn’t know about your plan with Story?”

“Talks too much in bars. Which I was able to put into play for our benefit.”

They both stared back at the gathering. Coleman dumped the plastic tube over the side of the bridge, and a collection of toenail clippings scattered on a light breeze as they fluttered down into the channel. The disciples in Serge T-shirts respectfully bowed their heads and raised fists to the sky: “Shula!”

Mahoney lifted his chin. “They’re coming.”

Serge and the agent retreated deeper into the tropical vegetation. People dabbing eyes filed by on the isolated road and headed for the pub. Coleman brought up the rear, turning off the road and thrashing into the brush. “Serge! Where are you?”

Serge grabbed him by the arm and jerked him into cover. “Quiet! I’m supposed to be dead.” He pushed Coleman’s head down, and the three crouched. A small convoy of government sedans drove by.

Coleman stood back up. “Does this mean we can’t go in the pub?”

Serge turned to Mahoney. “See?”

The agent looked across the street. A white-and-aqua ‘72 Plymouth Fury sat on the shoulder. “Moving up in the world?”

“Gave myself a promotion.” Serge peered through banana leaves, scanning the empty, lazy surroundings. All clear. “Later! …”

He and Coleman dashed to the car and jumped in.

“Be safe,” called Mahoney.

“When am I not?” Serge patched out.

Mahoney stepped into the middle of the road and watched the Plymouth disappear around the corner, back toward the Overseas Highway.

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