Dedication

  For Steve Hearn

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Part Three Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Tim Dorsey

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The Florida Keys

  Mile Marker 112.5

  The tourists crashed through the sheriff’s blockade so they wouldn’t miss the rumrunner special at a popular tiki bar.

  Obviously it was Florida. But sometimes even that needs to be explained.

  “Let me explain,” Serge told Coleman. “Remember the hurricane last week? . . .”

  . . . Earlier that day, precisely two hours before the deputies would see their white-and-orange barricades explode in splinters and land in the mangroves on the approach to the Overseas Highway. Fifty miles north, an aqua 1973 Ford Galaxie sat at a curb in the Little Haiti section of Miami, featuring block after block of sun-scorched strip malls that were all boarded up except for the jujitsu studios, immigration law offices, and wholesale outlets for all your discount voodoo needs.

  Coleman pointed out the window. “There’s a naked guy running down the sidewalk with a sword.”

  “I’m sure he has his reasons,” said Serge. “Try to stay focused.”

  “What were we talking about?”

  “The hurricane last week,” said Serge. “After each storm blows through, the authorities set up checkpoints between the mainland and the Keys to keep out looters, looky-loos and others with unwelcome manners. The blockades only allow in emergency workers and bona fide residents. The beach bars are the first to open because they’re more essential to the locals than electric service. A while later, after the lights come back on and the streets are cleared of coconuts, the sheriff removes the barricades for the tourists to stampede back in like herds of wildebeest on the plains of Mozambique after spotting the cheetahs.”

  “But Serge, how do the cops tell the residents from the tourists?”

  “By that.” Serge aimed a finger at a yellow decal in the corner of his windshield. “It’s an official Monroe County hurricane re-entry sticker.”

  “But we don’t live down there.”

  “I know,” said Serge. “It’s not an official sticker. It’s counterfeit.”

  “Counterfeit stickers?”

  Serge grinned large and rubbed his palms in delight. “This next fact is so nectar-of-Florida that I grooved on it a whole day when I first heard. You see, the Keys are like crack, and the addictive high is so powerful that tourists can’t handle the withdrawal after a storm. They’ll do almost anything to get in early and hit the watering holes on the shore. So a couple years back, some cats in Miami began cranking out counterfeit decals and selling them in alleys for twenty bucks.”

  “No way,” said Coleman. “You’re shitting me again.”

  “Look it up. Just type the search term ‘Florida Keys counterfeit sticker,’ and it will fill pages.”

  “Typing sounds like work,” said Coleman. “I’ll just agree with you.”

  “Anyway, that’s why we’re here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  Serge swept an arm at the view out the windshield: a vacant lot next to an abandoned British double-decker bus. An unusual concentration of sports cars sat parked in the dirt.

  “There’s a line of people waiting in that field,” said Coleman. “What’s going on?”

  “The Miami shadow economy,” said Serge. “I need to buy a counterfeit sticker.”

  “But you already have one.”

  Serge shook his head. “Here’s another totally true Florida factoid that spins my propeller: The Miami Herald just reported that deputies at the checkpoints discovered the scam and, at last count, have confiscated more than two hundred bogus decals. The TV stations showed a huge pile of the crumpled little yellow suckers on a table at a press conference.”

  At the far end of the field, a Jamaican man in a green-and-yellow knit cap conducted fleet commerce. He stuck another Andrew Jackson in his fanny pack. “. . . And here’s your decal—”

  “Chiz!”

  The Jamaican looked up. “Oh, hey, Serge. How’s it hanging?”

  “I need another sticker.”

  “Different car?”

  Serge pointed back. “No, same one, but I wanted to see if you’d upgraded your decals. The cops are onto the old stickers like mine.”

  “Jesus! Keep your voice down.” Chiz pulled him aside by the arm and whispered: “These tourists just got here and haven’t heard the news. I’m trying to dump my supply and relocate to Little Nicaragua.”

  “Then Godspeed.” Serge gave Chiz a complicated handshake and headed back to his car.

  Coleman pointed across the street at a cloud of white feathers. “Two dudes are wrestling over a live chicken.”

  “Coleman, we’ve been here a million times, and you still haven’t learned to filter,” said Serge. “On the streets of Miami, there’s more noise than signal.”

  An hour later, the Galaxie took the final exit off the Florida Turnpike and rolled into Florida City, the last trace of civilization on the southern tip of the mainland.

  Coleman rolled a fatty in his lap. “How are we getting back into the Keys if your sticker’s counterfeit?”

  “That’s what Walmart’s for.”

  “Walmart?”

  “One of their supercenters,” said Serge. “Strategically located in the strip of chain motels, fast-food joints and gas stations before society gives way to eighteen miles of treacherous mangrove jungle between the mainland and the bridge to Key Largo. The last chance to stock up at bargain rates and wide selection before you’re trapped by the sea all around and forced to purchase overpriced lamps made of seashells.”

  The muscle car pulled into the monster shopping center. Coleman pointed behind them. “The Walmart’s back there.”

  “We’re not going to Walmart,” said Serge. “All the real action is in the parking lot.”

  Coleman stared out the window as they drove down rows of vehicles. “There’s a bunch of people just wandering around and not getting in cars.”

  “Another of Florida’s shadow economies,” said Serge. “If you couldn’t score a counterfeit sticker in Miami, this is the other way back into the Keys during the current lockdown.”

  “Why are so many of them wearing backpacks?”

  “Stealth camping.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A huge under-the-radar phenomenon,” said Serge, turning a corner and scanning the scene with keen eyes. “A tight-knit community that utilizes websites, bulletin boards and Internet videos to share the safest places to illegally sleep in your car or in the woods, which is no small trick in this state with all the ‘No Overnight Parking’ signs. This section of Florida City is the most popular spot before jumping off to the Keys, because the supercenter is open twenty-four hours, which gives cover to the unauthorized vehicles. You’ll never notice the stealth campers until you hear about them, and then you realize they’re everywhere in plain sight. See those people spilling out of that van rubbing their eyes?”

  Coleman looked the other way. “Why are the campers going car to car, looking at windshields?”

  “Trying to find hurricane re-entry stickers for Keys residents who drove up here to shop after taking a baseball bat to all their seashell lamps.”

  “What good does that do?”

  “The shadow economy I mentioned,” said Serge. “They wait for the car’s owner to return from the store, and the haggling begins like an open-air seafood market in Morocco. Most of the campers offer money for rides or even for the sticker itself, because residents can always show their driver’s license if they don’t have a decal.”

  “You said ‘most’?”

  “The rest get ugly.”

  “I’m seeing a deal right now,” said Coleman. “Those two dudes are handing over cash and throwing backpacks in a trunk.”

  “Re-entry stickers are recession-proof.”

  “So this is how we’re getting back to the Keys?”

  “Yes and no. I prefer trying to pinch pennies first—” Serge cut himself off and slowed to a crawl down the next row of cars.

  “What is it?”

  “Those two guys checking windshields up on the left.”

  “I don’t see them.”

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  “Because they just crouched down next to that Camaro,” said Serge. “The car’s owner is returning.”

  “She’s placing shopping bags in the back seat,” said Coleman. “Now she’s— Holy shit! One of them just grabbed her! He’s forcing her into the passenger seat, and the other got behind the wheel! Jesus! They’re kidnapping her just to get to the Keys?”

  “That’s the ugly part,” said Serge. “It’s been done before. Just check any search—”

  “I know,” said Coleman. “Typing.”

  The Camaro screeched backward out of its spot and took off.

  Serge hit the gas. “Let’s have fun.”

  The Galaxie followed at an unsuspicious distance through the rest of Florida City, then down into the mangroves and the causeways to Key Largo.

  “Serge,” said Coleman, “I hate to bring this up, but you never got a new sticker back at the parking lot. You still just have the old counterfeit one.”

  “Remember I mentioned pinching pennies? Everything’s falling into place.”

  The Galaxie maintained a steady separation behind the Camaro. Five miles passed without incident, then ten, twelve . . . traffic began slowing until Serge was right on the Camaro’s bumper.

  Mile marker 112.5.

  Traffic inched forward toward the cluster of sheriff’s cars and wooden barricades. Deputies leaned to check for stickers. A few cars were allowed through, but the lion’s share made pissed-off U-turns and headed back to the mainland.

  Finally, it was the Camaro’s turn. A deputy examined the decal. All was in order.

  “Serge, what’s taking so long? Why aren’t they moving?”

  “My guess is the deputy picked up a vibe from the female passenger,” said Serge. “Hard to hide that kind of stress.”

  The deputy walked back to a portable tent that served as the checkpoint’s command post. He talked to his colleagues, pointing back at the car. One of them got on a radio, and three other deputies headed toward the vehicle.

  “Wait for it . . .” said Serge. “Wait for it . . . Now!”

  Suddenly, the Camaro’s tires squealed with a plume of smoke, and the barricades shattered. The deputies reversed course, sprinting back to their cruisers and taking off after the vehicle with the full ceremony of lights and sirens.

  When the checkpoint was finally empty, Serge casually applied the gas and rolled through unmolested, counterfeit sticker and all.

  Coleman cracked a beer. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

  “Me?”

  The Galaxie eventually crossed the bridge to Key Largo at mile marker 107. Serge looked off to his right and slammed the brakes with both feet until the Galaxie squiggled to a stop on the shoulder. Coleman stuck out his tongue to catch the spilled beer dripping down his face. “Why’d you do that?”

  Serge threw the Ford in reverse and backed up in the breakdown lane. “I saw a sleeping bag at the edge of the brush.”

  “You tired?”

  “No, one of the kidnappers had it on his backpack.” Serge stopped the car and jumped out. “There it is.”

  “Pinching pennies again?” asked Coleman.

  “I don’t want the sleeping bag,” said Serge. “These guys must have had a rare flash of logic and let the woman go because they knew there’d be another roadblock around the bend organized especially for them after the deputies radioed ahead. The kidnappers headed out on foot into the mangroves and might actually get away. After what they did to that poor woman, I must deputize myself.”

  “The bat light went on for you again?”

  “Coleman, I’ll need you to drive the car and meet me three miles up the road. How much drinking have you done today?”

  “That was just my first beer because I’ve been working on my pot responsibilities.”

  “I guess that’s a little better.” Serge headed toward a break in the mangroves. “Just drive slow.”

  “Slow is the only way to drive on weed,” said Coleman. “Sometimes eight miles an hour feels like eighty. Sometimes it feels like I’m driving backwards.”

  “I’ll need to forget I heard that.” Serge took a couple steps toward the brush, stopped and closed his eyes. “I can’t forget I heard that . . . Coleman, you’re benched. Throw me the keys.”

  “You got it.”

  Serge caught them on the fly and disappeared into the dense shore vegetation . . .

  . . . An hour later, Coleman was out cold in the passenger seat, bubbles forming on his lips with each breath. He was dreaming. It was a pleasant dream about sleeping in a car on the side of the road. Then he woke up: “Ahhhh! Now I’m confused.” He looked out the window. “Why is the car moving?” He looked the other way at Serge behind the wheel. “You’re back?”

  “That’s why the car’s moving,” said Serge. “Any other scenario with the car in gear would be less good.”

  Coleman yawned and cracked a wake-up beer. “So how did it go out there?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  They rounded the western bend, and U.S. Highway 1 straightened out on Key Largo proper. Two minutes later, they approached an empty lot next to the historic Caribbean Club, where deputies with guns drawn pulled a wiggling tarp off of two hogtied backpackers.

  Coleman chugged the dregs of a beer and rested his head back with a smile. “People aren’t kidding when they brag about the Keys.”

  “What more could you ask for?” said Serge. “Island life and fighting crime.”

  A Few Weeks Later

  The toilet seat was painted a Day-Glo orange.

  It hung vertically from a tall PVC pole. The lettering on the seat celebrated some people named Katie and Jared, who apparently were married in 2014. The pole rose from salt water.

  The water went down four feet, which was the depth of the tide at this hour in Toilet Seat Cut, a convenient but shallow channel along the north side of Plantation Key that allowed boaters to avoid the longer route up to Cowpens Cut while traversing Florida Bay one island down from Key Largo.

  Near the wedding toilet seat was another, marking a graduation, then one for a birthday: 50 Shitty Years. The white poles and their rainbow-painted seats marked the channel to prevent boaters from running aground in the seagrass and marl. More and more poles had been added over the years until it was practically a picket fence. Most had pithy bathroom-themed slogans: Sitting Pretty; Pottying in the Keys; Eau de Toilette; Some Sink, Some Float; Aint Takin No Mo Crap. One green seat had teeth and eyes to look like an alligator.

  It was a Keys thing. It was also a mystery. Nobody seemed to know how the tradition had begun, only that it was the logical thing to do at this latitude. Finally, a few years back, some longtime residents came forward with a rumor: In 1960 Hurricane Donna had raked the Keys, airmailing debris throughout the mangroves. A broken-off toilet seat finished its flight by landing on a nail sticking out of a channel marker, and a man named Vernon Lamp got out his paintbrush. Sure, why not?

  Today, nearly three hundred toilet seats form an almost solid row along the channel. It is a source of local pride. It can be seen from space.

  Another spark of regional esteem are the giant charter fishing boats, with their tall gleaming metal towers, that sail out of sight into the Gulf Stream for tournament-size game fish. The boats are like the hood ornaments of the Upper Keys.

  But there is another less gaudy kind of fishing in these islands: back country. Small, shallow-drafting skiffs head out the other way, into the labyrinth of mangrove flats in Florida Bay, where purists stalk silently to finesse some of the smaller but most elusive fish that constitute the “grand slam.”

  “I’ve almost completed my grand slam!” barked a customer’s voice as his special deck-gripping sneakers stomped down the dock on Plantation Key.

  The fishing guide looked up from where he was kneeling next to the livewells, pouring a pail of bait. “You must be A.J.”

  “All my life.” The fisherman climbed aboard with the smile of perpetual hope. “I’ve already caught bonefish and permit on my last trips. Just need a silver king now to finish the slam.”

  The fishing guide, by the name of Slick, felt it was best for business if he didn’t mention that an official slam needed to be accomplished within twenty-four hours. “I’m sure I can put you on a tarpon. Then you’ll have an official slam.”