The Riptide Ultra-Glide (6 page)

Serge stood back up. “You can't allow the jerks to get inside your head.” He held out his hand.

Coleman looked at Serge's bloody palm holding a diamond-stud earring. “It's just like that other jerk in the store. Do all assholes wear those?”

“Only the ones who are overcompensating for a face that looks like a scrotum.” Serge stuck his hand in his pocket. “Unfortunately for this guy, he ran right into my psyche without knocking, plopped down on the couch, and propped his dirty feet up in my Happy Place.”

“You were more than patient.”

CATFISH

L
ocal evening news came on. Dramatic theme music that sounded like a loud, rapid-fire teletype, even though nobody had seen a teletype in decades.

“Good evening. Our top story tonight: A major crackdown has begun on the I-95 pipeline of OxyContin being dispensed from numerous South Florida pill mills that have sprouted like mushrooms in recent years. Utilizing strengthened laws passed by the legislature this session, various police agencies have been raiding the most brazen pain clinics operating with little more than a few bare rooms and ballpoint pens. But now state police have opened a second front on the war against the so-called hillbilly heroin, intercepting large vehicles of patients and pills . . .”

The televised image switched to earlier footage of a school bus, painted gray, stopped on the side of the interstate. Deputies led a single-file line of handcuffed passengers into a series of correctional vans. Then a live news conference at a nearby command post: a trophy table covered with pill bottles, cash and two .38 revolvers. A commander with the state police stepped up to the podium, holding the leash of a German shepherd.
“Today marks a new offensive on the scourge of prescription drug traffickers laying waste to South Florida. Taking advantage of just-passed laws, we're stepping up the fight against out-of-state couriers who have begun using sophisticated tactics that until now haven't been seen outside the cocaine trade, such as concealing contraband inside fuel tanks and swallowing condoms. This is just the beginning of the battle, but we will not rest until—”

A thumb hit a button on a remote control. The TV switched off. Next to the television was a table not unlike the one at the news conference: pill bottles, cash, guns.

“What are we going to do?” asked someone in the background wearing a trucker's hat. He pointed at the dark TV tube. “They got our first two buses. And I'm sure they'll find the third we ditched after unloading all this stuff.”

“I'm thinking,” said the man with the remote control.

“But we just dumped all those guys at the beach and told them to wait. Most are wearing bib overalls and engine grease. It's just a matter of time before they connect them to the abandoned bus.”

The first man massaged his temples. “You're giving me a headache.”

“But, Catfish—”

“Shut up! For fuck's sake! You said we dumped them at the beach, which means they don't know where this motel room is . . .” He tossed the remote on a bed and eased down into a chair. “So just grow a pair and let me logically work this out like I always do . . .”

He was the leader. The gang loosely numbered forty. Six buses total, three going each way at all times. With Oxy tabs running up to eighty bucks each on the street, they'd made so much money so fast that they hadn't figured out the laundering end, and a few million dollars was buried in a scattering of ramshackle tobacco barns in Bourbon County and the horse country surrounding Lexington. The rest of the gang drove the buses, but he rode in a trail vehicle with no contraband, allowing him to monitor operations while remaining clean in case the cops stopped them. It was an old Dodge Durango. He could afford a Rolls, but this was his blood.

His birth certificate said Jebediah Alowishous Stump, but everyone called him Catfish. Because of the deep scars on the backs of his legs. Long story.

Short version: His dad, Cecil, ran stills from Bowling Green to Cumberland Lake. Clear whiskey. And on the boy, he was quick with the switch. During the war, which was number two, Cecil ran black-market rubber, stored the tires in the garage attic. Catfish was playing with matches. It wasn't that the garage burned down, but the rationed tires were worth more than the entire house. And if you've never seen a bunch of tires go up, well, it's a big black smoke signal for several counties. The police could have been blindfolded and just followed the smell. Those were the deepest of the scars on Jebediah's buttocks and thighs.

Next to that transgression—or even in front of it—the cardinal rule: Never, ever touch Dad's prized frog-darter fishing lure. It was Cecil's secret weapon for catching fish, passed down generation to generation from his great-grandfather. And if anything ever happened to it, there would be a beating that would make the Spanish Inquisition wince. Jebediah had seen photos of the record catfish his dad had landed at the lake cabin, thanks to that lure. The boy had never caught a catfish. The frog-darter became the forbidden fruit.

Just before dawn on a Sunday when his pa was running moonshine halfway to Drip Rock, Jebediah took the skiff out on the lake, manning the small motor till at the back of the boat like Bud from
Flipper
. He anchored at dawn and went to work. Casting and casting, nibble here and there, then thoughts of a big one when the hook snagged something monstrous, but it had just gotten caught on the bottom, and the boy pulled up weeds. Hours passed. The line snapped on another bottom snag. Jeb wiped his brow. He opened his dad's tackle box for a fresh hook. At the bottom sat the frog-darter. The boy glanced around the lake's distant shores. Nobody would ever know. He took a deep breath, then attached the lure and cast.

And you can't make this up: almost immediately a bite from a catfish larger than anything in his dad's photos. Jeb reeled with all his might. The fish hit the surface a couple times, getting closer to the boat. Suddenly something huge caught the edge of Jeb's eye. What the hell? A great horned owl swooped down and snatched the catfish in its talons and flew off.

The frog-darter still attached.

So now Jeb is reeling again, facing upward as the bird circled the sky over the boat. Finally, it released the fish, which splashed into the water next to the skiff. But something was wrong. The fish wasn't on the line anymore. The owl was. Somehow the lure had pulled from the fish's mouth and gotten caught in the talons. And the bird was trying to fly off with the darter. This wasn't about a trophy fish anymore; it was survival. Jeb reeled like never before.

The owl slowly came down, flapping spastically with all it had.
Come
onnnnnnn,
please don't break the line.
Forty feet, thirty, twenty . . . But how did you land an owl? Jeb freed his right hand to grab a paddle from the bottom of the boat. Frantic reeling resumed. Ten feet, five, three, then all hell broke out. Paddle swinging and missing, wings flapping, screeching, feathers flying. Then a brushing swat from the paddle clipped a wing and more feathers. Every few swings, Jeb began finding his mark. Nothing direct, just glancing blows with only minor effect. But after a while they began adding up.
Wham, wham, wham.
The owl didn't feel so good anymore, and not flying too well either.

Finally a smack to the head, and the bird spun down into the boat, running around like a chicken in the confined space.
Wham
. The owl staggered.
Wham
. It fell over, still. Jeb rushed to retrieve the lure, tugging and twisting. He pricked two of his fingers, drawing blood, but nothing like what awaited him back at the cabin if he didn't get this job done. No luck. It was in one of the talons good with a reverse barb, and Jeb didn't have the right tools in the boat. The task required completion back onshore. The boy pulled up anchor. From his vain work trying to free the lure, Jeb could tell the bird was only unconscious. He didn't need any more adventure. So to play it safe, he bound the owl's claws with rope and tied them to a spare, empty gas can that sat in the front of the vessel. He pull-started the motor and began heading home.

Roughly a half mile from the bank, an abrupt noise. Commotion. The owl was awake. It flapped its wings. And started flying.

At the other end of the boat, Jeb couldn't believe his eyes as the bird slowly lifted out of the skiff, can and all, and took off across the lake. It was a damn big owl, but how was the boy supposed to know it was that strong? “Now I've lost the frog-darter
and
a gas can.” He considered running away with the circus. Then Jeb noticed something. The bird could get airborne, but the weight of the can prevented it from gaining any altitude. It flapped and skimmed its way low over the water.

Jeb gave the motor full throttle. The boat planed up and took off like a shot across Lake Cumberland . . .

About that time, his father's trusty Hudson pickup truck with the running boards returned empty from the last hooch run. He walked around the side of the cabin and reached for the screen door. He stopped and squinted into the distance.

“What in the jumping fuck?” He walked slowly down toward the bank and scratched his head. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, live long enough and you will see damn near everything.”

Coming straight toward him, flapping for all it was worth, one of the largest horned owls he'd ever laid eyes on. Carrying a gas can. And right behind, his ten-year-old son, running the fishing skiff at top speed, one hand on the till, the other stretched out over the starboard side with a paddle.

Wham
.

The paddle snapped. The bird fell in the water and the boy circled around to fetch it. He breathed the biggest sigh of his short life, in the clear. Then he saw his dad onshore.

Gulp
.

Jeb docked the boat without speaking, and got out like everything was normal.

Cecil gazed down into the fishing skiff at a broken oar and a dead owl tied to a gas can. He looked up and studied the boy. “Son, what exactly have you been doing this morning?”

Jeb stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground. “Nothin'.”

“How'd my frog-darter get in that bird's foot?”

“I don't know.”

Cecil shook his head. “This is some bizarre enough shit.” He headed into the cabin.

Jeb stood in place and cringed.
Here comes the switch.

Instead, Cecil came back out with a Kodak Brownie camera. “Hold up that owl.”

Jebediah still kept that photo to this day. But he never did catch a catfish.

So they called him Catfish.

Chapter Five

KEY LARGO

A
n old Magnavox television flickered in the modest ranch house. Local news. The picture was a little snowy.

Coleman randomly tossed sofa cushions on the floor and glanced back at the tube. “Serge, do you think they'll chase another guy on TV today that we can throw rocks at?”

Serge ransacked the kitchen cupboards. “One can only hope.”

Coleman strolled to the dining room and dumped a handful of change on the table. “Found this in the couch.” A nickel skipped off and rolled across the terrazzo. “What about you?”

Serge closed a cabinet door. “Nothing.” He dumped food containers into the trash. “And I was hoping to find drugs or weapons.”

“Didn't you say this guy was ninety-three.”

“He still could have a roll of hundreds stashed in the sugar bowl or Metamucil.” Serge opened a box of spaghetti and watched thin sticks fall into the garbage. “Crap.”

Coleman went through the cushions of a recliner. “More money.” Seventy-eight cents went on the table. “Why are we going through this old guy's house anyway?”

Serge dug a hand into a large can of Folgers. “Because he's dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.” Serge emptied a box of Tide. “I don't kill
every
body.”

A thumping sound from behind a closed closet door. Muffled whining.

Coleman fired up a joint and looked back over his shoulder. “What are you going to do with the ATM guy?”

Serge held a jar of olives to his eye. “Still on the bubble . . . Did you check those chairs?”

Coleman grabbed another cushion. “You sure this is legal?”

“Not only is it legal—it's our job. I already explained this to you. Twice.”

“I was fucked up.”

“We were hired to clean out dead people's houses.”

“That's a job?”

“An excellent one.” Serge pulled out a lower drawer full of real silverware and dumped it into a suitcase that already contained sterling candleholders. “It's this economy. To survive, you have to find the weirdest jobs that nobody else thinks of. And with all the retirees in Florida, there's a booming, under-the-radar industry of people who get houses ready for probate sales. And it pays a ton better than cleaning up the homes of the living. Plus the best part of this job: The boss is dead . . . I used to put that in my résumés. ‘Seeking fifty-K-plus, flexible hours, dead boss.' But it never worked because I guess everyone else was asking for the same thing.”

“Why does this pay a ton better?”

“Because the people we're working for don't give a hoot.”

“I thought you just said the boss is dead.”

“Actually we're working for his estate, the kids and all.” Serge made room in the suitcase for a new food processor, which was a late-night infomercial impulse purchase that the deceased couldn't remember arriving. “It's all found money to the adult children. And that's why retiree-rich Florida leads this business: The heirs are a million miles away. Sure, they fly down for the funeral and the reception with barbecue-glazed mini-weenies and a casserole from a recipe on a bottle of Kraft ranch dressing. But then they can barely wait to rush back up north from where their loved ones retired.”

“Michigan?” asked Coleman.

“Sometimes. And they definitely ain't sticking around the house to get it ready for resale. They hire lawyers and real-estate agents and tell them: ‘Just get it done.' And then the people they hired hire
us
and pay ridiculous fees because nobody's counting. It doesn't come out of their end; they just want to turn the property. And most people are creeped out by this kind of job, especially if they didn't find the dude for a week and you have to deal with the mattress. It works out even better if they're like this guy and die intestate.”

“They cut his balls off?”

“Coleman! . . .”

Coleman took a toke and giggled. “I see dead people's stuff.”

“So how about giving me a hand with the stuff?”

“Okay.” Coleman crouched down and reached under the couch. “I think I found one of the miniweenies.”

“In case you're wondering, that goes in the trash.”

Coleman leaned and reached again. “But I thought you said your personal code only allowed you to steal from other criminals.”

“What I specifically said was I don't steal when it makes me feel guilty. Criminals are just the best example.”

“Still sounds like you're ripping off innocent people in grief.”

“Hey, I don't know from these kids.” Serge held a gold pocket watch to his ear. “If they cared, they'd be in the room with us right now, helping out, and then I'd get to know them and feel guilty.”

“And then you wouldn't rob 'em?”

Serge stopped to rub his chin. “Michigan's a tough call . . . I'd probably still do it but feel bad enough to put a couple bucks in the poor box, especially since I'd have to conk them in the head with the candleholders because it goes without saying you can't have them follow you out to the car, yelling in front of all the neighbors, ‘They're stealing forks and pocket watches and the Kitchen Pro Slice-O-Matic!' ”

“I still don't know,” said Coleman, lying on his side with his arm all the way under the couch. “What's that big word you use that means when you make excuses and fib to yourself?”

Serge opened a drawer on the TV stand. “ ‘Rationalizing'?”

“That's it. I think that's what you're doing.”

“Of course that's what I'm doing.” He grabbed a silver-dollar cowboy belt buckle handcrafted by Indians. “And here's how I rationalize my rationalizing. God gave us the ability to rationalize so we can stomach all the horrible things we're required to do every day just to survive the concrete jungle. ‘Yeah, it was shitty for me to eat some of his pudding cups from the employee refrigerator, but I was hungry. And he's a jerk.' ”

“Do animals in the real jungle have to rationalize?” asked Coleman.

“No, some predator sees food or an enemy, they rip its face off without a second thought,” said Serge. “But when we humans vote for candidates to take away the other guy's benefits—‘but keep your fucking hands off my Medicare'—we need to lie to ourselves. It makes us special.”

Coleman pulled his arm out from under the couch again. “How'd you learn about this job in the first place? . . . Here's a button.”

“From probate attorneys. They're recession-proof. They're
everything
-proof. Nothing can touch them. Why? Because people will always die, and heirs will always like to receive found money.” Serge's hands fanned through an invisible stack of currency. “When Armageddon reigns, and survival on this planet gets down to brass tacks, the last three left standing will be cockroaches, viruses and probate attorneys. Fade to black, check please.”

“I've never heard about this,” said Coleman.

“They don't teach it in business school, but whenever the economy comes unglued like House Speaker Boehner watching
Brian's Song,
we can survive and even prosper just by imitating exactly what probate attorneys do. Except we can't because we're not probate attorneys. The attorneys made that rule. So here's what you do. Let's say you're approaching middle age and suddenly remember you forgot to go to law school. Not the end of the world. Probate attorneys can't do it alone. They have to farm out the dirty work, and there's a whole, invincible, ambient economy surrounding them like a holy aura as they walk down the street. The answer is to study them and pick up tips for sidestream income in a down market. Or even better, follow them. Twenty-four/seven. That's what I do. They don't really like it. And that's why selling yourself is so important. My guy's name was Steve. I introduced myself real polite: ‘Can I call you Steve? I mean since I'll be following you. Or actually
have been
following. I got your name when I peeked in your mailbox, just before I peeked in your windows last night. But only the kitchen and your home office while you were licking stamps. But definitely not the bedroom, because personal privacy is number one with me! Let's get that out of the way from the get-go, in case you've heard the talk. Want some of this coffee? No? Good, 'cause I want it all. Excuse me while I kill this.
Glug, glug, glug.
So, anyway, I'd like to hear all your invaluable tips on secondary recession income . . . Why are you backing up on the sidewalk? Wait, slow down. Stop running . . . Face it, Steve, you can't outrun me. See how I'm easily keeping stride, and you're breathing and sweating like Rush Limbaugh being whipped by a jockey up a pyramid? I can do this all day. You don't want to turn down that alley; there's only the parking garage . . . Okay, you did it anyway. And you just made another careless error, running the wrong way on level one. I know this garage—you've just boxed yourself in. But since I now have you cornered against those walls, a few golden drops of your wisdom, please . . . Man, Steve, you're really shaking; dress shirt all stuck to your chest and shit. Are you trying to kick H? If you are, I know these cats. Revolutionary new technique. Forget nine to twelve weeks in a mountain chalet with Liza Minnelli. One week,
pow!
You hire them, and they grab you off the street without warning, sack over your head and into the back of a van. Variation on tough love, but incredible success rate . . . Steve, I'm trying to talk to you, but you've got your cell phone out. Am I not giving you
my
undivided attention? Don't call the police . . . You're still calling them. Gimme that thing. I'll give it back when we're done. You know those fantastic nature documentaries in high def where they get stupid-close to those big fuckin' sharks, and the one fish the sharks don't tear to a bloody mess are the little guys that clean their skin and eat the sidestream chunks of flesh that get stuck in their teeth? Get it? Sidestream income, sidestream flesh?
I want to be your skin cleaner
. That melody is Peter Gabriel's ‘Sledgehammer.' What ever happened to him? . . . Steve! You're fainting! . . . God
damn,
that's the biggest forehead gash I've ever seen.' . . . And then
I
had to call 911 . . .”

“Guess you didn't get any of his money tips,” said Coleman.

“Just the opposite,” said Serge. “It's how we landed this job.”

“You mean the place where we are now?”

Serge nodded and pocketed cuff links. “And the six houses before this when you weren't around. After the parking-garage mishap, I called Steve at home.”

“You had his number?”

“No, I was calling him through his bedroom window,” said Serge. “I promised no bedroom windows, but he wasn't answering the phone. And I'm standing there in the bushes saying I think his phone is broken, and his wife turned out to be a real screamer, and he motions for me to meet him at the front door. I finally see his face in half-decent light from the street, and I'm like, ‘Jesus, that's one big-ass bandage over your stitches. Couldn't the doctors have used anything smaller that doesn't tell everyone you faint for no reason?' . . . And he begs me to leave him alone, and to call his office in the morning. Of course I do, and his secretary explains this job about cleaning up after the dead and gives me an address, and then a few days later, a check from the real-estate agent arrives at the same address. Since then, whenever I need some extra cash, I just call Steve's office, and the secretary immediately gives me another address. It's almost as if she has a list taped to her phone. Steve's polite like that, respecting my time . . .”

Banging and whimpering from the closet.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “The ATM guy . . .”

“He'll get tired of doing that.”

Coleman herded dust bunnies on the floor. “But where'd you learn how to do this job?”

“What's to know?” Serge shrugged. “I don't even think they care how well I perform, because once I did a really crappy job. Showed up for an hour but got distracted by Fantasy Fest in Key West and didn't come back for three weeks, and when I finally remembered, I went to the real-estate agent's office to apologize, but her secretary says she's not in, and then I see some woman running out the back door and speeding away in a car. And the secretary suddenly hands me a check, full payment.”

“That's weird,” said Coleman, staring at the banging closet.

“Steve must have talked to that agent about me,” said Serge. “Put the ol' probate boot down on her neck: ‘You want to keep riding this gravy train? Don't fuck with my people.' ”

“Wow,” said Coleman. “Steve must really like you.”

Serge nodded again. “It's great having a probate attorney as a friend. They're very loyal.”