“Was I here?”
“Under the old Seven Mile, it’s all deep water, except partway across there’s a single peculiar little island under the piers, with a steep ramp rolling down to it. Very popular with postcard photographers,” said Serge. “Tourists driving down to Key West on the new bridge can’t miss it. They all look over and go: ‘Aw, how cute.’”
“Like a puppy?”
“Roughly the same level of low-grade gratification. But then puzzlement sets in, especially when they see the ramp. ‘What the hell is its deal?’”
“Serge, please tell us.”
“I cannot deny the public!” He leaned toward the window for a closer look. “A bunch of Henry Flagler’s people lived there when they were working on the oil baron’s Overseas Railroad, which opened in 1912 and at one point had four thousand employees toiling under the sun to erect it.”
“You said ‘erect.’” Coleman giggled. “I see a bunch of wooden buildings that got clobbered.”
“Some of the most beautiful examples of old Keys wooden construction. You’ll find verandas and gables and tin roofs. Tin is key to my roofing pleasure . . . Damn, it even hit the Honeymoon Cottage.”
“They look kind of familiar.”
“That’s because back in Key West I’ve dragged you through every art gallery on Duval Street.”
“I hate that!”
“I’ve noticed,” said Serge. “Might have something to do with the galleries being sandwiched between the bars.”
“So close and yet so far,” said Coleman. “I also hate it because whenever we go in galleries it means you’re going to get me in a headlock.”
“You won’t look at the paintings otherwise. You just keep pointing out the door with a trembling arm: ‘Beer,’” said Serge. “Culturing you up requires wrestling moves.”
“But then they always throw us out.”
“It’s so unfair,” said Serge. “Doesn’t opening a gallery mean they want people to admire art? And that’s what we’re doing, minding our own business looking at paintings with you in a full nelson. But no, they want us to do it their way. I try to explain that the whole concept of art is about individual expression, and I haven’t seen any signs that say ‘No Wrestling.’ They just fixate and respond that all your thrashing to get free is driving away the others.”
A burp. “And breaking vases.”
“That’s on them. They distracted me and your arms got loose.”
A fresh can of Schlitz popped. “What were we talking about?”
“The buildings that look familiar to you on Pigeon Key,” said Serge. “Before we got eighty-sixed from those galleries of shame, you’d seen dozens of killer paintings depicting quaint pastel cottages with fiery azaleas under vibrant coconut palms. A disproportionate number are from that little island under the bridge, because artists are always setting up easels down there to feel the muse. My favorites are the watercolors. Nothing captures the palette of the Keys like that medium, and I always get pumped visiting Pigeon Key and watching them work. They seem so happy. So I point out that the best art is spawned from a tortured soul, and offer to help. But here’s the thing I’ve learned about these art types: They’re highly sensitive, and as a general rule they don’t like their easels knocked over when you wrestle.”
The Plymouth came off the Seven Mile Bridge into Marathon.
Coleman hung out the window. “Man, there’s a whole lot less trash on the sides of the road.”
“It’s amazing what a difference twenty miles one way or the other makes when the eye comes ashore.”
Coleman pulled himself back inside the window and shotgunned the Schlitz. “Where to now?”
“Where we were going before the hurricane interrupted us,” said Serge. “Continuing our cemetery tour of Florida.”
“Is that what we were doing?”
“Cemeteries rock! They’re portals to our roots with all the obvious history, not to mention upbeat landscaping and bitchin’ statuary,” said Serge. “The perfect places for a picnic, except I always seem to be the only one with a basket and checkered blanket.”
“And playing a kazoo,” said Coleman. “Remember the one time they were lowering that guy into the ground?”
“I thought the music would cheer them up.”
“Instead they stomped your picnic basket.”
“That’s the downside of cemeteries,” said Serge. “The only occasions most people go is when there’s a lot of hysterical crying and they drag a dead body along. I don’t have room for that kind of negativity.”
The Plymouth crossed a couple of small bridges onto Grassy Key. Serge made a left turn near mile marker 58.
Coleman’s head was back out the window, staring at a round, blue-and-yellow sign.
Dolphin Research Center.
“This doesn’t look like a cemetery.”
“It’s not technically one,” said Serge. “But I’m including famous individual grave sites. My tour, my rules.”
“So who’s buried here?”
Serge parked. “Follow and find out.”
Moments later, the pair stood solemnly in a secluded corner of the property near the water, crowded by mangroves and other lush vegetation. In the middle of the plants was a statue. There was a marker below it. Serge knelt with a large sheet of paper and a block of colored wax, making a grave rubbing.
Coleman scratched his head and squinted at the statue of a tail-walking dolphin. “I thought you were taking me to where some scientist or soldier was buried.”
Serge continued lightly rubbing. “Back in the day, this majestic creature was arguably the most famous Floridian in the whole country.”
Coleman read over Serge’s shoulder. “Flipper?”
“The iconic dolphin was introduced to the world in 1963, but few viewers realized the star was actually a female dolphin named Mitzi. And even fewer know that this is her final resting place.”
“But why here?”
“Before becoming the research center in 1984, this place opened in 1958 as a roadside attraction named Santini’s Porpoise School, and Hollywood came calling. Mitzi trained and resided here until passing away in 1972.” Serge stood with his wax rubbing in hand and sniffled.
Coleman put a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, buddy?”
“We’re in the presence of gentle greatness,” said Serge. “Mitzi was a genius in the industry, able to pop out of the water and make clicking sounds that caused humans to respond: ‘What is it, Flipper? You say that an evil research scientist trying to poach rare tropical fish is trapped in his personal submarine near the coral reef surrounded by unexploded mines from World War Two training exercises?’”
“Wow,” said Coleman. “Next to that, ‘Timmy fell in the well’ makes Lassie look like an idiot.”
Chapter 2
Eight Years Earlier
Just before dawn. The horizon was on fire.
Literally.
Across hundreds of distant acres, bright orange flames whipped violently in the wind.