“You’re one lucky boy,” she cackled. “Lucky old Booger took a liking to you, lucky I was there to pull you out.”
“Booger?”
“He’s a manatee,” she said. “He’s the last sane creature that lives in these parts, and that includes me. All the fuss erupted downtown, I went over to have a chat with Booger, see if maybe he thought this was a sign.”
“A sign?” Deal’s head was swimming again.
“The beginning of the end,” she said. “Booger and me got a running bet. Hundred and two, I think I’ll be around to witness it, he says we got a ways to go yet. I found him in his little grotto, keeping you propped up on a chunk of boat seat.”
The dream was coming back to him now. The vague presence, being propelled upward, toward a pool of light he’d taken for the light. He shook his head.
“Did you have a flashlight with you?” he asked.
“You think I can see in the dark?” she snorted. “Here, raise up some. I want you to take a drink of this.”
He felt a wiry hand under his neck, sensed something warm and steaming at his lips. The smell was bitter, even searing. “What is it?” he said.
“Swamp yarbs,” she said. “Now drink it, or I’ll hold your nose and pour it down you.”
Deal sensed it wasn’t a bluff. He was so weak he had no doubt she was capable of doing exactly what she said. He nodded, helped her guide the cup to his lips.
Despite its wretched smell, the brew tasted amazingly good. Licorice, he thought. And something earthy. With an unidentifiable blend of herbs. It was bracing. And just as quickly, soporific. He was drifting again by the time his head hit the pillow.
“Booger showed me what you floated in on,” she said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Deal said.
“What you had tied to that boat seat,” she said.
Deal shook his head. “I… I fell into the water,” he said.
“Course you did,” she said. “You wrecked your boat and damn near drowned.”
“No,” he said. He felt himself spiraling. “I didn’t.”
“Carrying a thing like that, I’d hate to admit it myself,” she said.
Deal wanted to protest again, but he was just too tired.
“I showed it to Booger, though,” she cackled. “Fried his apples, I’ll tell you. See there, I told ‘im. Here comes the end of the world, Booger, just like I said.”
He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about, but she’d get no argument from him. Not this night. She was still cackling when he went under for good.
3. BISCAYNE BLUES—Paul Levine
Just how much is a whiplash worth?” John Deal asked, twisting awkwardly in his cervical collar.
“That depends on whether Dr. Scheinblum is sober when he testifies,” his lawyer, Jake Lassiter, answered.
Deal hadn’t been in court since an action film star had sued him over a broken pump motor in a custom-built Jacuzzi. Lassiter had won the case, cleverly arguing that the tub hadn’t been intended for a dozen persons, eleven of whom happened to be strippers from Club Plutonium, bobbing for apples and whatnot in the foamy water.
Deal had nearly been late this morning. Though a native of Miami who had built houses in virtually every neighborhood, he had become lost on a stretch of Eighth Street—Calle Ocho—recently renamed Olga Guillot Way. A few blocks to the west, the same street was called Celia Cruz Way, then Loring P. Evans Memorial Boulevard. He’d turned north on what had been a familiar avenue, now renamed General Maximo Gomez Boulevard, and followed a Porsche with the personalized plate LAWYER. Like boasting about having the clap, Deal thought.
Heading downtown, he’d vaguely wondered how he could get the street sign contract for the city, something he figured would keep him as busy as a coffin maker in a spaghetti western. The construction business was slow, and Deal was hoping for a decent settlement on his personal-injury claim, at least enough to lift the subcontractors’ liens on his latest job and get his backhoe out of hock.
Once on Flagler Street, Deal had paid a shoeless guy five bucks to clean the windshield and watch over the rental Taurus in a rubble-strewn spot under the I-95 ramp. Walking two blocks to the courthouse, he’d woven through a crowd of demonstrators who were protesting conditions on a Caribbean island that Deal could not place on a map. On the courthouse steps, the Voodoo Squad, two janitors with buckets and brooms, were gathering up a dead chicken, a goat’s head, and a cake with frosted icing, all intended to cast various spells on judges and juries. Overhead, the turkey vultures circled in the updrafts, while inside, their double-breasted, dark-suited cousins hustled clients at the elevators.