“Oh, no,” said Serge. “It was the real thing-the only force-five hurricane ever to hit the state.”

Serge let it sink in. The building was solid, but the wind hummed all around, and now that they were in an elevated structure, it blew under them too. The shutters held fast, but when the wind was at the right pitch, they resonated with a loud rat-a-tat.

Zargoza stared at Serge with eyes that had stopped blinking.

“They sent a train down from the mainland to evacuate those in the path,” said Serge. “But it got a late start, and the engineer decided in Miami to turn the train around. He said, ‘I ain’t goin’ down there and loading up a bunch of people and then back out of a force-five hurricane. When I’m leaving, I’m gonna be balls-out, facing forward.’ So he puts it in reverse and heads on down, and the train gets to Snake Creek, which divides Plantation Key from Windley Key, where they now have that Tropical Isle place. You’ve been there, haven’t you? It’s like if Disney had a spring break exhibit. But before it was like the Florida I remember as a kid.” The lack of medication floated Serge in a sea of memories. “…just-mowed lawns on a Saturday afternoon, splitting coconuts open on the sidewalk, catching stingrays…”

“What about the hurricane?” snapped Zargoza.

“Oh, yeah. So the train picks up a bunch of people at Snake Creek. The front edge of the storm is already over them, blowing like mad, and the barometer is something insane like twenty-six inches. It’s solid monsoon conditions, but the engineer presses on. There are more helpless people up ahead in the Matecumbe Keys. The hurricane thickens when they get to the last stop, and the engineer loads up the rest of the stranded residents. Then he stokes his engines and fires them full speed, back to Miami.

“They only get a few miles when the meat of the unnamed hurricane slams the islands. The Keys aren’t any more than six or eight feet at their highest elevation, and the railroad trestles aren’t any higher. They were wide open…”

Serge took another sip of water. He studied Zargoza; the hook was set.

“As the train races out of the Keys, the passengers are petrified. The train seems big and heavy and safe, but outside the wind is building to two hundred miles an hour. Nobody knows what the passengers might have seen-maybe a thirty-foot wall of water coming at them at fifty miles per hour. Or maybe they had no warning at all-the next thing they knew, the train was slapped off the tracks like a toy…”

Zargoza’s mouth had gone dry from hanging open.

“They couldn’t dig graves fast enough so they set fire to big mounds of bodies back at Snake Creek. The sky was black with the smoke. The islands were flat, and every tree was uprooted or snapped. There was one family who survived because the hurricane knocked their whole house off the foundation in one piece and it surfed the storm surge out into Florida Bay.”

“…And for months afterward corpses were found in the mangrove swamp,” said Barrymore.

The Diaz Boys began talking excitedly among themselves.

Serge pointed at the TV. “Hey, you’re missing the movie.”

31

Jethro Maddox awoke in his parachute harness in the middle of a hurricane, twisting and swinging wildly from the tallest palm tree behind Hammerhead Ranch. Every third or fourth swing, he hit the tree trunk. “Owww! Galanos!” He heard a loud, ripping sound and looked up.

“Oh, Mr. Temple, you’re hopelessly old-fashioned,” said Bogart. “Your ideas date back years. You still live in the time when America thought it could get along without the Johnny Roccos. Welcome back, Rocco, it was all a mistake…”

The Diaz Boys listened intently to the movie, and Zargoza began thinking about the briefcase. It wasn’t safe in the storm-he had to move it. No, that was more risky. No, move it. Don’t. Move it. Don’t. It was driving him insane. He stood and grabbed the back of a chair for support until he calmed down. Then he started walking slowly around the bar in a state of utter paranoia.

“Yeah, that’s me, sure! I was all those things-and more!” said Edward G. “When Rocco talked, people shut up and listened. What Rocco said went. Nobody was as big as Rocco!”

Serge picked up Zargoza’s vibe. Rope-a-dope was working. Serge’s gut told him it was time to make his move. Serge stuck his pistol inside his belt and covered it with his untucked tropical shirt. He turned the sound down on Key Largo and stuck the TV remote in his back pocket, and he began a wide circle around the bar, tracking Zargoza.

Zargoza picked up Serge in his peripheral vision. So that’s it! He’s the Judas! Zargoza patted his lower stomach, making sure his Colt was secure. He began counter-circling Serge.

Serge and Zargoza continued their pas de deux until each had circumnavigated the inside of the bar three times.

“All right!” shouted Zargoza. “Fuck this noise!”

He pulled the Colt and leveled it at Serge, who simultaneously went for his own piece. Except that Serge had become distracted by a historic photo of Tennessee Williams on the wall, and Zargoza beat him to the draw.

“Drop it! Now!” Zargoza shouted. Everyone flattened on the floor.

Serge froze in front of Tennessee ’s picture. Just as he realized Zargoza had gotten the jump on him, other voices began yelling.

“You drop it, Fiddlebottom!” It was the Diaz Boys, aiming TEC-9 submachine guns.

Zargoza dropped his weapon. “I asked you not to call me that,” he said demurely.

“Where’s the five million?” shouted Tommy Diaz, standing with his back to the big-screen TV. “We know you’ve been holding out on us!”

“What five million?” said Zargoza.

“Don’t play simple!”

On the other side of the room, Serge furtively slid the TV remote out of his back pocket. He knew Key Largo by heart. At the right moment, he pressed the volume button.

“Drop it or I’ll blast ya!” yelled Edward G. Robinson.

The Diaz Boys bolted upright. They dropped their guns.

“Now kick ’em away,” said Robinson.

They did, and the guns skittered across the wooden floor.

Almost as soon as they did: “Freeze!”

Serge turned and saw Zargoza had gotten his gun back and was pointing it at him.

“But I just helped you!” said Serge.

“Helping yourself to my money is more like it!” said Zargoza.

“What are you talking about?” said Serge.

“You know damn well…” By the end of the sentence, Zargoza was talking to himself and pacing, waving the gun distractedly, and Serge and the Diaz Boys ducked each time he did.

Tommy Diaz heard more dialogue behind him and he turned his head and peeked. “Hey! That was just the TV set! Foul! We get our guns back!”

Zargoza squeezed off a shot into the roof and mocked Tommy. “Foul! We get our guns back! Where’d you learn to be a hood? Everything’s inbounds!”

“That big gun in your hand makes you look grown up-you think!” said Barrymore. “I’ll bet you spend hours posing in front of a mirror.”

“Turn down that fucking TV,” Zargoza shouted over his shoulder, and Juan Diaz leaned and held down the volume button on the TV console until all the yellow bars marched to the left of the screen.

When Zargoza turned back around, he found Serge chatting socially with Art Tweed.

“Hey! This is a no-talking zone! Knock it off and move over there!” Zargoza motioned to Serge with the gun. “I thought we were pals, but you double-crossed me! You are so dead!”

“No, you’re dead!” said Serge, pointing a finger at Zargoza.

“No, you are!”

“You are!”

“No, you are!”

The other motel guests glanced at each other in terror, Serge and Zargoza still yelling in the background-“You are!” “No, you are!”-Here we go, a bloodbath.

“No, you are!” said Zargoza.

“Behind you!” said Serge.