Free Coconut Cowboy by Tim Dorsey

over the marshes and deltas of Escambia Bay. Serge gazed south across the water at the more massive, contemporary bridge for Interstate 10, running parallel a few miles south. A wry smile as he nodded to himself. “They never saw this coming.”
    A few minutes later, the Mercury approached the twin cities of Milton and Bagdad. Old church steeples and unmowed cemeteries and onion rings at a drive-­in. They parked in front of a corrugated aluminum building with a gravel lot and a plywood sign: E D’Z D EAD S LEDZ.
    A bearded man emerged from the open garage door wearing an untucked blue shirt with oil stains. The beard was red. He would eat a pickled egg later that afternoon but didn’t know it yet.
    â€œYou must be Ed,” said Serge.
    â€œEd’s dead.” The man wiped greasy palms on crusty jeans. “Name’s Bear Claw.”
    â€œYou’re named after a pastry?”
    â€œHell no! The pegs.”
    â€œPegs?”
    â€œWhere you put your feet on the motorcycle,” said Bear Claw. “You do ride, don’t you?”
    â€œOh, we ride all right,” said Serge. “We even ride in our sleep.”
    â€œAnd we sleep when we ride,” said Coleman.

 
    Chapter EIGHT
    WOBBLY
    T he afternoon sun twinkled through the oaks on Main Street.
    As of that morning, each block had a banner draped high across the road that would remain for the next two weeks.
    F OUNDERS’ D AY C ELE BRATION.
    Smaller banners with the same idea hung from each of the street’s antique lamp posts. A fireworks tent was pitched in the parking lot of the Primitive Baptist Church. Against the last post in front of Lead Belly’s barbecue stood a ladder. There was a man at the top and another at the bottom.
    â€œGet that damn thing straight,” shouted Vernon. “We got ­people coming.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Footsteps. Vernon turned. “Oh, Peter and Mary. Pleasant afternoon.”
    Peter gazed up at the long row of fluttering flags with the town’s official seal of a pioneer in a coonskin cap gallantly pointing at something just off the edge of the seal. “Looks like you got a big event planned here.”
    â€œFounders’ Day is the biggest!” said Vernon. “Means the world to this community.”
    â€œI respect that,” said Peter. “Fewer and fewer ­people seem to know how important it is to preserve heritage.”
    â€œHeritage?” said Vernon. “This is rivalry!”
    â€œRivalry?”
    Vernon nodded extra hard. “Our section of Florida has a growing number of quaint old boutique towns fighting for visitors’ dollars. You got Deland, Deltona, Debary, Casselberry, Cassadaga, Lake Mary, Lake Helen, Mount Dora. Mount! Give me a break!”
    An unseen buzzing sound grew louder in the distance.
    Peter looked around like he was trying to follow a moth. “Where’s that coming from?”
    â€œCrash,” said Vernon.
    â€œAn accident?”
    â€œNo, Crash Boggs.” He pointed straight up.
    A small but nimble acrobatic plane appeared above the tree tops. Red, white and blue. If Evel Knievel had a plane, this would be it. The craft climbed skyward, glinting in the sun as it performed a series of barrel rolls.
    â€œYour Founders’ Day has an air show?”
    â€œForced to. These other small towns aren’t fooling around.” He looked back up the ladder. “The goddamn thing still isn’t straight! Don’t make me come up there and kick your ass!” Then toward Peter and Mary again: “There’s a fiercely aggressive competition to prove who’s the most laid-­back.”
    â€œAny way we can help?” asked Peter.
    â€œBring your checkbook inside and join us.”
    He opened the door to the rib joint, which was hosting some kind of low-­grade organizational party. Schoolchildren made decorations, a bluegrass band rehearsed, volunteers signed various