Free Coconut Cowboy by Tim Dorsey Page B

you . . .”
    The mayor suddenly felt a silent presence behind him and spun. Elroy, Slow and Slower. “Jesus, will you not do that anymore?”
    â€œSorry,” said Elroy. “We just wanted to let you know about the . . . errand.”
    â€œWhat errand?”
    â€œYou know.” The youth tilted his head in the general direction of Jabow’s house.
    â€œNo, I don’t know!” Vernon said with growing impatience. “Speak English. Where was this errand?”
    Slow rubbed his fingers together, indicating cash. “The hiding place.”
    Elroy elbowed him. “Shut up!”
    Vernon shot a quick, forced grin at Peter and Mary. “Apologize, but I’m going to have to take this in private. Family, you understand.” He gathered the trio in the back of the room. “Don’t you ever bring that up in here! What’s wrong with you guys? The last two I know the answer, but I expect more from you, Elroy . . .” The mayor turned again to smile at the ­couple. “Just be a minute. We’re really talking about Founders’ Day.”
    The ­couple exchanged awkward glances.
    Vernon finally came back. “There, then, where were we? You wanted to ask something?”
    â€œMy company called and said I had a job coming up in Wobbly. You requested me personally?”
    â€œThat’s right,” said Vernon. “When we heard what you did for a living, it was a perfect fit. We always like to throw business to locals. It’s only neighborly.”
    â€œSo what is this job?”
    He waved a hand in the air once again. “I don’t know all that fancy book-­learnin’ stuff. I got common sense. But I hear it’s real easy work, and the pay is more than great. Since it’s government money, we spend it like it’s someone else’s.”
    â€œIt is someone else’s,” said Peter.
    â€œI told everyone you were sharp,” said Vernon. “Need to go check on those banners. They won’t get straight by themselves.”
    â€œI don’t know how to repay you,” said Peter.
    â€œYou will.”
    The high-­pitched whine of a stunt plane passed over the restaurant’s roof.
    THE PANHANDLE
    Serge held up a finger for the mechanic to wait while he finished draining a jumbo travel mug of coffee.
    Bear Claw covertly rolled his eyes. “So what can I do you fellas for?”
    Serge decisively placed his hands on his hips and assessed the property. “I aim to buy some mean machines. Money up front. Where do we pay?”
    â€œYou seem to know what you want.”
    â€œAbsolutely,” said Serge. “We’re on a journey. Small towns, Lawton Chiles, Coleman’s the drug czar.”
    Coleman pointed at him. “You may be stoned.”
    Bear Claw squinted, then shrugged and began walking ahead of them. “You probably want a hog. You better want a hog, ’cause I don’t carry no rice-­burnin’ crotch-­rockets.” He spat on the ground.
    Serge spit, too. “Hogs put the American in American Dream. Plant us on Harleys!”
    â€œHere’s a nice one. A sharknose with low miles. And we got a Super Glide . . .”
    â€œNo, no,” said Serge. “Keep going.”
    â€œA ­couple of Road Kings, a Sportster, a Street Bob . . .”
    â€œNo, no, no.”
    The man tugged on his beard. “That’s pretty much the range. I thought you really wanted one.”
    Serge’s neck jerked around. “Where’s the Holy Grail?”
    â€œWhy don’t you just tell me straight out what you’re looking for?”
    Serge’s arms shot up over his head as he gripped the sky. “A bitchin’ chopper with those super-­high handlebars.”
    â€œYou mean a hardtail with ape-­hangers?”
    â€œApe-­hangers, right!” Serge’s arms stayed up. “ Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! Those were chimpanzee