Preview of Friendly Skies

Palm trees are nice. Some white sand, a gentle sway from a trade wind, a margarita and some conch fritters, so vacationy. Throw in some shapely tan legs peeking out from a beach lounger and you got yourself a travel brochure.

But some are killers.

Pretty good maimers too.

We'll just park you under a palm tree until you're all better.

“Well, that didn't take long,” Maricella said. “We're here five minutes and you get conked with a coconut.” Maricella Naimo. Mob girl with a penchant for fine art and really cool shoes. The coconut who forgot to duck is her brother. Possibly stepbrother, but no one knows for sure. That's a really long story of a different color.

“Stop leading with your face. Wacko.” Hadji. Teenage extortionist, master surveiller, and grandmaster tormentor of all things authority. Always saying the nicest things.

The conked, formerly-parked person in question is one Damon Aloicious Ramp, former CIA intelligence analyst, underachieving yellow pages salesman, and wrestler of mean branches, the latter being part of the really long story. Also a new member of the Naimo crime family, making him the aforementioned relation to the mob girl in the Jimmy Choo sandals. But his current position has him as patient No. 2 in room 315. The one that looks like Zorro, courtesy of the black carbon-fiber mask in place to keep a broken nose in check after being TKO'd by yet another tree.

“Heh-heh. Righteous mask, kemosabe.”

Or the Lone Ranger, if you prefer. Other preferences might include the Boy Wonder, Kato, or the Hamburglar. Life's rich pageant.

“I tried praying for you, but the chief is having none of it,” the priest said. “It's like you've been blocked on Twitter—BY GOD.” Father Guerrier has a unique history with the coconut aficionado, that being the honor of once having been his hostage, yet another color of the really long story. The reasons for Damon being blocked by the chief are legion, the most egregious of which being the desecration of communion wafers that took place at a little French church in St. Paul, subsequent to the hostage taking. It is now simply referred to as “the incident,” due to its troubling nature, the most disturbing aspect of the troubling part being the stomping that occurred after the desecration, one of those insult to injury things. Doing the Schuhplattler on one of the chief's stages with communion wafers under your Bruno Maglis will definitely get you on the guano list, and dollars to doughnuts with a neon highlight and a red flag under a klieg light. Also a mandatory showing of Scared Straight: H-E Double Hockey Sticks, just to be sure.

It is to no one’s surpirse that a vacation was needed after all the shooting, extorting, desecrating, kidnapping, and general mob tomfoolery that threw all these aforementioned bananas in a bunch in the first place. Good vibrations and glad tidings associated with their grand adventure notwithstanding, a mere mention of somewhere warm was enough to get the coconut rolling, or falling, as it were. Minnesota winters are long, spring takes a long time to, well, you know, gunfire stresses me out, let's go to fucking Florida. So tumultuous were the aforementioned events, that some bonus distance was needed for the getaway, and you can't get farther south than Key West, the southernmost point in the United States. It started out as a vacation for two, then some teenage buttinski butted in, the priest caught wind, and the currently missing FBI banana of the bunch needed to go fishing, so much so that he hasn't bothered to check in since he left. It should be noted that the present-and-accounted-for bananas drove the missing banana to drugs and drink. Also corrupted his minidonkey, although it is suspected that his evil ways may have come straight from the factory. And what's a few more weirdos in Florida. Like the 34-year-old Tampa man who called 911 eighty times to demand Kool-Aid, hamburgers, and weed.

Oh yeah.

The missing banana of the bunch just couldn't get out of his old peel fast enough. Special Agent William Charles simply walked away from everything and kept on walking, peeling off the layers as he went. Of course, a guy can't just walk around naked, so concessions were in order. So the Brooks Brothers got traded in for Tommy Bahama, his service Glock for an Ugly Stik, off with the homburg, on with the fishing hat, all aboard the damn boat. So the rumply man in the suit got traded in for the rumply man in beachwear. And in further evidence that everything he touched was prone to rumple, his selection of a charter looked like the tramp steamer Rita in Creature from the Black Lagoon. Complete with a crusty captain, who answered to the name of Rusty as opposed to Lucas. Probability was high that he got called Crusty once in a while.

The plan was grouper and snapper, something tasty as opposed to scary, such as the Gill Man, who really wasn't that scary, sounded like a 1912 Pierce-Arrow car horn, but had theme music to make his case, BAH-BAH-BAHHH, which was played over a hundred times in the movie and don't you forget it, BAH-BAH-BAHHH, not that it would let you. Important if you want to make an impression, which Julie Adams most excelled at. Couldn't blame Gilly for taking a run at that.

Also making a run on Rumples' crusty charter was Jen, his daughter from his first marriage, now a marine biologist based out of Miami, who was close enough to actively participate in some father-daughter catching-up. Jen had some upcoming field work in the Keys, and was awaiting a different, much-improved charter of her own, one actually built in the post-LBJ era, that was sure to have technology and stuff. At least enough to trump a RadioShack marine radio.

“This is absolutely you,” Jen said, looking over Captain Rusty's trawler, the Rusty Nail. “How is this even possible? You're like Pig-Pen with the private dust storm thing, only yours are wrinkles. Is there a rumpled option in goods and services that I'm not privy to?”

“Perhaps they're wrinkles from ancient civilizations,” Rumples said with an elegant lilt. Pigs shed a dusty tear.

“You still have the K-car, don't you? What say you, Crusty?” That didn't take long.

“Aye. I, Rusty, belong to the sea. Guy could use an iron though. The LeBarons were nice.”

“That-a-way, Crusty. First part was a little weird, but nice recovery. Thought you were going to break into a sea chantey for a sec.”

“Forgive the fresh-mouthed girl, Captain Rusty,” Rumples said. “A little too like the mother, I'm afraid, which speaks volumes to the divorce. Stay married to the sea, my friend.”

“Aye. No worries, mon.”

“Damn. Outnumbered by the Rumplebots,” Jen said.

“Speaking of which,” Rumples said. “Our numbers will be growing tomorrow. I'm taking a young man fishing. Please tell me you're coming along, my lovely, fresh-mouthed little child.” A murmur of devilish snickers was noted.

“Adding another to the Rumplebot posse? Bring it, daddy-o.”

“Trust me, little one, bring it I shall. Goes by the name of Hadji.”

“Where pray tell did you dig this one up?”

“He was cast straight out of hell.”

“Rehabilitation project?”

“I kind of like the little devil. Don't think he had much of a chance to be a kid.”

“So magnanimous of you. What's he like?”

“Someone just like you. Also enjoys tormenting authority figures. Put a couple of my agents in counseling.”

“We just might get along.”

“You just might be throwing him overboard.”

“I'm going to get a head start on some tagging I need to do. He can be my assistant. Is he more dolphins or sharks?”

“Definitely the shark type.”

“Sharks it is. He can do the chum—I hate that part.”

“Migratory patterns of what species this time?”

“Tigers and hammerheads are on the docket. And I sense a little cynicism there. Whatevs—any chance I get to wield a speargun and play kick-ass girl, I'm taking. Very empowering you know.”

“Thought we already kind of knew where they went. Hell, even the Domino's guy can get a mackerel pizza to them in thirty minutes or less.”

“They're both on the trouble list. And the new satellite tags are very cool. Throw out all kinds of data. But still, don't tell anyone. Then I couldn't play with the speargun anymore on the really cool boat. No offense, Crusty.”

“Aye. I, Rusty—”

“Really needs to get off the damn boat once in a while.”

“Imagine being married to something like that.”

“Aye. That'd put a shiverin' in the timber.”

Take that, Hemingway.

Preparing Damon's face so as not to frighten the entire tourist economy of Key West into a careening downward spiral was a more arduous undertaking than first anticipated. His was a gnarly affair of egregious woundage, a multilayered scab-o-rama of fleshy horror that made you wonder if that crazy face-eating guy in Miami was zombified and on the loose again. Its strata consisted of wounds sustained from Damon's misadventure up north, where he had to bushwhack through a forest of really mean trees in escaping the Mafia compound where he was taken after being kidnapped by long-lost relatives, who really just wanted to say hello, but didn't know how to express it in a normal fashion. Playing nice was not part of the curriculum at Wiseguy High. Perhaps the flora and fauna around the compound were of the same sort. Wiseguy trees. The squirrels had names like Rocco and Carmine.

On top of the stitch-marked goalie mask look Gerry Cheevers wore with the Boston Bruins circa 1970 were the more fleshy wounds. Damon's nose looked like a chewed-up dog toy, its skin ragged and split and brimming with myriad colors from the color wheel, mostly relations in the red family, but with some seriously messed-up mutations shaken loose from the hillbilly family tree. Throw in a couple of black eyes and you've got Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera after playing in a Bruins-Flyers donnybrook that clocked over 400 penalty minutes. Ahem. Symmetric perfection at 360°. In other, significantly less, words:

He was a mess.

It was rightly deemed that Damon should stick with the Zorro look. It covered most of the ugliness, kept the broken nose in check, but also added a modicum of cool, which was right in fashionista Maricella's wheelhouse, who picked Damon up a black Bolero to properly accessorize the Don Diego swashbuckling look. Trouble was, there was no way he was going to get his glasses on over the mask, so he would have to stumble along as blind Zorro. Aiding and abetting the stumbling was a copious amount of pain medication. And Damon still wasn't right from his last go-round in the enchanted mob forest. Mentally unbalanced. Blind. Stoned. Zorro. Also rightly deemed was the suggestion that this Zorro should probably not be armed with a sword.

It was a cross between walking an overly coutured dog and bringing out the gimp. Of course, the costuming and tropical vibe made it a little more surreal, which went really well with the Felliniesque variety show going on in Damon's brain, which was like the Ed Sullivan show on acid. And this Ed was really hammered. This Ed also did the hula with Mister Ed, kept trying to sabotage the plate-spinning guy, taunted Topo Gigio with a giant rat trap, and suggested Señor Wences put a different head in that box before threatening him with deportation. This explained all the giggling. And, in an immutable law of the universe, our tripping, swashbuckling hero was suddenly feeling social. Imagine that.

Damon worked Duval Street like a friendly eighteen-year-old on his first drunk. Everybody is your friend. You try to pet alligators. New and improved lines of gimpery come about due to this type of behavior, as you discover that alligators view petting in an altogether different manner than your average poodle. But Duval Street loved Stoned Zorro right back, because everyone wants to be Stoned Zorro's friend. A lady from one of the shops draped a cape around him; swashbuckling moves were made. Selfies were took with such frequency that Stoned Zorro needed to set up a booth.

Maricella needed something else.

“Okay, Don Diego, that's about enough,” Maricella said. Stoned Zorro made another imaginary Z with his imaginary sword. She palmed the top of his Bolero and pointed it toward a sign. “Margaritaville. Now.”

“Hoh-hoh! Andale, andale!” They don't call him Stoned Zorro for nothing.

“Okay, not sure where the French part comes in. Sounded like a little Speedy Gonzales on the side.”

Also on the side was a cocktail monkey, swinging from the side of Damon's pomegranate martini. There was a bonus side consisting of a pair of blackberries impaled by a cocktail sword.

“Oh, joy. And they brought you toys.”

Stoned Zorro was kind of exhausting.

“Earth to Damon. Please come back,” Maricella pleaded. “You okay in there?”

“I now have a better understanding of the drug problem,” Damon said, sounding a little closer to Earth. “Heavens to Betsy, this stuff is fantastic.”

As is the hours of happy fun that are cocktail swords. Especially in the hands of stoned people. Plus a bonus monkey.

Whee.

It was the three-hour tour to end all three-hour tours, but with significantly more sexual harassment. Better start with the parrot.

“Get many women aboard, Crusty?” Jen asked, after stowing some gear in the cabin. It was a loaded question. Absolutely snockered, in fact.

Crusty was slow in answering. Namely, he didn't, which was an answer in itself. It was accompanied by a look. A very wary look. A slight cringe was noted.

In addition to marine biology, Jen dabbled in impressionism.

Not the Monet kind.

“Squawk! Slippin' her the timber! Money's on the dresser, money's on the dresser!”

“Aye. I rue the day I got that bird.”

Of course, turnabout is fair play. Sometimes pinch hitters are employed. This one goes by the name of Hadji.

“Shiver me timber any day, doll. Hubba ferosh—I'll be your little helper.”

“Missed that Afterschool Special on sexual harassment, did you?” Jen said.

“Might have to keep me after school, Miss Landers. Better set me right . . .”

“Ooze any more creepage and you're going in that chum bucket.”

“Heh-heh.”

“Oh, good—I was hoping you two would introduce yourselves,” Rumples said. “But please allow me this special pleasure: Jennifer? Satan. Satan? Meet your match. Carry on, children.”

“Is it going to hit on me the entire time?” Jen asked.

It was a look best described as one a large cat would have after bagging the world's plumpest canary.

“I will be severely disappointed if he stops for one minute.”

But sometimes curiosity gets the better of the cat. In this case, the cat's helper. In fact, it what was in the case that got this whole curiosity thing meowing in the first place. It was a fancy black case. It was open and being inventoried. In addition to Hadji's primary predilection, a close second was electronics. Especially the surveilling kind. And they were being inventoried by someone who looked really good in khaki shorts. This was hitting the lottery on Christmas.

“Those sat-driven tags?” Hadji asked Jen, kneeling in beside her.

“PSATs,” Jen said. “Pop-off satellite archival telemetry tags, hooked to the Argos satellite. Hoping to get one of these into a tiger or hammerhead today.”

“What kind of data?”

“Well, aren't you Mr. Curious? Oh, the usual stuff—migration patterns, range, temps, water pressures, longitude and latitude. Throw out all kinds of data. Can handle pressures to 5,000 feet. Preprogrammed too, can hang with a fish from a few days to a year. Pretty awesome stuff.”

“PTT-100s?”

“Newer X models, weigh about an ounce and change. What—were you briefed or something? This isn't your typical teenager's bailiwick. What gives?”

“I like surveillance gear.”

“Weird hobby.”

“Useful though. They work on land too?”

“Sure. They've been used for sailing and expedition tracking.”

“Awesome.”

Jen looked curiously at her father.

“Just don't let him drive your tractor and you'll be fine,” Rumples said. Hadji did make a mess out of Rumples' hobby farm. Killed a woodshed. Totaled a government Suburban. The myriad colors of the really long story.

“Heh-heh. Mutt and Jeff still in counseling?” Tormenting FBI agents was another facet of Hadji's unusual skill set.

“And don't ever forget that you're dealing with Satan.”

“Mwahhahaha.”

“And you might want to keep him away from that speargun,” Rumples added.

Hadji needed a warning label.

“Sheesh. Just make me a list,” Jen said.

“And pets. You definitely don't want him around your pets—he turned my minidonkey into an apostate from hell.”

“What do you suppose he'd do with a parrot?” Jen asked.

“It would be speaking in tongues like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.”

“Oh. Never mind.”

“Wait,” Rumples said. “You have a parrot, Rusty?”

“Aye.”

“Can he talk?”

“Aye. Afraid so.”

“And where did Hadji go?”

“Down below,” Jen said. “Um, with the parrot.”

Sounds of mischievous laughter could be heard from down below.

“That can't be good.”