Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey Page B

of alabaster light appeared on the ocean’s horizon, where a full moon prepared to rise over the Atlantic.
    Toward the north, a magical white aura from the distant Miami skyline and, closer, the lights of Key Biscayne with the outline of the Cape Florida lighthouse anchoring its southern tip.
    But the island remained a ways off, as did the mainland. Even farther to the south, the Ragged Keys and Boca Chita, the first dribbling specks of exposed coral that grew into the Florida Keys.
    A luxury fishing boat drifted silently with the tide in one of the isolated spots of Biscayne National Park. Serge stood up on the bridge with a nautical map and a flashlight, waiting for the moon. Two would-be carjackers lay by the bilge, wiggling with hands tied behind their backs.
    “We weren’t going to hurt anyone!” “I swear we’ll never do it again!”
    “All my guests say that.” Serge unloaded scuba equipment from one of the oversize duffels in the boat. “And they’re always right.”
    The assailants stared at weight belts and mesh gear bags. “W-w-what are you going to do to us?”
    “Thought we’d play a little game. You watch David Letterman ? He leaves me in stitches!”
    “Please let us go! We’ll do anything! We’ll pay you!”
    “Shhhhh.” Serge repacked the bag. “You won’t be able to experience the peace out here.”
    A beer cracked. “Where’d you get this boat?” asked Coleman.
    “Stan.”
    “Stan?”
    “The High-End Repo Man. He owed me. You’ll meet him later.”
    The moon finally rose, giving Serge needed illumination. He raised binoculars.
    Coleman guzzled. “What are you looking for?”
    Serge scanned the water. “A house.”
    “House?” Coleman crumpled the aluminum can. “But we’re in the middle of the sea.”
    “It’s one of our state’s most fascinating and historic features.” The binoculars stopped. “And there it is.”
    “What?”
    “Stiltsville.” Serge cranked the twin inboards and began motoring east just above idle speed. “A village of old wooden shacks on piers in the water.”
    “Way out here?” said Coleman.
    “That’s the coolest part.” Serge pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up on a plane. “Most pier houses simply extend from shore, or sit just a short distance from it. Not Stiltsville! In the 1930s, these crazy pioneers started building them far out in the bay on the edge of the open Atlantic, a harrowing distance from nearest land. At its peak there were dozens, but neglect and hurricanes thinned their numbers until now only seven are left standing. If it was daytime, you’d see a colorful collection of eclectic huts with wraparound decks perched in bright emerald-and-turquoise water.”
    The boat continued across the water without running lights except for the orange glow from Coleman’s joint. “But why’d they build them so far from shore?”
    “To party.” Serge brought the boat around starboard.
    “Hold it,” said Coleman. “For a second I thought you said ‘party.’ ”
    “It was the first of many wild eras in Miami. The well heeled needed places to keep law enforcement at bay, and they held wild affairs at since-forgotten icons like Crawfish Eddie’s, the Quarterdeck Club, the Bikini Club, and the Calvert. The area used to be called ‘the Flats’ and ‘the Shacks,’ until ‘Stiltsville’ stuck. Despite its remoteness, there still were frequent raids over alcohol and gambling. One outside porch got so crowded with partiers that it collapsed under the weight. They filmed episodes of Miami Vice there.”
    Coleman leaned eagerly and strained his eyes. “Do they still party?”
    “No, most are now just private homes.”
    “Damn.” A frown. “I wish I lived back then.”
    “You do in spirit.” Serge looked back toward the bilge. “Guys, you might want to sit up or you’ll kick yourselves for missing this. Actually you won’t be able to miss it, thanks to my plan.”
    Coleman pointed with the joint.