Read Online Coconut Cowboy by Tim Dorsey - Free Book Online

hats?”
    â€œInsurance,” said an insurance man.
    They all observed workers packing up an exotic scientific contraption that vaguely reminded them of a moon rover. Then they turned to Peter. “Well?”
    He scribbled on a clipboard. “Ground-­penetrating radar checks out.”
    â€œSo we’re good?”
    â€œAlmost,” said Peter. “You paid for the full treatment.”
    The workers began inserting a series of evenly spaced metal rods in a straight line across the property, attaching wires and instruments.
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked a leading expert in the field of food courts.
    â€œElectric resistivity test,” said Peter. “We’re going to pump a bunch of current into the ground.”
    â€œStand back,” said the insurance guy.
    â€œWhat’s that do?” asked the anchor-­store tenant manager.
    Peter gave a high sign for his subordinates to hit the power. “Measures discrete intervals of conductivity, which are then processed through inversion software to create a cross section of substrata.”
    â€œHuh?”
    Peter flipped a page on his clipboard. “Tells us whether this land will hold your buildings.”
    â€œIt never used to be this involved,” said the guy who made the architectural scale model that included tiny customers on escalators that he got from train-­set kits.
    â€œIt’s getting more so . . .” said Peter.
    â€œ . . . Ever since that sinkhole swallowed the Corvette Museum in Bowling Green, Kentucky,” said the insurance man.
    â€œWhat’s a sinkhole doing in Kentucky?”
    â€œWhat’s a Corvette museum doing in Kentucky?”
    â€œJust about finished.” Peter received a data sheet from one of his colleagues. “Still have to bounce this off our baseline models at the home office, but I’d sleep well tonight.”
    â€œSo you’re saying we won’t have any sinkholes?”
    â€œI’d never say never,” replied Peter. “But if it was my money, I wouldn’t hesitate to build here.”
    A cell phone rang. Everyone checked pockets. “That’s mine,” said Peter, turning around for privacy. “Pugliese here . . . You have another job for me? . . . Of course I know where Wobbly is. I live there . . . What? They asked for me by name?”
    U.S. HIGHWAY 31
    Nothing but cows and fields and webs of vines covering power poles. Keg-­chested men in camouflage proudly emerged from a forest with assault rifles and trophy squirrels. The sky was so blue. A ’72 Mercury Comet sped through southern Alabama.
    â€œHere comes the state penitentiary in Atmore,” said Serge. “Home of their death chamber.”
    Coleman held his joint down as they passed the guard towers. “Have I seen this place before?”
    â€œProbably recognize it from the Prison Channel.”
    â€œPrison Channel?”
    â€œThat’s what I call MSNBC,” said Serge. “A lot of ­people hate that channel because of its politics, but my main beef is an abject neglect of journalism. Here’s this twenty-­four-­hour news outlet with the unlimited resources of the NBC mother ship, faced with a million news stories exploding in our shrinking world, so I’ll turn it on in the middle of the night to update my global perspective, and immediately smack myself: ‘Dear God in heaven! Not another six-­hour binge-­athon of Lockup Raw !’ ”
    â€œThey use dental floss like fishing lines to pass notes between cells.”
    â€œPossibly interesting the first time,” said Serge. “But it’s like a freakin’ bass tournament, and my brain’s hard drive has exceeded capacity on things to make a shank out of.”
    â€œToothbrush, melted comb, mop handle, glued Bible pages,” said Coleman. “They also have an impressive number of uses for their