Chapter 2: This Is Why We Don't Trust Dolphins
We were halfway to the marina, blasting '80s hair metal and swerving like we were being chased by ghosts, when Kevin launched himself from the trunk and landed in my lap holding a half-eaten Slim Jim and a stolen scratch - off ticket.
“He’s getting twitchy,” Tammy said, one eye on the road, the other apparently focused on a hallucination. “Last time he did that, the mayor’s pool caught fire.”
“How the hell do you catch a pool on fire?”
She lit another menthol. “Gasoline, mostly.”
The marina was crawling with tourists in flip-flops and matching sunburns, most of them three margaritas into the kind of bad decisions that get you legally disowned. Every one of them looked like a suspect.
“I don’t like this,” I muttered. “Too many clean shirts. This smells like a trap.”
Tammy pulled into a parking spot labeled “RESERVED FOR CAPTAIN RICK (NO EXCEPTIONS).” Then she hit the wipers and muttered, “You want subtle or fast?”
“Both.”
She killed the ignition and reached under her seat, pulling out a flare gun and a bag of jerky. “Then stay close, and don’t make eye contact with anyone wearing boat shoes.”
Inside the marina office, the AC was broken and the air smelled like mildew, sunscreen, and broken promises. A guy behind the desk looked up from a Styrofoam cup full of despair.
“You here for the tour?” he asked, without looking at us.
“We’re looking for a man named Lenny Santorini,” I said. “Drives a boat that sounds like a jet engine and probably owes you money.”
He blinked slowly. “I know a Lenny. Real piece of work. Took out a slip rental on Thursday. Paid in what I assume were counterfeit pesos and coupons for free lap dances.”
“That’s him.”
“He said he was heading for Flamingo Bay. That’s not a place you just go, man. You end up there. Big difference.”
Tammy leaned on the counter. “Why?”
He glanced around and whispered, “Because of The Code.”
My blood went cold. Not from fear, but from the sudden realization I hadn’t peed since dawn and had consumed seven cans of beer.
“What code?” I asked.
He just shook his head. “If you have to ask… you’re already part of it.”
And then he pulled a lever behind the desk and disappeared through a trap door.
We stood there for a moment, stunned.
“What the hell was that?” Tammy asked.
“No idea,” I said, wiping sweat off my forehead. “But if Lenny’s in Flamingo Bay, we’re gonna need a boat. A fast one. And someone insane enough to take us there.”
She smiled, eyes gleaming. “I know just the guy. But he charges extra if you puke on his parrot.”
We found him at Dock 9, screaming at the sky and chugging what looked like gasoline from a Gatorade bottle. His name was Captain Rude, and he smelled like regret and barnacles. His boat was called The Salty Bastard, and it looked like it had been patched together with duct tape and spite.
“You got cash?” he asked, one eye twitching.
“We got beer, fireworks, and a raccoon that can pick locks,” Tammy said.
Captain Rude grinned. “Welcome aboard.”
As we climbed on, Kevin darted below deck, likely to find something soft to nest in or a wire to chew through. I stood at the bow, wind whipping my hair, eyes scanning the horizon.
“You know,” I said, “we never asked why Lenny took the boat in the first place.”
Tammy cracked a beer. “Probably owed someone money.”
“Or stole something.”
“Or was smuggling.”
“Or hiding.”
“Or all of the above.”
We shared a look. The kind of look that usually comes right before something explodes.
Then, as if summoned by our thoughts, Captain Rude yelled from the helm: “Brace yourselves! We’ve got incoming!”
“What incoming?”
He pointed.
And that’s when we saw it: a jet ski, moving at ungodly speed, heading straight for us.
Onboard was a man in a dolphin costume, screaming in Spanish and waving a flare gun.
I turned to Tammy.
“Is that - ?”
“Yep.”
“Is he armed?”
“Also yep.”
“Do I duck?”
She handed me the cooler. “Nope. You throw this.”
The jet ski hit the side of our boat with a crunch. The man flipped through the air like a dying fish and landed face-down on the deck.
Captain Rude stepped over him, completely unfazed. “That’s Dave. He used to work for Lenny. Now he mostly yells at clouds and pees in gas tanks.”
Dave twitched, raised a finger, and groaned: “They’re coming. The ones in pink. They know about the Code.”
Tammy crouched. “What do they know?”
He gurgled, reached into his dolphin suit, and handed her a soaked, folded piece of paper.
On it, in shaky handwriting, were five words:
"THE FLAMINGOS KNOW THE TRUTH."
I cracked open another beer. “So now we’ve got a missing boat, a lunatic mascot, a secret society, and a goddamn prophecy.”
Tammy just laughed and patted Kevin, who had returned with a stolen compass and an unopened bottle of rum.
Captain Rude turned the boat toward the sunset, revved the engine, and muttered: “Flamingo Bay by midnight. If we live that long.”
And just like that, we were off—chasing madness across open water with only our wits, our booze, and one very angry raccoon between us and whatever the hell "The Code" really meant.