Jailbird: 1.3

Another parade of bad taste. I'm blaming Kona.

New readers will benefit from reading Jailbird: 1.1 and Jailbird: 1.2 for foundation and background.

“Processing,” I said, like saying the word enough times would make it mean something reasonable. “That means we can get her out, right? That’s a thing people do.”

“We’re going to find out,” Sharon said, adjusting her halter top. Branded, of course. She opened the screen door and bellowed inside like a mastodon calling her cub. “KONA! LET’S GO!”

“You jiggle out there, you may not make it to the station,” I said, pointing discreetly. Out on the street, the crowd had doubled.

“Kona’s right about advertising. And we need the traffic.” She made wardrobe adjustments and certified she was legal to be off the property.

Scooters lined the curb like a snarl of fishing line, and at least three people were already livestreaming us. Someone had produced a small Bluetooth speaker, which meant we now had a soundtrack.

Louisa stepped out onto the top stair like a general surveying her troops.

“Alright, kittens!” she called, clapping her hands. “Field trip!”

The response was immediate and, somehow, deeply concerning.

Cheers. Actual cheers. Several revelers raised cans of something, toasting the idea of a party with Louisa as the headliner.

“Ready!” Kona had returned. She had transformed into what could only be classified as glittering-lava-hot-desire-on-a-stick.

She slipped on oversized sunglasses like she was about to evade paparazzi instead of directly encouraging them. “We should lean into this.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“We control the narrative,” she said. “Rescue mission. Wrongfully accused grandmother. Brave local influencers take on the system.”

“We don’t know Myrtle’s a grandmother,” I pointed out. Keeping in touch with reality seemed important.

“Influencers,” Sharon echoed thoughtfully. The two of them teaming up had me feeling my soul age ten years. “Think of the numbers,” she added, already halfway sold.

“Think of the felony charges,” I countered.

“Same thing,” Kona said. “It’s all advertising.”

I may have covered my face with my hands to assemble a moment of sanity.

Louisa bounced down the steps, across the yard, and straight into the crowd, immediately absorbed into selfies, questions, and at least one unsolicited marriage proposal.

“Parade’s forming!” she called back over her shoulder.

Of course it was.

I grabbed my beach bag, mostly so I had something to hold onto that wasn’t my sanity.

“Ground rules,” I said, pointing at the group as they assembled. “We go in, we get information, we do not—” I gestured vaguely at Kona “—weaponize the police department.”

Kona placed a hand over her heart. “I would never.”

Sharon snorted.

“We do not livestream anything from inside the station,” I continued.

A pause.

“A little livestream?” Kona offered.

“No livestream.”

“Teaser clip?”

“No.”

“Behind-the-scenes—”

“No.”

“Fine,” she said. “But if something iconic happens, I’m not not remembering it.”

“That’s… not a rule I can enforce,” I admitted.

“Good talk,” she said brightly.

Louisa was marshaling the parade and getting the crowd organized. Somehow, she was still wearing legal coverage. The scooters revved like they’d been waiting for a cue as we boarded the cart. A breathless Louisa landed in the driver’s seat next to me, whapped me with her ponytail as she reversed out of the driveway, and we were off.

In the back, as we rolled along Catherine street, the trouble twins stood on the seat, poking out of the roof hatch like royalty. Kona was blowing kisses and somehow increasing the crowd size by sheer force of personality. Sharon waved and jiggled with purpose, framing shots in her head.

I watched, not able to actually form words, because someone had to witness this objectively for the historical record.

We rolled at a modest pace, the scooter hooters hooting and scootering. “The neighbors are going to love us,” I shouted to no one in particular. Louisa fiddled with her phone, and the cart’s audio came to life, launching a beatbox remix of My Heart Will Go On. The reference to the Titanic felt particularly appropriate.

We made the turn onto White street and Kona started amping up the crowd like only she can. Behind the train, people on carts and scooters started hooking u-turns to join in, because on the island, everyone loves a parade, a party, and general social shenanigans.

“You’re going the wrong way!” I shouted at Louisa as she banked into a turn onto Truman avenue.

“It’s a parade!” she shouted back. “We have to cruise old town. We’ll get there eventually.” She hit the cart’s safety strobes and we blazed into glittering a comet of bad taste, like we needed more center-of-the-universe energy.

“Hello Key West!” Kona shouted at groups of tourists. Sharon was effecting a royal queen presence, waving at the other side. We became a rolling center of dancing girls, whistles, cat calls, scooter horns, and general mayhem.

A cop rumbled up beside us on her bike, giving us the once-over. Louisa smiled, waved and shimmied her reputation. Stuttering blue lights flamed into life and the cop pulled up into the lead, working her radio.

By the time we followed the cops onto Duval, realization had finally settled in like a rock in my stomach.

We had picked up a free passenger from somewhere, who was partying in the back with Kona. Kona and Louisa were singing Shake It Off and Sharon had found a box of branded merchandise. A group of navy guys saluted her, receiving a shower of branded lube packets in return.

We weren’t going to quietly pick up Myrtle.

Momositas-branded crop tops flew toward a group of women who were covering their mouths at the spectacle.

We were going to arrive at the police station with an in-progress party, an audience, and a full police escort on Harleys, lights and all, running red lights like we were the presidential motorcade.

Myrtle was going to love that.

I flapped some weak waves at the crowd and told myself I was just waving away the glitter cloud that Kona was exuding.