Baja Florida Read Online Free PDF Page A

stretch was zero-lot lined with ticky-tacky condos built where soaring dunes once stood. No matter that the beach itself was actually fill that had been pumped in from offshore by huge dredges after the last hurricane and would likely disappear with the next big blow. No matter that the endemic coastal vegetation—sea oats, scrub oaks, and spartina grass—had been replaced by sod lawns, hibiscus hedges, and other exotic flora that needed constant irrigation from an increasingly tapped-out aquifer. No matter that the most abundant fauna was flocks of squawking seagulls that subsisted on a diet of Cheetos and discarded fried chicken. It was, by official proclamation and garish sign-age, a “Natural Area.” And it irked me. It irked me because it bespoke an insidious mentality, one that had crept in to diminish our understanding of nature in its most precious and bona-fide form. It made us increasingly numb to venal encroachment and blind to greed masquerading as progress.
    But simmer down, Chasteen. You’re getting older. You’re a husband and a father. By all rights, your mellow years are well upon you. The rage? Let it go, man, let it go.
    Besides, generations of Floridians have been raging and to what good? The thirty percent of us who vote still elect county commissioners who buddy-up to developers and lack the foresight of a flea. And the legislature, populated largely by realtors who fancy themselves statesmen, provides ongoing evidence that everything all the other states think about us yahoos down here might well be true: It’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity.
    Perhaps it really is better just to marvel over the ongoing spectacle of Florida, do what you can to save your little part of it, and hope for the best.
    If we’ve succeeded at nothing else, then at least we have succeeded in out-weirding California. Really, there ought to be a cable news channel that is all Florida, all the time. Chronically botched elections, astronaut/hitwomen wearing adult diapers, and Burmese pythons taking over the Everglades. Condo commandos, world-record shark attacks, and a critical mass of trailer trash.
    Our peculiar peninsula is the original Dysfunction Junction. Give the U.S.A. a good shake and all the loose parts roll down our way.
    Yes, the road to hell passes straight through Florida. Grab a chaise lounge, kick back, and enjoy the parade.

6
    Around Titusville I pulled onto I-95 and slid into the southward flow. Traffic started jamming when we hit Delray Beach a couple of hours later, became a total snakepit in Fort Lauderdale, and by the time the interstate folded into Dixie Highway south of downtown Miami, I was ready to get where we were going.
    The detective’s name was Delgado. Abel Delgado. Mickey Ryser told me he’d been referred to him by a friend of a friend, someone who worked for the Metro Dade Police Department. Delgado had left the force and set up shop for himself. I’d called his office twice on the drive down. Each time I’d gotten a voice on the answering machine—Delgado’s, I supposed; monotone, like he was reading from a script—followed by a beep. Then the call disconnected like it does when the answering machine is full.
    I’d been expecting a shabby storefront in a run-down strip mall somewhere. But the address was Coral Gables, a shiny, five-story office building on Ponce de Leon. Nice neighborhood with soaring palms—Cuban Royals, Roystonia regia —lining the street.
    I found shade under a banyan tree at a corner of the parking lot. Boggy was in the exact position as when we’d left home hours earlier. Sitting up straight in the passenger seat, hands clasped in his lap, eyes closed.
    I gave him a shake. One eye eased open and considered me.
    â€œWe’re here,” I said.
    The eye closed. Boggy didn’t budge.
    Fine, then. I’d go it alone.
    I got out of the car and went inside the building. A