DAYTONA BEACH
The Challenger drove slowly down route A1A. Serge scanned motels.
No vacancy.
“It’s just like the Panhandle,” said Melvin. “We’re not going to find a place to stay.”
“Something will open up.”
“Breaker, breaker,” said Coleman. “ Why do they call it Daytona, anyway?”
Serge keyed his own walkie-talkie. “Lord of the Binge, keep that childhood wonderment torch burning! Most people sell children short, saying how cutely they notice the little things, when they’re actually noticing big things. Adults can live someplace three decades, and you ask, ‘How’d your town get its name?’ and they say, ‘I dunno.’ Then they shit on the children.”
“So how did it get its name?”
“From Matthias Day, who established the city, 1870. Came this close to calling it Daytown or Daytonia.”
“Where do you find all this junk?”
“Same as Panama City: the books of preeminent historian and local treasure Allen Morris, clerk of the House, 1966 to 1986, papers now preserved at Florida State.”
Serge let off the gas, slowing further as they approached a single-story mom-and-pop motel. “This looks promising.”
“But the sign,” said Melvin. “ ‘No Vacancy,’ like all the others.”
Serge pointed at a dozen students in the parking lot, cursing and throwing luggage in trunks. “Can’t believe we got kicked out.”
The Challenger turned up the drive as the others sped off.
In the office window, someone flipped NO V ACANCY to V ACANCY.
“Where’s my credit card?” said Andy. “I gave it back to you,” said Joey.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Thought I did.”
“You lost it? Great.”
“No problem,” said Serge. “I’ll cover it-pay me when you can.” He got out of the car and came back with sets of keys for two adjoining efficiencies at the Dunes. City and Country took number 25, and the students made another crack deployment in 24. Minutes later, the room was ready for mayhem.
Serge replaced batteries in his digital camera and headed for the door. “I’m going on photo safari.”
Coleman pulled out oven mitts. “I’ll hold down the fort.”
In camera mode, Serge always made absurd time on foot, starting with a dozen shots of the blue-red-and-yellow brick sunburst mosaic in the intersection of Atlantic Avenue and International Speedway Boulevard. Then, rapid succession: Tailgaters Sports Bar and Grill, Bubba’s, two catapult rides like Panama City, Mardi Gras arcade, historic arched entrance for beach driving, the pier, under the pier, aerials from the gondolas, the Space Needle, back to earth again, surfers, traffic signs in the sand:
DO N OT B LOCK V EHICLE L ANES.
He accelerated down the boardwalk through an aroma of carnival food-corn dogs, elephant ears, cotton candy-and the casino-like clatter from inside the dark, open-air game rooms: pinball, Skee-Ball, foosball, fortune-telling machines…
Back at the Dunes. Students gathered ’round Coleman, whipping brown batter in a mixing bowl. “Rule number one: Keep baking supplies in your luggage at all times-and an electric pepper mill.” He left the stirrer sticking straight up in the bowl and opened the top of the grinder. “This is critical.” Coleman pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and dumped a half ounce of killer red-bud in the cylinder. Then he replaced the top, held it over the mixing bowl and hit the power switch. Mechanical whirring began as a fine, sweetly pungent dust fluttered down into the batter. “For maximum release and consistent dosage, the particles must be of weaponized fineness.”
“I still can’t believe this is better than bong hits.”
“Believe it,” said Coleman, stirring again. “Slow-cooking effect and batter medium retains ninety-nine percent potency. Just remember it’s got a delayed kick-in, but well worth the wait. Almost like tripping.” He held out a hand. “Baking tin…”
A student slapped it in his paw. Coleman emptied the bowl’s contents into the pan and slid it inside the efficiency’s preheated oven…
A half mile away, Serge reeled off another burst of roadside photos-swimsuit shacks, pizza shacks, head shops, NASCAR restaurants-until he’d come full circle back to the motel parking lot. He climbed in the Challenger and pulled a map from the sun visor. Across its folded top:
THE L OOP.
“I’ve wanted to do the Loop my entire life! And now the moment’s here!”
He peeled out and sped north.
An oven timer dinged inside room 24 of the Dunes. Coleman removed the tin with oven mitts and set it on the counter. A student reached.
Coleman grabbed the wrist. “Have to let it cool. Got anything you need to do?”
“Hit a pawnshop. We’re almost out of money.”
“Let’s rock.” Coleman threw mitts on the counter. “It’ll be ready when we get back…”
… Serge sped north on A1A, camcorder running on the dash, up along Ormond Beach’s inspired seaside, west through Mound Grove, taking Walter Boardman Road to Old Dixie Highway and south again, down into unblemished old-growth Florida. Nothing but oak-canopy two-lane and marshland overlooks. Serge held the camera next to his face for narration: “The Loop isn’t particularly known, even among Florida residents, but the pristine twenty-two-mile route is nationally famous among the motorcycle community…”
A column of two dozen Harleys thundered past, Serge videotaping, honking and waving.
His camera captured the bikers as they swerved back in front of him and reconstituted standard safety formation, staggered left-right on the sides of the lane to avoid potential traction loss from car-fluid drip down the center. “… But now subdivisions and golf courses threaten the works, and back-road enthusiasts from all over rush to catch her while she lasts…”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Luxury cars filled the driveway of a modest Spanish stucco house south of Miami.
No food on the long cedar table in the dining room. There had been a cake, for Guillermo’s twentieth birthday, but its empty platter of crumbs now leaned in the kitchen sink.
Festivities over. Down to business.
In place of the cake was paperwork running the length of the table in evenly spaced piles.
Another family meeting.
Juanita was there, along with her two older brothers, who were running things. Guillermo and a few other young men knew to keep their mouths shut and learn.
“What about these prospects?” asked Hector, the eldest.
“All solid, very experienced,” said Luis, next in line, who oversaw the clan’s data collection.
Hector bent over and placed palms flat on the table, scanning reports. “Any openings?”
“Maybe,” said Luis. “A couple have typical issues, though not severe enough to gain a foothold. But this one”-he tapped a page in the middle-“very promising.”
“Gambling?”
“Into our Hialeah friends for thirty large after doubling down on Monday Night Football.”
Hector handed the pages to Guillermo. “You know what to do.”
Guillermo nodded respectfully, picked up a briefcase by the door and left with the other silent young men.
THE PRESENT
Four Harleys roared south into Daytona Beach.
They throttled down and parked at the curb. Each rider had a petite female passenger dressed entirely in leather hanging on from behind.
The women hopped off and removed black, Prussian-style helmets, revealing four heads of snow-white hair. All in their nineties. A club of sorts. Edith, Eunice, Edna and Ethel. The media had dubbed them the E-Team a while back when their investment klatch outperformed most mutual funds and made national headlines as a feel-good story patronizing old people. The women never took to the name and definitely not the cutesy “granny” references of TV hosts. So they turned those last remarks on their head for their own self-imposed nickname.
The G-Unit.
Edith tucked a helmet under her arm and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Thanks for the ride, Killer.”
“Yeah,” said Edna. “The Loop was even more beautiful than you described.”
Killer politely tipped his helmet visor. “Anytime, ladies.”
Eunice waved. “Keep the wind at your back!”
Harleys rumbled away.
The women walked up the sidewalk. “Bike Week’s over,” said Ethel. “Shit.”
“What do we do now?” asked Edna.
“How about spring break? We’re in Daytona Beach. And it’s spring.”
“I heard kids don’t come to Daytona anymore. They go to Panama City.”
“Some still do.”
“I haven’t seen any.”
“What’s it matter? We’ll do shots without ’em.”
“But I want to look at ripped chests.”
“There’s some kids now.”
“Where?”
“Coming toward us.”
The women veered for the right side of the sidewalk to make room for Coleman and his followers.
Andy jumped.
“What’s the matter?”
He turned around. “Someone goosed me.”
The guys crossed the street and pushed open the door to Lucky’s Pawn.
Ting-a-ling.
The manager smiled. “Buyin’ or sellin’?”
“Selling.”
Class rings came off fingers.
The manager laughed. “Should be a betting man.” He thoughtfully examined each, announcing price as he set one down and picked up another.
“Can’t you go any higher? The Dunes are gouging us because we didn’t have reservations.”
“Market’s glutted in every spring break town. Even the old ones.” He pulled three velvet display trays from under the counter. “I keep the best in these. Beat-up ones go there…”-he pointed back at two brimming metal pails near the waste basket-“… for melting.”
More haggling that didn’t work.
The students reluctantly accepted crisp twenties that the manager counted out in their hands. “And I’ll need your drivers’ licenses.”
“What for?”
“Have to file all sales with the police department within twenty-four hours.”
“Who steals class rings?”
“Nobody. But they’ll pull my permit if I don’t.”
Students reached for wallets. “That’s a lot of paperwork.”
“Used to be, but now it’s all computers. I file instantly so there’s no misunderstanding.”
Back at the Dunes, Serge unlocked room 24. “Coleman! I finally did it! I finally rode the Loop!… Coleman?…“ He walked to the balcony and back.”Where’d everyone go?“ He sniffed the air.”What smells so good?”
Serge traced the scent to the kitchenette. “Oooooh! Brownies! My favorite!”
PANAMA CITY BEACH
The shore was packed again by noon. Bikinis, boom boxes. Frisbees and footballs flew along the waterline behind the army obstacle course. Guys dug holes to keep beer cool.
A ten-man camera team zigzagged through the giant quilt of beach blankets, all wearing identical red T-shirts: GIRLS G ONE H AYWIRE.
Everywhere they went, young women reached for their chests.
Rood Lear led the way. “This is even better than last year.” He turned to his newly promoted chief assistant. “Sisco, we getting all this?”
“Need more cameras.”
“And I thought five would be plenty.”
On the other side of the hotels, a series of SUVs and minivans pulled off the road. Middle-aged women jumped out with posters and rushed the beach.
The film crew continued south, bikini tops coming off everywhere.
Then jackpot. An entire sorority stood up in a row.
“Perfect,” said Rood. “Have them take ’em off in sequence like the Rockettes…”
Sisco gave the instructions. “Roll film. On three… One, two…”
Angry shouting in the background.
“Where’s that coming from?” said Rood. “It’s wrecking our take.” Yelling grew louder as cameras panned a row of bare chests. The chief assistant pointed toward a break between hotels.
“Oh, no,” said Rood. “Not them again.”
The older women ran down to the blankets and stood behind the sorority, waving signs over their heads:
MOTHERS A GAINST G IRLS G ONE H AYWIRE.
“Exploiters!”
“Go home!”
“What if they were your daughters?”
The cameras turned off.
“I think we need to move along,” said Rood.
Behind every hotel, it just got worse and worse. Yelling moms ruining all the shots. For miles up the sand, picketers relentlessly dogged the crew.
“They just don’t give up,” said Sisco.
“It’s so unjust,” said Rood. “What did I ever do to them?”
“Maybe this is a good time to audition for in-room sessions.”
“Not a bad idea.”
The crew began checking IDs and handing out waivers on clipboards.
Same song, different verse.
“You’ll ruin your life!”
“Don’t sign it!”
“They’re just using you!”
Clipboards came back unautographed.
An hour later, protesters stood in a resort hotel parking lot, cheering as the custom GGH motor coach drove away in surrender and out of Panama City.
DAYTONA BEACH
Coleman reached in his pocket for the room key.
“Still think we should have held out,” said Spooge. “Twenty bucks for a five-hundred-dollar ring.”
“You saw those pails.”
“This will soon make it all better,” said Coleman, opening the door. “It’s brownie time!”
They went inside.
“Hey, Serge.”
Serge sat on the couch, reviewing video footage. “Where’d you guys go?”
“Pawned class rings.” Coleman went into the kitchenette and froze. “Holy shit! Half the brownies are gone!” He looked toward the sofa. “Serge, please tell me you didn’t eat all those brownies.”
“Sorry. I was hungry.” He set the camera down and picked up a book of vintage Daytona postcards. “And they smelled so good.”
“Serge!”
“What’s the big deal? If it means that much, I’ll buy some fresh ones from a bakery.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Those were laced with ferocious weed.”
“You mean marijuana?”
Coleman ran over. “Serge, you just ate the most pot brownies I ever heard of in my entire life.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“How long ago did you eat them?”
“Maybe twenty minutes? Why?”
“There’s a delayed effect.”
Serge went back to his postcard book. “I’m probably impervious. My metabolism and all.”
“An elephant can’t eat that much and not be affected.”
Serge wasn’t convinced. He held a magnifying glass over Model Ts driving on the sand. “So when is it allegedly supposed to kick in?”
“Believe me, you’ll know.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
The day moved into a warm, blustery afternoon. A tattered orange wind sock snapped on a flagpole. It swiveled east to south.
A Cessna cleared a chain-link fence at the end of the runway and made a wobbly landing in the sudden crosswind. The pilot taxied to safety. Other single-engine planes were covered with tarps, secured to mooring posts on a concrete storage slab behind the hangar.
It was another of the many small landing strips west of the turnpike that characterized south Florida, this one slightly nicer than most because it catered to Coral Gables.
Inside the hangar, a second pilot stood on a small ladder, working under the hood.
A BMW turned through the open gate on the far side of the airstrip and sped across the runway. Four men in tropical shirts got out.
The pilot finished replacing a manifold and wiped oily hands on a rag. He climbed down from the ladder and stopped when he noticed visitors standing in a line.
The tallest stepped forward. “Cash Cutlass?”
“Who are you?”
“Want to rent a plane,” said Guillermo. “And a pilot.”
“Sorry, fellas, I’m not for hire.”
“You are,” said Guillermo. “Just don’t know it yet.”
“If you’re looking for sightseeing, I can recommend-”
“We’re not tourists. We need a shipment delivered.”
“Oh,” said the pilot. “Then I’m definitely not for hire.”
“Heard you like football,” said Guillermo.
“What?”
“Too bad about Monday night. Seemed like a lock.” The pilot went white and stumbled backward. “Listen, I told Ramon I was good for it. Just need a few more days.” Guillermo smiled.
“I swear.” The pilot kept retreating. He placed a hand on the tail rudder. “I’ll sell the plane if I have to.”
Guillermo took another step.
“This isn’t necessary,” said the pilot. “You don’t have to do this.”
Guillermo set something on the ground next to the plane. Then he went back and rejoined the others.
The pilot looked down. “What’s the briefcase for?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Found it outside the hangar,” said Guillermo. “Must have misplaced it.”
“It’s not mine.”
Guillermo just smiled again. He turned and led the others back to their car.
“Hey!” the pilot called after them. “I’m telling you it’s not mine.”
The BMW drove off.
It was empty and still. The wind sock drooped. Cash stared at the briefcase for a good ten minutes. Then he knelt and flipped latches.
The pilot thumbed packets of hundred-dollar bills. Heart racing. Not from fear. Junkie anticipation. He finished tabulating and placed the last pack back in the briefcase. Enough to cover his losses, and some more to play with. He dialed his cell.
“Ramon? Me, Cash. Give me a nickel on the Dolphins… Hold on… I can explain… Will you stop yelling?… Just stop shouting one second… I got it all… What’s it matter to you?… Let’s just say it fell out of the sky, even cover this weekend’s Miami parlay, which you won’t be seeing after Marino picks apart the Jets… I’m at the hangar… Right, it’s all with me… I’ll be waiting.”
And that’s how Cash Cutlass found himself in the delivery business.
The whole proposition had become tricky with the government’s beefed-up shore patrols and AWACS surveillance flights. So it turned into an island-hopping exercise. Aruba, the Caymans, Dominican Republic, and finally the Bahamas, where small fishing boats brought product ashore on South Bimini, because it had a dusty airstrip and Cash’s waiting Cessna. But even with the island shell game, dueling the DEA was still an incredible risk.
Perfect for a gambler.
THE PRESENT
Agent Ramirez hadn’t slept. Good thing Waffle House served breakfast twenty-four hours. He sat in a back booth on the Panama City strip. Table covered with worthless anonymous tips.
He strained to see some type of commotion on the other side of the street.
A waitress refilled his coffee.
“Excuse me, miss. Do you know what’s going on out there?”
“Mothers Against Girls Gone Haywire just ran the film crew out of town. They’re celebrating.”
She left. Starched shirts came through doors. Ramirez looked up. “Tell me it’s good news.”
“It is.” An agent unfolded a fax. “Got a hit from that APB.”
Ramirez grabbed his coat. “Credit card?” He shook his head. “But might as well be.”
“So he’s where?”
“We don’t know.”
“How’s that good news?”
“We’re close. A pawnshop-”
“Pawnshop?”
“Required by law to get photo ID from everyone who makes a sale, then submit lists to police. That’s how we found him. McKenna pawned his class ring.”
Ramirez threw money on the table. “How far? This end of the strip or the other?”
The agents glanced at each other.
“Well?”
“A little farther than that.”
DAYTONA BEACH
The balcony of room 24 at the Dunes was jammed with students. Just like many other balconies at all the other hotels. The reason was down on the shore.
Wild yelling.
It came from the direction of the beach driving lanes. Slow traffic in the sand: Mustang, Cougar, Nova, Hornet, Fairlane, GTX, Dart and, of course, a perfectly restored 1969 Dodge Charger Daytona, cruising between 10 mph signs. Muscle cars all. Almost all.
The exception was in the middle.
“Woooooo!” yelled Serge. “I’m doing eleven! I’m doing eleven! I’ve set the modern record!”-no car, running up the beach, steering with an invisible wheel.
Lifeguards intercepted him.
“Sir, are you feeling okay?”
“Where’s the presentation stand? Matthias Day. Allen Morris. The Loop. Shit on the children. Are you getting all this? Are you from the Answer Tunnel? What happened to Space Food Sticks? Bosco, Tang, Trix are for kids, Genesis, sodomy, Elvis, viva Viagra! Kill those limp-dick motherfuckers! At the current rate, our economy will eventually be based entirely on phone minutes. Nothing else except the care and feeding of minute providers and users. Vocabulary Mash-Up Party Volume Seven: ennui, insouciant, de rigueur, cross the Rubicon! What the hell did Coleman do to my brain?”
Students pointed from balconies. “He’s on the move again.”
“What are the lifeguards doing now?”
“Same thing we are. Watching.”
Down on the beach, lifeguards stood with hands on hips as Serge ran in wild figure eights in the sand.
“Can’t catch me!” yelled Serge, whizzing by. “Try to catch me! Can’t catch me!…” He ran up to the guards. “Okay, you win.” He placed an index finger under his right eye and pulled the skin down. “Psych!” Then off in another figure eight. “Can’t catch me!…”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Another meeting in the Spanish stucco house. Another spread of paperwork across the cedar table.
“They all look too solid,” said Hector. “I don’t see any weaknesses.”
“Because there are none,” said Luis. “Every last man an upstanding citizen.”
“Thought you said we had something very promising.”
“We do-”
“I don’t understand,” interrupted Guillermo. “Cash Cutlass has a perfect delivery record. Why do we need to switch pilots?”
The brothers bristled at the silence-rule violation. Juanita intervened because Guillermo was her favorite.
“It’s been six months,” she explained.
Guillermo’s face said he still didn’t get it.
“There’s an expression in the stock market,” Juanita continued. “ ‘Everybody who makes money always sells just a little bit too soon.’ In our business, if you want to stay in business, you sever relationships while everything’s still smooth and no chance for the feds to turn someone. Six months, no exceptions. The principle has served the family well.”
Guillermo began to nod.
“Can we?” Luis snapped at his sister.
A glare in return.
“You were saying?” asked Hector.
“This one.” Luis passed a stapled packet to his brother.
“If not a weakness, then what?”
Luis told him.
“Interesting.” Hector rubbed a finger over an eyebrow. “Moral dilemma. I like it.”
“Just has to be played differently.”
Hector handed the pages across the table. “Guillermo, you’re chatty today. Think you can talk him into it?”
THE PRESENT
Perry, Florida. Between everything and nowhere.
The town of six-thousand-and-falling sits inland, at the state’s armpit, as the Panhandle swings down into the peninsula. It’s a long drive from any direction, Tallahassee, Tampa, Ocala, Jacksonville.
Maps show other small towns in surrounding counties, but they’re not really there. The region’s main industry is lapsed cellular reception.
Most people’s experience of Perry is waiting at traffic lights on the way to somewhere else, not seeing a soul, an evacuated dead zone giving little reason to stop.
The perfect place to hide out.
Guillermo and his crew had taken a strategically convoluted route out of Panama City Beach. Up to Blountstown, down through Port St. Joe and across Ochlockonee Bay to a prearranged drop spot in Panacea, where a Miami associate had been dispatched to swap their rental for an Oldsmobile Delta 88, which continued east and was now the only car in the parking lot of the Thunderbird Motel.
Rooms had dark wood paneling and anti-skid daisy stickers in the shower.
They had been instructed not to set a toe outside until getting an all-clear from the home office. Standard procedure, like the other times: Stock up on cigarettes, decline maid service, order pizza. The guys sat on dingy, coarse bedspreads, playing cards and passing a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Miguel slapped the side of the room’s original color TV, whose color was now raw sienna.
Guillermo hushed the others for a crucial phone call.
“… Madre, it’s me. Good news. We concluded our business meeting. It’s finally over.”
“No, it isn’t,” said the voice on the other end.
“What do you mean?”
“Guillermo, I’m very disappointed in you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Juanita stood in her south Florida living room, watching CNN with the sound off. “They just released the names. None of them is our friend.”
“That’s not possible. I was thorough.”
“Sure you had the right room?”
“Definitely. Got the number from a kid back at his dorm.”
“And you just took his word for it?”
“No, I did like you taught-double-checked by calling the front desk from the airport, then confirmed again when we got into town.”
“What a mess,” said Juanita. “It’s all over the news.”
“It isn’t the first time our work has been on TV.”
“Guillermo, Guillermo…”-he could picture her shaking her head over the phone-“… We always must take into account public relations. You brought me heat without a fire.”
“I’m so sorry, Madre. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“I haven’t any doubt,” said Juanita. “No matter what I say to you about business, you will always be my favorite.”
“Madre, I just need a little time to find out where he is.”
“I know.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“No, I mean I know where he is.”
DAYTONA BEACH
We should take up surfing,” said Edna.
“But we don’t know how,” said Edith.
“That’s why it’s called ‘taking it up.’” She looked down a hundred feet at a handful of surfers in black wet suits trying to milk meager East Coast waves breaking off the Daytona Beach Pier. “It looks easy.”
The G-Unit continued out over the Atlantic Ocean in a pair of ski-lift-style gondolas that chugged slowly over the length of the pier and headed back to shore.
“Doesn’t this thing go any faster?” said Eunice.
“It’s a gondola,” said Ethel.
“This ride bites.”
As the cable cranked down to the docking station, a sudden, distant scream.
“What was that?” said Eunice.
“Up there.” Ethel pointed. “Those kids.”
“Now that’s a ride!”
Moments later, the G-Unit members each had twenty-five dollars in hand.
The ride’s operator collected money and pointed at a stack of plastic bowls. “Put all your personal possessions in those.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want anything flying off.”
Ethel and Edna went first.
“Wheeeeeeeeee!…”
The remaining gals shielded their eyes, squinting up into the bright sky as an open-air ball sailed up until it was a tiny dot. It reached the ends of its bungee cords and jerked back down. Then up again, down, bouncing over and over with decreasing range until it ran out of steam.
The ride’s operator stepped onto the platform and raised the padded safety bars. The women climbed down.
“How was it?”
“Mind-fucker!” said Ethel.
The others’ turn on the Rocket Launch. The operator locked the safety bars over Eunice and Edith. “Sure you put everything in the plastic bowls?”
They nodded.
He went back to his control station. “Ready?”
“Hurry up before we croak.” The catapult released. “Wheeeeeeeeee!…”
At the top of the arc, Eunice covered her mouth and looked up at a jettisoned piece of space debris heading for orbit.
“What was that?” asked Edith.
“My dentures.”
Edith looked at the safety bar and into the tiny camera filming them. “I’m definitely buying this video.”
Down below, Coleman led the students across the beach. “… I once bought a modified Frisbee from a head shop that had a secret pot chamber in the middle. It was called Catch a Buzz…”
One of the kids looked up at faint screams. “Hey, check out those old ladies.”
They continued through the sand. A rescue team from Ocean Cops ran by with paramedic bags. They knelt and rendered aid to an unconscious young coed from Vanderbilt with a bloody forehead wound where dentures were embedded.
Johnny Vegas sat in the background, tears trickling down his cheek.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“What do you mean a preexisting condition!”
Randall Sheets caught himself and lowered his voice on the phone. “It was not preexisting. She was in perfect health when we bought the policy… What? She already had it and we just didn’t know? That’s garbage!… But I don’t have the money and she’s going to die without treatment… Could you repeat that?… It’s classified as uncovered hospice care instead of corrective medicine?… Now you’re just making up reasons… Look, don’t think I won’t sue… Why can’t you talk to me anymore?… What company directive?… Because I mentioned litigation I can only talk to your attorneys from now on?… Wait! Don’t hang up!”
Click.
Randall slowly closed the phone.
“Honey…” The voice came from down the hall. Randall entered the master bedroom, his weak wife propped up on pillows. “Who were you talking to?”
“Nobody important.”
“Insurance people again?”
Randall pulled up a chair. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
He lightly grabbed her hand. “I’m supposed to be here.”
“I’ll be fine. You should go to work.” She smiled. “It’s not like we need the money or anything.”
“But-”
“Go ahead.” She grabbed a remote control. “One of my shows is coming on.”
Randall drove across town with a head full of thoughts.
An hour later, a Cessna came into view. It cleared the fence of another private strip, this one in southern Palm Beach County. The landing was more than shaky, skipping twice before the wheels stayed down for good. No cross draft.
The propeller slowed to a jerky stop. Randall removed headphones and turned to the dermatologist in the passenger seat. “Not bad for a first landing. Same time next week?”
They climbed down from the four-seater with cursive lettering on the side:
TRADEWINDS F LIGHT S CHOOL.
The student hopped in a Corvette and sped off. Randall headed the other way for his own car. Next to it, four men with arms crossed leaned against the front of a BMW.
“Randall Sheets?”
“How can I help you fellas?”
“We need to hire a plane.”
“You want flying lessons?”
Guillermo shook his head.
“Then what?” asked Randall.
“We’ll get to that later.” Guillermo bent down and released a handle.
“What’s the briefcase for?”
“You.”
Randall hadn’t been in trouble a day in his life, the proverbial community pillar, as far removed from criminal circles as one gets. But he’d also been a pilot in Florida during the eighties, and he’d seen this movie before-what temptation had done to other pilots he’d known.
“I think you should leave.”
“How’s your wife?”
Randall’s expression changed. “What about my wife?”
“If we’re going to be friends-”
“We’ll never be friends! Leave! Now!”
“Have we offended you in some way?”
Randall reached in his pocket. “I’m calling the police.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Guillermo opened the BMW’s driver-side door. “We’re late for an appointment.”
The others piled back in.
“You forgot your briefcase,” said Randall.
“No, I didn’t.” Guillermo started the car. “Give my best to Sarah.”
They drove off.
Randall stood motionless and stared down at the brown leather case for what seemed like an eternity. Brain racing. He finally crouched, set it on its side and slowly raised the lid. Breathing shallowed. Then he heard something, like a far-off explosion.
Randall looked up through yellow aviator glasses at the clear southeastern sky: a tiny fireball smaller than a dime a thousand feet above the horizon toward Bimini. At a range of thirty miles, the sound of the blast still carried, but nothing like what the boats below in the Atlantic heard as twisted metal fluttered into the ocean from a Cessna registered to Cash Cutlass.
THE PRESENT
Coleman and followers continued along the Daytona shore.
“What’s going on over there?” A student pointed up the beach. “Looks like a concert or a fight. There’s a big crowd.”
And getting bigger. Word spread about something happening at the historic band shell. People running over from the hotels, the water, the bars.
Coleman’s gang arrived at the back of the audience. Someone in a necktie took notes. A press ID hung from his neck. Davis.
“Why are you taking notes?”
“I’m a reviewer for the News-Journal”-not taking eyes off his steno pad.
“What’s the deal onstage?” asked a student. “Is that some DJ warming up for a band?”
The reviewer shook his head and kept writing. “Incredible mono-loguist, like Eric Bogosian or Spalding Gray. He’s been going nonstop for over an hour. I don’t know how anyone can jump rapidly between so many topics and keep it all straight, let alone memorize an act this disjointed and long.”
“I didn’t know they had monologuists on the beach,” said a student.
“Neither did I.” The reviewer flipped a page. “Nothing about it in our events calendar-going to complain to the city about not getting us a press release. Luckily, I was down here covering something else.”
Coleman felt a tug on his arm. “Melvin, what’s the matter?”
“Holy cow! Look who it is.”
“Serge!”
“You know that guy?” asked the reviewer. “My best friend,” said Coleman.
“What’s his secret?”
“Special diet.”
They looked back up at the band shell. Serge cartwheeled toward the front of the stage, doubled over and laughed until his sides ached.
“Ooo-gah-chaka! Ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang! Su-su-ssudio!” He stood upright. “Sorry, got the giggles. Just thinking about Florida’s first family. That’s right, the Hulk Hogans. They’re everything our state stands for: weird, dangerous, crazy, childish, attention addicts, but above all, a freakin’ hoot! Victimized by a car-crash victim! Hurts too much to laugh! They nearly killed the guy and tried to squeeze a reality show from his morphine-drip bottle! News flash: They already have a reality show, and all of us are in it, too. It’s called the Sunshine State. Watch any national news. It’s the local news: Passenger boards plane at Tampa International with three gunshot wounds and asks flight attendant for Band-Aids, youth sodomizes grandmother’s Yorkshire terrier named Duchess, man arrested for selling beach sand on eBay, body found in orange grove, body found half-eaten by gator, body found in line at Disney, ‘The lone clue was a sawed-off thigh bone,’ ‘Wesley Snipes’s tax attorney claims the truth will shock and surprise the public.’ And who can forget those future brain surgeon teen girls who beat the snot out of a classmate, videotaped it and posted it on the Internet? Then Dr. Phil invites one of the attackers on his show, and everyone gets bent in pretzels. I say, No! No! No! Those Rhodes scholar predators are exactly the global TV face we want to put on our state. How else are we going to stop this viral, doomsday overdevelopment? The Hogans and that chick posse deserve citizens of the year. They’re helping get the word out that the quality of people down here is so fucking bad, you don’t want to come near us.“ He doubled over again with giggles.”Whoa, just noticed my feet. Aren’t feet insane? All day long: left, right, left, right. How do they do it? I suddenly want five pizzas and a loud stereo. Look, there’s an osprey. It’s got a fish in its claws. Every time I see an osprey flying with a fish, I always think: Fish lives entire life in the sea, then at the end, he’s looking down at everything from hundreds of feet up, thinking, ‘Oh, now I get it.’ “ More giggling.”Actually, he’s thinking, ‘Hey, watch the talons, man.’ Back to the headlines! Trapped retiree dials 911 with big toe; hurricane reporters in Key West jeered and hit with Super Soakers; frozen iguanas rain from trees during cold snap, injuring five; more families opting to live in storage units; man attempts to avoid DUI by abandoning car and jumping on horse in pasture; armed bandits invade home demanding nothing but an egg beater. Let’s sing! Everybody, after me: Biscayne Bay, where the Cuban gentlemen sleep all day… Free-credit-report-dot-com… Don’t you love those ads? Here’s mine: Florida-crime-report-dot-com, don’t let winos pork your mom. F-L-A, that spells flaw, tourists goin home in a box, doodah. Is it me, or do colors seriously rock today? I’m looking in your direction, Mr. Green.“ Another giggle fit. Serge felt something and looked down at a growing bulge in his pants.”Yowza. Who out there owns a stereo, wants to fuck and eat five pizzas? But you say, ‘Serge, what can I do about development?’ Give money to every street-corner lunatic you see with a cardboard sign and pipe cleaners in his hair. It’s like those minimum-wage roadside people in gorilla suits, waving you off the road for tax preparation. Except in reverse: The cardboard-sign brigade drives would-be residents away. But again, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Serge, if we promote “crazy,” then what kind of place is left for us to live in?’ And that’s exactly the litmus test for any true Floridian. It may be crazy, but it’s our crazy, it’s fun crazy, and in Florida, being crazy is the only way to stay sane. That circus-geek colony in Gibsonton is now the most normal place we got. The whole state’s an asylum, and I love every last freak show, even the schizos at the bus station who yell at me, ‘Motherfucker, we know the planetary council sent you to implant transmitters!’ And I smile and go, ‘Say no more. You had me at “motherfucker.” ’… Speaking of transmitters, I’m picking up ten channels in my noodle: Rooftop bandits steal copper from strip mall air-conditioners, DNA proves restaurant’s grouper is Asian catfish, Patriot missile found in Ybor City junkyard, missing children, missing wives, drag queen bingo night, boot camp deaths, baby formula thefts, loggerhead die-offs, red tide outbreaks, ‘Anglo flight,’ Solarcaine beats sunburn pain… Why am I so hungry? Could eat a horse, don’t cry over spilled milk, all that and a bag of chips, Jimmy crack corn, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, proof’s in the pudding, plum tired, bought a lemon, selling like hotcakes, bun in the oven, on the gravy train, my meal ticket, since sliced bread, we’re toast, you’re dead meat, stick a fork in it… Coleman!… Where are you?… How… do… I… turn… this… shit… off!…”
PERRY, FLORIDA
Blastoff.
Guillermo had the gang packed and loading the car in record time. Peaceful in the parking lot-silence so complete that when it was broken by the occasional car, the vehicle could be heard coming and going a half mile in both directions. Then stillness. Nothing but a lone pedestrian with a bag of pennies and a spatula, who suddenly disappeared into bushes as a career move.
The last door slammed, and the Oldsmobile Delta 88 sped away from the Thunderbird Motel.
“How did Madre find out?” asked Miguel.
“One of our informants. Been following the APB in state police computers. He pawned his class ring.”
“Never been to Daytona,” said Raul. “Hear you can drive on the beach. That’s fucked up.”
“We’re not on vacation.” The AC had been leaking freon since the Panhandle. Guillermo rolled down his window and held a flapping map against the steering wheel. No direct shot across the peninsula for where they were heading. Country roads, a spur at Bucell Junction, up through Foley and Fenholloway. Water towers, boarded-up feed stores, ancient granite courthouses from when there was population. Then across a wide, rolling expanse of Florida where the economy is state prisons and renting inner tubes out the backs of trucks to people rafting the Ichetucknee.
A couple hours later, they reached the Daytona coast and cruised down A1A. Guillermo found a parking space in front of the old Stamie’s Swimwear shop with a vintage fiberglass bathing beauty diving off the porch roof.
“Bathing suits?” said Pedro.
Guillermo ignored him, looking one block up at a logo with three dangling balls from the crest of Italy’s Medici family.
LUCKY’S P AWN.
They got out and trotted up the sidewalk.
Bells jingled.
The short-sleeved owner leaned with hands atop a glass case. “Afternoon.”
Guillermo sported another warm smile. “You must be Lucky.”
“No, he got killed. Lookin’ for anything particular?”
“Actually I am. Class rings.”
The owner laughed. “You look a bit old for regret.”
“Why do you say that?”
The owner pulled a display tray from under the counter. “Wouldn’t believe how many of these I sell back to the same kids after they return to their senses and wrangle some cash.”
“I kinda do the same thing. Except there’s more money contacting the parents-once the yelling stops after they find out what their children did.”
Another laugh. “Have to remember that.”
Bells jingled. Hungover students entered with a set of hubcaps and a car jack. The owner shook his head. They left.
Then back to Guillermo. “Where were we?”
“Rings. My best harvests are spring break destinations.” Guillermo bent over the tray. “Let’s see what you got here…” He pulled one out of its velvet slot.
“You’re looking at a real corker there.”
Bells again. A student walked up with something cupped in his hands.
“Don’t need hash pipes,” said the owner. “Try High Seas up the block.”
Guillermo turned the ring around. UNH on one side, 2012 on the other. “Guy still doesn’t graduate for a couple years. This must have just come in.”
“It did,” said the owner.
“Remember him?”
“Sure. Nice boy. But the reason it stuck with me was the rest of his gang, especially this older, drunk guy. Nearly broke the display case.”
“Got a loupe?”
The owner handed him a round magnifier. Guillermo brought the ring to his eye and checked the engraving inside the band. A. MCK ENNA.
Bells again. A student in a full leg cast hobbled inside.
“What am I going to do with crutches?” said the owner. “I can sell you some…” pointing at a pile in the corner.
Guillermo handed the magnifier back but kept the ring. “I’ll take it.” The owner rang him up.
“Hear them talking about anything?” Guillermo said with feigned idleness.
“They never stopped talking. Like what?”
“Coincidentally, I went to the same school.” He stuck the ring in his pocket. “That’s how it caught my eye. Be kind of nostalgic to catch up with the new class.”
“Dang. What was it?”
“What was what?”
“One of them mentioned where they were staying. I remember ’cause they wanted more for their rings since they were paying top dollar without reservations. And I know the place well, know them all. Easy name, too…” He stared off at a shelf of clarinets. “What the heck was it?…”
The kids with hubcaps returned. “Sir, can’t you give us anything at all for these? They’re about to kick us out of the Dunes.”
“The Dunes!” said the owner. “That’s it. I’m positive.”
THE DUNES
A day in full swing. Blender going, Led Zeppelin. Coleman continued slicing up limes with bandages on three fingers.
“… I’m gonna send you… back to schoolin’!…”
Serge staggered into the room. “Coffee…”
“Hey, Serge. How do you feel?”
No answer until he’d drained the dregs of an old pot. “That shit’s insane. No wonder you don’t have any ambition… What are the kids doing over there?”
Coleman looked up at a crowd around the television. “News from Panama City. Think they found some bodies.”
Serge walked up behind the students. “What’s going on?”
“Shhhhhh!”
On TV, a female correspondent stood in a parking lot, intentionally framed with the Alligator Arms sign over her shoulder. “… Police are releasing few details about the massacre in this unassuming motel. All we currently know is that authorities removed five bodies from room 543, the apparent victims of multiple gunshots…”
Behind her, students waved and held up beer cans. “Woooooo!” “Party hearty!” “I see dead people!”
“… One source who spoke on the condition of anonymity said the entire room had been sprayed heavily with automatic weapon fire. We’ll report more as soon as we know it. But for now, it looks like a real spring break buzz-kill…”
The report ended, and the students came alive with chatter.
“That was our room!”
“Happened just after we left!”
“Can you imagine if they hadn’t kicked us out?”
“What kind of madman would do such a thing?”
“Not a madman,” said Serge. “Professional job.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Standard protocol for a Miami hit.”
“If it’s Miami, then why up there?”
“Probably some connection to a smuggling operation,” said Serge. “The whole state’s one big northern pipeline.”
“All those kids were in on it?”
Serge shook his head and walked back to the coffeemaker. “That’s why I said standard protocol. Most likely after just one target. They like to be thorough.”
“But it was all students. How could any of them be involved in something that major?”
“Guessing they weren’t.” Serge dumped scoops of Folgers in the filter. “Smells like a case of mistaken identity. Shooters were probably after someone else who was supposed to be staying in that room.”
The students were practically dizzy, running the fatal near miss through their heads. They changed channels to a special Daytona Beach edition of Ocean Cops.
Serge came back with a fresh cup. Something wasn’t right. He looked around. “What happened to your class rings?”
“We pawned them.”
“You what!”
“Pawned them… Hey, Coleman, come quick! You’re on again!”
“When did you do this silliness?” demanded Serge.
“Recently.”
Coleman arrived with a triple-strength pifla colada. “Where am I?”
“Right there.” On TV, rescuers on Jet Skis chased an unconscious person floating out to sea in an inflatable swim ring with a seahorse head.
Spooge high-fived Coleman. “You take no prisoners!”
“You can’t pawn your class rings!” said Serge. “That’s heritage, some of the best souvenirs of all!”
“I know,” said Andy. “But what’s done is done.”
“Not as long as I’m alive,” said Serge.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t let you do this.” Serge checked the contents of his wallet. “We’re going to get them back right now. I’ll spot you, though I doubt I’ll see any of it again. But that’s how I roll.”
They went downstairs and drove out of the parking lot.
A Delta 88 pulled in.
LUCKY’S PAWNSHOP
Ting-a-ling.
A pack of students entered.
The owner looked up from his racing form. “Back so soon?”
“I want to buy their class rings,” said Serge.
“No problem.” The owner hoisted a metal pail onto the counter. “They should be somewhere near the top. But you understand there’ll have to be a modest surcharge. I got rent.”
“Of course.” Serge turned to the students. “Go get ’em.”
The kids dug through rings from all years and states. The owner set two velvet display trays beside the bucket. “Some also might be here.”
“I found mine!” A ring slipped on a finger.
“Me, too…”
“There it is…”
Soon, all hands had jewelry again. Except one.
Andy McKenna scanned velvet slots.
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge.
“Can’t find mine.”
“Oh, just remembered,” said the owner. “What school do you go to?”
“New Hampshire.”
“That’s right. Guy bought it.”
“When?” asked Serge.
“Just before you came in.”
Serge placed a consoling hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Very sorry.”
“I’ll live.”
“You might still get it back,” said the owner. “How’s that?” asked Serge.
The owner turned to Andy. “Your name was engraved inside the band, right?”
Andy nodded.
“Man said he was an investor. Selling rings back to parents of kids who, well, spring break happens.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Serge.
“Who knows?” said the owner. “Guy went to the same college.”
“UNH?” asked Andy.
“Real nice gent.” The owner put a pail back against the wall. “Told him where you were staying.”
“Why?”
“He asked.”
“That’s weird,” said Serge.
“Got the feeling it was a school pride thing,” said the owner. “Told me he wanted to catch up with the new class, maybe even give it back to you for free.”
“But how’d you know where we were staying?”
“You told me, remember? No reservations.” The owner slid velvet trays under the counter. “Man, these rings sure are getting popular.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Serge.
“A second guy was in here. Showed me a badge.”
“Cop?”
“Latin name, Ramirez or something.”
“What did he want?”
“Same as the other guy. I told him you kids were staying at the Algiers.”
“We’re at the Dunes,” said Andy.
“Whoops,” said the owner. “Well, I guess he’ll be coming back. At least I told the first guy the right place.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Another family meeting.
Prospect reports covered the cedar table in a stucco house south of Miami.
Guillermo thought-but didn’t say out loud-“Has it really been six months already?”
“This one,” said Luis. “Likes to sample product… Everything in Bimini on track?”
“Like glass,” said Hector. “Wiring explosives into the fake shipment as we speak.”
Sixty miles away, Sarah Sheets puttered around the house. Her husband checked the mailbox. More medical bills. So what? He sat at the kitchen table and made out checks.
Sarah packed sandwiches. “Can’t believe the insurance company just reversed their decision.”
“Guess when I mentioned suing…” Randall licked a postage stamp. “Lawyers must cost more than doctors these days.”
She gave him a lunch box and a kiss at the front door. “When do you think you’ll be home?”
“Late. Got a full schedule of students today.”
“Again?”
“Told you not to worry. Everything eventually works out.”
Randall drove across southern Palm Beach County, out past the turnpike and through the gate of an empty airfield. He pulled a tarp off his Cessna. Preflight checklist. Everything in order. He looked up at a clear sky and a deflated wind sock. Perfect day to fly.
Randall climbed inside, put on his headset and radioed the flight plan to Bimini.
A propeller churned to life. The plane taxied a short distance and rotated in place at the end of the strip. One last survey of instruments. He pushed a lever forward. The prop increased to a high whine. The Cessna started down the runway. It quickly gathered speed, approaching takeoff velocity.
Randall was monitoring an oil pressure gauge and didn’t notice the tight formation of sedans race through the gate. He looked up at a dust trail speeding toward the runway at a ninety-degree angle.
“God!”
The first cars screeched to a stop, blocking takeoff. Randall jerked the throttle back, almost breaking the lever. “Please, please, please…”
The Cessna began to skid, bleeding off speed. But not fast enough. Cars filled his vision.
“Come on! Come on!…”
Fifty miles an hour, forty-five, forty… The plane fishtailed. Agents scattered.
Thirty, twenty-five, twenty… The aircraft spun sideways and slammed into a pair of Crown Vics. A prop blade snapped and landed a hundred yards away in a field.
Grogginess. Randall pushed himself up from the controls and removed a headset that had shifted around and covered his eyes. He looked out to see the plane surrounded, dark sunglasses, guns drawn. The next sequence happened in a blink from academy training.
His pilot door flew open. No fewer than six hands grabbed Randall and threw him facedown on the tarmac. Arms twisted behind his back. Cuffs. Then he was yanked roughly to his feet before another hand pushed his head down, shoving him into the back of an undamaged car. What was left of the convoy sped off.
THE PRESENT
A Delta 88 sat below one of the strip’s many half-burnt-out neon signs. A camel on a sand dune. When it came on at night, the camel winked.
Guillermo winked at the plump receptionist in a hairnet. “Hoping you can help me.”
“Sorry, we’re sold out.”
Like many mom-and-pops, the Dunes hadn’t been updated since the fifties. Original wooden mail slots behind the desk and real metal keys on numbered plastic fobs.
“I don’t need a room,” said Guillermo.
“Then how can I help you?”
He reached in his pocket. “Found this ring in the parking lot. You have an ‘A. McKenna’ staying here?”
She checked paper files. “Yes, we do.”
“Great. What room?”
“Can’t give that out.”
“Understand.” He looked over her shoulder at numbered mail slots. “Just want to make certain he gets this back.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Don’t want it to get stolen or anything.”
“It’s okay. Everyone who works here is family.”
“I have a business like that, too.”
He handed over the ring. She was on the short side and dragged a footstool, then climbed two steps and reached for slot 24. “Want me to leave a note with it?”
She turned back around. The door to the empty office was closing.
THE DUNES
Serge’s entourage arrived back in the parking lot and headed for the stairs.
The office door opened behind them. “Excuse me,” said a woman in a hairnet. “Aren’t you the guys in room twenty-four?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone left you a message. Well, not really a message. Think it was just a ring.”
Serge looked at the woman, then up at their room. Could have sworn he left those curtains open. “Guys, wait here a minute.” He followed the receptionist inside.
She walked back behind the front desk. “Real nice guy. I think he wanted to give it back himself, but we don’t disclose room numbers. Security, you know.”
Serge looked up at a ring sitting in a wooden slot marked “ 24.”
“Ma’am,” said Serge, “was he standing right where I am when you put that in the slot?”
“I guess so.” She dragged over a footstool again, grabbed the ring and climbed back down. “Here you go-”
The glass door to the empty office was closing.
Serge bolted for the Challenger. “Back in the cars! Back in the cars!”
“What’s going on?”
“Just hurry!”
The vehicles raced a half mile, and Serge whipped up a circular drive to the valets. “Staying with us?”
“Only dinner.” He took the ticket. “Hear your food’s great.”
Serge hustled the gang into the lobby of one of the strip’s newest luxury resorts.
“Where are we going?”
“Just keep up.”
They ran out the back doors on the ocean side.
Minutes later, a row of kids sat mutely along a stone ledge, legs dangling over the side.
Serge paced feverishly in front of the seventy-year-old coquina band shell.
“I pray I’m wrong, but I seriously doubt it…”
Serge’s voice echoed back at them from the concave dome. He spun and paced the other way. “That shooting in Panama City Beach? Now I’m a hundred percent it was mistaken identity.”
Melvin raised his hand. “Why do you think that?”
“Because they were really after you.”
“Us?”
“Well, one of you.”
Murmurs shot down the row, students glancing at one another.
Another hand. “Why would someone want to kill one of us?”
“Who knows? Anyone witness a murder lately?”
Heads shook.
“Maybe a second case of mistaken identity,” said Serge. “But unlike those poor kids in the Panhandle, this case follows you around.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got one of your names.” Pacing resumed. “I’d bet my life on it. Could simply be an identical name they confused with the target they’re really after.”
“It was Andy’s ring,” said Joey. “Must be his name.”
“Or not,” said Serge. “You booked Panama City with his credit card. Maybe they just think it’s someone staying with him.” He turned. “Andy, anything in the family closet?”
Andy heard guilty thoughts blaring out his ears. “Uh, nope.”
“What about the rest of you?” Serge slowly walked down the row of students, each wilting under his gaze. “We’re all in this together now. If someone’s got a secret, this is the time.”
Heads shook again.
Serge hopped up and sat on the ledge, leaning with elbows on knees. “This is a tough one.”
“So we’re going to take off,” said Andy. “Right?”
“Absolutely not. This is our big chance.”
“Chance?”
“We have a rare window of advantage. They don’t know where we are, but I know where they are.”
“Where?”
“In your room. The guy got the number from the mail slot in the office when he dropped off the ring. And I’m positive we left the curtains open.”
“Oh my God! They’re here?” said Spooge. “In our room!”
A group freak-out. “We should definitely split!…”
“I’m calling my parents!…”
“No!” snapped Serge. “Stop pissing yourselves. If one of you really is the target, the first thing they’ll do is watch relatives’ houses and tap their phones.”
“But they’re not cops. How do they get inside to tap?”
“They can do it across the street in a car. Parabolic receivers pick up portable phones and now even hardwired landlines. Back in the eighties, Miami had a counter-surveillance store on every block.” Serge hopped down from the ledge. “Until I find out what we’re dealing with, nobody makes any outside contact.”
“What about the police?”
“Especially the police,“ said Serge.”Coleman and I do a lot of pawning, and I have a pretty good idea how they found that ring.”
“How?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“If you want us to trust you…,” said Spooge.
“Okay,” said Serge, and he told them.
“Dear Jesus,” said Doogie. “The police are in on it?”
“Only takes one,” said Serge.
“Where do we go in the meantime?”
“I’ll get you registered into this place.” Serge headed back toward the resort. “Then I have some business.”
The Challenger sat behind a liquor store three blocks up A1A from the Dunes.
Serge whistled merrily up the sidewalk, climbed stairs and walked along a second-story landing. Eyes peeked from a curtain slit as he passed room 24. He stuck a key in the next door.
City and Country were kicking back with a bong and HBO.
“There you are!”
“We thought you ditched us again!”
Serge went straight for the door to the adjoining room and quietly locked it. He pressed his right ear to the wood.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“We have a problem,” said Serge.
Country blew City a shotgun. “You’re the one with a problem.”
“This isn’t a joke. I need a favor.”
“What’s happening?”
He told them, play by play. “… They’re in twenty-four right now, but they don’t know we have the adjoining room. I can’t do this without you.”
“Bullshit on that,” said City.
“Double bullshit,” said Country. “We got enough trouble as it is.”
“But these kids are sheep,” said Serge. “They don’t stand a chance.”
The pair stared and stewed. Finally, City snatched the bong and lighter. “You bastard.”
“That means you’ll help?”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Randall Sheets saw his future disintegrating.
“Turn the other way,” said Agent Ramirez, sitting with him in the back of a speeding sedan.
The agent twisted a tiny key; cuffs popped loose.
Randall rubbed his wrists. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Better than if we didn’t show up.”
Waves of panic were so strong, Randall felt himself drowning. Then it came from nowhere, an eruption of sobs and babbling. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know what to do. My wife. The bills. These guys. The briefcase. I’m so sorry!…”
Ramirez gave him a handkerchief. “We know about your wife.”
Randall blew his nose. “You do?”
Ramirez continued facing forward. “So did they. You got played. It’s how they operate. You never had a choice.”
“I didn’t. What would you have done?”
“Same thing. But that’s behind you.”
“It is?”
“You’re going to testify before the grand jury.”
“Not a chance. They’ll kill me for sure.”
“There’s a duffel bag waiting for you in Bimini,” said Ramirez.
“You know about that, too?”
“Weighs the same as the others with coke.”
“Not coke?”
“Bomb.”
“Doesn’t make sense. I’ve got a perfect delivery record, making them a fortune.”
“They change pilots every six months. And not by mutual agreement. That’s why we had to take you in now.”
Randall’s face fell in his hands. “How long have you known?”
“Two days. Finally got an informant, someone on their inside. Been trying to get a pilot for years but, well, you’re the first.”
“Oh my God!” Randall just remembered. “My family!”
“All taken care of. Picked up your wife and son an hour ago.”
That’s what mattered most to Randall, the next less so: “How much prison am I looking at?”
“None. You testify, we put you in the witness program.”
“Where?”
“Won’t be as warm as here.”
“How long do I have to stay?”
“You don’t understand.” Ramirez gazed out the window as a DC-10 touched down at West Palm International. “These people never forget.”
THE PRESENT, MIDNIGHT
Pop.
Country uncapped a wine bottle in the backseat. “Nobody’s left the room for hours. Maybe they’re not there.”
“They’re still there, all right.” Serge leaned toward the windshield of the Challenger, strategically parked face-out in an alley with a full view of the Dunes. “They don’t want to open the door and give away their ambush position in case the kids are on their way back.”
“So why are we waiting over here?”
“Everyone eventually gets hungry.”
Another hour.
“Now I’m hungry,“ said City, stubbing out a roach.”Me, too,” said Country.
“So is someone else.” Serge looked up at the second floor, where a man had quickly slipped out the door of room 24, then pretended he hadn’t. He leaned nonchalantly against the landing’s rail, scanning the parking lot and street. All clear. Cowboy boots trotted down stairs.
The Challenger rolled out of the alley without headlights.
Boots clacked across the street and up the opposite sidewalk.
“You were right,” said Country. “He’s heading for Taco Bell.”
“I’d kill for a taco right now,” said City.
Serge pulled along the curb. “You’re going to get your wish.”
Pedro’s arms were weighed down with bags of grande meals when he finally came out the restaurant’s side door.
A distressed female voice: “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said City. “We might have to ask a stranger.”
“But that’s dangerous.”
“Excuse me.” Pedro politely bowed his head. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Flat tire,” said Country, reaching in one of his bags for a taco.
“But the lug nuts are too tight.” City reached in another bag. “We’re not strong enough.”
Pedro puffed out his chest. “You beautiful ladies shouldn’t have to change a tire. Especially at night.”
“You’ll help us?” said Country.
“You’d really do something that nice?” said City.
“Of course Pedro will help you. Where’s your car?”
“Right around the corner. Just follow us.”
He did.
They turned the corner.
Pedro dropped his tacos. “Who’s that guy?”
“Oh,” said Country. “You mean the one with the gun?”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Belle Glade sits near the middle of the state, on the southeast shore of Lake Okeechobee. The horizon low and flat. Cane elds forever. Plumes of dark smoke rose in various directions, some from intentional burns of harvested fields, others out the stacks of sugar-processing plants. Below the town was a prison camp. A yellow crop duster swooped, the one that terrorists with rashes on their hands had tried to hire. To the north, an uninviting, single-row motel with a leaking tar roof on the side of Route 715. Scraggly bushes, termite damage, a cracked office window fixed with masking tape.
The motel was almost always closed, except when the government needed it. Because it owned it.
Currently, no vacancy. Lights on in all eight rooms, but the front sign remained dark. Agents in T-shirts and jeans stood watch outside, pretending to work on a carburetor. They didn’t blend in. People of their sort never put up in the glades unless there’s a bad reason. All locals avoided them, except sheriff’s deputies, who knew something was up during their first stay but couldn’t get to the bottom of it despite hours of questioning in the parking lot. Almost blew the safe house. So feds began bringing tackle boxes and towing bass boats. Near every deputy fished that lake.
In the middle room, Randall Sheets rocked nervously on the edge of a bed. They’d just reeled him back from Detroit for his big day of testimony. A digital clock said five A.M. Ramirez sat facing him. “It’ll all be over in a few hours.”
“Can’t come soon enough.”
“Just remember what we talked about. The prosecutor will guide you through everything. Keep your answers direct and tell the truth. We’ll put them away.”
“I don’t see how my testimony can do that. I think the guys I was dealing with were at the bottom.”
“We have another witness. Management insulates themselves by staying away while the lower rungs get their hands dirty. Between the two of you…”-he interlaced his fingers-“… we connect the whole operation.”
“Will… they be there?”
“Not in the grand jury. Not even their defense attorneys. You have nothing to worry about.”
Three spaced knocks on the door.
An agent standing next to Ramirez-the one with the machine gun-went over and checked out the window. He opened the door.
Six more agents entered. “We’re ready.”
Everyone put on dark windbreakers with hoods. Ramirez handed one to Randall.
“What’s this for?”
“Just put it on.”
“Wait,” said Randall, looking around a room of identically dressed people. “Snipers?”
“Just an abundance of caution. Put it on.”
A string of headlights filled the dark parking lot. Engines running. Vehicles in a perfect line, facing the exit.
Room number 4 opened, and windbreakers ran for the convoy.
Pop, pop, pop. Sparks on the pavement. Pinging against fenders.
“Where’s Randall?” yelled Ramirez. “Get him down!”
Agents flattened the witness and formed a pile.
Pop, pop. Ping, ping.
“Where the hell’s that coming from?”
“Over there!” An agent braced behind a Bronco and returned fire toward distant muzzle flashes. “The cane field!”
“Get him in the car!” Ramirez slapped the trunk. “Go!”
The front half of the motorcade sped east into the waning night. The rest of the team remained behind, raking sugarcane with overwhelming firepower.
The convoy reached Twenty Mile Bend, dashboard needles at the century mark. Randall wanted to see outside, but they were sitting on him again. The approaching dawn brightened over Southern Boulevard, where they were joined by helicopters for the final turnpike leg to the federal courthouse in Miami-Dade County. But back then it was just Dade.
They brought Randall through a secure garage gate in back. He entered the courtroom and took the stand next to a jury with less interesting mornings.
Randall Sheets was, as they say, the perfect witness. Steady, confident testimony. Even he was surprised by his grace under pressure.
Indictments came down.
Across south Florida, a series of predawn raids.
The front door of a Spanish stucco house opened. The SWAT team brought Hector, Luis, and Juanita out in handcuffs-“Call the lawyers!”
Same scene at five other locations, two dozen associates in all. Everyone was booked. And bonded out just as quickly by one of Florida’s top law firms. TV crews waited in the street. “Is it true you’re kingpins?”
An agent in the Miami FBI office picked up a phone and dialed.
A cell rang somewhere south of Miami. “Hello?” A hand quickly went over it, and the person walked outside. “Are you crazy calling me now?… No, I can’t talk. They’re circling the wagons. Everyone’s under suspicion… What I’m saying is they know you’ve got an informant in the family… How can you say there’s no way? We’ve got someone inside with you… I don’t know who our guy is, sheriff, janitor, anyone. Point is that’s how they must have found out… I understand you’d really like the name of our informant-I just need more time… Don’t even joke about taking back immunity. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear something. And never call me on this line again!” The phone slammed shut.
Another phone rang. Another person answered. “… Yes, I can talk… I see… You think you know who the informant in our family is? Very good, who?… You’ve only narrowed it to two people? That’s not good… I realize it’s a huge risk getting at the files right now. That’s what we pay you for… No, time’s already run out. Haven’t you been watching the news?… Okay, what are the two names?”
THE PRESENT
Four A.M.
Serge’s surveillance had synchronized his watch with the rounds of local police.
The latest squad car rolled toward him. And kept going. Serge jumped from a hedge on the side of A1A.
Pedro was already bound and gagged in his seat. Serge popped open a toolbox. He began loosening hex-head bolts with his largest socket. Some were stuck from the years, needing WD-40 and a hammer banging on the wrench handle.
Minutes later, all the right bolts lay on the ground. Serge’s wrist-watch said to dive in the bushes. Another cruiser drove by.
Quiet again. Serge dashed back.
Stifled screams under the gag. Serge untied it.
“Please! Dear God! Whatever you’re thinking… I’ll, I’ll pay you. Cash, cocaine, anything!”
“The name,” said Serge.
“What name?”
“Who you’re after.”
“They’ll kill me.”
Serge turned to walk away. “Suit yourself.”
“Okay, okay. Andy McKenna.”
“Andy? He’s just a kid. What’s he ever done to you?”
“Nothing. It’s his dad…” And Pedro laid it all out from soup to nuts.
“How many of you are there?”
“Four.”
“Good, very good,” said Serge. “Now, who’s behind it?”
Silence.
“Come onnnnnnnnnn…“ Serge gave him a buddy jab in the arm. ”You’re doing great.”
“Guillermo.”
“Guillermo?”
“But he’s just the crew leader for Madre.”
“Wait… but… you don’t actually mean the Madre.”
Pedro nodded.
“I remember reading about her back when Miami Vice was still on the air.“ Serge blew a deep breath through pursed lips.”Thought for sure she’d be dead by now.”
“Far from it,” said Pedro.
“So history comes full circle.” Serge stroked his uncharacteristic two-day stubble. “What impressed me is how you’ve been able to track him. Students on spring break are like stray cats. But I have a theory.”
Pedro clammed up again. Then: “I’d rather you kill me.”
“So it is what I think?”
“They keep me in the dark on that. You have to believe me.”
“I do. Does this Guillermo have a cell number?”
Another nod.
Serge got out a scrap of paper and pen. “Ready when you are.”
Pedro rattled off digits. Serge stuck the note in his pocket. “Most excellent. See how easy that was?”
“So you’re going to let me go?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Serge replaced the gag, then whistled in awe. “And how!”
Another cruiser rolled up the street.
When it was gone, Serge poked his head from the bushes and walked to a breaker box…
DAYTONA BEACH
The 911 call came just after dawn from a commercial air-conditioning repairman. He’d been cleaning coils on the pebbled roof of a two-story motel just south of the band shell. Soon, the roof swarmed with detectives and a forensic team, photographing Pedro from every angle. Or what used to be Pedro. Now he was more like Flat Stanley, his clothes a thin package of human jelly in a fly-swarmed stain.
They combed the rest of the roof. No sign of a trail from the maintenance doors-or anywhere else. It was like he just materialized out of the blue at the very spot they’d found him.
How the hell did he get there? And in that condition?
Nobody could figure it.
Until another 911 call. This time from the amusement boardwalk.
Luxury suite number 1563.
Two gentle knocks at the door, followed by two more. Students flinched.
“Who the hell can that be?”
“It’s Serge’s signal.”
“What if it’s someone using Serge’s signal?”
Melvin checked the peephole and undid the chain.
They saw Serge and bent forward as one, anxiously awaiting any news.
He strolled into the room like nothing happened.
“Well?” asked Joey.
“Just boring investigative work. Tedious documents and records.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Can we leave the room?”
“No. You’re okay for now, but I have some more chores until it’s completely safe.”
Speculation shot around the room. “Andy,” said Serge. “Could I have a word?”
“Sure.”
They stepped into the bathroom. Serge placed a paper bag by the sink and combed his hair in the mirror. “Or should I say ‘Billy’?”
Andy crashed into the tub, taking down the plastic curtain.
“I’m sorry.” Serge helped him up. “Have a weakness for the dramatic.”
The student grabbed a towel rod. “How much do you know?”
“Everything. Your father, the flights, yanked out of kindergarten…” Serge poured a cup of water from the faucet and handed it to him. “Why didn’t you tell me at the band shell?”
“Because I’m not supposed to,” said Andy. “That’s the big rule they gave us. Any exposure, and the whole family must relocate and start over. Almost happened a couple times in third grade when there was another Billy. Then we had to move. Michigan to Massachusetts.”
“What happened?”
Andy stared at the floor.
“Can’t be that bad.”
A tear fell. “My mom shot herself.”
“Sorry,” said Serge. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“That’s okay. Long time ago.”
“Because of the witness program?”
Andy shook his head. “I was just a little kid. Dad told me she’d been very sick and was finally at peace. Went into remission before we left Florida, but it recurred. Because of how she’d… chosen to leave, local authorities had to run a mandatory investigation and officially rule the cause of death. Our witness liaisons thought it was too much attention, and off they shipped us again.”
“You still should have mentioned something,” said Serge. “Didn’t that business back in your Panama City room make any lights go on?”
“I was absolutely certain it couldn’t be the reason. We’re talking over fifteen years ago.”
“These people have been known to hold grudges.”
“Okay, so now we figured it out.” Andy braced an arm against a tiled wall and lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid. “Take me to the FBI.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Serge gave him a penetrating look.
Andy got a different expression, backing up against the wall. “You’re… not…”
“Relax. I ain’t with nobody. It’s something Pedro told me.”
“Who’s Pedro?”
“Better you not know. Especially now.”
“What’d he say?”
“My suspicions were correct,” said Serge. “They have someone on the inside. That’s how they’ve been tracking you. And until I find out who, we can’t contact the authorities.”
“But what about my dad?”
“I can only solve so much. Right now you’re my responsibility. Consider me a guardian angel.”
“You?”
“Couldn’t be in better hands.” Serge reached for a white paper bag by the sink. “Here. Have a taco.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
A rented Taurus drove west from the Detroit airport.
Snowdrifts.
“I don’t know if I can get used to the cold,” said Randall.
“You will in time,” said Ramirez. “And thanks to your testimony, we rounded them all up.”
“I’m safe now?”
“As long as you stick to the program.” Ramirez had opted for the rental instead of the obvious government sedan. He handed a thick brown envelope across the front seat. “That’s your kit, everything you’ll need. New Social Security cards, Michigan driver’s licenses, birth certificates, credit cards with phony transaction histories, bank accounts. We made some deposits to get you started.”
Randall looked at the documents in his lap. “But why Patrick McKenna?”
“Because it’s a common name.”
“Couldn’t I have picked something?”
“Flash Gordon was taken.” Randall stared at him.
“Sorry,” said Ramirez. “That was supposed to be a joke. Break the tension.”
An exit sign.
Battle Creek.
They got off the interstate and wound through anonymous neighborhoods.
“Remember what we talked about,” said Ramirez. “It’s critical. Randall Sheets never existed. And Patrick McKenna always has. You need to set aside some quality time rehearsing with your family over the next weeks, calling each other by new names.”
“I think we’re smart enough to-”
“I’m serious. Can’t tell you how many people we’ve had to move again because of slipups in the wrong place, and it usually happens at the beginning. After a while, it’ll come naturally.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“One more thing,” said the agent. “The phone in the living room. Its wire runs through a little tan box. That’s the encrypter. There’s a switch on the side. Don’t call me unless you absolutely have to, but if you have to, flip the switch for a secure line.”
Patrick looked out the windows as they swung onto a sleepy, tree-lined street. “I just want to see my family.”
The car pulled up to the curb. Patrick grabbed the door handle, then stopped and turned. “I never thanked you.”
“Go on, they’re waiting.”
Patrick ran up the walkway and rang the doorbell.
Ramirez watched the tearful reunion on the front steps. He waited until the door closed, then drove back to the airport.
THE PRESENT
Police headquarters.
An evidence bag of hex-head bolts lay on the conference table. Detectives gathered around a TV set. Someone inserted a DVD that had been discovered by the employee who’d made the 911 call from the Daytona Beach boardwalk.
An early-morning glow had just broken over the Atlantic, but not the sun, giving the image a grainy, low-light effect.
On-screen: Pedro, secured in his seat, gagged, eyes of horror.
Offscreen: “… Five… four… three… two… one… liftoff!”
The video camera on the safety bar showed Pedro suddenly accelerate skyward in the open-air ball of the Rocket Launch. The beach and boardwalk receded quickly, tiny buildings and cars like a child’s train set.
Then the ball reached its zenith, and elastic cords jerked hard. The padded, U-shaped restraining bar over Pedro’s chest-minus its bolts-flew off like the pilot’s canopy of an F-16 Falcon during subsonic ejection.
Followed by Pedro.
The now-empty ball continued bouncing on its cords, camera still running.
A detective slowed the DVD to frame-by-frame. On one of its last bounces, the ball caught the background image of a miniature Pedro sailing out over motel row.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
A late-model Mercedes raced west through Little Havana on Calle Ocho. The road became the Tamiami Trail. A half hour later, they left civilization behind and entered the Everglades.
Hector was driving, Luis riding shotgun. Guillermo sat in the backseat like an only child, arms around a big briefcase.
“No deviating from the plan,” Hector said over his shoulder. “We can’t be in the same place as the payment.”
“Why not?” asked Guillermo. “You raised him like my brother. Don’t we trust him anymore?”
“Yes, but he may be followed. He’s on the inside now.”
“I still don’t understand how we got him there. He had a record, from when Madre first picked him up at the jail.”
“Juvenile. Had it sealed.”
Guillermo looked out the windows. “Where is he?”
“Nearby, but he won’t know the final location until you call him.”
Fifty miles into the ’glades. No shade from the withering swamp heat. People in wide-brimmed straw hats reclined on lawn chairs along the shoulder of the Tamiami, cane-pole fishing an alligator-filled canal. Vultures picked at unrecognizable remains, taking flight when the Mercedes blew by. Hector slowed as they passed one of the water district’s drainage control dams. A quick look around. No other cars. He hit the gas for a dust-slinging left turn onto an unmarked dirt road.
“Where will you be?” asked Guillermo.
Hector jerked a thumb north. “Back on the trail. When we see his car leave and are sure he had no tails, we’ll come back to pick you up.”
“But why do we have to pay one of our own extra for the name?”
“You talk too much,” said Luis.
“He’s got to learn sometime,” said his brother, looking over his shoulder again. “We’re not paying him. The files on their confidential sources are sealed tighter than ever since that grand jury. He needs the money to bribe someone else.”
“I still can’t believe we have an informant in our family.”
“It’s the business we’ve chosen.”
The Mercedes rolled to a stop in a small clearing. Dragonflies, sun-bleached beer cans, a single sneaker in weeds.
Guillermo opened his door, filling the car with a blast of scorched air and the buzz of insects.
“We’ll be waiting for your call.” Hector reached for the gearshift.
The car’s horn suddenly blared. Solid.
“What on earth-” Luis looked toward his brother.
The inside of the driver’s windshield was splattered red, his brother facedown on the steering wheel. Luis spun toward the open back door. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
A pair of nine-millimeter rounds entered Luis’s forehead through the same hole.
Guillermo calmly placed the pistol back in his briefcase and walked around to the driver’s side. A dust cloud appeared in the distance as another Mercedes came up the road from the direction of the Tamiami. He opened Hector’s door and pulled him back by the hair. The horn stopped.
So did the second Mercedes.
Guillermo walked to the trailing vehicle and retrieved a gas can from the passenger seat.
“Remember to roll their windows down,” said the driver. “Those other fools left too much evidence when the fire suffocated itself from lack of air.”
Moments later, Guillermo climbed into the second car, which made a tight U in the clearing and drove back out the dirt road. Behind them, flames curled from open windows.
“The last people I would have expected,” said Guillermo. “Why would they turn on the family?”
“One of them did.”
“One?”
Juanita nodded. “Our informant couldn’t figure out which.”
“So you had me kill both your brothers?”
She smiled and patted his hand. “You’re a good boy, Guillermo.”
“Thank you, Madre.”
THE PRESENT
A ’73 Challenger raced up the strip.
Serge reached into a small drugstore shopping bag.
“Smelling salts?” asked Coleman.
“Explain later.” Serge removed a greeting card from the same bag. “Right now I must depend on your particular talents. Nearest liquor store?”
“Three hundred yards. Left one block, then right, north side of the street.”
He hit the gas.
“But, Serge, you don’t drink.”
The Challenger hung a hard left. “It’s not for me. It’s for one of Guillermo’s goons.”
“You’re buying one of his goons a drink?”
A skidding right turn. “Several.”
They dashed into the store. “Coleman, time’s of essence. Your expertise again-liquor store layout. Where’s the…”
Coleman quickly guided Serge to respective products on his mental list. They ran for the cash register with arms full of bottles.
Minutes later, the Challenger patched out of the parking lot.
“What’s the big rush?” asked Coleman.
“Pedro just made the TV news.”
“And?”
“So up to now we’ve had the advantage of them not knowing what we know. But as soon as Guillermo sees the news, he’ll realize they’ve been made. We already might be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Before they have a chance to clear out, I’d like to thin the herd a little more and improve our odds.”
“How does all that liquor fit in?”
“It has to be a quick strike. I wanted to set up a series of levers, gears, bowling balls and axes on roller skates, but this is no time for fun. Had to think up something quick-that also works quick. Unfortunately, my plan leaves us trapped without escape from Guillermo’s murderous retaliation.”
“I usually prefer a way out of that.”
“Most people do, which is why I added liquor to the Master Plan’s cocktail. It simultaneously accomplishes both objectives: taking out the target and creating an escape clause.”
“How does it do that?”
“Through a potent mix of French cuisine and The Simpsons.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Twenty people with latex gloves walked extra slow, performing a grid search in the dirt and weeds around the charred carcass of a Mercedes.
Just another day in the Everglades.
“Looks like he picked up the shell casings.”
“Obviously knows what he’s doing. I’m guessing those windows weren’t originally rolled down in this heat.”
A cell phone rang.
“Ramirez here.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Calm down.” The agent walked to the side of the clearing for privacy. “Is the encryption box switched on?”
“How can you tell me to calm down at a time like this?” Patrick McKenna paced in front of the TV set in his Battle Creek living room with snowflakes on windowsills. “Have you seen the news? Prosecutor says they have to drop all charges.”
“The encryption box!”
“It’s on! Jesus!” McKenna paced the other way, past a televised press conference in the Miami sunshine. “You told me it was a done deal. They’d all go away for a long time.”
“Immunity’s still intact.” Ramirez paced behind a burnt-up car and wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything with your family.”
“One of the dead guys in the Everglades was your other witness, wasn’t he?”
No answer.
“Oh, my God! What am I going to do?” Children across the street stuck the carrot nose in a snowman. “… They’re going to find us, I just know it.”
“Listen very carefully. Nobody’s going to find anyone. You have my word.”
“I’ll bet your other witness had your word.”
“It was completely different with him.”
“Right, he’s dead.”
“No, I mean he wasn’t only a witness. He was a top member of their organization.”
“What’d you do, promise him the same sweet deal as me?”
“I had leverage. Caught him on his yacht, but that’s all I can say except we offered him life without parole or work with us.”
“I’m only a flight instructor. I wasn’t made for this.”
“Just hang in there.”
THE DUNES, ROOM 24
Raul peeked out the curtains for the hundredth time. “What could have happened to Pedro?”
Miguel joined him at the window. “And when are those kids ever going to come back?”
“They’re not,” said Guillermo.
“How do you know?”
Guillermo watched TV. Live aerial footage from a helicopter hovering over the roof of a nearby motel, where cops clustered around a sheet-covered body. “We just found Pedro.”
Outside, Serge and Coleman ran up the concrete stairs and into room 25.
“Where the fuck have you been?” said Country.
“Booze run,” said Coleman, lining bottles on the counter.
“You left us bored in here while you were out having fun?”
“It’s not like that,” said Serge. “I’m working.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re working.”
“Trust me.” Serge uncapped bottles. “You won’t be bored for long.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Now’s not the time to argue. We still have a tiny advantage.”
“What are you, playing fort again?”
“Guillermo knows the kids were in room 24 from the class ring in the mail slot…”-uncapping more bottles-“… But like I told you before, he doesn’t know we also have this room-not yet. And when he does…“ Serge tossed his keys to City.”I parked the car in front of the convenience store at the end of this block. Wait for us there.”
“Another place to wait? And this time in the heat? Fuck that!”
“Please.” Serge pulled pliers from his pocket. “I’m thinking of your safety. And I’m taking a wild guess this will draw the cops.”
“Come on, Country.” City sneered at Serge as they headed for the door. “You owe us big-time.”
“Will you hurry?” Serge opened the rest of the bottles.
Other side of the wall: “How does that mean the kids aren’t coming back?” asked Miguel.
“I’ll speak slowly for you.” Guillermo grabbed his keys. “We’ve been identified. Apparently those kids aren’t as harmless as we’d thought.”
“Maybe they had help,” said Raul.
“Gee, you think?”
Guillermo went to the curtains for his own parking lot assessment.
“What do we do now?” asked Miguel.
“Clear out,” said Guillermo. “Who knows who’s involved? Maybe Andy’s not even here. We don’t know what he looks like. The feds could be using young undercovers as bait.”
“That class ring was kind of easy. You sure we can trust our inside guy?”
“Don’t talk anymore.” Guillermo grabbed the door handle. “I’ll get the car. Miguel, you do a final walk-around of the hotel for anything out of place. Raul, wipe the room for prints and meet us.”
Two men left and slammed the door. Raul grabbed a bath towel.
Room 25: Serge heard the door slam in the next room and peeked out the curtains. Guillermo and Raul trotted down the steps. They split up, Guillermo climbing into a Delta 88. Serge closed the curtains. “Excellent. We’re not late after all. And if Pedro’s count was correct, that leaves one.”
Serge ran for the bathroom.
Coleman strolled at a less purposeful pace. He looked down and saw legs across the floor.
“Serge, what are you doing under the toilet?” Serge adjusted pliers. “Killing the pressure feed. I need a dry tank and bowl.”
“Is this the Simpsons part?”
A twist on the pipe valve. “Just flush that, will you?”
Coleman hit the lever.
Swoosh.
Serge crawled back out and ran into the kitchenette. He wet paper towels under the faucet.
“What are you doing now?” asked Coleman.
“Need a total seal.” He crammed balls of wet paper down the drain. “Don’t want to trust the sink trap. Grab some bottles.”
Down in the parking lot, Guillermo kept checking his watch and glancing out the windshield at the second floor.
Miguel finished circling the motel and climbed in the passenger seat. “Nothing.”
“What the hell’s taking him so long?”
“Probably trying to do a good job.”
“He couldn’t find his own ass if he had three hands.” Another look at his watch. “You better go check.”
Miguel got out of the car and ran toward the stairs.
Room 25: Serge’s right ear was against the adjoining door to the next unit.
“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“Shhhhhh!” said Serge. “It’s falling in place just like I planned. They’re beginning to get sloppy.”
Serge pulled the.45 from his waist and silently opened the connecting door. Guillermo’s crew had failed to check the tandem door on their side, which was still unlocked from when Serge and the kids moved freely between the two rooms. He slowly turned the knob…
Outside, Miguel ran up the stairs and along the landing.
Serge crept quietly into room 24. Just ahead, Raul, with his back to him, rubbing the dresser with a towel. He never heard ginger footsteps from behind. The butt of the pistol came down.
Stars.
Serge grabbed Raul under the arms and dragged him into the other room. He closed the adjoining side door as Miguel opened the front one.
“Raul? Where are you?…”
“Coleman,” said Serge. “Hand me that bottle and my smelling salts. Here’s what I need you to do…”
Guillermo watched from the parking lot. Miguel went in… then came out. He leaned over the second-floor railing and lifted upturned arms in a haven’t-got-a-clue gesture.
“Unbelievable.” Guillermo hopped out and ran up the stairs to 24.
In 25, Serge’s ear was against the door again. Heavy footsteps. “Perfect. Lured them back into the room and away from the car, where they would have been able to intercept and retaliate.”
“Escape clause?” asked Coleman.
“The exit window won’t stay open long. We have to work fast.” Serge waved smelling salts under Raul’s nose. His woozy head snapped sideways. Another whiff of the salts, and he was back with the living. Raul felt something wet in his hair. He reached up with his hands.
“Don’t touch it.” Serge aimed his.45. “On your feet!”
“Who are you?”
“Pedro says, ‘Hi.’ Actually, he says, ‘Ahhhhhhhhh!’”
“You’re so dead!”
“Someday,” said Serge. “Save me a seat.”
As previously instructed, Coleman walked behind their guest.
Raul glanced over his shoulder, then back at Serge. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Here’s a critical fact you need to remember,” said Serge. “No matter how much you panic, the closest source of water is the toilet.”
“Why do I need to know where water is?”
Guillermo raced around number 24.
“Sure he didn’t slip out without you seeing him?” asked Miguel.
“Positive. Never took my eyes off the room.” Guillermo opened the sliding glass door and looked down off the balcony. He came back in with a puzzled look. “What could have happened to him?”
“It’s like he vanished into thin air.”
On the other side of the wall, Serge tapped his nose. That was Coleman’s cue. He flicked a disposable lighter behind Raul and touched it to the Bacardi 151 in his hair.
Raul’s hands shot up. “Aaaaaauuuuhhh! I’m on fire! I’m on fire!”
“The toilet!” yelled Serge, pointing toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget the toilet!”
Raul ran by screaming.
“I love flamb-,” said Serge.
“But there isn’t any water in the toilet,” said Coleman. “You filled it with another bottle of one fifty-one.”
“Did I do that?”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!“ Raul came running out.”I’m more on fire!…”
Guillermo heard the hysterical screaming in Serge’s room. But then, there was even louder yelling from spring breakers in the unit on the other side.
“Guillermo…,” said Miguel, picking up a towel dropped in front of the dresser.
“Quiet. I’m trying to think.” Guillermo slowly rotated. He stopped and stared at the adjoining door. “What is it?” asked Miguel. “The next room. That’s it.”
Guillermo ran over and opened the first door but the second was locked. He put his shoulder into it. The door gave slightly, but the deadbolt held. He hit it again.
“Serge,” said Coleman, watching Raul run in frantic circles, slapping the top of his head, “I think I hear someone trying to knock down that side door.”
“Right on schedule. This is going to be tight timing.” Serge grabbed Raul by the arm and pointed. “The sink! Water in the sink!”
Raul ran.
Coleman stepped up next to Serge and looked toward the kitchenette. “More one fifty-one?”
“That would be repetitive. One-ninety-proof grain alcohol.”
A shoulder hit the side door again.
Coleman looked at the ceiling. “Why aren’t the sprinklers going off?”
“He’s not staying in one place long enough, and alcohol burns at a low temperature,” said Serge. “But he still doesn’t like it.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! More fire!…”
Another shoulder into the door. This time the frame began to fracture.
“The pool!” Serge pointed at the open sliding glass doors. “Water in the pool! You can make it!”
Raul dashed across the room and never broke stride as he dove off the balcony.
Serge and Coleman ran out and looked over the railing.
“Oooooh,” said Coleman. “He didn’t make it.”
Guillermo had given up on his shoulder and pulled a.380 automatic, preparing to shoot his way through.
Suddenly, even louder shrieking from some kind of pandemonium outside.
“Guillermo!” Miguel shouted from the balcony. “Come quick! The patio! I think I found him!”
Guillermo ran to the railing. People splashed water from the pool onto a smoldering Raul.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “The guy stopped trying to knock down the door.”
“Shhhhhh!” Serge counted under his breath. “Five, six, seven… They must be out on the balcony now, trying to figure where their pal fell from… Escape window just opened!”
They ran out the door and down the stairs. “I get the Simpsons part now,“ said Coleman.”Flaming Mo.”
Guillermo leaned over the balcony, tracing Raul’s flight trajectory up to the next room. “Miguel! Quick!” He ran back inside and unceremoniously shot the locks off the connecting door with excess ammunition.
They rushed inside. Empty but recently occupied.
Miguel fanned his nose. “Jesus, what is that smell?”
“Liquor.”
Another urgent room sweep. They checked the bathroom, closet, under beds. Then a second round. Guillermo ran past the TV and hit the brakes. He looked back. “Fuck me.”
“What is it?” asked Miguel.
They both looked on top of the television. A propped-up envelope. In big letters across the front: GUILLERMO.
He tore open the flap and pulled out a get-well card.
Howdy, Guillermo,
Ain’t spring break a gas? All the history! Here’s your first hint: Follow time backward. Bet you can’t catch me… before I catch you.
Warmly in Florida,
Serge A. Storms
GUILLERMO
Back in the nineties, Juanita was always taking in strays.
Young street boys looking for trouble.
She waited in a Mercedes outside the county jail.
Her extended family was growing in both size and loyalty. She should have been a psychiatrist.
Guillermo was barely eighteen when he finished a three-month stretch for petty larceny. He walked out the back of the jail with two plastic bags of personal junk and no direction.
Juanita rolled down her window. “You need a place to stay?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Whatever I tell you.”
He got in.
To the cast of surrogate sons, she was the mother they never had. To Juanita, it was business.
Guillermo quickly became her most valuable asset. Grooming time.
One Saturday afternoon, he sat alone watching TV in a Spanish stucco house south of Miami. The Mercedes returned from jail.
Juanita came through the front door. “Guillermo, this is Ricky.”
“Hey.”
She set her purse on the table and removed a blood-pressure gauge. “Ricky, come here.”
“What’s that for?”
“Just put out your arm.”
Juanita fastened Velcro and pumped a rubber bulb. She reached in her purse again and handed Ricky a nine-millimeter automatic with a full clip and an empty chamber.
“Guillermo, stand up.”
He did.
She turned to Ricky. “Shoot him.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Shoot him.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Shoot him.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“A test.”
Ricky aimed the gun with a trembling arm. Juanita checked the pressure gauge, needle spiking.
He dropped his arm. “I can’t do it.”
Juanita ripped the Velcro off. “Guillermo, come here.” She refastened the inflatable sleeve around his left arm, then turned her back to them, removing and replacing the clip. “Ricky might have just saved your life.”
Guillermo was confused.
She handed him the pistol. “Shoot him.”
“A test?”
She nodded.
Ricky got it now and smiled. No way the gun was loaded.
Guillermo took aim. The gauge’s needle hung steady at the low end. “One question, Madre.”
“What is it?”
“Did he pass the test?”
“He didn’t do what I asked.”
Bang.
The smile disappeared. Ricky looked down incredulously at the broadening stain in the middle of his chest.
A crash to the floor.
Juanita checked the gauge again. No movement. “Interesting. You can take that off now.”
Guillermo ripped it from his arm.
She stuck the gun back in her purse. “How do you feel?”
“Hungry.”
“Good boy. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
THE PRESENT
Luxury suite number 1563.
Near panic.
Students pounding beers as usual. Except this time it was self-medicating.
“You don’t know who this Serge character is?” said Spooge.
“Thought he was with you.”
“He’s not with us. I thought he was with you.”
“Holy God. Maybe everything he’s said is bullshit. Maybe he’s the killer.”
“But he left Panama City with us before that mess in our old room.”
“That just means he’s working with someone else. Remember, he’s the one who started all this talk about assassination.”
“Spooge is right. We never saw anyone in our room at the Dunes. He could have closed those curtains himself.”
“We’ve got to get out of here!”
They all jumped up at once, stuffing what was left of their luggage. Melvin walked out of the bathroom. “What’s going on?”
“We just realized nobody knows who Serge is.”
“I know Serge.”
They stopped and stared at Melvin.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“So you trust him?”
“It’s really my father who knows Serge.”
“But your dad will vouch for him, right?”
“My dad’s scared shitless of him.”
“Screw this. We’re out of here!”
“Why?” asked Melvin.
Joey said, “We think he might be the killer.”
“Serge?” said Melvin. “No way.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Serge may be a lot of things, but I guarantee he’s not the killer,” said Melvin. “Bet my life on it.”
The students half relaxed.
“Still feel better if we moved. I’m getting nervous staying in one spot so long.”
“I’m with Joey,” said Spooge. “Even if Serge is legit, those bodies in Panama City were for real.”
The other students picked up bags and headed for the door.
It flew open.
“Hey, everyone! I’m home!”
Serge strolled in with Coleman, City and Country. He headed for the coffee machine. “What’s with all the packed bags? You going somewhere?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Spooge. “I mean, we know you said to stay put, but we hadn’t heard anything from you in so long…”
“… That’s right,” continued Doogie. “Figured we’d use the time to pack and be ready when you said to split.”
“Excellent thinking,” said Serge. “In fact, we do need to roll.”
“When?”
“Immediately. I’ve made contact with the assassins and baited them, so they could be kicking in the door any second and spraying the place with bullets. We leave right after my coffee’s ready.”
They began to unravel again.
“Look on the bright side.” Serge poured water in the back of the machine. “We’re going to a most righteous place. It’ll be a blast!”
“Where?”
“Come on, use your brains. You can figure this out. Guillermo probably has.”
“Who’s Guillermo?”
“That will only upset you. Maybe you’ll meet him, maybe you won’t. But if you do, what good is it to die a thousand deaths in the meantime?”
“I feel faint.” Cody grabbed a chair.
“Remember I told you it’s all about history?” Serge switched the machine on. “We started in Panama City. Now we’re in Daytona. What’s the next logical progression? Anyone?”
They stared.
“The birthplace of spring break in America!” said Serge. “Guaranteed to be a killer!”
TAMPA BAY
The single-floor Rod and Reel Motel hangs on as one of the great old Florida holdouts, resting on the shore of Anna Maria Island, just inside the southern lip of the bay. A small seawall and narrow ribbon of white-sand beach…”
Agent Mahoney didn’t realize he was talking to himself, which meant off the meds.
“… Behind the motel stands a short, weathered fishing pier- also called the Rod and Reel-and at the end sits a small, boxlike, two-story wooden building. Run-down, in the good way. Its top floor houses a casual seafood restaurant. The bottom sells live shrimp from large, aerated tanks giving off that unmistakably salty bait-shop funk. Inside is a cozy, rustic bar. The doors stay open. And through the great tidal surges at the mouth of Tampa Bay come some of the largest fish in the world. Without this knowledge, it seems improbable that from the tiny pier, just a few swimming yards from shore, on June 28, 1975, a then-record 1,386-pound hammerhead shark was landed. The jaws used to hang on a plaque in the bar, but now they’re at a museum up the street…”
Mahoney sat on the wraparound deck behind the bar, the only person in a tweed coat and rumpled fedora.
He wasn’t shark fishing.
Wasn’t fishing at all, even though he had a pole and a line in the water. It was therapy. He was dangling for the natural approach because, like Serge, he found medication to be a thick glass wall between him and Florida. Mahoney removed his hat and relaxed on a splintered bench, casting his line again without design. “… And pelicans floated down by the pilings, hoping for toss-aways, as I absentmindedly bobbed my pole and scanned the wide, soothing view over water. Sunshine Skyway bridge in the distance, and Egmont Key in the middle of the mouth. The 1858 lighthouse still stood, but defensive fortifications from the Spanish-American War lay in ruins…”
Mahoney let a smile escape. Heart rate at a six-month low. His decade-long clinical obsession tracking Serge appeared to have gone latent. The detective was on indefinite sabbatical, with an open-ended reservation for room 3 of the Rod and Reel Motel.
DO NOT DISTURB.
“… The sun tacked high at the hottest part of the day, and I retired to the bar. A trough of iced-down longnecks had my name. Nautical maps, oscillating fan, TV on a Weather Channel tornado report with overturned cars. Lacquered into the countertop were yellowed newspaper photos of anglers posing with catches…”
Mahoney chewed his toothpick and thumbed a morning paper. He reached the State section and read a lengthy wire report of the since-dubbed Spring Break Massacre in Panama City Beach. The toothpick went in the trash.
“So they threw the midget off the balcony,” he said ruefully. “Isn’t that how it always starts?”
A cell phone rang.
“Mahoney. Speak to me.”
“Mahoney? This is Agent Ramirez with the bureau.”
“To what do I owe the federal pleasure?”
“Just read your psychology article on profiling. Good stuff.”
“You must have a very old pile of magazines.”
“Found it on a computer search.”
“Search for what?”
“Serge.”
Mahoney winced.
“Hear what happened in Panama City?” asked Ramirez.
“Nasty business. Must have your hands full.”
“Interviewed all the guests and staff-almost everyone came up clean.”
“Almost?”
“One guy whose name wasn’t in the registration book turned up on a number of surveillance tapes around the same time. Our database got a six-point facial recognition match.”
“You’re not looking for Serge,” said Mahoney. “This isn’t his signature. Innocent kids, and he likes to get complex.”
“He was staying on the same floor at the same time. Then I saw his file…”-Ramirez whistled-“… subject of interest in at least two dozen homicides.”
“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong tree to bark at.”
“Still a coincidence we can’t ignore.”
“Anything from your credit card check?”
“What credit card check?”
“On the son of your protected witness.”
Silence.
“Hello?” said Mahoney. “You still there?”
“How’d you know?”
“Did the math. Pro hit, spring break, your job specialty. Adds up to trouble.”
“Card dead-ends at the Panama City motel. Hasn’t been used since, but he did pawn his class ring in Daytona. Tracked down his motel there-another uncanny coincidence.”
“Serge on security cameras?”
“And two more bodies.”
“Kids?”
“No, pros. Weird murders.”
“That’s more like Serge.”
“I need your help,” said Ramirez. “Anything you got on him.”
“You don’t have that much storage space.”
“Then just the latest. Here’s my e-mail…”
Mahoney jotted it down.
“One more thing,” said Ramirez. “Nobody else can know we talked or what you send me.”
“Informant?”
“You’re as good as I’d heard,” said Ramirez. “Someone else was asking around at the pawnshop before I got there.”
“Serge?”
“Don’t know. But the APB that turned up the sale of the class ring was for law enforcement eyes only.”
“That’s a rodent smell, all right.”
“Can I count on you?”
“Like blackjack.”
Agent Mahoney strolled off the pier and returned to his room. A vintage alligator briefcase sat on the dresser. Mahoney considered it for the longest time. Doubt. But he’d given Ramirez his word.
“I know I’m going to regret this…”
He flipped brass latches. Out came a laptop. He opened it and located a dedicated folder for Serge. The first item was a scanned Christmas message. The next two were digitized videos of commencement addresses-one at least a decade old from the University of South Florida, the other more recent. Mahoney involuntarily chuckled at the thought of the second. He’d practically fallen out of his chair when it first came in. Of all things, Serge delivering the graduation address at a kindergarten.
The agent attached them, plus lengthy data files, and sent the whole batch to Ramirez’s e-mail.
Then another long look at the gator-skin case. He reached in a back pocket and removed the original copy of the Christmas message: a greeting card with a barefoot Santa lying against a palm tree on the beach. Inside was a folded sheet of paper with single-spaced typing. Mahoney sat on the edge of the bed, slipped on bifocals and began reading…
December 25
Dear friends and enemies,
Season’s greetings! It’s me, Serge! Don’t you just hate these form letters people stuff in Christmas cards? Nothing screams “you’re close to my heart” like a once-a-year Xerox. Plus, all the lame jazz that’s going on in their lives. “Had a great time in Memphis.” “Bobby lost his retainer down a storm drain.” “I think the neighbors are dealing drugs.” But this letter is different. You are special to me. I’m just forced to use a copy machine and gloves because of advancements in forensics. I love those TV shows!
Has a whole year already flown by? Much to report! Let’s get to it!
Number one: I ended a war.
You guessed correct, the War on Christmas! When I first heard about it, I said to Coleman, “That’s just not right! We must enlist!” I rushed to the front lines, running downtown yelling “Merry Christmas” at everyone I saw. And they’re all saying “Merry Christmas” back. Hmmm. That’s odd: Nobody’s stopping us from saying “Merry Christmas.” Then I did some research, and it turns out the real war is against people saying “Happy holidays.” The nerve: trying to be inclusive. So, everyone…
Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Good times! Soul Train! Purple mountain majesties! The Pompatus of Love!
There. War over. And just before it became a quagmire.
Next: Decline of Florida Roundup.
– They tore down the Big Bamboo Lounge near Orlando. Where was everybody on that one?
– Remember the old “Big Daddy’s” lounges around Florida with the logo of that bearded guy? They’re now Flannery’s or something.
– They closed 20,000 Leagues. And opened Buzz Lightyear. I offered to bring my own submarine. Okay, actually threatened, but they only wanted to discuss it in the security office. I’ve been doing a lot of running lately at theme parks.
– Here’s a warm-and-fuzzy. Anyone who grew up down here knows this one, and everyone else won’t have any idea what I’m talking about: that schoolyard rumor of the girl bitten by a rattlesnake on the Steeplechase at Pirate’s World (now condos). I’ve started dropping it into all conversations with mixed results.
– In John Mellencamp’s megahit “Pink Houses,” the guy compliments his wife’s beauty by saying her face could “stop a clock.” Doesn’t that mean she was butt ugly? Nothing to do with Florida. Just been bugging me.
Good news alert! I’ve decided to become a children’s author! Instilling state pride in the youngest residents may be the only way to save the future. The book’s almost finished. I’ve only completed the first page, but the rest just flows after that. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title meant, and I said life is like sailing on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading and asked if a children’s book should have the word “motherfucker” eight times on the first page. I say, absolutely. They’re little kids, after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition… In advance: Happy New Year! (Unlike 2008-ouch!)
DAYTONA BEACH
Serge and the gang pulled out of town as a custom motor coach rolled in.
Male motorists honked at the bus, as they always did wherever it went, because of the topless women painted on the side with strategically positioned CENSORED labels.
Someone near the front of the bus hung up a phone and walked to the back. He knocked on the RV’s rear suite with circular bed.
Other side of the door: “Not now.”
“Sir, it’s important.”
The door opened a crack. Camera lights. Seventeen-year-olds. Rood stuck his head out. “Can’t it wait?”
“Sir, we’ve been sued again by parents. Ten million dollars. This time they said she was sixteen.”
“So handle it like you always do.”
“Sir, that was Charley. He quit. Remember?”
“Bastard!” Rood fumed at the thought of his former chief assistant walking out in Panama City. “After all I did for him.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Rood looked back. “Guys, get the dildos.” He stepped outside and closed the door. “Offer five hundred thousand, the cost of doing business.”
“I don’t think they’ll take it. Pretty mad.”
“Their lawyer will get them to take it.”
“Their lawyer’s booked them on TV.”
“Everyone has a price,” said Rood. “You make an appointment to see him and negotiate.”
“But I’m not an attorney.”
“Not as a lawyer. A potential client.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s only going to get a third of the five hundred K we’re offering to settle for, which is why he won’t take it.” Rood lit a fat cigar. “So you say your company’s staff attorney is a fuck-up and you want to hire him on retainer. Million a year.”
“What does my company do?”
“I don’t give a shit. Widgets, copper mines.”
“But he won’t have any work to do.”
“He’ll know that.” Smoke rings drifted toward the ceiling. “It’s a legal bribe.”
The assistant coughed. “Isn’t that unethical?”
“That’s why it’ll work.”
“Won’t he wonder that I walked in out of the blue?”
“Tell him you admire his lawsuit-that you hate my guts and am glad to see I’m getting what’s due.” Another big puff. “Say you hope he can wrap up a settlement in my case fast, a week tops, because your company needs him available right away or you’ll have to go somewhere else. Then he’ll be ready to accept my lowball five hundred K offer.”
“He’ll buy that?”
“No, he’ll see right through it. But it’ll give him plausible deniability… Put out your hand.” The assistant did.
Rood tapped an ash into it. “Can’t fail.”
“But you don’t even know this guy.”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“What about the girl?”
“Fuck her.”
Squealing behind the suite’s door.
Rood grabbed the knob. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Filming continued as the bus pulled into the parking lot of a luxury resort.
“Here.” Rood handed the girls a presentation case. “Use the ben wa balls.”
Suddenly, a screeching of cars all around the bus. Loud voices.
“Cut!” yelled Rood. He left the suite and headed toward the front of the coach. “What the hell’s all that racket?”
“Sir,” said his assistant. “They’re here again.”
“Who is?”
They leaned toward side windows. Middle-aged women in the parking lot, waving picket signs and yelling.
“How’d they find us so fast?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Son of a bitch.” He turned to the driver. “Keep going.”
The bus pulled away from the hotel and headed south.
NEW SMYRNA BEACH
Twenty minutes south of Daytona, the Challenger turned west on State Road 44. Serge parked beneath a neon outline of Florida.
“Another biker bar,” said Coleman. “Cool!”
“Why are we stopping?” asked Andy.
“Because it’s Gilly’s Pub 44,” said Serge. “I love Gilly’s! ‘Where everyone is treated like a local.’”
“But I mean, aren’t we running for our lives?”
“Exactly.” Serge opened the driver’s-side door. “They’ll never expect this.”
Everyone grabbed stools. Coleman ordered four drinks.
“All right!” said Serge, looking at a TV on the wall. “A congressional hearing! Congressional hearings crack me up! Children argue better: I know you are, but what am I?…”
“What’s this one about?”
“Eeewwww.” Serge got a queasy feeling. “This one ain’t so funny. They’re questioning oil executives again, who continue bleeding my Florida travel budget. And if you know anything at all about Serge, you don’t want to go there.”
“Oh, gasoline,” said Coleman. “So that’s what everyone’s been talking about?”
Serge turned slowly. “Did you just arrive on Earth?”
Coleman tossed back a shot. “No, I’ve been here almost my whole life.”
“The part that kills me is their latest wave of commercials.” Serge tipped back his bottled water. “The message now is that they’re against oil. How stupid do they think we are? BP’s new slogan: ‘Beyond Petroleum.’ The name of the damn company is British fucking Petroleum. They’re not beyond petroleum; they’re waist-deep in North Sea crude with the gas pump up our ass…”
“Serge, your head’s turning that color again.”
“… Or the ones showing cute Alaskan wildlife, wheat fields and wind farms, with the voice-over from a woman who sounds like she’s ready to fuck: ‘Imagine an oil company that cares.’ Holy Orwell, why not ‘Marlboro: We’re in the business of helping you quit smoking, so buy a carton today! ’…”
Farther down the bar.
Four white-haired ladies in leather jackets watched TV. “I hate those oil company pricks.”
“Why doesn’t the government do something?” asked Edna.
“Are you listening to yourself?” said Edith. “The government?”
Back up the bar, Serge’s ears perked. “Those voices…”
“The ones in your head?” asked Coleman.
“No, those are just the backup singers.” He looked around. “Why does it sound so familiar?”
“Where are they coming from?”
Serge strained his neck. “Coleman! Over there! It’s our old friends!”
He jumped off his stool, ran over and spread his arms. “The G-Unit!”
“Shit.” Edith picked up her gin. “Another fan.”
Edna slipped on chic sunglasses. “No autographs.”
“I don’t want an autograph.” He hopped on the balls of his feet. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“Not really.”
“It’s me! Serge! From that crazy cruise to Cancun. And a decade back on Triggerfish Lane.”
“Dear God.”
“Glad to see me? What are you drinking? I got it.”
“Tanqueray.”
Serge raised a finger for the bartender and opened his wallet. “What’s with the leather getups?”
“We’re bad to the bone,” said Edith.
“So what have you been doing with yourselves these days?” asked Serge.
“Just ridin’ the big slab,” said Eunice.
“And hating this jackass,” said Edith, nodding up toward the TV.
“That oil guy?” said Serge. “Don’t get me started. Saying he’s just a regular Joe with money concerns like the rest of us.”
“Listen to that heartless fiction coming out of his mouth,” said Edna. “When gas went back down under two dollars a gallon, I thought we’d seen the last of it, but these snakes were just lying in wait.”
The TV switched to a correspondent standing outside the committee meeting room: “… Meanwhile, investors in the oil giant are elated with record profits, and CEO Riles ‘Scooter’ Highpockets III, who gave himself an eighty-million-dollar securities option this year, should receive a much more welcome reception when he appears at the company’s annual stockholders’ meeting at an Orlando resort tomorrow… Back to you, Blaine…”
“How can he lie so completely and get away with it?” asked Eunice.
“Maybe he won’t,” Serge said with a grin.
“What do you mean?”
“How’d you like to have some fun?”
“We ain’t never stopped havin’ fun.”
DAYTONA BEACH
Hotel business center.
Agent Ramirez tapped computer keys and opened his e-mail. An hour later, a cursor slid over “Serge Commencement #2.”
The video opened with a post-event interview of the principal at police headquarters:
“Said he was a children’s author?” asked a detective.
“That’s right.”
“And you didn’t sense anything was wrong?”
“Claimed to be an alumnus, even knew the old playground layout,” said the principal. “And that was years ago before it was replaced. There’s this advanced new safety padding under the teeter-totters in case someone plays a prank and jumps off-”
“I’m sure it’s a fine playground. What about his commencement address?”
“That’s why we started wondering. But whenever we thought, ‘Where the heck is he going with this?’ it snapped into place. By the time we finally caught on, he was already waving good-bye.”
“This is most important of all,” said the detective. “Any indication where he might have been going? Someplace we can pick up his trail?”
“When we ran outside to watch him drive away, I got the impression he was living out of his car.”
The detective massaged his forehead. “How are the kids holding up?”
“Not too good,” said the principal. “Most of them keep crying because he isn’t their first-grade teacher next year.”
The video became static, then flipping vertical lines, which soon cleared to reveal the view from a camera tripod in the back of a packed cafeteria. Drone of conversation. Hundreds of crowded parents taking snapshots from a sea of folding chairs. Up front, rows of cute tots in white caps and gowns. Serge pushed his way to the stage, where an active microphone picked up conversation.
The principal reviewed notes behind the podium. A tap on his shoulder. He looked up. “May I help you?”
“I’m the commencement speaker.”
“We don’t have a commencement speaker.”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Who are you?”
“Serge A. Storms, bestselling children’s author and legacy, Kinder Kollege class of ’67.” He extended a hand. “You must be the Principal Adams I read about in the paper. Great job you’ve done with the playground.”
“Who’s this guy with you?”
“My illustrator.”
“They didn’t tell me about a commencement speaker.”
“Everything’s okay now. I’m here.”
Fast-forward…
Parents and children politely clapped as two men walked onto the stage. Coleman sat in a chair next to the podium, and Serge grabbed the mike: “Good morning!”
“Good morning!”
“This is Coleman, my illustrator.” Serge opened his manuscript. “He’ll be helping me today as I read from my upcoming blockbuster, Shrimp Boat Surprise… Prologue: Once upon a time there was a little girl named Story, bobbing along the sea in a big, happy shrimp boat…”
Coleman held up a crude drawing of a boat and a smiling stick figure with too many arms.
“… Story had dreams of being a dancer. As she grew older, she never let those dreams die. And guess what? Those dreams came true!…”
Coleman held up a drawing of a larger stick figure doing a split on a catwalk.
Parents exchanged confused looks.
“… And her dreams just kept getting bigger!…”
Coleman raised another sheet of paper. A stick figure swung around a fireman’s pole.
Serge glanced up at growing murmurs. “Guess you’re right. Still needs editing.” Serge closed the notebook and began his trademark pacing across the stage.
“What a special day! I see you all can’t wait to get out there in the workforce, make 401K contributions and drink lots of coffee. But I know what you’re thinking: My legs are too short to drive. So you still have twelve more years and hopefully college. Use them wisely. Remember the bestselling book that said, ‘Everything you need to know about life you learned in kindergarten’? Well, he lied. Everything you really need to know about life you learn in prison, but that won’t be practical for a while. You don’t want to go to prison yet, do you?”
Little heads swiveled side to side.
“Who’s over there nodding ‘yes’? That is so pre-K. You think this is a joke? Take a look at my illustrator…”
Coleman smiled and waved.
“… The most important contribution you can make now is taking pride in your treasured home state. Because nobody else is. Study and cherish her history, even if you have to do it on your own time. I did. Don’t know what they’re teaching today, but when I was a kid, American history was the exact same every year: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock, Pilgrims, Thomas Paine, John Hancock, Sons of Liberty, tea party. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, we have to start somewhere- we’ll get to Florida soon enough.’… Boston Massacre, Crispus Attucks, Paul Revere, the North Church, ‘Redcoats are coming,’ one if by land, two if by sea, three makes a crowd, and I’m sitting in a tiny desk, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. Hello! Did we order the wrong books? Were these supposed to go to Massachusetts?… Then things showed hope, moving south now: Washington crosses the Delaware, down through original colonies, Carolinas, Georgia. Finally! Here we go! Florida’s next! Wait. What’s this? No more pages in the book. School’s out? Then I had to wait all summer, and the first day back the next grade: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock… Know who the first modern Floridians were? Seminoles! Only unconquered group in the country! These are your peeps, the rugged stock you come from. Not genetically descended, but bound by geographical experience like a subtropical Ellis Island. Because who’s really from Florida? Not the flamingos, or even the Seminoles for that matter. They arrived when the government began rounding up tribes, but the Seminoles said, ‘Naw, we prefer waterfront,’ and the white man chased them but got freaked out in the Everglades and let ’em have slot machines… I see you glancing over at the cupcakes and ice cream, so I’ll limit my remaining remarks to distilled wisdom:
“Respect your parents. And respect them even more after you find out they were wrong about a bunch of stuff. Their love and hard work got you to the point where you could realize this.
“Don’t make fun of people who are different. Unless they have more money and influence. Then you must.
“If someone isn’t kind to animals, ignore anything they have to say.
“Your best teachers are sacrificing their comfort to ensure yours; show gratitude. Your worst are jealous of your future; rub it in.
“Don’t talk to strangers, don’t play with matches, don’t eat the yellow snow, don’t pull your uncle’s finger.
“Skip down the street when you’re happy. It’s one of those carefree little things we lose as we get older. If you skip as an adult, people talk, but I don’t mind.
“Don’t follow the leader.
“Don’t try to be different-that will make you different.
“Don’t try to be popular. If you’re already popular, you’ve peaked too soon.
“Always walk away from a fight. Then ambush.
“Read everything. Doubt everything. Appreciate everything.
“When you’re feeling down, make a silly noise.
“Go fly a kite-seriously.
“Always say ‘thank you,’ don’t forget to floss, put the lime in the coconut.
“Each new year of school, look for the kid nobody’s talking to- and talk to him.
“Look forward to the wonderment of growing up, raising a family and driving by the gas station where the popular kids now work.
“Cherish freedom of religion: Protect it from religion.
“Remember that a smile is your umbrella. It’s also your sixteen-in-one reversible ratchet set.
“ ‘I am rubber, you are glue’ carries no weight in a knife fight.
“Hang on to your dreams with everything you’ve got. Because the best life is when your dreams come true. The second-best is when they don’t but you never stop chasing them. So never let the authority jade your youthful enthusiasm. Stay excited about dinosaurs, keep looking up at the stars, become an archaeologist, classical pianist, police officer or veterinarian. And, above all else, question everything I’ve just said. Now get out there, class of 2020, and take back our state!”
ORLANDO
Serge flattened out the front of his jacket. “How do I look?”
“Hey, handsome,” said Eunice.
Edna checked herself in the mirror. “Never thought I’d catch you in a tux.”
“It’s too binding for my lifestyle, but some things are worth sacrificing for.”
The G-Unit had suspended the leather dress code for their most elegant social attire.
The adjoining door to the next suite opened. Students poked heads in. “What are we doing here?”
“The Master Plan has detours,” said Serge. “Just don’t leave that room.”
“For how long?”
Serge pushed the door shut.
“Ow.”
“Okay,” said Edith. “What am I supposed to do again?”
Serge walked across the suite of a swank resort on International Drive. Two sets of gloves sat on the dresser. A dainty white lace pair. And latex.
“Put the plastic on first, then the white ones will conceal them.” She slipped them on. “How’s that look?”
“Perfect.” Serge handed her a Ziplock bag containing a single dollar bill. “Now stick this in your pocket and don’t open it until the last second. And when you do, make sure the dollar doesn’t touch any part of your body but your hands. The inner gloves will protect them.”
“It’s just going to cause embarrassment, right?” said Edna. “I mean, he’s not going to get hurt or anything.”
“All my pranks are completely safe,” said Serge. “Everyone ready?”
Elevators opened on the convention floor. A spiffy Serge stepped out with Edith on his arm, followed by the rest of the G-Unit.
A bustle of activity greeted them at the entrance of the largest conference hall. Reporters, TV cameras, hotel staff wheeling carts of water carafes. Enthusiastic applause roared out the doors.
Edith tugged Serge’s arm. “You sure they’re going to let us in?”
“Positive.”
“But what if we get caught? None of us has any shares in the company.”
“That’s the beauty of stockholder meetings. Just dress appropriately. At this financial level, the last thing they want to do is insult investors with something bourgeois like asking for ID. And they especially don’t want to demean my sweet grandmother who obviously controls a massive block of voting shares.”
Just as Serge predicted, they strolled right in unquestioned.
Riles Highpockets was already up on the elevated dais. The hall remained extra dark except for the podium spotlight and a Jumbo-Tron on each side of the stage, filled with his sweaty jowls.
Each time the tycoon bellowed another glowing financial number into the microphone, rolling ovations swept across a thousand padded folding chairs.
“What do we do now?” asked Edith.
Serge gestured toward the right of the stage. “That’s the cable news people for the post-speech interview. We need to start working our way over. No chance he’ll snub my charming grandmother’s request in front of a national audience.”
Another wave of wild applause. Riles reached his climactic conclusion. “… And with the help of our government friends, next year will be even better!”
A thundering standing O erupted as Riles made his way down stage steps toward the cable networks. Camera lights came out. A boom microphone dipped over the baron’s head.
The interview had just begun when Serge stepped up. “Excuse me, Mr. Highpockets, but my grandmother has wanted to meet you for years.”
“Sir,” said a TV correspondent. “We’re in the middle of a segment.”
Highpockets held up a hand. “It’s okay. There’s always time to respect our elders.”
“You’re a great man,” said Edith. “America needs more like you. Could I possibly get your autograph on this dollar?”
Riles glanced toward the camera with a grin, thinking, my PR people couldn’t have planned this any better. “Why it would be my pleasure.”
He took the bill and a pen, scribbling a large signature. Then another practiced smile. “There you go.”
Edith held open a plastic bag. “Just drop it in there. Wouldn’t want it to smudge or anything before I get it framed.”
The interview resumed.
Serge and the G-Unit watched from behind the news people. “What happens now?” asked Edna. Serge rubbed his palms. “Wait for the fun to begin.” Three minutes later, a handler interrupted and whispered in Riles’s ear.
“Sorry,” said Highpockets, “but they have me on a tight schedule.” He gave a big wave to the crowd before being ushered out the side door to a waiting stretch.
The correspondent turned toward her camera. “Another busy day for one of the country’s richest oilmen, who will now be flown by private jet helicopter to a drilling platform in the Gulf of Mexico, where he will personally thank his corporation’s hardworking blue-collar employees…”
“What the hell?” said Serge.
“I didn’t see any embarrassment,” said Edna.
“Not enough time to take effect. Crap.”
“All this for nothing?” said Edith.
“We might get lucky and see something later on TV.” Serge took her by the arm and strolled out of the hall. “My guess is there’ll be a camera crew on that helicopter for carefully choreographed photo ops of him mixing with the common man at the drilling platform. No way he’s just doing it for the good and welfare.”
ROD AND REEL PIER
Mahoney accidentally caught a fish.
He cranked it in, removed the hook and threw it back. “Be free. Have a long and productive life…”
A pelican waiting below caught it on the fly and gulped it down. “Isn’t that always the case…”
The agent stared off at a distant tanker making its way up the ship channel. A gut feeling had been nagging him ever since Serge’s name came up. That business in Panama City just wasn’t his guy. He threw a toothpick in the water.
“Something’s not jake.”
Mahoney cast his line again, set it in a rod holder and dialed his cell.
“Agent Ramirez here.”
“It’s Mahoney. What’s the name of the kid?”
“That’s confidential.”
“One hand washes the other.”
“What’s this about?”
“If Serge is your man, there may be a connection. And nobody knows Serge like me.”
“It violates about ten rules.”
“Who got you those files? I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
“I guess you’re right. Andrew McKenna.”
“Consider us even.”
Mahoney knew people, and he knew Ramirez was too by-the-book for his tastes. But Mahoney held markers from people all over the state. He dialed again. An old friend at the bureau.
“… Should be under Andrew McKenna,” said Mahoney.
“But the protection program files are confidential.”
“Just bring me up to speed on background.”
“I don’t know.”
“Who got you out of that scrape in Lantana?”
“I was innocent. You try to be nice and give a stripper a ride home, and she pays you back by smoking ten joints in the car when you’re not there and leaving all the roaches in the ashtray.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Call you back…”
He did, giving Mahoney chapter and verse, right up until “his mother shot herself and we had to move them again out of Michigan.”
“Shot herself?”
“That’s what it says.”
“One more thing: I need a trace on his credit card.”
“I’ve already stuck my neck out.”
“My neck was out for you at the other business in Boca.”
“That’s the thing about strippers: No good deed goes unpunished.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I got your number.”
“Thanks, Bugsy.”
“It’s Harold.”
GILLY’S PUB 44
Edith sipped gin. Back in leather.
“Great to get out of those stuffy rags.”
“Anything on TV yet about Highpockets?”
Edna shook her head.
“Serge,” said Eunice. “Where’d you come up with that idea anyway?”
“Coleman gets the credit for this one. He’s to drug knowledge what I am to Florida.” Serge tipped back a bottle of water. “Plus it’s from the sixties, which means I couldn’t resist.”
“What’s the sixties got to do with it?” asked Ethel.
“Rumors circulated about radicals like Ken Kesey, the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead planning to mix LSD with DMSO, then spread it on doorknobs and stair railings at political conventions so the establishment would have a psycho-meltdown on network TV.”
“What’s DMSO?” asked Eunice.
“Dimethyl sulfoxide, from wood pulping,” said Serge. “Powerful skin penetrant. Mix it with any other chemical, and it goes right to the bloodstream. If you put some on your arm and rub, say, a lime, you’ll taste Key lime pie. Coleman scored the acid; I got the DMSO.”
“And that’s what you soaked the dollar bill in?”
“How was I supposed to know they’d whisk him away so fast?”
“That doesn’t sound like a harmless prank,” said Eunice. “Not only is it harmless,” said Serge, “it’s totally fair.”
“How’s that fair?”
“Everything hinges on Riles’s character.” Serge took another calm pull of water. “If his inner soul’s pure, he could actually come off looking more sympathetic than ever. If not…”
At the other end of the bar, Andy was tapped out. He searched his empty wallet. The bartender had seen it many times before and hovered with growing suspicion. As a last ditch, Andy tried the compartment behind his family photos, where he sometimes kept an emergency twenty for cab fare. “So there’s my credit card… Here…”
The bartender relaxed with a smile and ran it through a magnetic slide.
“Look,” said Edith. “Something’s happening on TV!”
“Turn it up,” Edna told the bartender.
He handed Andy his receipt and aimed a remote at the set.
“… Breaking news at this hour concerning the shocking death of oil magnate Riles ‘Scooter’ Highpockets III in a bizarre drilling platform mishap…”
“You promised just embarrassment,” said Edna.
“Shhhhhhh!” said Edith.
“… Our correspondent on Highpockets’s personal helicopter noticed extremely unusual behavior on the flight out to the gulf, captured in this exclusive footage…”
The image switched to a wild-eyed Riles grabbing the lens of the camera and pulling it to his nose. “I’m rich! I’m so fucking rich. We can do anything we want and nobody can stop us! Everyone out there: Keep drivin, suckers!…”
Back to the anchor desk. “The erratic antics continued after landing on the platform, where Highpockets immediately ran to the massive drill. A warning to viewers: The following footage may be disturbing…”
Riles looked down and spread his arms. “Oil! Oil! I want to [bleep] it.” He lunged. The TV abruptly cut back to the anchorwoman. “ We must stop the film here, but it was at this point that all witnesses agree Highpockets voluntarily took a running leap down into the drill shaft mechanism. The rig’s crew briefly considered suspending operations out of respect and concerns of product contamination, but a petroleum engineer at the site assured them that the magnate’s organic matter added octane and gas mileage… In a prepared statement just released by corporate headquarters in Houston, the board of directors extended its condolences to the victim’s loved ones while lauding their CEO’s actions on the platform. I quote: ‘Riles was a dear friend to the entire Lunar Holdings family, and everyone is deeply touched by his ultimate sacrifice in the development of alternative biofuels. We are moving beyond petroleum to a greener America. Who would expect that from an oil company? Riles, that’s who.’”