Gator A-Go-Go (8 page)

PANAMA CITY BEACH

R
ood Lear reached a net worth of twenty million by his thirtieth birthday. Which was two years ago. Total now closer to forty. Mansion in the Hollywood Hills, Park Avenue penthouse, private jet on call.

Despite the staggering wealth, Rood still went to work every day.

Rood’s company, Bottom Shelf Productions, had booked the top floor of one of the strip’s finest hotels under his lawyer’s name.

Noon.

The floor’s largest suite was brightly lit, even with curtains closed. Wires and cables ran everywhere, held firmly to the carpet with black electrical tape. Large white umbrellas in the corners filled facial shadows from camera lights.

Rood looked at least seven years younger, because he was so short and had to shave only every three days. He surveyed the suite’s bedroom and bit his lower lip. Something wasn’t up to Rood’s high standards. He found the answer. “Give ’em liquor.”

“I think they’ve already had more than enough,” said his executive assistant.

“I say they haven’t.”

“Sir”—the assistant held a pair of well-worn laminated cards— “I don’t think these drivers’ licenses are legit. See the edges ? Someone slit them with razor blades and resealed ’em on an ironing board.”

“You work for CSI now?”

“I’ve seen this trick a hundred times. And we just paid a million in fines.”

“They gave us the IDs, and we accepted them in good faith,” said Rood. “If they’re fake,
we’re
the victims.”

The assistant turned toward the bed, where a pair of topless, tipsy seventeen-year-olds swatted each other with pillows.

“Harold!” said Rood. “Are you going to give them more liquor or look for another job?”

The assistant walked out the door and slammed it behind him.

“Stop filming!” Rood stomped across the room. “Guess I have to do everything!”

He went to work at the wet bar, ice clanging in a sterling cocktail shaker. Then he approached the bed with two tumblers of his personal recipe: Hawaiian Punch, 7 Up and grain alcohol. “You girls look thirsty.”

Giggles. A feather floated by.

“Bottoms up!”

The first took a big sip. “What’s in this? I don’t taste anything.”

“Exactly.” Rood walked back behind the cameras. “Jeremy, start filming.” Then louder: “Pillow fight!”

Swatting began again.

One of the girls’ knees slipped, and she spilled off the bed.

“You all right?”

The teen stifled more giggling and nodded extra hard.

“Okay, back on the mattress.”

The girl started getting up but fell down again, pulling a sheet with her.

“Jeremy,” said Rood. “Give her a hand.”

The cameraman helped her the rest of the way.

He returned. “I think they’re ready.”

“I think you’re right. Roll camera.” Rood raised his voice toward the bed: “Make out with each other. And I want to see lots of tongue on nipples!”

“Forget it!”

“That’s gross!”

Rood went over to the wet bar.

BOSTON

A buzzer sounded. A belt jerked to life in baggage claim.

Anxious travelers ringed the carousel and bunched near the front where luggage came out, trying to see through the hanging rubber strips as if it would accelerate the process.

People snagged suitcases and tote bags. Some placed them back on the belt when the name tag was wrong. Others were easily identified from a rainbow of ribbons their owners had tied to the handles.

Guillermo saw an orange ribbon and snatched a Samsonite. His colleagues grabbed their own luggage, which came by at random intervals.

Finally, they had retrieved everything. And they stayed there.

A taxi stopped outside at the curb. A man with red hair and freckles emerged. One of the few people bringing baggage
into
baggage claim. He took a spot on the opposite side of the carousel from the Florida visitors. Two grandparents rolled bags away; he stepped forward and set a black suitcase at his feet. Guillermo knew the man was there, but neither looked. After sufficient time to allay suspicion, the man studied the name tag on the black suitcase and pretended it wasn’t his. He placed it on the belt.

Guillermo watched it make the turn and nonchalantly grabbed a handle on the way by. They headed for the rental counter.

Thirty minutes later, a Hertz Town Car cruised south on I-93. Raul rode shotgun, opening the black suitcase in his lap. He reached into the protective foam lining and passed out automatic weapons. “What was the deal back there with the Irish guy?”

“Raul,” Guillermo said patiently, “what is it about not checking machine guns through in your luggage that you don’t understand?”

They took the Dorchester exit at sunset and reached a bedroom neighborhood in the dark. Large oaks and maples. TV sets flickering through curtains. The Town Car slowed as it approached the appointed address. Guillermo parked a house short on the opposite side of the street.

Miguel leaned forward from the backseat. “Is that the place?”

Guillermo checked his notes, looked up and nodded. Everything appeared normal. That is, except for the fiercely bright spotlight in the middle of the front yard.

The gang watched as a last, straggling TV correspondent wrapped up a taped spot for the eleven o’clock report. The yard went dark. Guillermo opened his door.

“Excuse me? Ma’am?”

The woman turned.

Guillermo jogged toward the station’s truck as a cameraman removed his battery belt. “Do you have a second?”

“What is it?”

“Is that the home of hero Patrick McKenna?”

“You know him?”

“Went to school together. Amazing what he did!”

“You went to school with him?” She looked over her shoulder. “Gus, get the camera. We might have something.”

“No!” Guillermo’s palms went out. “I mean, no, my wife will kill me. I was supposed to go to this boring dinner party but told her I was working late.”

She sagged. “Forget it, Gus.”

Guillermo looked toward the house. With the camera off, it became obvious there wasn’t a light on in the place, not even the porch. He turned back toward the woman. “Anyone home?”

She shook her head and opened the van’s passenger door.

“Expect him back?” asked Guillermo.

“Not any time soon.” She climbed inside.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he moved out.”

“Moved? When?”

“This morning. It was crazy.”

“How was it crazy?”

“If you can tell me anything at all about him, I won’t use your name,” said the reporter.

“I’ll try,” said Guillermo. “But what happened this morning?”

“All the stations were set up on the lawn, waiting for him to show, and suddenly these cars came flying up, and a bunch of government guys rushed him out with a coat over his head. You wouldn’t have any idea what that was about, would you?”

Guillermo shrugged. “Last time I saw him, we were in the chess club . . . These guys say they were government?”

“No, but you could just tell. All business, not even a ‘no comment.’ Then, fifteen minutes later, two giant moving vans pulled up, except they didn’t have any markings on the side. And they had like twenty guys. Cleaned the place out in less than an hour.”

“Thanks.”

The TV van pulled away.

PANAMA CITY BEACH

A camcorder scanned the west end of the strip. Nightclubs, hotels, swimsuit shops, condos. The lens passed something and backed up. It stopped on a neon sign.

The camera fell to Serge’s side and dangled by its shoulder strap. “I don’t believe it.” He broke into a trot, then a run.

A half mile later, Serge grabbed a hitching post and panted beneath colorful curved glass tubing: H
AMMERHEAD
R
ANCH
B
AR
& G
RILLE
.

He went inside.

Everything was dark wood with heavy layers of varnish to preempt wear and tear from the beach crowd. Sunlight streamed through open veranda doors. Strands of beer pennants hung from rafters. Walls and ceiling covered with old license plates, old photos, old fishing equipment—all bought from a restaurant supply company to give new businesses artificial age. The T-shirt shop took up a quarter of the floor space.

The joint was empty, too early yet for the student shift. Chairs still on tables from mop duty. Singular movement behind the bar: A Latin man in a polo shirt inventoried liquor stock with a clipboard. He jotted a number.

“Tommy?” Serge yelled across the dining room. “Tommy Diaz? Is that really you?”

The man looked up from his paperwork. “Who wants to know?”

“Tommy, it’s me, Serge!”

“Serge?” Tommy set the clipboard against the cash register. “You’re still alive?”

“Rumor has it.”

“What the hell are you doing up here?”

“Just about to ask you the same thing.”

“We’ve gone legit,” said Tommy.

“No way!”

“Way,” said Tommy. “You wouldn’t believe how packed this place gets. We’re making it hand over fist. And I thought there was a lot of money in cocaine.”

“What about the old motel—” Serge caught himself. “Don’t tell me you sold out. That’s our heritage!”

“No, it’s still there, dumpy as ever.”

“Whew!”

Early birds in Iowa State Hawkeye jerseys arrived and grabbed stools. Tommy checked his watch. “Where are those bartenders?”

Serge grabbed his own stool and looked up at a stuffed hammerhead shark painted psychedelic Day-Glo and wearing sunglasses. “Tommy . . .” He winced at the shark and waved an arm around the interior. “It’s so . . .
yuck.
”

Tommy checked student IDs and stuck frosty mugs under draft spigots. “Got to stay up with the times. Our motel in Tampa Bay has become something of a landmark, everyone pulling over to take snapshots of that row of sharks, but it ain’t makin’ shit. So we decided to franchise the name recognition.”

Serge frowned. “Feels like I’m in Cheers.”

“If you’re between gigs, we could always use a bouncer . . .” He looked back at the swinging “staff only” doors to the kitchen that weren’t swinging. “. . . and bartenders who show up on time!”

“Personnel problems?” asked Serge.

Tommy poured off foam before setting the students’ mugs on cardboard coasters. He strolled over and leaned against the other side of the bar from Serge. “That’s the only rub. You hire the hottest babes available, dress them accordingly and cash just avalanches. But then you have to put up with their lifestyle.”

Swinging doors creaked.

One of the Hawkeyes looked up from his beer. “Holy God!” Tommy turned and tapped his wrist. “Late again. We got customers.”

“Bite me.”

Students’ jaws unhinged. Before them, visions from Victoria’s Secret. Both statuesque six-footers in stretch-to-fit black tank tops and matching skimpy silk shorts. Perfect bookends: one a classic blond farm girl from Alabama, the other a gorgeous Brooklyn import who gave Halle Berry a run.

“Serge,” said Tommy. “What are you drinking? On the house.”

“Bottled water.”

“Haven’t changed.” Tommy faced the just-arrived employees. “Call me crazy, but can I ask you to work? Man wants a water.”

The blonde sneered, then placed a coaster in front of Serge and twisted off the plastic cap. Something made her pause. She stared into his ice-blue eyes. Serge stared back.

Mutual traces of faint recognition, but they couldn’t quite piece it together because of geographical displacement.

Then, suddenly, the woman’s arm sprang out and stuck a finger in Serge’s face. “You!”

Serge’s brain caught up. “Hey, long time! How’s it been going?”

“Motherfucker!” She turned to her colleague. “Guess who just slimed into our bar?”

“Who?”

“Serge!”

“Motherfucker!” A hand flew into a purse and whipped out a .25-caliber automatic.

DORCHESTER

G
uillermo sat in a Town Car across from an empty house, staring at his cell. “This is one phone call I’m not looking forward to.” He took a full breath and hit a number on speed dial. “Hello, Madre? It’s me. I’m afraid we’re too late. Looks like the feds pulled him back in this morning.”

“You did your best,” said a maternal voice on the other end.

“But we didn’t succeed.”

“Maybe I have some good news.”

“What is it?”

“Randall had a son.”

“That’s right,” said Guillermo. “What was he? Four, five at the time?”

“That would make him about twenty now.”

“But how’s that good news?”

“Billy Sheets is now Andrew McKenna. Got something to write with?”

Guillermo to the rest of the car: “Give me a pen.” One appeared. “Ready.”

“University of New Hampshire . . .”

He scribbled the rest of the data, including dorm and room number. “But how’d you get all this?”

“Our investigator. He’s good,” said Juanita. “Once we had Randall’s new name, it was a simple public records search. And a few diplomatic phone calls for nonpublic records.”

“People just give our private eye confidential info over the phone?”

“He lies to them.”

Guillermo paused to choose words. “Madre, I don’t want to disappoint you again. If the feds already scooped up Sheets, I’m sure they also went to the school.”

“You may be right,” said Juanita. “But who knows with college students? They don’t keep routines like other people. We might get lucky.”

Guillermo opened a map in his lap and hit the dome light. “Madre, we’re leaving now—shouldn’t take more than ninety minutes.”

“You’re a good boy, Guillermo.”

He was still on the phone as the Lincoln went in gear and proceeded slowly down the tree-lined street. “If we do find him, you want us to, uh”—he considered the unsecure line—“invite him for an interview?”

“No, our government friends would never agree to an exchange.”

“Then what?”

She didn’t answer, which was the answer itself.

“I’ll personally handle it,” said Guillermo. “And, Madre, I’ve always learned from you, so may I ask a question?”

“Please.”

“If it’s the father we’re after, what purpose would
that
serve?”

“The best purpose of all.”

“Which is?”

“Revenge.”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Tommy Diaz jumped into action. He grabbed his bartender’s wrist and pushed it down, sending a bullet through the wooden floor. “Not in my bar!”

She gritted her teeth. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

“Agree first,” said Tommy. “Not in the bar.”

“You’re hurting me!”

“Give me the gun and I’ll let go.”

Still gritting, then a slight nod. Tommy released her.

She joined her friend, staring daggers across the counter.

Tommy wandered over. “Serge, looks like you’re winning another popularity contest. Some history here?”

The blonde pointed again. “That shit-eating bastard left us stranded on the side of the road!”

“What? . . . I . . . Huh? . . .” Serge tapped his own chest. “Me? . . .”

“It was the middle of the damn state,” said the other. “Hot as fuck!”

The Hawkeyes leaned as a group, digging the babes’ dirty talk.

“Huge misunderstanding,” said Serge. “I thought
you
were tired of being around me.”

“Bullshit! You peeled out of the parking lot . . .”

“. . . And you looked back as we chased your car down the street. I was combing dust out of my hair for hours!”

“Ouch,” said Tommy.

“That was
years
ago,“ said Serge.”Life’s too short. You should focus on all the laughs we had.”

“I can’t believe I actually sucked your dick,” said the blonde. Hawkeyes adjusted their bulging pants. Serge squinted at a blue butterfly. “See you got a tattoo.”

“Don’t try and change the subject!”

Then a crash next to Serge as a stool went over. Coleman pulled himself up from the floor. “Yo, Serge. Sorry I’m late . . .”

“Who’s that boob?” asked the blonde.

Serge put an arm around his buddy’s shoulders. “Coleman, this is a special day! I’d like you to meet a couple of dear old friends, City and Country.”

“What happened to Lenny?” asked Country.

“Still living with his mother. Probably grounded again . . . Coleman’s the original: Lenny, beta version, initial glitches intact.”

“We’re still going to kill you,” said City, glancing at her boss. “Just not in the bar.”

Tommy saw this could go one of two ways, and he couldn’t afford to lose his best meal tickets. Plus he’d grown fond of Serge. “Let’s make peace.”

He gave them the afternoon off, placed a few calls and tended bar himself until reinforcements arrived.

The foursome grabbed a corner booth, and Tommy set them up with sweating metal ice buckets of Rolling Rock.

Electric tension around the table. The women steamed with crossed arms, cats ready to claw eyes out. Then alcohol began oiling conversation. Two hours in, empty green bottles scattered everywhere. The women switched to Jack Daniel’s.

Coleman awoke and lifted his face off the table. Serge brought him up to speed, making an extremely long story
USA Today-
short.

City and Country. From the blue-collar side of the usual town-gown friction at any university. Both ingenues back then, which was a decade, sweet as pie before the highway life as fugitives. Bogus murder case. Never should have gone into that student bar. Trash talk about them being trash. The ringleader was a sorority president from a prominent donor family. Then, in the restroom, the coked-out sister fell on the knife she’d been using to cut rails in one of the stalls. Country tried first aid but lost the patient and her future. Only one thing to do when you’re outside the local power structure, uneducated and panicking with blood on your hands and fingerprints on the knife:

Florida road trip!

Before entering that fateful saloon, they barely drank, didn’t smoke,
definitely
didn’t do drugs and had no legal scrapes of any sort. Since then, shit. Anything went. Anything. A ten-year mountain of petty and not-so-petty crimes. Never caught. Whatever it took to get by. Prison didn’t turn them out any tougher.

With almost anyone else, the lifestyle ushered a downward spiral. In rare cases like City and Country, it sharpened survival skills to a fine, glinting edge and, all things considered, allowed them a half-decent existence in the gray margin of society.

“Some story,” said Coleman.

“Sucks,” said Country, expertly rolling a joint on the table. “Jesus!” Serge glanced around. “Trying to get us pinched?”

“Fuck it.”

“Cool,” said Coleman.

Country lit the number and passed it under the table to City.

She passed it back. “On three . . .”

They did shots.

The Hawkeyes were turned around on their stools with backs against the bar.

In love.

So was Country; her altered blood chemistry drooped eyelids and formed a coy smile at memories of old times with Serge. She got up, whiskey hips swaying, and, without intention, couldn’t have caused more drooling on her way to the jukebox.

Her right hand braced against the domed glass; her left pressed buttons, mechanically flipping miniature album covers. Flipping stopped.

B-19.

The bar echoed with the slow, immediately recognizable forty-year-old cadence of a cowbell. Charlie Watts joined on drums. A single guitar chord.

Country sauntered to the middle of the floor, giving Serge a bedroom smile and making a naughty “come hither” motion with an index finger.

Serge could dance, but it wasn’t a smooth prospect. He had only one speed: open throttle. Duck-walking, backflips, jumping jacks, sliding across the floor for imaginary home plates. Country told him to just stand still.

“
. . . I met a gin-soaked barroom queen . . .
”

She did all the work. Her back to him, slithering up and down against his chest, running hands through her wild, curling hair.

Over in the corner booth, Coleman raised his eyebrows toward City and nodded toward the dance floor.

“Are you retarded?”

Coleman strained to think.

She hit her joint.

He reached for it.

“No.”

Back on the dance floor, Country continued grinding into Serge, shifting tempo perfectly with the music. The chorus came around again and she flung her head side to side, that blond mane whipping back and forth in front of her face.

“
Honnnnnnnnky-tonk women . . .
”

At the bar, six Hawkeyes with outstretched arms pointed cell phone cameras.