The Riptide Ultra-Glide (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

THE NEXT MORNING

R
ush-hour traffic stacked up on I-95 near the Pompano exit.

Rubberneckers.

But no wreck. Just another roadside altercation, where a couple of motorists screamed in each other's face on the highway shoulder that sloped into the palmettos and a ranch fence. A more common sight in South Florida than a flat tire.

Vehicles slowed even more as the entertainment increased. It had come to blows. Rabbit punches and roundhouse haymakers. Someone got thrown over the hood. The other had sand and gravel thrown in his face. They tangled up good, rolling on the ground, pulling hair. The taller one finally broke free and ran back to his car.

A gun came out.

That made half the other drivers duck and speed away. The other half stopped completely.

The unarmed combatant was back on his feet, holding out his arms, begging and pleading as the gunman approached.

Before the witnesses could digest what they were seeing, two large-caliber shots rang out. But unlike the movies, when a victim's body jerks as slugs strike, the unfortunate person simply slumped straight down to the ground like an electric toy being unplugged.

There was an immediate string of rear-enders. Then more crashes as the crazed assailant swept his gun at their cars—
“What are you looking at, motherfuckers?”
The gunman finally tucked the pistol in his waistband, grabbed his victim under the armpits and dragged him back to his car, where he pushed the body into the backseat and took off for the exit.

Halfway down the ramp, Coleman sat up in the backseat of the '76 Gran Torino and looked out the rear window. “Those people are really acting jumpy. They're all standing outside their cars on cell phones . . . I guess those blanks in your gun sounded pretty real.”

“America loves fake disputes!” said Serge, reloading in his lap with live bullets. “This is going to be the best reality show ever!”

“Where to now?”

“The beach,” said Serge. “At some point, our show has to capture a real crime in progress or we face criticism from CNN's
Showbiz Tonight
. Hand me the camcorder so I can change the tape.”

Coleman turned around and reached behind the backseat, toward the middle of the carpeted ledge under the rear window, where the video camera was duct-taped in place and aimed out the rear of the muscle car to film the previous action. “What kind of crime? . . .”

U.S. 1

N
ine
A.M.

Patrick McDougall's eyes fluttered open in room 17 of the Casablanca Inn.

Bar opened hers, too.

“Some noise again?” asked Pat.

“I don't know. I was asleep.”

A sharp knock on the door.

“Don't answer it,” said Bar. “Probably that woman.”

Another hard knock.
“Police. Is anyone in there?”

Pat jumped out of bed. “I better answer it.”

He opened the door. Two men in suits flashed badges. “Patrick McDougall?”

Pat rubbed his eyes. “Is this about the credit card?”

“I don't know,” said the detective on the left. “Is it?”

Moments later, all the lights in the room were blazing. The detectives preferred to stand. One wrote in a notebook and glared. Pat and Bar sat on the edge of the bed, clutching their legs together and holding their arms close to their chests, trying to make themselves small.

The first detective looked up from his notebook. “We've got two different Patrick McDougalls staying in motel rooms across the street from each other.”

“That's a pretty big coincidence,” said the second.

“Except now there's only one,” said the first.

“That's pretty convenient,” said the second.

“How do we know the other guy wasn't the real Patrick McDougall?” asked the first. “And you stole
his
identity?”

“Why is your face peeling all over?” asked the second.

Pat held out innocent hands. “But I really am Patrick McDougall.”

“He is!” said Bar. “They stole
our
credit card.”

The detectives maintained steely eyes on Pat. “Do you have any photo identification to prove who you are?”

“Absolutely.” Pat started to stand. “I . . . no. My driver's license was stolen from my shoe.”

“Shoe?”

“And my primary wallet with my second driver's license was stolen from the room while we were gone.”

“How did you have a second license?” asked the other detective.

“I paid for one at motor vehicles. Told them it was lost.”

“Was it lost?”

“Not really.”

“So you lied under oath?”

“It was a travel tip. The book told me to.”

“What else have you been lying about?”

Bar reached for her purse. “I have my license. Will that help?”

“Stop!” said the first detective. “Take your hands out. I'll get your wallet.”

The other detective: “So you're saying that you have no idea who those people across the street were, and you'd never met them. Is that your story?”

Pat nodded emphatically. “That's right. We really don't have anything to hide.”

The other detective flipped pages in his notebook. “Then why did we trace a phone call from your cell to their room?”

“Oh, the call,” said Pat. “I can explain. I was trying to draw them into the parking lot.”

“Do you make a habit of that?”

“No, look . . .” Pat clutched the sheets on each side of him. “The credit-card company notified us about fraud, but they said they wouldn't call the police.”

“So you talked them out of calling the police?”

“No, no, no, it's the other way,” said Pat. “It's very complicated.”

“It seems to be.”

The other detective pointed out the window. “Why did you hang up when the police asked you your name?”

“What?”

“Are you denying that you called 911 from the pay phone down at the corner?”

“Oh, that,” said Pat. “Yes, I made that call.”

“You're changing your statement?” asked the second detective.

“No!”

“So you're going back to denying it?”

“Yes, no, huh?”

“You've been making a lot of phone calls for someone who has nothing to hide.”

Bar mustered courage and stood. “What happened across the street last night? Maybe if you tell us, we might be able to help you clear this up.”

“Major drug rip-off,” said the first detective. “There was a lot of cocaine moving out of that room. Except we didn't find any. The place was totally ransacked, so the shooter apparently didn't get what he came for.”

The second detective jotted in his notebook. “How do we know it wasn't
you
who was moving a lot of cocaine out of
this
room?”

“I don't know,” said Pat. “I mean, no. Definitely no . . . I'm confused.”

“That happens when you can't keep your lies straight.”

The other detective reached in a wastebasket. “Is this your crack?”

“No,” said Pat. “My wife put it there.”

“Your wife smokes crack?”

The second detective stared down at the carpet. A fresh sprinkling of plaster dust. He looked up at an ill-fitting ceiling tile. “Have you been in the ceiling lately?”

“I was hiding stuff.”

“I thought you had nothing to hide.”

The other detective pointed with his pen. “I'll ask you again: Why did you hang up when the police asked your name?”

“I didn't want the people across the street to recognize who called.”

“I thought you said you didn't know them.”

“We don't,” said Pat. “It was just we were trying to be cautious. Ever since we got here, lots of people have been knocking on our door.”

One detective looked at the other. “Drug activity.”

“There's no drug activity in this room,” protested Pat.

The other detective reached in the wastebasket again. “Is this your joint?”

“What? No, I threw it away.”

“I thought you said there were no drugs in here.”

“Except for that,” said Pat. “And the crack.”

“So all these people are knocking on your door just because you're popular?”

“It's not what it seems,” said Pat. “Like these women keep knocking and asking to use the phone to call people and let them back in the room they locked themselves out of.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” said the first detective. “You want us to believe people keep knocking on your door who don't know how to knock on other doors?”

“I—”

A cell rang. The detective held up a hand for Pat to stop. “Store that thought.” He reached inside his jacket and flipped open his phone. “Benson here . . . Really? They check out? The credit-card company and their airline confirmed everything? . . . Even the school board in Wisconsin? . . . No, actually the story they're giving us is totally shaky, but I think we can attribute that to the fact they've been holed up in this room smoking crack, joints and PCP—”

“There's no PCP,” said Pat.

“ . . . Now he's claiming just crack and marijuana . . . Yeah, real paranoid. They were even up in the ceiling . . . Tell me about it . . . But it's the Casablanca, so it all fits . . . No, just a small rock and dusty joint in the wastebasket. Not enough to hold up in court . . . Yeah, we can always charge them later if we think they might lead us to bigger fish. But it's such a tragedy that they work around children. You might want to alert the education department back in Wisconsin—”

“No!” the couple yelled in unison.

The detective finally hung up. “Well, it looks like you're in the clear. But I strongly suggest you get some help for your problem.”

“But we don't have a problem.”

The detectives exchanged a knowing glance. “Then you're just going to have to hit rock bottom before you see the light . . .”

The pair headed for the door.

“Wait!” said Pat. “So that's it? You're completely done with us now?”

“
We
are.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” asked Bar.

The first detective looked out the window at the Oasis Inn across the street. “I can't get into specifics about injuries sustained by the bodies, because we're withholding certain details from the public . . .”

“ . . . That's how we verify confessions,” said the other detective. “You've seen TV . . .”

“ . . . But based on the level of torture, it would appear the victims didn't have any product or information. That means there's a very unsatisfied individual still on the streets, which could lead to another problem. We've seen it a hundred times before.”

“What kind of problem?” asked Pat.

“Mistaken identity,” said the first detective.

“Someone definitely has a bone to pick with a Patrick McDougall,” said the second.

Pat's cell phone rang. Pat jumped.

The first detective reached toward the sound. “I'll get that if you don't mind . . . Hello? . . . I see . . . I see . . . Thanks.” He hung up.

“What was it?” asked Pat.

The detectives headed out the door. “Your luggage is in Baltimore.”

Chapter Twenty-two

HOLLYWOOD BEACH

T
he ocean!” yelled Serge, whipping an empty coffee cup into the trash. “And there's one of those big-ass beach stores that sells bikinis, water toys, alligator-shaped bottle openers and T-shirts with coded messages about penises. Let's shop!”

Serge raced around the aisles like it was a game show. Moments later, he plopped his purchases on the counter. “Okay, last chance to spin around where I'm standing in case I forgot something essential. Do I need batteries? Nose plugs? Eye protection? First-aid kit? Frisbee? Badminton racquet? Swim noodles? Temporary tattoo? Shot glass? Pez-like condom dispenser? Live hermit crab in a pet cage? Dead baby shark in a jar? Plastic pirate sword? Super Soaker that I can fill with gasoline? This coffee mug saying ‘Tell Your Boobs to Stop Staring at My Eyes'? . . . What's that strange expression you're giving me, Mr. Clerk? . . .”

Serge pushed open the door to the parking lot. “Some people don't acclimate well to the heat.”

They reached the sand.

“It's Coleman! . . .”

“Way to go! . . .”

“Thanks for bringing the title back to America! . . .”

Coleman acknowledged the applause with a courteous wave.

Soon they found the perfect spot between a lifeguard stand and a large family that was from Pennsylvania and told you so.

Serge knelt in the sand, pulling stuff out of a canvas beach bag. He tossed a bottle to Coleman. “There's your sunscreen, SPF 30 with aloe, apply liberally.”

Coleman squirted white liquid on his arm. “The label has a young chick wearing a fruit hat and kissing a toad.”

“Because that bottle contains everything you now want in a sun-protection formula, which is designed to moisturize your skin like an amphibian, reverse the aging process and make you smell like a kiwi.”

Serge stood and shook out a large, colorful piece of fabric. “My new beach blanket!” When it was completely unfurled, he flapped it out horizontally, letting the wind catch beneath, and gently lowered it to the sand.

Coleman rubbed his arms and chest. “Looks like a flag.”

“State flag of Florida.” Serge smoothed out lumpy spots. “Not that you've been living here any amount of time.” He stood and proudly admired the design. “I just love the selection of blankets in beach stores. And always the same: unicorn, Budweiser, Corvette, Grateful Dead skull, pirate flag, Confederate flag, peace sign, happy face, kittens, Hank Williams Jr., the local sports team, motorcycles, Bruce Lee, hundred-dollar bill,
Dark Side of the Moon
prism and a picture of people lying on beach blankets.”

“That last one fucks with me when I'm stoned,” said Coleman. He pooched out his lower lip. “I wish
I
had a beach blanket.”

Serge smiled big and reached back in the bag. “Here you go!”

A balled-up towel hit Coleman in the stomach. “A present? For me?” He unfolded it. “Bob Marley! How'd you know?”

“Took a wild stab.” Serge returned to rooting through his bag. “And I'll just hide my wallet down in the toe of my shoe, grab my underwater disposable camera . . .”

They got the feeling someone was staring at them. They turned around.

Three youths stood before them in silence, politely folding their hands at their waists. Knee-length swim trunks, designer flip-flops, shaggy hair. Somewhere in a parking lot was a van with bad springs and an airbrushed mural of a Yes album cover.

“Can we help you?” asked Serge.

“We don't want to bother Coleman,” said the tallest. “It's enough just to watch him in action.”

Serge reorganized his canvas bag. “He's applying sunscreen.”

The tallest glanced at the others. “Dig it.”

Another youth cleared his throat. “Uh, Coleman, we know how busy you are doing all that you do . . .”

Coleman poured rum in a Coke can. “It is a heavy load.”

“Can we get your advice?”

Coleman took a big sip. “Go for it.”

“Okay, with all the new laws, it's getting harder to find the one-point-five rolling papers for a proper thick one. So we often have to settle for regular tobacco single wides from grocery stores. Please tell us, what are we to do?”

“It's an increasingly common conundrum afflicting our people.” Coleman set the soda can down and held his fingertips together. “What you do is tear one of the singles lengthwise, lick the gummed edge and attach it to the non-adhesive side of a full sheet, and you've got the common man's one-point-five. But the key is to first roll each paper empty and render it supple, which facilitates the torque of the twist-up because the seam you've created is a lateral weak point.”

The youths glanced at one another in awe. “Amazing . . .”

“I never would have thought of that . . .”

“Gee, thanks, Coleman . . .”

“Yeah, Coleman, with all your success, you're so down-to-earth . . .”

Serge rolled his eyes.

Coleman shrugged and picked up his soda can. “No biggie.” Then he noticed something resting in the sand at the feet of the young trio. “Now, that is severely cool.”

The three exchanged looks again. “Coleman approves of us!”

The tallest stepped forward. “You think it's cool? It's yours, man. Just a small token of appreciation.”

The three young men departed, exchanging a series of complex celebratory handshakes.

Serge examined the gift. “That
is
cool. I'm jealous.”

“Borrow it anytime you want.”

“No,” said Serge, continuing his preparations for the water. “It's definitely more you.”

Coleman glanced up from his present. “Serge, your legs look weird.”

“I'm wearing panty hose.” He unbuttoned his tropical shirt.

“What's with your chest?”

“I cut up other panty hose and fashioned them into a vest. And now I'm cutting another pair in half and slipping one leg onto each arm.”

Coleman sipped from the Coke can. “Why?”

“Because I want to be taken seriously as an athlete.” He snapped the nylon over his left hand. “Let's go swimming.”

Serge grabbed one more item out of the beach bag, then sprinted down the shore and splashed into the water.
“Cowabunga!!!!!!!”

Coleman slowly waded out until he was chest-deep next to Serge. He took a sip of rum from his soda can.

They took a moment to enjoy the moment, soaking in the postcard-perfect scenery. The next lolling wave rose up to their necks and washed over Coleman's soda can. The wave passed. Coleman took a sip of Bacardi-flavored ocean water and nodded. “This is sophisticated.”

Serge began slowly waving his arms across the surface of the ocean. “Coleman, get behind me.”

“Why?”

“Take my word. You want to do it.”

“What are those things on your hands? I mean over the panty hose.”

Serge scrutinized incoming waves. “Oven mitts. Or actually those thick rubber oven gloves you wear when cleaning out the appliance with that aggressive foam . . . Note to self: oven foam, alternate use . . .”

“But, Serge, why are you wearing any gloves at all?”

“You know how they now have all these weird Olympics for extreme sports that should really be called extremely made-up sports?” Serge got a water rhythm going with his arms. “I'm bringing those games to the beach!”

“What's this game?”

“Jellyfish hockey.” Serge spread his stance in the underwater sand. “And I'm the goalie.”

“What am I?”

“The net.”

“Serge!”

U.S. 1

T
hree Dodge pickups followed a Durango down Federal Highway. They parked behind a used car lot with barbed wire and easy financing. Everyone got out to huddle near the fence.

“There's the motel where this Gaspar character called the meeting.” Catfish pointed two blocks up the street. “If I don't come out, take them all.”

“How long?” asked one of his men.

“How long till what?” said Catfish.

“Until we burst in shooting.”

“No, you don't burst in shooting,” said Catfish. “You wait until I come out.”

“Then we start shooting?”

“No,” said Catfish. “If I
don't
come out.”

“So if you don't come out, we don't shoot.”

“Okay, look, it's really simple,” said Catfish. “If you see all of them come out and I'm not with them, or if I come out with them and I'm at gunpoint and they're about to kidnap me in one of their Jeeps . . .”

“Then we burst in shooting.”

Catfish sighed. “The room will be empty then.”

“So why do you want us to shoot it up?”

“Stop. Forget everything up to now,” said Catfish. “I'll make it simple: Protect me.”

“We're changing the plan?”

Catfish closed his eyes. “Let's just go.”

The men split up and headed south on both sides of the street. The last two took an alley.

Catfish walked alone out in the open on the east side of U.S. 1. He stopped at the corner, casually looking around as his backup team took positions behind trash bins and parked vehicles. He checked his watch—five till three—then his eyes lifted across the street at a second-story window. The closed curtain opened briefly, then closed again. He took a deep breath and stepped off the curb.

Some of the old U.S. 1 motels make do with an occasional splash of high-gloss white paint and some tropical pastel shade of trim. This time it was turquoise.

Catfish trotted up the bare concrete steps and knocked on a door.

It opened. He walked in with his hands up.

The room was crowded. Five men standing with MAC-10 machine guns. One let his weapon hang by its shoulder sling as he frisked their visitor. Catfish looked toward the only person sitting. “You must be Gaspar.”

“Have a seat.”

“I like to stand.”

There was an old painting of a beach scene on the wall. Three people sagged in canvas chairs, staring out at the rolling surf.

“Suit yourself,” said Gaspar. “Here's the deal: There are strict antitrust laws in this country, so your vertical integration is history. From now on, no more going directly to the clinics. I'm your exclusive wholesaler.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because this is our territory, and we make the rules.” Gaspar nodded toward one of the gunmen.

He placed a suitcase on the bed.

Gaspar smiled. “Your missing shipment. You're lucky we recovered it for you. No need to thank.”

“How much?” asked Catfish.

“Seventy-five thousand.”

“Sure,” said Catfish. “Let me just pull that kind of money out of my pockets.”

“Aren't you going to open it?”

Catfish stared a moment, then flipped the latches and raised the lid. Thousands of name-brand tablets, tightly packed in Ziplocs. He looked up again. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” said Gaspar. “I promised on the phone I'd return it, and I always keep my word.”

“But this is only a fraction of what I had.”

“I figured you wouldn't be prepared to carry that kind of money, seeing as it might catch most by surprise for us to visit their horse barns before dawn.” Gaspar stopped and lit a thick black Honduran cigar. He puffed toward the ceiling. The cigar had a gold band. “I'm fronting you part of your shipment so you can sell it back home and raise the cash for the rest of your wares—and the next shipment that we'll have ready when you come back. It doesn't do me any good to put my best customer out of business.”

“I'm not your customer.” Catfish slammed the lid. “And you're crazy if you think I'll pay seventy-five for what's already mine.”

Silence. Cigar smoke swirled toward a wooden ceiling fan. A cockroach scurried up the wall and under the beach painting. The painting had been done in 1966 near Lantana by a broke artist using live subjects. The people were from Michigan. They didn't know they were being painted.

Another big cigar puff. “Everybody wins,” said Gaspar. “In case you haven't heard, they're cracking down. But we know the turf and the techniques, and I've got an endless supply of men to outlast all their roundups.”

“So do I,” said Catfish. “Why should I pay you?”

“Because you've been losing buses.”

“Someone's been calling in tips,” said Catfish.

“I can't control the phone company,” said Gaspar. “And I understand your sticker shock at seventy-five. But you've been getting by on the cheap. It's a dynamic, changing labor market down here. And you'll find our price is a bargain compared to the fortune you'll make when you unload it back in Kentucky. We both get rich.”

“So I just pay you all this money out of the goodness of my heart? For nothing?”