by Tim Dorsey
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I’d like to get this car off the road. It’s probably not a hot idea to keep driving it.”
“Didn’t you say the people were looking for us on US 1?” asked Lenny.
Serge nodded.
“Then why don’t we just switch to a different road?”
“Because I love US 1, and besides, most of the people on lookout are really, really, really fucked up. They can probably correctly make out the color pink, but after that it gets dicey. We drive by them, and maybe they see a Cadillac, maybe they see a giant laughing vulva with whitewall tires.”
Lenny unwrapped a Twinkie. “I don’t see what’s so great about this road.”
“It’s tradition. This is the same road that Magluta took when he was on the run.”
“Who?”
“Magluta, as in the Falcon and Magluta. Augusto ‘Willie’ Falcon and Salvador ‘Sal’ Magluta, local boys made good. Went to Miami High and struck it rich in the coke biz, something like five hundred million dollars, took up speedboat racing before the feds closed in. Magluta jumped bail, and they finally found him right here along this stretch of road, driving a Lincoln Continental, wearing a wig and carrying twenty grand in cash and a fake passport. US 1 has all kinds of character like that.” Click, click, click, Serge snapping photos of condemned motels and discarded malt liquor bottles in piles the size of ancient shell mounds. “I’ll take this any day over the suburbs and your Bed Bath and Beyond.”
“What a horror show,” said Lenny.
“Out here on US 1, life is close to the skin. Anything can happen at any time.” Serge knelt backward in the driver’s seat and took pictures out the rear of the car. Click, click. “This is where the armored car thieves shot it out with the FBI, and the raccoon jumped off that garbage truck and crashed through the windshield of those tourists, and they found the tractor-trailer full of pirated stone crab claws, and the box of Tide detergent fell out the back of a van and split open and three hundred thousand dollars blew all over the place except the local residents told police it was only like eleven dollars.” Click, click. Serge lowered the camera. “Is that Mercedes following us?”
“Don’t fuck with me, man. I’m so high, everything’s following us.”
24
“Shit. That Mercedes is still behind us,” said Serge.
“This car’s getting too hot. Is that safe house you know any good?”
“One of the best,” said Lenny. “Not only that, but a quick phone and they’ll come pick us up, extract us from just about anything.”
“Can they be counted on?”
“Stone-solid. Used ’em dozens of times.”
“I’m impressed. Very good, Lenny…. Dump truck.”
“What?” Lenny looked up. “Woahhh!” He cut the wheel, narrowly missing the truck making a slow left turn, forcing Lenny to make his own hard left across several lanes of braking, blaring cars.
The traffic light turned red; a white Mercedes eased up and stopped at the intersection as the Cadillac disappeared around the corner.
Lenny stepped up to the concession stand. He turned to Serge. “Espresso?”
“Better not.”
“It’s good.”
“Okay.”
“Two espressos, please.”
“You say the safe house is nearby?”
“Real close, but they’re still not answering the phone.”
“Try again.”
Lenny dialed and listened. “I think I’m getting through.”
“Ask them to send the extraction team.”
Lenny nodded. He said a few words in the phone and closed it.
“Well?” asked Serge.
“They’re on their way.”
“That should give us time for a race. I love the races here!”
Serge and Lenny walked down a ramp and through the glassed-in lobby, lines of people at teller windows, the floor covered with torn paper stubs. A big funky sign on the wall, POMPANO BEACH HARNESS RACING.
“Let’s go out to the grandstand. We absolutely must go to the grandstand,” said Serge. “I love the people, the culture, the smell of the food, the insane betting strategy conversations. We have to go to the grandstand! It’s the only way!”
“What about the briefcase?” asked Lenny, glancing at Serge’s hand. “We don’t want to attract any trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” said Serge. “Not only will there not be trouble, but a parimutuel park is the one place where they want you to arrive with a briefcase full of money.”
Lenny looked around at the numerous other people scattered across the lobby with silver Halliburton briefcases—standard for carrying cash around Florida—each being graciously waited on by track staff.
“Good evening,” said a uniformed man, smiling at the briefcase, then at Serge and Lenny as he opened the door for them.
Serge smiled back. “We absolutely, positively must go to the grandstand.”
“I understand,” said the man.
A fresh night breeze caught them as they headed across the patio. “Forget the grandstand,” said Serge. “I just remembered I hate the fucking grandstand. We’re going all the way down to the railing, where you can see the little pieces of dirt flying off the hooves. We need to be as close to the horses as possible, breathing the same air.”
A dozen hard-core Type AAA personalities had already assembled along the railing when Serge and Lenny took their spot at the end. The starting gate filled up with horses pulling jockeys in small harness carriages.
“I want to place a bet,” said Lenny, opening his racing program. “Number eight sounds good.”
“What’s the name?” said Serge. “It’s all in the name.”
“Entry Withdrawn.”
“Sounds like a winner to me.”
Serge chugged his espresso. “Uh-oh, pole time. You’ll have to wait for the next race to bet.”
A bell rang, the gates flew open. “They’re off!”
Identical descriptions of an unusual pink Cadillac began to crop up in crime scene reports from Tampa to Cape Canaveral to Palm Beach. The all-points bulletin went out with a warning in tall letters: “Call for backup.”
A patrol officer was making routine afternoon rounds in a quadrant west of 95, south of Atlantic Boulevard. He swung through a parking lot on standard auto-burglary sweep. Something caught his eye in the third row. He called for backup.
Police were everywhere. Seven cruisers clustered around the pink car in Section D, Row 3, of the Pompano Beach harness track. Evidence handlers with gloves went through the convertible; other officers questioned the valets.
“Look, Ivan! There’s the Cadillac!” said Alexi.
“The place is crawling with cops!” said Dmitri.
“So it is,” said Ivan. He eased the Mercedes slowly past the end of Row 3, then turned in the VIP parking lot. Five men with bandaged feet got out.
The horses went into the first turn.
Serge was strangely quiet. Lenny noticed the empty, crumpled paper espresso cup clutched in his fist. “Are you okay?”
Serge shook himself vigorously like a dog coming in from the rain.
“What’s the matter?” asked Lenny.
“Can’t you smell it?”
“Smell what?”
“The air. It’s crackling with the electricity of memories.” Serge’s arms went up to the sky, his fingers wiggling like he was feeling two big tits. “It’s overwhelming. I’m not sure I can stand it.”
“You all right?”
“I feel like this every once in a while when I get hit with a memory bolt.”
“Memory bolt?”
“My folks used to come here in 1964. Each time I blink, for a microsecond I see the way it looked back then on the inside of my eyelids…”
Lenny nodded. “I’ve gotten acid like that.”
The horses went into the second turn.
“What triggers it?” asked Lenny.
“Espresso and déjà vu. L
ike a light afternoon rain at the beach, or the sound of lawn mowers on a hot Saturday morning in July, or just before sunset when I’m on the turnpike and I go through those fucking great tollbooths made of coral, or I’m driving back from Miami International on the Dolphin Expressway, and I pass the Orange Bowl and accelerate for that magical skyline, no longer in control, suddenly finding myself in this crazy interchange, then I’m flying south, faster and faster, up on the raised highway, looking out across the sea of coconut palms and orange roof tiles and crime lights, and I’m pulled down a ramp into the city, vibrant murals on the sides of ethnic corner groceries, billboards in Spanish, kids rolling tires up the sidewalk with sticks, radios playing, flowers blooming—and it’s too much beauty, both my eyes feeling like they’re having simultaneous orgasms, an aching inside because I want to consume it all at once, like Van Gogh in Kurosawa’s Dreams, and I race over the Rickenbacker, through the sea grapes out to Cape Florida, jumping from the car, running along the seawall and screaming out to sea: ‘Touch one splinter of Stiltsville and I’ll rip your carpetbagging nuts off!’ and then I’m usually asked to leave.”
The crowd roared as the horses came out of turn number three. A knot of five husky men hobbled through the harness track lobby.
“Keep your eye out for a silver briefcase,” said Ivan.
“There’s one!” said Dmitri.
“There’s another one over there!” said Alexi.
“And there’s another one!”
“Of course,” said Ivan. “We’re at a parimutuel facility. These guys are good.”
“Ivan! Down by the track!”
The horses rounded the fourth turn, into the homestretch.
Lenny had a two-handed grip on the back of Serge’s belt as he hung over the railing near the finish line. “C’mon, Entry Withdrawn!”
Five men with bandaged feet came out a door on the left side of the building and began moving toward the track. On the right side, up by the grandstands, police officers questioned members of the track’s staff, who pointed at the finish line.
“Whew! What a race!” Serge jumped down from the railing. He saw something out the corner of his eye. “When’s the extraction team due?”
Lenny checked his wristwatch. “Just a few more minutes.”
“Start walking for the exit, real casual.”
25
Ivan pointed across the spectator deck at the Pompano Beach harness track. “They’re heading back to the main building.”
“They’re not the only ones,” said Dmitri, looking over at the cops closing in on Serge and Lenny.
“We have to head them off,” said Ivan. “Walk quickly but don’t run. We still have the advantage. None of them has seen us.”
Serge and Lenny began moving faster as they approached the glass exit doors.
“Walk quickly but don’t run,” said Serge. “They don’t know we’ve seen them.”
Lenny checked his watch again. “The extraction team hasn’t had enough time. We’re not going to make it.”
Serge glanced furtively over his left shoulder. The cops had picked up the pace, too, walking as fast as possible, still trying to look nonchalant, approaching that critical moment when everyone chucks the charade and starts running and pulling guns.
From Serge’s right side, five men with bandaged feet hobbled as fast as they could.
“Now!” yelled Ivan. They broke into a hobbling sprint.
“Now!” yelled Serge. The pair made a run for it.
“Now!” yelled the police sergeant. The cops pulled guns and charged.
Serge and Lenny burst through the exit doors and ran out to the empty curb. “They’re not here yet!” yelled Lenny. Suddenly a black, windowless van skidded up in a fire zone. The sliding side door flew open; Serge and Lenny dove in. The van took off.
Five Russians ran out on the sidewalk, looking around, soon joined by panting police officers.
Ivan scanned the parking lot. No people, no movement…wait, over there. A black van slowly pulled out of the parking lot and disappeared around a corner toward the interstate.
“To the Mercedes!”
Lenny climbed forward into the van’s passenger seat. The driver was a large older woman with a poufy gray hairdo and a goiter. Lenny leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“Thanks for picking us up, Mom.”
“You know I’m always happy to give you a ride home.”
“Mom?” said Serge. A Chihuahua bounced up from somewhere and landed standing in Serge’s lap, facing him. Serge jerked his head back. “What the—?”
The dog barked.
“That means Pepe likes you,” said Lenny.
“Who’s your friend?” asked the driver.
“That’s Serge,” said Lenny. “He’s…my new employer.”
Serge and the dog were having a staring contest.
“That’s nice.” The driver looked up in the rearview at Serge. “Thanks for giving Lenny a job. He’s a good boy. So what do you do? Work at the harness track?”
Lenny spoke preemptively. “No, we were just out for some fun today.”
The van accelerated down the middle lane of I-95.
“Lenny, you haven’t called for weeks, you haven’t shown up,” said his mom. “You know how worried I get.”
“Any mail?” asked Lenny.
“A little. I put it in your room.”
Serge looked up from the dog. “You live with your mother? You never mentioned anything.”
“I’ll explain later.”
“What’s to explain?” said Serge. “Either you live with your mom or you don’t.”
“Lenny, you’re not ashamed of me, are you?” asked the driver.
Lenny turned around. “Yeah, Serge, I, uh…I live with my mom. But only until I get a little older, you know, until I’m ready.”
“You’re forty-two,” said Serge.
Mom looked in the rearview again. “So what is it you do, Serge?”
“I run my own new-economy entrepreneurship. Involves a lot of driving.”
“Like traveling salesmen?” said Mom. She put on a blinker for an exit ramp. “Lenny, that explains why you were gone so long. You should have told me.”
Lenny leaned over and kissed her cheek again. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
The van pulled up the driveway of a single-story concrete ranch house next to the interstate ramp. White, baby-blue trim. The lawn was overgrown, a big teardrop oil stain in the driveway. Three people and a dog headed up the walkway. Lenny’s mom unlocked the front door and they went inside. Serge looked around the living room filled with religious paintings, crucifixes, ceramic Madonnas, votive candles and a Ouija board.
“Serge, don’t waste your money on a hotel tonight,” said Mom. “You can stay in Lenny’s room.”
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Lippowicz,” said Serge. “Let’s see your room, Lenny.”
“Well, it’s not really my room room. I just use it for storage. I rarely stay here.”
“What are you talking about?” said his mother. “You stay here all the time.”
They headed down the hall. Serge stopped in the doorway. “Bunk beds?”
“Mind if I have the top?”
Serge set his briefcase on the dresser and walked over to the closet. “Let’s get started.”
“Get started what?”
“Checking out your stuff.”
“I still have most of it.”
Serge opened the closet door. “Wow, you’re not kidding.”
He started taking down boxes. Lenny lit a joint and went over to the window and exhaled outside, where a Mercedes had been parked a half block up the street for the last ten minutes.
Vladimir leaned over the backseat and pointed at the van in the driveway. “What are we waiting for?”
“I told you,” said Ivan. “We have to be patient. We can’t just rush in there like we usually do.”
“Why not?
It’s just some old woman’s house.”
“That’s what a safe house is supposed to look like,” said Ivan. “The doors are probably steel-lined and booby-trapped. All kinds of sophisticated surveillance electronics.”
“I wonder what’s going on in there?” asked Vladimir.
“Probably some big strategy meeting,” said Ivan.
“My turn,” said Lenny, sitting cross-legged on the floor and drawing a card. “‘Remove wrenched ankle.’”
Bzzzzz.
“I’m tired of playing Operation,” said Serge.
“How about Hot Wheels?”
Lenny got out a shoebox of little cars and began laying tracks. Serge got out the Legos.
“What are you doing?” asked Lenny.
“Making the Brick Wall of Death,” said Serge. “Where’s your lighter fluid?”
“I don’t have any lighter fluid.”
“How can we play Hot Wheels without lighter fluid?”
Lenny’s mom sat in the living room reading the Enquirer. Lenny kept walking by at intervals.
Lenny held up a roll of aluminum foil. “Mom, can we use this?”
She looked up and nodded. Lenny headed back to the bedroom.
A minute later, Lenny held up a large cardboard box. “Can we use this?”
She nodded.
A minute later Lenny sprinted by in the background, then ran back to the bedroom with a fire extinguisher. Lenny’s mom put down her paper and went into the kitchen. She slipped on Jeff Gordon pot holders and opened the oven door. She set a ceramic serving dish on the table.
“Dinner’s ready!”
No answer.
She headed down the hall. “I said, dinner’s ready!”
Still no reply.
She stepped into the bedroom doorway. Nobody in the room. Just a big cardboard box in the middle of the floor. The box was covered with aluminum foil.
“I said, dinner’s ready!”
A voice from the box: “Mom! Shhhhh! We have to maintain radio blackout!”
“You can play later,” said Mrs. Lippowicz. “Food’s getting cold.”
The foil-lined top of the cardboard Gemini capsule flipped open, and Serge and Lenny stood up. They followed Mrs. Lippowicz into the kitchen.
