by Tim Dorsey
No time to prepare. The rogue wave was only a sixty-footer but closing at a wicked ninety miles per hour. It hit the Serendipity broad-side, flooding the bow and splashing over the gunwales. Screaming passengers slid fast across the deck, vainly clawing wood. Fuel and hydraulic lines ruptured. Explosions, fires. It looked like the wedding would have to be postponed.
The ship listed thirty degrees and slowly came back. The deck was level again. People lay in shock, surprised they were still alive with just bruises and the occasional broken arm. They began climbing out from under pool furniture. Alarms clanged everywhere. Thanks to carefully rehearsed safety drills, people ran the wrong way and fought over life preservers.
Amid the chaos, several pairs of eyes locked in polygonal matrix: Jim Davenport, the Diaz Brothers, three tunics, six tropical shirts, Gaylord Wainscotting, Trevor and Serge.
“Davenport!” yelled Tommy Diaz. “Come with us. You’re in danger….”
“Jim!” yelled Serge. “Don’t listen to him. Come with me….”
Jim took off running. Everyone scampered down a flight of stairs, then another, and another. The Riviera Deck was ankle deep in water that had gushed through shattered portholes. Jim splashed his way toward the bow, and the others followed. At midship, the lights flickered, then went out for good, plunging the passageway into darkness. Everyone caught up with one another, and the fists began to fly.
It was pathetic. Off-the-mark punches on the wrong people, hair-pulling, kicking.
Then: different-sounding pugilism. Deliberate, precise. A new person at the party? Or somebody already there?
Everything changed at once. Agent Foxtrot spun through the hall, a martial arts tornado. Loud snapping, desperate shouts. It was over in moments. Voices silenced. Emergency lights came on. The floor was littered with unconscious Diaz Brothers and three men from Cancún. Jim and Serge were left standing without a scratch, along with a half dozen men in tropical shirts.
One of them grabbed Serge by his arm. “You’re not safe here….”
“Who are you guys?”
Calm had been restored topside. The ship was in no danger of foundering, but all engines remained stopped as a precaution until the Coast Guard could arrive to inspect structural integrity. Everyone had to keep their life preservers on. The Florida coast sat tantalizingly close on the horizon. Crankiness replaced terror. Drinks on the house.
Four decks below, a man in a gleaming white uniform had a magnum of Dom Pérignon in one hand and a bridesmaid in the other.
“I’ll save you,” said Johnny.
“I think everything’s okay now.”
“They just said that to avoid panic.”
“What’s the champagne for?”
Johnny stopped and broke the seal on an orange fiberglass drum. He dragged out a large rubber bundle, pulled a lanyard and threw it over the side. A round, twelve-foot raft inflated. Johnny stepped over the rail. “Come on…”
“I don’t know.”
“Trust me. I have a captain’s uniform.”
With the bars open again, the mood turned festive. Someone started an impromptu limbo contest, which the G-Unit won by simply walking upright under the bar.
The Coast Guard arrived and gave the Serendipity a clean bill of health. Miraculously, only minor injuries were reported, with the notable exception of three passengers from Cancún discovered in a lower hallway with fatally snapped necks, which were attributed to freak falls when the wave hit. Engines restarted. Serge circled the pool. “Coleman? Coleman, where are you?”
He walked around the smokestacks to the afterdeck, where Coleman staggered toward the stern, juggling three drinks.
“Coleman!”
Coleman came in two distinct flavors: drunk, and free-liquor drunk.
He was weaving all over the deck, bouncing off bulkheads and lifeboats.
“Coleman!”
He turned around, stumbling backward. “Hey, Serge. They’re giving away booze!”
“Watch out!”
“Wha—”
Coleman hit the railing with the small of his back and flipped overboard. Serge took off in a mad dash, executing a perfect swan as he dove in the water after him.
EPILOGUE
Agent Foxtrot received another unofficial commendation for a mission that never existed. The terror cell from Cancún had been singlehandedly eliminated, and the bioweapon statue recovered. Next mission: Find the other statue that had reached the mainland a month earlier and went missing following the death of Bodine Biffle in a grisly railroad incident.
During the boredom of waiting for the Coast Guard to give an all-clear, the G-Unit struck up conversations with the Brimleys and decided they weren’t so bad after all. The women had since entered into long-term relationships, grew to like everything about the guys, and were currently in the process of trying to change them.
Gaylord Wainscotting was successfully treated for depression and took a job as a waiter with his former country club’s catering division.
He currently balanced a silver tray and circulated through an open-house gala on Lobster Lane organized by a local real estate company.
The Davenports were moving again. Too much excitement. The only reason to stay in Tampa had been Debbie moving in nearby with Trevor. But now the wedding was permanently off after Trevor had used Debbie as a human shield during the rogue wave against incoming chairs and tables tumbling across the deck.
“Jim! Martha!” Steph rushed across the room. “Congratulations! They accepted your counteroffer.”
“That was fast,” said Martha.
“So I guess you’re going to be in the market for a new home,” said Steph. “What do you think about this place?”
“We just sold it,” said Jim.
“Great investment potential,” said Steph. “You saw how quickly it moved.”
“I—”
“Let me see if I can catch the buyers before they leave.”
Martha turned slowly in the middle of the living room. “I think I’m actually going to miss it here.”
“You aren’t changing your mind?” said Jim.
“Absolutely not.”
She stared idly at a statue on the mantel. She stopped. “Jim, remember that night you went out with your support group? What actually happened?”
“You didn’t want me to break confidentiality.”
“Now I do.”
So Jim told her the whole story: Serge, Bodine Biffle’s trailer, everything.
Martha looked back at the mantel with disbelief. She went in the bathroom, closed the door and punched a number into an encrypted satellite phone. “This is Foxtrot…”
Johnny Vegas survived.
He washed ashore with a maid of honor the morning after the rogue wave. They would have been rescued sooner, but Johnny had turned off the raft’s emergency positioning transmitter and lied about it.
Shortly after drifting away from the ship, Johnny reclined in the raft like James Bond with the babe and bottle of champagne.
The maid of honor had warmed to Johnny’s dashing features, and she nuzzled into his side.
Johnny grabbed the magnum. “So how are we going to occupy ourselves until they rescue us?”
“I can think of something,” she said with mischief.
Johnny strained to pop the cork. Just before it flew, he heard splashing in the water behind him. Serge swam toward them, dragging Coleman by the neck of his shirt. He hooked an arm over the edge of the raft and pulled himself up with a smile. “Got room for two more?”
They bobbed along. The sun began to set. Rich, magenta hues. Couldn’t have been more romantic.
Johnny lay staring up at the sky, his head sagging backward over the edge of the raft.
The maid of honor sat across from him, snuggling into Serge and stroking his chest. “You’re really under contract with a movie studio?”
Coleman tapped Johnny’s shoulder and pointed at the bottle. “You going to drink that?”
They drifted into the sunset.
“I got an idea,” said Serge. “We should sing.”
The raft slowly became a dot on the ever-darkening horizon.
“…There’s got to be a morning after… Shula!”
BONUS MATERIAL
An exclusive excerpt from
Gator A-Go-Go
The newest novel featuring Serge and Coleman
By Tim Dorsey
Prologue
They threw the midget over the balcony, and I was off on the spring break vacation of a lifetime . . .
“Serge, hit pause. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“I’m getting dinner.”
“Coleman, you’ve already seen my documentary five times.”
“No, I haven’t. Just hit pause.”
Sigh.
PAUSE
Coleman waddled into the living room cradling a plastic bowl the size of a small satellite dish. Five beer cans in their plastic rings dangled from a special tactical hook on his belt.
“What’s that?” asked Serge.
Coleman plopped next to him on the couch. “Dinner.”
“A half gallon of beer and two pounds of barbecue Fritos?”
Coleman pointed at the frozen TV screen. “Hey, I’ve seen this already.”
“Told you.”
Coleman crammed his mouth and licked his fingers for valuable Frito-Lay Incorporated dust. “I don’t want to watch it again.”
“I do.”
Crunch, crunch. “Can’t we watch something else?”
“What about the bonus material?”
“Your documentary has bonus material?”
“Bonus material is the key to life.”
“Hit it.” Crunch, crunch.
Serge pressed buttons on the remote, navigating on-screen options.
MAIN MENU
BONUS MATERIAL
THEATRICAL TRAILER
[Guitar riff: Alice Cooper, “School’s Out”]
Serge’s voice from the TV:
“It’s a documentary epic you won’t want to miss, featuring a cast of thousands, including many you’ve come to know and love. Coleman . . .”
“How long have I been out?”
“Johnny Vegas . . .”
“Baby, it’s just a little head wound.”
“City and Country . . .”
“Ditch us again and we’ll cut your nuts off.”
“The G-Unit . . .”
“Hey, stud-muffin.”
“The performers and crew of Girls Gone Haywire . . .”
“More nipple!”
“Plus some of Florida’s trademark jerks . . .”
“Please don’t kill us!”
“The state’s finest law enforcement officers . . .”
“Two mutilated bodies, Home Depot supplies, and a bunch of old View-Masters. Not again . . .”
“Students from the nation’s most elite universities . . .”
“I’m going to throw up again.”
“More jerks . . .”
“Dear God, don’t kill us!”
“It’s spring break madness at its maddest!”
“I hate you.”
“Filled with mystery! . . .”
“What’s going on?”
“Suspense! . . .”
“I still don’t know what’s going on.”
“Romance! . . .”
“You’re crazy if you think you’re putting that thing in me . . .”
“Special effects! . . .”
“I am so stoned.”
“Vocabulary! . . .”
“Doppelgänger.”
“Souvenirs! . . .”
“Help me unbolt this street sign.”
“And a breathtaking assortment of exotic locations, including Fort Lauderdale . . .”
“I’ll call the police if you don’t leave!”
“Daytona Beach . . .”
“Get the hell out of my store!”
“Panama City . . .”
“I’m calling the police!”
“The footage is shocking! The implications yet to be gauged! And whenever shit’s going down, Serge always knows the score! . . .”
“Forty-two.”
“They came to take over the Sunshine State, but they’ve just fucked with the wrong Florida buff! . . . Not yet rated.”
The screen faded to black.
Coleman cracked a beer. “That looks freakin’ cool! Let’s watch it.”
“Thought you didn’t want to see it again.”
“I don’t remember any of that stuff.” Crunch, crunch. “Probably thinking of another movie.”
Serge’s thumb pressed the remote.
BACK TO MAIN MENU
RESUME PLAY FROM PREVIOUS POINT
“. . . It all started quietly enough in early March, when innocence still flowered, and nobody could have imagined the chain of events rushing toward them from just around the corner . . .”
BACK TO REAL LIFE—EARLY MARCH
“This is Jessica Pierce, reporting live from Panama City Beach, where spring break migration has reached full boil. Authorities anticipate the student population ballooning to three hundred thousand by nightfall, with no signs of slowing. Meanwhile, as you can see behind me, the main cruising strip is at its regular afternoon standstill as more and more youth arrive for the annual rites of passage . . .”
A convertible rolled behind her. “Show us your tits!”
“Well!” Jessica said with a nervous chuckle. “They seem to be having lots of fun, and we’re thrilled to welcome their return to our fair city. Back to you, Katie . . .” A warm smile. “Are we off?”
The cameraman nodded.
Jessica tossed him her microphone and stormed away. “Assholes.”
Sports cars and pickups inched along, kids hanging out windows, yelling, hoisting open containers. Stereos cranked. Bumper stickers and window pennants. Ohio State, Syracuse, Rutgers, West Virginia, Seton Hall, Villanova, Wisconsin Badgers. Sidewalks even more crowded than the streets, students rolling luggage and coolers. Bleached bellies, beach bar hand stamps, T-shirts and backpacks, Penn State, Boston College, Tennessee Vols, parading past tiki huts, moped rentals, MTV broadcast trucks, cut-rate liquor, tattoos for less, a row of pricey new hotels and La Vela, the largest nightclub in the contiguous United States.
Wedged between the upscale towers was an occasional old-growth budget motel, like the Alligator Arms. The Alligator described itself in brochures as “student friendly,” which meant mildew. It was the first to sell out each year.
A rented Hertz crawled through traffic and turned into the Alligator’s parking lot. Four men slammed car doors. Moved quickly toward the motel. Out of place in linen jackets. And age.
Sophomores in bikinis frolicked by. “Hey, pops!” Giggles.
Didn’t even register. Stride increased.
On the fifth floor, two students galloped down the outside landing as fast as they could, pushing a luggage cart. Two others rode inside with crossed legs and heads tucked low. A spring break bobsled. The cart’s front corner clipped a balcony rail and wiped out. The students uprighted it and switched positions.
Elevator doors opened. Four men stepped out, then stepped back as a brass cart zipped by. Brisk footsteps down the landing. Music pounded from each passing door. They reached number 543. More loud tunes. Vintage Doors.
Knock-knock.
“. . . Woke up this morning, and I got myself a beer . . .”
No answer.
Harder knocking.
“. . . Said I woke up this morning . . .” The stere
o was turned down. “You guys hear something?”
A fist. Bam, bam, bam.
“Someone’s knocking.”
“So get it.”
A shirtless young man in swim trunks opened the door. “Yeah, Grandad?” He chugged from a plastic souvenir mug. Background laughter.
“Are you Andy McKenna?”
“No, who are you?”
“Is Andy McKenna here?”
“There’s no Andy. Get lost.” He started closing the door.
An arm in a linen sleeve went up and braced it open. The student’s upper body indicated he pumped his share of iron. Clearly an edge on the slim, older man in the eggshell-white jacket. The youth strained to close the door. A cement wall would have budged more. He realized he was dealing with something not of his experience.
“May we come in?”
The student answered by walking backward.
Four men entered. The door closed behind them.
The student bumped into the TV. “Who are you?”
“My friends call me Guillermo. You can, too.”
“What do you want?”
“For your pal over there to put the phone down.”
A receiver bounced on the floor. Hearts thumped. Students became statues. Guillermo’s associates searched the one-bedroom suite and checked the balcony. “All clear.”
“W-w-what’s going on?”
“You need to relax more,” said Guillermo. “You’re on vacation.”
“I’m really sorry about the ‘Grandad.’ ”
“Already forgotten about it. Now just stay right where you are, and we’ll be leaving soon.”
“I swear there’s no Andy here—”
“Shhhhh.” Guillermo circled the room to his left, so a wall was behind the students instead of the balcony. He counted five. “Is this everyone staying in the room?”
“Yeah.”
“Raul, turn up the stereo.”
“. . . Got myself a beer! . . .”
Guillermo snapped his fingers in rhythm. “Good beat. You like this song?”
“I . . . guess so. But what’s—”
A silencer-equipped pistol flew out from Guillermo’s jacket with such facility that the first student didn’t have time to be surprised.
