by Tim Dorsey
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.
&n
bsp; 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!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
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.”
