Gator A-GO-GO

by Tim Dorsey

  Pedro was already bound and gagged in his seat. Serge popped open a toolbox. He began loosening hex-head bolts with his largest socket. Some were stuck from the years, needing WD-40 and a hammer banging on the wrench handle.

  Minutes later, all the right bolts lay on the ground. Serge’s wrist-watch said to dive in the bushes. Another cruiser drove by.

  Quiet again. Serge dashed back.

  Stifled screams under the gag. Serge untied it.

  “Please! Dear God! Whatever you’re thinking… I’ll, I’ll pay you. Cash, cocaine, anything!”

  “The name,” said Serge.

  “What name?”

  “Who you’re after.”

  “They’ll kill me.”

  Serge turned to walk away. “Suit yourself.”

  “Okay, okay. Andy McKenna.”

  “Andy? He’s just a kid. What’s he ever done to you?”

  “Nothing. It’s his dad…” And Pedro laid it all out from soup to nuts.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Four.”

  “Good, very good,” said Serge. “Now, who’s behind it?”

  Silence.

  “Come onnnnnnnnnn…“ Serge gave him a buddy jab in the arm. ”You’re doing great.”

  “Guillermo.”

  “Guillermo?”

  “But he’s just the crew leader for Madre.”

  “Wait… but… you don’t actually mean the Madre.”

  Pedro nodded.

  “I remember reading about her back when Miami Vice was still on the air.“ Serge blew a deep breath through pursed lips.”Thought for sure she’d be dead by now.”

  “Far from it,” said Pedro.

  “So history comes full circle.” Serge stroked his uncharacteristic two-day stubble. “What impressed me is how you’ve been able to track him. Students on spring break are like stray cats. But I have a theory.”

  Pedro clammed up again. Then: “I’d rather you kill me.”

  “So it is what I think?”

  “They keep me in the dark on that. You have to believe me.”

  “I do. Does this Guillermo have a cell number?”

  Another nod.

  Serge got out a scrap of paper and pen. “Ready when you are.”

  Pedro rattled off digits. Serge stuck the note in his pocket. “Most excellent. See how easy that was?”

  “So you’re going to let me go?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Serge replaced the gag, then whistled in awe. “And how!”

  Another cruiser rolled up the street.

  When it was gone, Serge poked his head from the bushes and walked to a breaker box…

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  DAYTONA BEACH

  The 911 call came just after dawn from a commercial air-conditioning repairman. He’d been cleaning coils on the pebbled roof of a two-story motel just south of the band shell. Soon, the roof swarmed with detectives and a forensic team, photographing Pedro from every angle. Or what used to be Pedro. Now he was more like Flat Stanley, his clothes a thin package of human jelly in a fly-swarmed stain.

  They combed the rest of the roof. No sign of a trail from the maintenance doors-or anywhere else. It was like he just materialized out of the blue at the very spot they’d found him.

  How the hell did he get there? And in that condition?

  Nobody could figure it.

  Until another 911 call. This time from the amusement boardwalk.

  Luxury suite number 1563.

  Two gentle knocks at the door, followed by two more. Students flinched.

  “Who the hell can that be?”

  “It’s Serge’s signal.”

  “What if it’s someone using Serge’s signal?”

  Melvin checked the peephole and undid the chain.

  They saw Serge and bent forward as one, anxiously awaiting any news.

  He strolled into the room like nothing happened.

  “Well?” asked Joey.

  “Just boring investigative work. Tedious documents and records.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Can we leave the room?”

  “No. You’re okay for now, but I have some more chores until it’s completely safe.”

  Speculation shot around the room. “Andy,” said Serge. “Could I have a word?”

  “Sure.”

  They stepped into the bathroom. Serge placed a paper bag by the sink and combed his hair in the mirror. “Or should I say ‘Billy’?”

  Andy crashed into the tub, taking down the plastic curtain.

  “I’m sorry.” Serge helped him up. “Have a weakness for the dramatic.”

  The student grabbed a towel rod. “How much do you know?”

  “Everything. Your father, the flights, yanked out of kindergarten…” Serge poured a cup of water from the faucet and handed it to him. “Why didn’t you tell me at the band shell?”

  “Because I’m not supposed to,” said Andy. “That’s the big rule they gave us. Any exposure, and the whole family must relocate and start over. Almost happened a couple times in third grade when there was another Billy. Then we had to move. Michigan to Massachusetts.”

  “What happened?”

  Andy stared at the floor.

  “Can’t be that bad.”

  A tear fell. “My mom shot herself.”

  “Sorry,” said Serge. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

  “That’s okay. Long time ago.”

  “Because of the witness program?”

  Andy shook his head. “I was just a little kid. Dad told me she’d been very sick and was finally at peace. Went into remission before we left Florida, but it recurred. Because of how she’d… chosen to leave, local authorities had to run a mandatory investigation and officially rule the cause of death. Our witness liaisons thought it was too much attention, and off they shipped us again.”

  “You still should have mentioned something,” said Serge. “Didn’t that business back in your Panama City room make any lights go on?”

  “I was absolutely certain it couldn’t be the reason. We’re talking over fifteen years ago.”

  “These people have been known to hold grudges.”

  “Okay, so now we figured it out.” Andy braced an arm against a tiled wall and lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid. “Take me to the FBI.”

  “Afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  Serge gave him a penetrating look.

  Andy got a different expression, backing up against the wall. “You’re… not…”

  “Relax. I ain’t with nobody. It’s something Pedro told me.”

  “Who’s Pedro?”

  “Better you not know. Especially now.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “My suspicions were correct,” said Serge. “They have someone on the inside. That’s how they’ve been tracking you. And until I find out who, we can’t contact the authorities.”

  “But what about my dad?”

  “I can only solve so much. Right now you’re my responsibility. Consider me a guardian angel.”

  “You?”

  “Couldn’t be in better hands.” Serge reached for a white paper bag by the sink. “Here. Have a taco.”

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  A rented Taurus drove west from the Detroit airport.

  Snowdrifts.

  “I don’t know if I can get used to the cold,” said Randall.

  “You will in time,” said Ramirez. “And thanks to your testimony, we rounded them all up.”

  “I’m safe now?”

  “As long as you stick to the program.” Ramirez had opted for the rental instead of the obvious government sedan. He handed a thick brown envelope across the front seat. “That’s your kit, everything you’ll need. New Social Security cards, Michigan driver’s licenses, birth certificates, credit cards with phony transaction histories, bank accounts. We made some deposits to get you started.”

  Rand
all looked at the documents in his lap. “But why Patrick McKenna?”

  “Because it’s a common name.”

  “Couldn’t I have picked something?”

  “Flash Gordon was taken.” Randall stared at him.

  “Sorry,” said Ramirez. “That was supposed to be a joke. Break the tension.”

  An exit sign.

  Battle Creek.

  They got off the interstate and wound through anonymous neighborhoods.

  “Remember what we talked about,” said Ramirez. “It’s critical. Randall Sheets never existed. And Patrick McKenna always has. You need to set aside some quality time rehearsing with your family over the next weeks, calling each other by new names.”

  “I think we’re smart enough to-”

  “I’m serious. Can’t tell you how many people we’ve had to move again because of slipups in the wrong place, and it usually happens at the beginning. After a while, it’ll come naturally.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “One more thing,” said the agent. “The phone in the living room. Its wire runs through a little tan box. That’s the encrypter. There’s a switch on the side. Don’t call me unless you absolutely have to, but if you have to, flip the switch for a secure line.”

  Patrick looked out the windows as they swung onto a sleepy, tree-lined street. “I just want to see my family.”

  The car pulled up to the curb. Patrick grabbed the door handle, then stopped and turned. “I never thanked you.”

  “Go on, they’re waiting.”

  Patrick ran up the walkway and rang the doorbell.

  Ramirez watched the tearful reunion on the front steps. He waited until the door closed, then drove back to the airport.

  THE PRESENT

  Police headquarters.

  An evidence bag of hex-head bolts lay on the conference table. Detectives gathered around a TV set. Someone inserted a DVD that had been discovered by the employee who’d made the 911 call from the Daytona Beach boardwalk.

  An early-morning glow had just broken over the Atlantic, but not the sun, giving the image a grainy, low-light effect.

  On-screen: Pedro, secured in his seat, gagged, eyes of horror.

  Offscreen: “… Five… four… three… two… one… liftoff!”

  The video camera on the safety bar showed Pedro suddenly accelerate skyward in the open-air ball of the Rocket Launch. The beach and boardwalk receded quickly, tiny buildings and cars like a child’s train set.

  Then the ball reached its zenith, and elastic cords jerked hard. The padded, U-shaped restraining bar over Pedro’s chest-minus its bolts-flew off like the pilot’s canopy of an F-16 Falcon during subsonic ejection.

  Followed by Pedro.

  The now-empty ball continued bouncing on its cords, camera still running.

  A detective slowed the DVD to frame-by-frame. On one of its last bounces, the ball caught the background image of a miniature Pedro sailing out over motel row.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  A late-model Mercedes raced west through Little Havana on Calle Ocho. The road became the Tamiami Trail. A half hour later, they left civilization behind and entered the Everglades.

  Hector was driving, Luis riding shotgun. Guillermo sat in the backseat like an only child, arms around a big briefcase.

  “No deviating from the plan,” Hector said over his shoulder. “We can’t be in the same place as the payment.”

  “Why not?” asked Guillermo. “You raised him like my brother. Don’t we trust him anymore?”

  “Yes, but he may be followed. He’s on the inside now.”

  “I still don’t understand how we got him there. He had a record, from when Madre first picked him up at the jail.”

  “Juvenile. Had it sealed.”

  Guillermo looked out the windows. “Where is he?”

  “Nearby, but he won’t know the final location until you call him.”

  Fifty miles into the ’glades. No shade from the withering swamp heat. People in wide-brimmed straw hats reclined on lawn chairs along the shoulder of the Tamiami, cane-pole fishing an alligator-filled canal. Vultures picked at unrecognizable remains, taking flight when the Mercedes blew by. Hector slowed as they passed one of the water district’s drainage control dams. A quick look around. No other cars. He hit the gas for a dust-slinging left turn onto an unmarked dirt road.

  “Where will you be?” asked Guillermo.

  Hector jerked a thumb north. “Back on the trail. When we see his car leave and are sure he had no tails, we’ll come back to pick you up.”

  “But why do we have to pay one of our own extra for the name?”

  “You talk too much,” said Luis.

  “He’s got to learn sometime,” said his brother, looking over his shoulder again. “We’re not paying him. The files on their confidential sources are sealed tighter than ever since that grand jury. He needs the money to bribe someone else.”

  “I still can’t believe we have an informant in our family.”

  “It’s the business we’ve chosen.”

  The Mercedes rolled to a stop in a small clearing. Dragonflies, sun-bleached beer cans, a single sneaker in weeds.

  Guillermo opened his door, filling the car with a blast of scorched air and the buzz of insects.

  “We’ll be waiting for your call.” Hector reached for the gearshift.

  The car’s horn suddenly blared. Solid.

  “What on earth-” Luis looked toward his brother.

  The inside of the driver’s windshield was splattered red, his brother facedown on the steering wheel. Luis spun toward the open back door. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  A pair of nine-millimeter rounds entered Luis’s forehead through the same hole.

  Guillermo calmly placed the pistol back in his briefcase and walked around to the driver’s side. A dust cloud appeared in the distance as another Mercedes came up the road from the direction of the Tamiami. He opened Hector’s door and pulled him back by the hair. The horn stopped.

  So did the second Mercedes.

  Guillermo walked to the trailing vehicle and retrieved a gas can from the passenger seat.

  “Remember to roll their windows down,” said the driver. “Those other fools left too much evidence when the fire suffocated itself from lack of air.”

  Moments later, Guillermo climbed into the second car, which made a tight U in the clearing and drove back out the dirt road. Behind them, flames curled from open windows.

  “The last people I would have expected,” said Guillermo. “Why would they turn on the family?”

  “One of them did.”

  “One?”

  Juanita nodded. “Our informant couldn’t figure out which.”

  “So you had me kill both your brothers?”

  She smiled and patted his hand. “You’re a good boy, Guillermo.”

  “Thank you, Madre.”

  THE PRESENT

  A ’73 Challenger raced up the strip.

  Serge reached into a small drugstore shopping bag.

  “Smelling salts?” asked Coleman.

  “Explain later.” Serge removed a greeting card from the same bag. “Right now I must depend on your particular talents. Nearest liquor store?”

  “Three hundred yards. Left one block, then right, north side of the street.”

  He hit the gas.

  “But, Serge, you don’t drink.”

  The Challenger hung a hard left. “It’s not for me. It’s for one of Guillermo’s goons.”

  “You’re buying one of his goons a drink?”

  A skidding right turn. “Several.”

  They dashed into the store. “Coleman, time’s of essence. Your expertise again-liquor store layout. Where’s the…”

  Coleman quickly guided Serge to respective products on his mental list. They ran for the cash register with arms full of bottles.

  Minutes later, the Challenger patched out of the parking lot.
<
br />   “What’s the big rush?” asked Coleman.

  “Pedro just made the TV news.”

  “And?”

  “So up to now we’ve had the advantage of them not knowing what we know. But as soon as Guillermo sees the news, he’ll realize they’ve been made. We already might be too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “Before they have a chance to clear out, I’d like to thin the herd a little more and improve our odds.”

  “How does all that liquor fit in?”

  “It has to be a quick strike. I wanted to set up a series of levers, gears, bowling balls and axes on roller skates, but this is no time for fun. Had to think up something quick-that also works quick. Unfortunately, my plan leaves us trapped without escape from Guillermo’s murderous retaliation.”

  “I usually prefer a way out of that.”

  “Most people do, which is why I added liquor to the Master Plan’s cocktail. It simultaneously accomplishes both objectives: taking out the target and creating an escape clause.”

  “How does it do that?”

  “Through a potent mix of French cuisine and The Simpsons.”

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  Twenty people with latex gloves walked extra slow, performing a grid search in the dirt and weeds around the charred carcass of a Mercedes.

  Just another day in the Everglades.

  “Looks like he picked up the shell casings.”

  “Obviously knows what he’s doing. I’m guessing those windows weren’t originally rolled down in this heat.”

  A cell phone rang.

  “Ramirez here.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Calm down.” The agent walked to the side of the clearing for privacy. “Is the encryption box switched on?”

  “How can you tell me to calm down at a time like this?” Patrick McKenna paced in front of the TV set in his Battle Creek living room with snowflakes on windowsills. “Have you seen the news? Prosecutor says they have to drop all charges.”

  “The encryption box!”

  “It’s on! Jesus!” McKenna paced the other way, past a televised press conference in the Miami sunshine. “You told me it was a done deal. They’d all go away for a long time.”