Gator A-GO-GO

by Tim Dorsey

  Rood went inside the dark unit and closed the door behind him. He felt along the wall for a light switch. Before he could find one, a lamp came on across the room.

  “Who are you?” asked Rood.

  Guillermo sat in a cushy chair, gun resting on the arm. “You know who I am.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Please do.”

  “I’m Serge.”

  “I know.”

  Back at Bahia Cabana.

  Serge and Coleman cackled through another Looney Tunes.

  The door opened.

  City grabbed a wine cooler and plopped into a chair. “Better have reservations at the Four Seasons for what we went through.”

  “Serge, are you listening?” said Country.

  No answer.

  She stepped in front of the television. “I’m talking to you!”

  Serge tilted to the side. “Could you please move? You’re blocking-”

  “After all we just did!” said Country. “And you’re watching fuckin’ cartoons?”

  “But it’s a classic,” said Serge. “The one where the guy doing demolition finds a singing frog in the cornerstone. Everybody’s doin the Michigan rag!…”

  “Un-freakin’-believable. Not even a thank-you.”

  Serge looked up. “When you’re right, you’re right.” He stood. “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Country.

  “To show my gratitude.”

  He led her into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Another typical round of female shrieking. “… Oh, yes!… Harder!… Faster!… Didn’t think it was possible, but you’ve gotten even better!… Dear God!… Is it because of what you’ve got around the base of your cock?…”

  Serge thrust again. “That would be my guess.”

  “… Ohhhh!… Ohhhh!… Yes!… Yes!… What is that thing?…”

  Another thrust. “I enlarged the hole in the middle of my favorite View-Master reel of the Everglades.”

  “… Don’t stop!… Oh, God!… I’m coming!… I’m coming!!!!!!!”

  The ecstatic yelling came through the wall into the living room. Coleman turned and grinned drunkenly at City.

  An empty wine cooler glanced off his forehead.

  “Ow!”

  In the bedroom, Country tried catching her breath after going off like a string of black-cat firecrackers. She wiped sweat from the blond hair matted across her face. “That was beyond incredible…”-still panting hard-“… The best I ever-”

  “Just wait till round two.”

  “Round two? I don’t think I can take any more.”

  “You’ll take it and like it.”

  He jumped up and went across the room in the dark.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get more inspiration.”

  Country strained to see in the blackness. “What are those sounds?”

  “Shhhhhh!”

  He returned to the bed, immediately picking up where they’d left off.

  “… Oh, God!… Yes!… Yes!… Oh-… Hold on. Time out! Time out!… What the hell’s hitting me in the face?”

  “Uh… nothing.”

  More thrusts.

  “Shit! You got me in the eye!” Country rolled over and clicked on the bedside lamp. She stared at Serge’s chest, then up at his face.

  “What in the fuck?”

  “Is something the matter?”

  “What’s all that crap hanging from your neck?”

  He looked down. “Oh, Tarzan’s five gold medals.”

  “Gold medals?”

  “From the Olympics.”

  She looked at his chest again. “They’re just those chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil that you taped string to.”

  Serge looked down again. A pause. “No, they’re not.”

  “Yes, they are!” Country snatched one off a string, peeled the foil and took a bite.

  A gasp. “The hundred-meter freestyle!”

  “Sorry…” She set the coin on the nightstand. “Didn’t mean for you to have a cow.”

  “No…,” said Serge, breathing quickly. “Heritage…”

  She looked him in the eyes and dropped her voice a sensual pitch. “That turns you on, eh?” She grabbed the coin and took another bite, this time running her tongue around the edge first.

  Country almost choked on it as Serge lost control and harpooned her deeper than ever before.

  Her chin snapped up toward the ceiling. “… Yessssssssssssss!…” She snatched the rest of the coins from Serge’s neck and swatted the lamp off the nightstand, shattering its bulb on the floor.

  On the other side of the wall, Coleman pointed at the TV with the remote. “No, you see, that’s why it’s so funny: The frog only sings and dances for the construction worker.”

  “Frogs can’t sing and dance,” said City.

  “This one can.”

  “Hold it,” said City. “Turn down the volume.”

  Coleman did, and they both listened to new sounds from the wall.

  “… Yes!… Faster!… Harder!… Chocolate, mmmmm!… I’m unwrapping another one…”

  “… Eat the history!…”

  LATER THAT NIGHT…

  “Development, development, development!” said Serge. “Will they never stop with this state?”

  “What are you going to do to me?” asked Miguel, a gun pressed to the middle of his back.

  “Construction sites everywhere!” said Serge, carrying two large monkey wrenches over his left shoulder. “On the other hand, I love construction sites, especially at night. Ever since I was a kid, poking around with a flashlight to see how things are made and what’s going on inside walls. I’m naturally curious that way.”

  “You’re the one who whacked Pedro, aren’t you?”

  “No, that was gravity, the senseless killer.”

  “You’re going to fire me into the air?”

  “Negative.” They walked past a pallet of bricks. “But you will be facing gravity, so I suggest you start thinking of a counterstrategy. I always am. Like a jet pack. You wouldn’t know where I can get one?”

  Miguel shook his head.

  Serge began to smile as they stepped through the wire mesh of a concrete form. “There isn’t much security at construction sites, because who’s going to walk off with sheets of drywall and twelve-foot rebar except me? And that was just to take care of another jerk…”

  Miguel began to weep.

  “… Plus this place is totally unguarded, lucky for us. Well, for me. There’s luck for you, too, but it’s not the right kind.”

  Weeping became racking sobs.

  “Buck up,” said Serge. “You weren’t too misty when your gang was trying to kill Andy. He’s just a kid, for heaven’s sake.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” said Miguel. “I was going to try and stop it. You have to believe me!”

  “Really?”

  Miguel nodded furiously.

  “Then I guess the only fair thing is to show some mercy.”

  “You’re going to let me go?”

  “I said some mercy. Jesus, you give people an inch…“ Serge tucked the gun in his pants.”Now lie on your stomach right there. And don’t try anything. I’m a pretty quick draw.”

  Miguel flopped down. Serge clamped the monkey wrenches on a circular metal hatch and pulled in opposite directions.

  Creak.

  “Wow, that was easy. Probably didn’t even need those things.” He tossed the wrenches in the dirt and unscrewed the loosened hatch the rest of the way.

  The gun came out again. “On your feet.”

  “I’ll give you money.”

  “Get in.”

  Miguel stared through the opening, then back at Serge. “In there?”

  “It’s a two-foot hatch, but you should fit.”

  “Isn’t it full of-”

  Serge shook his head. “Completely empty. They don’t fill until ready for use. Otherwise it destroys the wor
ks.”

  “But I’ll suffocate.”

  “Not a chance. It’s deceptive, but there’s a ton of room once you’re inside, more than enough air till morning.” Serge pulled a flashlight off his belt and held it together with the gun, sweeping its beam through the hole. “Loads of space. The real trick is the blades.”

  “Oh my God! I’ll be chopped to pieces!”

  “Will you stop making everything worse than it is?” Serge aimed the flashlight through the hole again. “You must be a real treat on long trips… See? They’re just generally called blades, but the edges are completely dull. And not too tall, about a foot, so you shouldn’t have much difficulty stepping over them, at least for the first couple hours.” A wave of the gun. “Now in.”

  Miguel trembled as he climbed headfirst through the hole. He got stuck halfway and hung by his stomach, kicking his legs.

  Serge threw his hands toward the stars. “Everyone wants my help.” He grabbed Miguel by the knees and boosted him the rest of the way inside. Miguel fell to the bottom with a heavy thud and an echo: “Ouch!”

  Serge picked up the hatch cover.

  Miguel’s face appeared in the middle of the round opening. “You mentioned mercy?”

  “That’s right. I always like to give my students a way out of jams. Because I’m into optimism. What about you?”

  A blank stare.

  “Should try it sometime,” said Serge. “No point going through life sweating the small stuff when shit like this can spring up. In your particular case, the mercy is gasoline capacity. Once I turn this baby on, it can’t run forever. If you just keep hopping over those blades until the fuel runs out-which should be around dawn when work crews arrive-you get to live. But if the blades start tripping you up”-Serge winced-“well, let’s just say things start going downhill pretty fast.”

  “You really think I have a chance?”

  “Definitely.” Serge fit the hatch cover over the hole and began screwing.

  A knock from the other side.

  Serge sighed. He unscrewed the cover and pulled it back. “What now?”

  “I can’t see in here. It’s completely dark.”

  “Shoot, thanks for reminding me. If you don’t see the blades, they’ll start tripping you immediately, and then there’s absolutely no way you can make it.” Serge pulled the flashlight off his belt again and handed it through the hole. “You’ll need this.”

  “Thanks.”

  He screwed the hatch back on.

  Five minutes later, Serge finished stripping insulation from a pair of wires and flicked his pocketknife shut. He touched the metal ends together. Sparks. The sound of a heavy industrial mechanism coming to life. The copper tips were twisted into a permanent connection with rubber-handled pliers.

  The noise grew louder as Serge walked back around to the hatch. He banged a fist on thick steel. “How are you doing in there?”

  “Not too bad. I think I might be able to make it.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  “So how long are these flashlight batteries supposed to last anyway?”

  “Oops, I didn’t think of that.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  THE LATE NEWS

  Television satellite trucks filled the parking lot of a resort hotel. Correspondents were stacked on top of one another, using a custom motor coach for backdrop.

  “… Authorities still have no leads on the gangland-style assassination of Girls Gone Haywire founder Rood Lear, whose bullet-riddled body was discovered…”

  “… Witnesses said two young women were seen earlier in the lobby…”

  “… Following a heated confrontation in Panama City Beach…”

  “… Described only as ‘persons of interest’ are leaders of the activist group MAGGH, Mothers Against…”

  “… Responding to an anonymous tip, police arrived at the motel room seconds after the shooting but were too late to apprehend the assailant…”

  “… Meanwhile, online sales of the controversial videos continue to shatter records…”

  Someone held a microphone in front of Rood’s tearful chief assistant. “… He was always giving and giving…”

  Two people sat in front of a TV, convulsing with laughter.

  “Whew!” Serge wiped tears from his face.

  “That was a good one!” said Coleman.

  Serge’s laughter bled into an expression of concentration.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.

  “Not sure,” said Serge. “You know how you sometimes hear something and it doesn’t seem important at the time? But days later, out of the blue, when you’re doing a completely unrelated activity, the significance suddenly dawns on you?”

  “No.”

  “Andy said his mother shot herself.”

  “Poor kid.”

  “Coleman, women take sleeping pills or jump. Men shoot themselves.”

  “Maybe she didn’t have pills or bridges.”

  “Can’t explain it, but I just have this feeling.”

  Coleman fidgeted on the couch. “What are you doing?”

  “I think I’m sitting on something.” He clicked the TV remote and reached for a beer.

  “Most other people would find out what it is,” said Serge. “Maybe even get off it.”

  “Really?” Coleman rolled to his side and reached down.

  “My phone charger!” said Serge.

  “Why’d you put it under my butt?”

  “Gimme that thing.” He went to the wall and plugged it in.

  The display came up. “Coleman, you made me miss a call.” He redialed. “Serge here. You rang?”

  “Nice try.”

  “Hey, Guillermo. Thought you’d like that touch. Guess the cops didn’t get there in time.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “Likewise; I got Miguel,” said Serge. “So I guess it’s just you and me now. We’re going to have so much fun!”

  “Where’s Andy?”

  “Someplace safe where you’ll never find him.”

  “You’re not getting my meaning,” said Guillermo. “I’m not asking you to tell me where he is. I’m asking if you know where he is.”

  “What’s your point?”

  Click.

  Serge looked quizzically at the phone.

  “What is it?” asked Coleman.

  “Shit!” Serge jumped up and ran out of the room. He knocked hard on the next door.

  Spooge answered.

  “Andy with you guys?”

  “No, thought he was with you.”

  He ran to the next room and knocked again. City and Country passed joints with the rest of the gang. “Andy in here?”

  “Said he was going for a walk.”

  Serge’s head fell back on his neck. “Andy, Andy, Andy, what have you done?” He looked at the students again. “How long ago?”

  “Just missed him.”

  “Wonderful!” He turned to leave.

  “Oh, Serge. You know when Melvin’s coming back? He’s got the keys to the truck and we need it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘coming back’? Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. Left with this guy in a car.”

  “Guy?”

  “Really old dude. Your age.”

  “Wouldn’t happen to remember what he was driving?”

  “That’s easy. Wicked excellent ride, Delta 88.”

  “You guys are supposed to be smart,” said Serge. “None of this raised any flags?”

  “Thought he was alumni or something.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he was looking at the Gators bumper sticker on the pickup before Melvin went over and asked what he was doing.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I got more beer.”

  LAS OLAS BOULEVARD

  The case dossier lay in a lap.

  “Agent Mahoney’s Monaco sat in a parallel space along the bistro district. Wine, sidewal
k tables, palm trees wrapped year-round in strands of white Christmas lights-just down the street from the demolished Candy Store nightclub, national birthplace of the wet T-shirt contest in the bygone spring break era, making it a church of sorts. Mahoney had rescued his share of cops from that lounge, and now the chips were due. He stared at the folder of paperwork and faded photos resting on his legs.”

  Mahoney stopped talking to himself. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the answer was in there somewhere.

  He started back at the beginning again, the whole strange saga of Randall Sheets. Wife’s illness, the flights, Madre-that really took him back to the old days-grand jury testimony, son pulled from kindergarten, Battle Creek-

  The agent paused on the page. He took off his fedora and ran a hand through his hair. “Women don’t shoot themselves.” He fished out the autopsy, looking for caliber. “Nine-millimeter? That’s weird…”

  His eyes widened. “Oh, no.”

  The agent flipped open his cell and dialed.

  “Bugsy, I need travel records for a specific date.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “That’s almost impossible.”

  “Plus I need a sealed juvenile record.”

  “That is impossible.”

  “And I want both in a half hour.”

  “You’re crazy. What’s the big rush?”

  “Someone’s going to die.”

  MIDNIGHT

  Rain started again.

  A light drizzle, but with ocean gusts that promised a bigger show. Students in sports cars and Jeeps cruised the strip. Decent numbers, but not like the sixties, when it brought A1A to a standstill.

  The rain came down harder, scattering people off sidewalks and into bars.

  Or bushes.

  Andy poked his head up from shrubs along the front of a seafood grill. A quick scan of the surroundings, then another hundred-yard dash south, hugging buildings, staying as far from the street as possible. Another dive into manicured hedges.

  A ’73 Challenger rolled down the strip. Serge cranked his windshield wipers from intermittent to full. “How far could they have gotten?”

  “Finding one person in this rain is hard enough,” said Coleman. “But two?”

  “We have to find them!”

  The Challenger blew through a yellow light at Sunrise Boulevard. The Crown Vic behind him ran the red. Agent Ramirez checked his watch and his gun.