Gator A-Go-Go (10 page)

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

C
ars poured out of Gainesville in all directions, past the football stadium and brick dorms.

In one of the rooms:

“Who goes north for spring break?” asked Melvin Davenport.

“We do,” said his roommate, Cody. “It’s Panama City Beach! MTV’s there!”

“And?”

“Everybody’s going to be fucking!”

“I can see why the women love you.”

“Don’t be a jerk. We graduate next year and we’ve never been to spring break. This could be our last chance.”

“I don’t know.” Melvin sat at his desk, proofing a term paper. “You’re talking about leaving right now, and we haven’t done any planning. Did you even make reservations?”

“That’s the whole point of spring break. You don’t plan—you just
go
!”

“Why don’t
you
just go?”

“Because I need your truck.”

“Figured.”

Cody snatched the term paper.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later.”

NEW HAMPSHIRE

Snow seriously started coming down.

A Hertz Town Car headed south from campus. It avoided the interstate in favor of a looping, scenic night route through empty countryside. Last homes and streetlights miles behind. Nothing but high beams and black ice on a two-laner through white-blanketed woods.

“I don’t get it,” said Raul. “Why’d you let the kid back there live? We never leave a witness unless there’s a good reason.”

“There’s a good reason,” said Guillermo. “I need him alive for disinformation.” He punched numbers on a cell and placed it to his head. “Panama City Beach . . . Holiday Isles . . . Yes, I’d like you to connect me for a modest charge . . .” He let off the gas as the road took a series of hairpin twists down a small mountain. “Front desk? I’d like the room of Sam Jones, please . . . You don’t have a Sam Jones? Well, I think Sam’s his middle name. Probably registered under his first . . . No, I don’t know it. You have any Joneses at all? . . . Four? What first names are they under? . . . I understand you can’t give out that information, but this is an emergency . . . Okay, connect me to the room on the top of your list . . .”

“What are you doing?” asked Miguel.

“Shhhhh!” said Guillermo. “It’s ringing . . . Hello? Is Mr. Jones there?”

“Speaking.”

“Sam Jones?”

“No, you got the wrong Jones.”

“Are you sure?”

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Jones, this is room service. Someone at the pool just charged two hundred dollars of champagne on your account. As a courtesy to our guests, we always like to verify when it’s an amount that high.”

“I didn’t order any champagne! I’m not paying that!”

“You’re not Sam Jones?”

“No, Kyle. Listen, you have to—”

“Already taken care of, Mr. Jones. We’ll get hotel security right on it. Sorry for the inconvenience.” Guillermo hung up and dialed again, this time for the dorm they’d just left.

Raul looked confused. “I don’t understand—”

“Quiet!” Guillermo raised his deep voice an octave. “Hello? Is this Jason? . . . Jason Lavine? . . . This is Kyle Jones . . . I realize you don’t know me. I’m from Boston College—just hooked up with your friends at a rest stop . . . Guess they saw ‘Florida or Bust’ on our windows. Anyway, I was asked to give you a call. They’re switching hotels and wanted you to know in case you need to reach them. Something about feeding fish . . . Because we got a killer block of rooms super-cheap at a better place, but some of our guys dropped out, so your friends are taking up the slack . . . Holiday Isles in Panama City . . . Right, it’s in my name, Kyle Jones . . . Uh, sure, it’s going to be wicked excellent.” He hung up.

High beams sliced through the New Hampshire night. Two glowing dots appeared in the distance. Headlights hit a small deer on the center line. It darted into trees. The Lincoln approached a bridge over a tiny creek. Guillermo carefully applied brakes on the slick surface.

“What’s that business about switching hotels?” asked Pedro.

“Buying time with our government friends.” Guillermo opened his phone again.

Raul lowered his electric window on the passenger side and braced himself against the abrupt arctic blast.

“Madre?” said Guillermo. “Good news . . . No, we don’t have him. But our friends don’t either . . .”

The Lincoln stopped in the middle of the bridge.

“. . . Because I know exactly where he’s headed . . . Thank you, Madre . . .”

As previously instructed, Raul began collecting automatic weapons from the other occupants and flinging them over the side of the bridge.

“. . . On our way to the airport right now . . . Looks like we’re going to spring break . . .”

A Mac-10 sailed into the darkness.

“. . . No, they won’t get there before us. At least not at the correct hotel . . . Because I made a couple phone calls . . .” Guillermo turned toward an odd sound from Raul’s open window. “. . . I’ll let you know as soon as we get there. Good night, Madre.” He hung up. “Raul, did you check—”

“Check what?” The final gun was flung.

Crack.

Guillermo reached for the glove compartment. “Don’t tell me.”

Car doors opened. The gang shivered at the bridge’s railing. Guillermo swept a flashlight beam thirty feet down into the chasm below, where three Mac-10s sat motionless. The fourth slowly spun to a stop on the iced-over creek.

“Guillermo, how was I supposed to know?”

“Just get back in the car.”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Four people stood on the side of the road waving signs for free pancakes. Three kids wore T-shirts with the Jesus fish. Serge flapped the fourth sign. They’d given him a shirt, too. He’d drawn feet on his fish with a Magic Marker but hadn’t changed the name inside to Darwin.

A line of sporty cars came to a standstill at a red light. People hung out windows, waving drinks. “Look at the loser freaks!”

“Hey, Jesus Crispies, eat me!”

The light turned green. The cars drove off.

Serge turned with raised eyebrows. “You get that a lot?”

“All the time.”

“What do you do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It’s okay. We turn the other cheek.”

“Good for you,” said Serge.

They resumed poster waving.

Another red light. More insults.

And so on.

An hour later, a student dangled out the passenger window of a Mustang, vigorously shaking a beer. “Yo, Christian faggots!” He popped the top, spraying them with suds. “Ooops . . . please forgive me!” The car filled with cackles.

Before the passenger knew what was going on, Serge had both hands through the open window, seizing hair. The youth’s face repeatedly smashed the dashboard in rhythm with Serge’s instructions: “
Treat. . . others . . . as you . . . would have them . . . treat you!
”

He released his grip, and the unconscious student flopped back in his seat, blood streaming down his frat shirt. The others in the Mustang normally would have jumped from the vehicle at the welcome opportunity to whup butt, but the intensity of Serge’s onslaught made them screech off instead.

Serge rejoined the stunned roadside gang. He pointed at the ground. “Dropped your posters.”

“But I thought you believed that turning the other cheek was a good thing?”

“My complete quote was, ‘Good
for you.
’ It’s just like the Bible: One must consider the overall context. Remember when Jesus went on that money-changers-in-the-temple lights-out cage match? I really like that part . . .”

Sudden yelling from behind: “Inside! Now!”

They’d never seen their pastor so angry. The foursome headed for the activities room.

“No!” The preacher pointed at Serge. “Not you!”

The remaining trio demurely ducked inside for an unprecedented tongue-lashing. “I couldn’t believe what I just witnessed in the street!”

A tentative hand went up.

“What is it?” snapped the pastor.

“But nobody’s ever defended us like that before.”

“Violence is wrong! It’s against everything we stand for!”

“You don’t know what it’s like out there. They say all this stuff.”

“Turn the other cheek!”

“What about money changers in the temple?”

“Did Serge tell you that?”

The boy lowered his head. “Maybe . . .”

The pastor took a deep breath. “From now on, you are to go nowhere near that man!”

“But . . .”

“But
what?
”

“We . . . kind of like him. And he knows the Bible inside out.”

“The devil can quote scripture with the best. He’s trying to make you nonbelievers.”

“Just the opposite. He said that unlike politicians and TV preachers, we’re magnificent ambassadors for our religion because our faith is so pure and beautiful, and we should never stop nurturing it.”

“I saw his T-shirt!” said the pastor. “He drew feet on the Jesus fish!”

“But he didn’t change the name to Darwin.”

“So?”

“That’s the magnetic appeal of his theology: He respects all religions, then mixes and matches for himself.”

“No!” yelled the pastor. “No mixing and matching!”

“Why not?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“But we already have. Even you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said that if Jesus and the apostles didn’t mix and match, our own religion never would have gotten off the ground.”

The pastor turned purple. “I’ve heard more than enough! My decision is final! Stay away from him! Am I understood?”

INTERSTATE 95

A station wagon with a University of New Hampshire parking decal crossed the Virginia line.

Each new state called for another beer. It was the law.

The driver crumpled a State of Maryland speeding ticket and threw it on the floor.

“What are you doing?” asked Doogie.

“When am I ever coming back to Maryland?” said Spooge.

“On the return trip, hopefully.”

“So someone else will be behind the wheel.”

Their drive had been touch-and-go for a while. The increased snowfall back on campus was the leading edge of an approaching blizzard that would soon hammer most of the northern seaboard. Visibility had almost stopped them in southern Connecticut, but the New England quartet pressed on and outran the system’s front by Delaware.

Now, clear sailing.

Andy held a borrowed cell phone.

A phone rang in Dorchester. And rang.

Andy closed it again. “Still no answer. He’s going to be worried if he tries to reach me.”

“Leave a message on his machine,” said Joey. “You’re an adult. It’s not like you have to ask permission.”

“He doesn’t have a machine. It’s one of those answering features from the phone company.”

“What’s the difference?”

Andy shrugged and dialed again, letting it ring through to an automated message.

Beep.

“Hey, Dad. It’s me, Andy . . .”

“You’re his only child,” said Doogie. “Calling him ‘Dad’ kinda clues him in—”

“Shut up! . . . Dad, I know this sounds nuts, but some friends and I are driving down to Florida for spring break. We’ll be staying in Panama City Beach at—” Andy called to the front seat, “What’s the name of that hotel again?”

“Alligator Arms.”

“Dad, we’re staying at—” Andy stopped at the sound of a robotic voice on the other end:
Mail. . . box . . . full. . .
From all the reporters calling nonstop for hero interviews.

Andy hung up.

Spooge glanced over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell him the hotel?”

“No more recording time. He’s going to be worried.”

“You worry too much. If it’s so important, why not try his cell?”

“Don’t remember the number.”

“You don’t remember your own dad’s number?”

“Don’t need to. It’s stored in my cell—I just hit his name. But
someone
wouldn’t let me go back to my room.”

“You’ll thank us.”

Doogie turned on the radio. Weather report.

“We lucked out. They’re snowed in at Logan . . .”

At Logan: Agent Ramirez stared up at a screen of flight info, all delayed. He was on the phone. “We’re snowed in. I’ll call when I know more.” He hung up and dialed again.

All around, people made pillows from rolled-up clothes and settled in uncomfortably.

“. . . So keep looking,” Ramirez told Oswalt, who breathed heavy as he backtracked across campus in the dark. “. . . Then start from the beginning and check every place again . . . No, I don’t care how long it takes.” He hung up.

Next to him, Patrick McKenna closed his own phone.

Ramirez turned. “Any luck?”

“Still no answer in his room.”

“Try his cell again?”

Patrick hit numbers. The phone was on speaker mode. Someone answered. “
Agent Oswalt here . . .
”

Patrick turned. “You want to talk to him?”

Ramirez rolled his eyes. “You sure he was staying at school over the break?”

“Positive. Said he had a ton of work and needed quiet.” Patrick held up his phone. “I know my son. He would have called if anything changed.”

“
. . . Hello? Anyone there? . . . Is that you, Ramirez?
”

Ramirez snatched the phone and clapped it shut. “Maybe he tried you at home.”

“No, he just calls my mobile number.”

“Worth a shot.” Ramirez handed the phone back.

Patrick dialed again. A disconnected phone in Dorchester rang through to the answering service. He worked a retrieval menu and entered his PIN, then listened.

Ramirez saw the expression. “What is it?”

Patrick closed the phone and scratched his head. “Says he’s going to Florida.”

“Florida?”

Patrick nodded. “Spring break. That’s not like him.”

“Where?”

“Panama City Beach.”

“Did he say which hotel?”

“About to, but the mailbox filled up.”

Ramirez walked over to the terminal’s windows. “This is a nightmare.” He dialed Oswalt again and stared out at snow swirling over runway lights.

THE NEXT MORNING

B
right sunshine.

A camcorder panned toward a tall wooden wall on he beach, where the U.S. Army had set up their obstacle course. The wall had thick, knotted ropes running down the side.

The filmmaker turned off his camera and approached a recruiter. Three church youth waited in the background.

“Howdy! I’m Serge! Do you have any coffee?”

“Uh, no.”

“It’s okay, I brought my own. Essential for war.” He unhitched a canteen from his waist and chugged. He looked around. “Where’s the line?”

“Line?”

“For the obstacle course. I love obstacle courses! They’re just like life! Perfect metaphors for both obstacles and courses . . . Ooooooh! Are those trophies over there for the obstacle course? I’d give anything to win a trophy!”

“Don’t you think you’re a little old?”

Serge did stretching exercises. “Maybe in earth years.” He touched his toes. “That’s why I use the outer planets, where I’m still an infant.”

“I mean the obstacle course is meant for people who still meet age requirements for service.”

Serge twisted side to side. “There’s nobody here. The spectacle of my record-shattering technique is bound to fix that and draw an overflow crowd, boosting enlistment. What’s the harm?”

The recruiter shrugged. “Then I guess you’re next.”

“And I want a trophy.” Serge went over to the starting line, crouching and digging his toes into the beach. “You going to time me?”

The recruiter raised a stopwatch.

“Ready when you are,” said Serge.

“On your mark . . . Get set . . . Go!”

Serge blasted out of his sprinter’s stance with blazing speed, sand flying behind him. He raced past the tires, metal tubes, wooden ramps, water jump, monkey bars and finally the rope wall.

Recruiters stared in disbelief as Serge launched himself into the air and dove across the finish line. He collapsed, catching his breath. “What’s my time?”

“You didn’t do any of the obstacles. You ran around all of them.”

“Exactly,” said Serge. “They’re
obstacles.
”

“But you missed every one.”

“Perfect score,” said Serge.

“But you’re supposed to
do
the obstacles.”

“That’s stupid.” Serge stood and brushed off his arms. “By definition, obstacles are things you avoid. Can’t believe nobody thought of that yet.”

They just stared.

Serge retrieved his canteen from a table. “Which one’s my trophy?”

“You didn’t do any of the obstacles.”

“We already went over that,” said Serge. “I think that’s the problem. You’re enlisted. I’m obviously officer material . . .”

Farther up the beach, a large group of students circled some kind of attraction. In the middle, Coleman sat on the sand with a tangelo and syringe. He stuck the needle in the fruit and drew back the plunger.

“The key is to extract an identical cubic centimeter volume as the agent you intend to introduce. That’s the most common mistake: Excess alcohol dribbles down your shirt, the authorities smell it and you’re history.” He squirted juice in the sand, then filled the syringe from a bottle of vodka and injected the tangelo. They heard yelling up the beach behind them.

“
Let go of me!
”

“What’s all that noise about?” asked Coleman, removing the hypodermic.

One of the students stood and shielded his eyes against the sun. “Looks like those army guys are throwing some dude out in the water.”

“Here’s another trick,” said Coleman. “One of the most important turbo-partying tools that everyone overlooks. Only ninety-nine cents.” He reached in his pocket and dramatically held aloft a serrated orange plastic device.

Students took a closer look. “Isn’t that a kid’s citrus sipper from those roadside souvenir stands?”

Coleman carefully twisted the cutting edge into the tangelo. “Most people try to suck the doctored fruit through an unsecured aperture. Mistake number two. Big mess and more heat from the Man.” Coleman stuck the sipper in his mouth and squeezed the tangelo to a flat peel. “Ahhhh! That was refreshing. And not a single valuable drop lost.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

“
. . . Amazing . . .
”

Behind the last row of onlookers, a trophy-less Serge walked by, filming.

“Coleman?” Another direction: “Coleman? Where’d you go?” Shuffling down the shore. “Coleman?”

BOSTON

Bedlam at the airport.

The blizzard was over. At twenty-six inches. Plows worked the runways.

Travelers pitched heated battles with ticket agents. Their win-loss record: zero to infinity. Others stared up in defeat at overhead departure screens. Status columns flashed.

All flights delayed.

Unless they were canceled.

The low-pressure front finally passed, but planes that had already taxied from the terminal were stacked twenty deep at de-icing machines by the foot of each runway.

At every gate, rows of vinyl chairs connected in single racks. All taken. A stress farm. Babies wailed, complainers complained, others phoned relatives to whine in different time zones. Candy bars, laptops, handheld video games. Some tried catching winks on the floor.

In a remote corner of the airside, a rare patch of empty seats, where agents formed an alert perimeter around Patrick McKenna, sitting with a floppy hat pulled down over his face. The sign at the gate’s departure desk: A
NCHORAGE
.

Ramirez paced with a cell phone to his head. University administration in Durham. On hold.

Another agent walked over. “Any luck?”

“Campus security turned up something,” said Ramirez. “Found one kid at the dorm feeding pets.”

“Didn’t Oswalt already talk to that guy?”

“Something new—” He returned his attention to the phone. “Yes, Sergeant, I’m still here . . . Under sedation? What’s he doing in the infirmary? . . . I see. Did he say anything before— . . . One second . . .” Ramirez flipped open a notebook and clicked a pen. “Fire away . . .”

Other agents strained for a glimpse as Ramirez scribbled in unrecognizable shorthand. “Thanks, Sergeant. I owe you.”

The rest were waiting: “Get the name of the hotel?”

“And the room. Holiday Isles, registered to one Kyle Jones.” He stuck the notebook in his pocket. “We’re splitting up. Johnson, Malone, Polaski: You take McKenna. The rest of us are going to Florida. Hatfield, check with the airlines.” He opened his phone again.

“Who are you calling now?”

“We’re not going anywhere soon with this snow. I’m getting some local people to that hotel before Madre’s crew can beat us there.”

Travelers grumbled. A plow went by the windows. Agent Hat-field finally returned, waving three electronic tickets. “Last seats, Atlanta.”

“Atlanta?” said Ramirez.

“Everyone’s rebooking. It’s the closest I could get without waiting till tomorrow.”

“Aren’t any of the bureau’s own planes available?” asked another agent.

“They
all
are,“ said Ramirez.”Stuck in snow.“ He looked at the Georgia tickets.”At least we’re out of here in six hours.”

“Gate’s at the other end of the terminal,” said Hatfield.

The agents began walking.

At the other end of the terminal: “Atlanta?” said Guillermo.

“Closest they had,” said Pedro, waving tickets. “Everyone’s trying to get out.”

“Which is our gate?”

“That one.”

They took seats, facing dim windows.

Guillermo was back on his cell. “Yes, I’m trying to reach Andy McKenna, room five forty-three . . . He hasn’t checked in yet? . . . But five forty-three is his room number, right? . . . Thanks for your help.”
Click.

“Do we even know what the kid looks like?” asked Raul.

“Saw him once with his dad.” Guillermo stuck the phone in his jacket. “Back in the day.”

“Fifteen years ago?”

“Right, we have no idea what he looks like. That’s why I just made that phone call. Ensure we have the right room.”

“But if we don’t know what he looks like, how can we be sure we get the right one?”

Guillermo gave him the same look he’d gotten just before they’d gone in that convenience store.

“Oh.”

A row away, three agents settled into seats with newspapers and magazines.

“So Madre’s people already visited the campus?” asked Hatfield. Ramirez nodded. “That kid who feeds the pets was pretty shaken. Means they’re close.”

“How close?”

Behind them, Raul offered an open foil bag to Guillermo. “Chex Mix?”

A TV hung from a bracket between the gates.

The G-men and Guillermo’s crew looked up.

“
And for those of you snowed in back in Boston, we bring you another day of Red Sox spring training from sunny Florida . . .
”