Gator A-Go-Go (13 page)

INTERSTATE 75

A
Hertz Town Car sped south through the starry Georgia night.

An exit for Robins Air Force Base went by. Raul opened a suitcase and passed out guns again.

“Keep those things down,” said Guillermo, letting off the gas and watching the speedometer drop to the posted 70 limit.

“What’s the matter?” asked Raul.

Guillermo glanced in the rearview. “We got cops.”

A Crown Vic with blackwall tires blew by in the left lane. Behind the wheel: “I just hope we’re not too late,” said Agent Ramirez.

One hundred and fifty miles southwest, a ’73 Challenger sped through empty farmland. It picked up I-10 in Tallahassee and headed east out of the Panhandle.

“Breaker, breaker . . .”

“
Is that you, Serge?
”

Serge brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth again and looked in the Challenger’s side mirror. “Coleman, you’re supposed to say, ‘That’s a big ten-four, Captain Florida.’”

“
Captain Florida’?
” Coleman said into his own walkie-talkie from the backseat of a New Hampshire station wagon.

“That’s my handle,” said Serge.

“
What’s mine?
”

“How about ‘Lord of the Binge’?”

“
Has a nice ring.
”

The Challenger sped down open highway, followed by the station wagon and a Dodge pickup with Gator bumper stickers. They passed Live Oak, fifteen miles before the interchange with I-75, where a Crown Vic took the westbound ramp onto I-10.

“Breaker, Lord of the Binge . . .”

“
That’s a big ten-seven.
”

“Looks like we got us a convoy!”

The three-vehicle motorcade continued east, seeing no other cars for miles. Then:

“Breaker, breaker,” said Serge. “Smokey, eleven o’clock.”

Everyone cut back their speed as a Crown Vic driven by Agent Ramirez flew in the opposite direction.

“We’re clear,” said Serge. They sped on, approaching the I-75 cloverleaf, where a Hertz Town Car passed them going the other way toward Panama City Beach.

SUNRISE

“This is Maria Sanchez with Daybreak Eyewitness Action News Seven. I’m standing here on the crystal white sands of Panama City Beach as the sun peeks over the horizon and a number of college guests appreciating our wonderful community are up extra early to take in a morning stroll . . . Here comes one of them now . . . Sir, can you tell us what you’ve enjoyed most about your visit?”

“I don’t know where my hotel is. And I’m really drunk . . .”

Nearby, a packed Pontiac with Ohio plates arrived on the famous strip.

Ritual beers popped. “
Spring break!
”

Like so many others, the students had just completed another marathon drive that began in the snow the previous morning. They crossed the Florida line two hours before dawn and hit city limits at first light. Another impulse trip. “Who needs reservations?”

Budget motels lined the opposite side of the road from the beach. They stopped. Nothing available. Then the next. Full. The next. Sorry. And so on, until they reached the end of the strip. “We should have made reservations.”

The Pontiac turned around and headed back, this time trying the more expensive hotels on the gulf side. Same story, again and again. Looked like they’d have to head inland and find something north of town. They passed the Alligator Arms. Red neon under the sign: N
O
V
ACANCY
.

A passenger in the front seat turned around. “Did you see that?”

“What?” asked the driver.

“The ‘No’ on the ‘No Vacancy’ sign just went off.”

“Maybe it burnt out.”

“Can’t hurt to try.”

They parked out of view from the office, so the rest of the students could hide.

The manager looked up from his newspaper as the door opened. One of the kids pointed behind. “Saw the ‘no’ go out on the vacancy sign. Is that for real?”

The manager nodded and came to the counter. “One room left. Some other kids decided to depart early.”

“How much?”

“How many staying in the room?”

“Just us two.”

“That means at least five.”

“No, really.”

“Hundred and seventy a night.”

“What!”

“You’re not going to find another place for fifty miles.” The students pulled back from the counter and talked it over. Then nods.

“Okay, we’ll take it. Let me go out to the car and get some more money from the other three guys.”

The sun rose over the hotel roof as five Ohio students rolled luggage from their car.

Next to a newspaper box, someone sat on the curb with his chin in his hands.

“What’s the matter?” asked one of the students.

“No place to stay.”

“Why don’t you stay with us?”

“Really?”

“Wait a second,” said a second youth. “Why are you inviting a complete stranger to stay with us?”

“Because he’s the midget.”

They took the elevator several floors up and headed down the landing toward room 543.

SOMEWHERE IN NORTH FLORIDA

Another beautiful morning.

The ’73 Challenger barreled east on I-10 as a rising sun burnt off dew. Close behind, a woody station wagon and a Dodge pickup. They reached a junction in Jacksonville and headed south on 95.

The occupants of the various vehicles had been redistributed, at Serge’s insistence, “to resurrect the lost art of conversation.”

Serge sat behind the wheel of the Challenger. Melvin and Country had the backseat. Andy rode shotgun.

In the middle car, half the New Hampshire students and Coleman: “Brownies are the best!”

“I think smoking works better.”

“Much academic debate,” said Coleman. “But for my money, ingesting ensures a more complete absorption of the tetrahydrocan-nabinol psychoactive component. Only trade-off is a forty-five-minute delay to kick in. I’ll show you when we get to Daytona.”

Melvin’s roommate, Cody, drove the trailing pickup, with City and Joey filling out the rest of the tight front seat. Joey yawned and stretched out his arm in a furtive gambit to put it around City’s shoulders.

“I’ll break it.”

The arm came back.

Serge reached over and playfully punched Andy in the shoulder. “Ain’t this the bee’s knees? You could have been stuck in the Panhandle, but now we get to travel back through spring break history! Look at that magnificent sky! This calls for coffee!” He grabbed a bottom-weighted travel mug off the dash. His other hand reached for his walkie-talkie. “Breaker, breaker. We got the big twenty-four lookin’ green all the way on the flip side.”

“
What?
”

“It’s a great fucking day!” He stretched an arm to Andy. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good, ’cause I want it all!” He sucked the mug dry, then turned his camcorder on and held it out the window. “There’s just something magical about setting out on the road at night and watching the sky gradually lighten until the sun arrives. Reminds me of childhood. We’d take trips to Cypress Gardens, Busch Gardens, Miami Seaquarium. For some reason, my folks found it essential to make good time and leave in pitch blackness. Our car was loaded the previous night, except for the cheap Styrofoam cooler. They started making ice days ahead and hoarded it in the freezer. Money wasn’t flying around like it is today, and people couldn’t justify buying bags of the stuff at 7-Eleven, which actually opened at seven and closed at eleven. Do we have any more coffee in here? Fuck it, I’ll just go: Mom made piles of bologna sandwiches ahead of time and stored them in Tupperware. America forgets its heritage, but back then Tupperware parties were hugely important tribal events, like Bar Mitzvahs for Gentiles. I want that on my tombstone: ‘There’s nothing’s more goy than Tupperware.’ Did I already ask about coffee? We owned an old Rambler, and I had the backseat to myself. Nobody thought about seat belts then, let alone child safety seats, and I sat on the floor behind Dad with my GI Joes and Tinkertoys. I once made a gallows from Tinkertoys and hung a GI Joe deserter, and my parents took me to a doctor. And on the other side of the drive-train hump, behind my mom’s seat, was the Styrofoam cooler of Total Joy. The back of the Rambler seemed so big then, and I was constantly moving around, as you probably guessed from my personality. Down on the floor, up on the seats doing somersaults. After a few trips, Dad wasn’t even distracted anymore by everything going on in the rearview mirror: little legs whipping by, flying GI Joes who’d stepped on land mines. But best of all—climbing up and lying on the ledge by the back window! Melvin? You can lie up on the ledge if you want. I can’t understate the experience.”

“Don’t think I should.”

“Why not? Coleman does it all the time.”

“No, thanks.”

“Anyway, childhood’s over.” Serge reached under his seat. “Now vacation means a whole new adult routine.” He popped the ammo clip from a chrome .45 and checked the chamber.

“What’s the gun for?” asked Andy.

“What do you think?” Serge replaced the magazine. “Florida.”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

A
nother stop-and-go morning on the strip. Agent Ramirez slapped the steering wheel of a Crown Vic, caught between overloaded Jeeps of hollering, mug-hoisting students. Holiday Isles was in sight, but who knew how long?

The government sedan crept past the Alligator Arms, where a Hertz Town Car pulled into a parking space. Four men headed toward the elevator.

Ramirez’s Crown Vic only rolled another hundred yards in the next ten minutes.

“Hell with this.” He put two wheels up on the curb and honked kids out of the way. The sedan sped up the valet lane at Holiday Isles. Agents jumped out and ran for the entrance.

Hotel employees in blazers: “Hey! You can’t park there!”

Badges.

“Please park there.”

They raced to a room on the ninth floor. Three local uniforms on the balcony guarded the door. Even more crowded inside. Ten agents compared notes.

A real estate broker fidgeted in a chair. “How much longer is this going to take? I’m paying a fortune for this room!”

Ramirez entered. “You Kyle Jones?”

“Yeah. And I demand to know—”

“You don’t demand anything.”

Jones muttered under his breath.

“I didn’t catch that,” said Ramirez.

“Nothing. But I’ve already answered a million questions. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Shut it.” He turned. “Baxter?”

“You must be Ramirez.”

Shook hands.

“Thanks for sitting on this for me.”

“Gets stranger the more we look at it.” He gave Ramirez a printout. “That’s the background check you requested. Spotless, except for mortgage-fraud lawsuits.”

“So he isn’t working with them after all?”

“That’s how it smells.”

“It stinks,” said Ramirez. “He showed up on
someone’s
radar.”

“Can’t figure the connection except the one phone call. And that’s a dead end.”

Ramirez stared toward the balcony. “There’s got to be something.”

INTERSTATE 95

The southbound ’73 Challenger blew past all three St. Augustine exits. Signs for five-hundred-year-old stuff and adult video stores.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “how’s it going back there?”

“Fine.”

Serge checked his mirror and smiled. Melvin bashfully looked at Country, who returned a confident gaze. She’d been working on a bottle of vodka and poured generously through the open tab of a half-empty can of Sprite. Then she covered the hole with a thumb and shook. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

Country shrugged and drank it herself.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “what do you think of your traveling companion back there?”

“She’s okay.”

“Come on,” Serge chided. “I’ve seen the way you been looking at her.”

He blushed so brightly you could almost read a map by it.

“Serge,” said Country, “I think your friend’s kind of cute.”

“Hear that, Melvin? She thinks you’re cute.”

More blushing.

“Have a girlfriend?” asked Country.

“No.”

“
Ever
had one?”

“Well, in grade school.”

“Serge,” said Country. “He’s adorable.”

“Why don’t you ask her out?” said Serge.

“Who?” said Melvin. “Me?”

“Anyone else back there named Melvin?”

“I couldn’t. I mean she, I . . . What if she says no?”

“You’ll never find out unless you ask.”

Melvin couldn’t get his mouth to work. Country poured more vodka.

Finally: “Would you consider, you know, maybe—”

“Sure.” She handed him a soda can. “You need to drink that.” This time Melvin accepted. “How’d you get the name Country?”

“ ’Cause I’m from Alabama.”

“So tell me something about yourself.” He took a sip.

“I’m Serge’s girl.”

Melvin spit out the drink and made a panicked retreat to the farthest corner of the car. “Serge, I didn’t know! I swear!”

“Relax.” Serge checked his blind spot to pull around a slow-moving horse trailer with tails flapping out the side. “Me and Country got an open thing. Ask her when she wants to go out.”

Silence.

“Melvin?”

“Uh, when do you want to go out?”

Country tilted her head. “This is a kind of date right now.”

“What kind?”

She just smiled.

“Andy,” Serge said sideways across the front seat, “ever been to Florida before?”

“Nope. This is my first time.”

“Then you’re in for a real treat!”

Andy McKenna leaned his head against the passenger window, faintly recognizing old billboards for citrus and marmalade stands. His mind drifted back to a childhood in Boynton Beach and that day fifteen years ago when the men in dark suits whisked him from kindergarten . . .

. . . Staring out the rear window of their car, watching teachers run down school steps, pointing and gossiping. The school disappeared. Someone gave him a lollipop.

“
Who are you guys?
”

“
Billy, we’re friends of your father.
”

“
Where is he?
”

“
Taking you to him right now.
”

Then unstoppable crying, no matter how many lollipops.

The cars whipped into the parking lot of a run-down motel off Southern Boulevard near the West Palm airport.

Crying dovetailed to sniffles as the convoy stopped, and the child pressed himself against the glass. Lots more men, same suits. They stood along a row of rooms and in various spots across the lot. Billy’s head swiveled back and forth. No Dad.

Then a burst of action. Five men ran to the car. One grabbed a door handle but didn’t open it. Others stuck hands inside jackets.

Someone gave the signal.

Out of the car. Nothing gentle. One of the men grabbed Billy under the arms. The rest surrounded them, sprinting for a middle room. Billy thought they were going to crash into the door, but at the last second it opened from inside. More men. This time he saw guns.

The door slammed behind him. In front, an agent opened another door, the one to the bathroom. Someone came out.

“
Daddy!
”

Billy hit the ground running for the tearful hug. His father rubbed his sandy hair and squeezed him tighter than ever before. “
You okay, son?
”

“
Daddy, I’m scared.
”

“
That’s all over now. You’re with me.
”

“
Are we staying in this hotel?
”

“
No, we have to be leaving soon.
” He held the boy out by the shoulders and tried to calm him with a false smile. “
Guess what? We’re going on a vacation!
”

“
Where?
”

“
You’ll get to see snow!
”

“
Snow? I’ve never seen snow before!
” Billy realized something and looked around. “
Where’s Mom?”

“Already there waiting for us.
”

Five hours of motel room life. An uneventful evening in eventful circumstance. They watched TV and ate McDonald’s the agents brought in. “
Son, I know this won’t make any sense to you now, but it’s very, very important. From now on, your name is Andy.
”

“
Andy?
”

“
Andy McKenna.
”

“
I don’t understand.
”

The father pulled the boy to his chest again. He saw one of the agents give him a look.

“
Son, it’s time to go . . .
”

At the end of a long day, a Boeing 737 touched down in Detroit. “Andy” had a window seat. “
Wow, snow!
”

A hand shook Andy’s arm and he jumped. “What?”

Serge gave his passenger a double take. “Didn’t mean to startle, but you were zoning. Like it was something distressful.”

“Just tired.”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

“Think!” yelled Agent Ramirez.

“Told you, I have no idea,” said the real estate man named Kyle. A breathless field agent ran into the room. “Think we got something.”

“What?” asked Ramirez.

“Call from the hospital in New Hampshire. Oswalt talked to the kid again.”

“What kid?”

“Pet feeder.”

“I remember.” Ramirez nodded. “Madre’s boys paid him a visit. Surprised he’s still alive.”

“Still a basket case, but coming around. He remembered something. You know how he gave us the name of this hotel and Kyle’s name?”

“Yeah?”

“The hotel info was a call he got from the road.”

“Right, from Andy.”

“Not from Andy. Kyle Jones of Boston College . . .”

“Who doesn’t exist?” said Ramirez.

“The kid back at campus never heard of this Jones before, just got a call out of the blue from a guy who said he’d met his friends at a rest stop. Upon further questioning, turns out he never spoke to anyone known personally.”

“But I thought he spoke directly to Andy about feeding fish.”

“That was the first call.”

“First?”

“Second was from our mystery man who said they switched hotels to this one.”

“Don’t tell me there’s another hotel.”

“Alligator Arms.”

Memory flash. “Son of a bitch!” Ramirez ran onto the balcony and stared up the strip. An older, unsleek building stood in the distance. Out front, a neon alligator smiled at him.

A walkie-talkie squawked. A local sergeant guarding the room grabbed it. “. . . Ten-four, Alligator Arms.” He looked at Ramirez. “Sorry, something’s come up.” Then to other officers: “Need to roll pronto.”

They sprinted for the elevators. A growing chorus of sirens approached in the distance.

“Wait!” Ramirez ran after them. “Did you say Alligator Arms?”