Gator A-Go-Go (14 page)

DAYTONA BEACH

A
Andy.” Serge shook his shoulder again. “How can you be tired? You’re a kid.”

“I’ve been up all night.” He leaned back against the door. “Let me sleep.”

“You can sleep tomorrow, or the next day,” said Serge. “That’s when I plan to. But not now—I’ve got a super-special adventure planned. Anything can happen.”

“Like what?”

“Daytona! It’s crazy! Twenty miles of beach you can drive on, right where they used to hold the old races and land-speed record attempts. Want to go for our own attempt?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe you’re right, because the speed limit on the sand is now ten miles an hour. But we could always shoot for eleven and set the modern record.”

“Why are we going to Daytona, anyway? We could have just hit another Panhandle town.”

“Time travel!” Serge stuck his camcorder back out the window. “You’ve already had the Panama City experience. Daytona was the previous hot spot. A few students had been going there for years, but it seriously took off in 1985. That’s when the birthplace of spring break, Fort Lauderdale, drove kids out of town with draconian laws, and they migrated north. The next year, MTV held its first spring break jamboree in Daytona, and visitor estimates hit four hundred thousand. Then the place got cash-fat and gave students another heave. Today it’s back down to barely a trickle, which means plenty of driving room on the beach. I’m
definitely
going for eleven!”

“But how are we supposed to have fun if the city doesn’t want us?”

“Wear biker shirts.”

“Biker?”

“Town shakers now woo two-wheelers because they spend more insanely than students. If you check the chamber of commerce home page on the Internet, there are two huge motorcycle fests but not a single word about spring break. For that, you have to go to a local-merchant site angling for the wholesome crowd with something called ‘Spring Family Beach Break,’ which is like radiation to college students. And since the kids aren’t coming in effective numbers anymore, there’s no money or reason to update the old beach arcades and boardwalk, inadvertently preserving them in their original historic state, like a mini Coney Island, not to mention the venerable band shell, Florida’s version of the Hollywood Bowl. I’m getting a diamond-hard boner just thinking about it. That was probably too much information.”

The sun rose high as the convoy grew closer to its destination. Palm Coast, Flagler Beach, Ormond Beach. It was quiet in the Challenger. Too quiet.

Serge glanced in the rearview. “Melvin, you haven’t been saying much lately.”

Melvin stared straight ahead, blinking and breathing rapidly.

“Melvin? You all right? . . . Melvin? . . .”

Then something else. Something out of place.

Serge leaned for a different angle in the mirror. “Where’d Country go? . . . Country? . . .”

Her head popped up into view. “I’m still here.” She disappeared again.

“Melvin, you sly dog!” said Serge, smiling in the mirror. “I didn’t know you were into road-trip tradition.”

PANAMA CITY

A mass of students from the beach moved into the parking lot of the Alligator Arms. Beer, music, rumors, emergency vehicles and flashing lights. Everyone looking up at crime tape across an open door on the fifth floor.

Traffic cops waved a motorcade of government sedans through the entrance. Agent Ramirez ran for the elevator. A small plane flew over the roof of the motel with an advertising banner for coconut rum.

Ramirez raced down the fifth-floor landing as coroners wheeled another sheet-covered stretcher the other way. Police met him outside the room.

Only one question on his tongue: “IDs?”

A sergeant checked scribbled notes, rattling off five names gathered from out-of-state drivers’ licenses.

“No Andy McKenna?”

The sergeant shook his head. “But that name sounds familiar.” He called to a corporal. “Ray, where did I hear the name Andy McKenna?”

“That’s who the room was registered to. Or was.”

“Then where is he?” said Ramirez.

“Got kicked out yesterday.”

“What for?”

“We went back and looked at last night’s incident reports. Someone almost killed himself diving into the pool from the balcony,” said the corporal. “It’s a bit of a problem around here. Especially with the more educated types.”

Ramirez felt himself slipping through the looking glass. Another stretcher rolled out the door. He raised the crime tape and ducked inside.

Walls a splatter fest. Local cops among themselves: “. . . Never seen anything like it . . .”

Ramirez had. Miami. The good ol’ days. “Only one person could be behind this.”

“Who?” asked his top assistant.

“Guillermo.”

“Guillermo?”

“Madre’s lead boy. Calm, calculating, complete psychopath. No conscience whatsoever.” He quickly called a huddle with his team. “McKenna’s still out there. As soon as the victims’ names hit TV, Guillermo’s crew will know they missed the target and come back. Call every hotel in the city, see which one he switched to. Question all other guests staying here and canvass the staff. Get out an APB on Andy, but for law enforcement eyes only. No press or it’s up for grabs. Go!”

They dispersed.

Ramirez walked onto the balcony and dialed his phone. “. . . Need you to track a credit card for me . . . Andrew McKenna, address either Dorchester or Durham . . . And this is important. Except for you and the chain of command, nobody is to see it but me . . .” He didn’t say why, didn’t have to. An informant in the house.

“Thanks . . .” Ramirez hung up and looked down over the railing at an extra-tiny chalk outline on the patio.

DAYTONA BEACH

T
he Challenger drove slowly down route A1A. Serge scanned motels.

No vacancy.

“It’s just like the Panhandle,” said Melvin. “We’re not going to find a place to stay.”

“Something will open up.”

“
Breaker, breaker,
” said Coleman. “
Why do they call it Daytona, anyway?
”

Serge keyed his own walkie-talkie. “Lord of the Binge, keep that childhood wonderment torch burning! Most people sell children short, saying how cutely they notice the little things, when they’re actually noticing
big
things. Adults can live someplace three decades, and you ask, ‘How’d your town get its name?’ and they say, ‘I dunno.’ Then they shit on the children.”

“
So how
did
it get its name?
”

“From Matthias Day, who established the city, 1870. Came
this close
to calling it Daytown or Daytonia.”

“
Where do you find all this junk?
”

“Same as Panama City: the books of preeminent historian and local treasure Allen Morris, clerk of the House, 1966 to 1986, papers now preserved at Florida State.”

Serge let off the gas, slowing further as they approached a single-story mom-and-pop motel. “This looks promising.”

“But the sign,” said Melvin. “ ‘No Vacancy,’ like all the others.”

Serge pointed at a dozen students in the parking lot, cursing and throwing luggage in trunks. “
Can’t believe we got kicked out.
”

The Challenger turned up the drive as the others sped off.

In the office window, someone flipped N
O
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:

D
O
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:

T
HE
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.

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!”