Gator A-Go-Go (2 page)

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

S
mall children shrieked and chased one another around a swing set. One with an autograph-covered plaster cast on his left arm hung upside down from the monkey bars as he had been told so many times not to.

Boynton Beach, closer to West Palm than Miami.

A cork ball rattled inside a referee’s whistle. An adult waved.

Children hopped off playground equipment and, after a period of mild disorganization, formed a single line behind the jungle gym. They followed their teacher back inside a cheerful classroom at Kinder Kollege.

Nap time.

Foam mats unrolled beneath walls of finger paintings with gold and silver stars.

Tires squealed. The teacher went to the window.

Five sedans and a windowless van skidded to the curb outside the chain-link fence. No fewer than twenty people jumped out, dressed in black and white. Dark sunglasses. Running.

As the team raced for the school’s entrance, it shed members at intervals, creating a grid of sentries across the lawn. The teacher was straining for a sideways view from the window when the classroom’s door flew open. Five strangers moved quickly. The teacher moved just as fast, blocking their path. They met in front of the alphabet.

“You can’t come in here!”

The first agent flashed a badge with his right hand and looked at a photograph in his other. “Which one’s Billy Sheets?”

A tiny boy sat up in the back of the room. The agent checked his hand again. He hopped over tot-filled mats and seized the boy under the arms.

The teacher ran after him. “I demand to know what’s going on!” From behind: “It’s okay, Jennifer.”

She turned to see the principal in the doorway with a look of grave concern, but also a nod to let the visitors proceed.

Moments later, the teacher, principal and all the children were at the windows. Car doors slammed shut in a drum roll. Vehicles sped off, Billy in the middle sedan, growing smaller, staring back at classmates with his hands against the rear glass.

And a look on his face: This is new.

PRESENT DAY, EARLY MARCH

Southwest Florida.

A white ’73 Dodge Challenger sped south over the Caloosahatchee River.

It came off the Edison Bridge into Fort Myers.

The driver’s head was out the window.

“Can you smell it?” said Serge, hair flapping in the wind.

“Smell what?” asked Coleman.

“You know what time of year this is?”

“Fall?”

“Spring!”

“I always get those confused.”

Serge’s head came back inside. “I love everything about spring! Reeks of hope, new lease on another year, blooming possibilities, lush beds of violet wildflowers along the interstate, nature’s annual migration: whooping cranes, manatees, Canadians.”

Coleman cracked a beer. “I’m into spring, too.”

“Who would have guessed?”

“Definitely!
High Times
named West Florida the ’shroom capital of the country. Each spring they sprout like crazy in cow poo.”

“I still don’t comprehend the allure,” said Serge. “You boil them into a tea, drink a giant tumbler, then turn green with cramps before running into the bathroom and sticking your finger down your throat.”

“Because you can’t let that poison build up in your body. I thought you were smart.”

“I’m overrated.” They continued west on MLK. “So what’s the point of these toadstool ceremonies?”

“To party!”

“But isn’t all that throwing up unpleasant?”

“Some things are worth vomiting for.”

“I think I’ve seen that crocheted on a pillow.”

Early-afternoon clouds parted. Patches of sunshine swept up the street.

“Excellent,” said Serge. “Afraid the game was going to get rained out.”

“Game?”

“Spring training is the best!”

Coleman looked at the running camcorder in the middle of the dashboard. “Your documentary?”

“Haven’t found the hook yet. Because the hook is key. Otherwise it’ll incorrectly look like I’m filming aimlessly.”

A distant siren from behind.

“Shit!” Coleman stuffed a joint in his mouth. “The Man!”

Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!. . .

Serge checked the rearview. “Just a fire engine.” He hit his blinker and eased to the side of the road.

Traffic blew by.

Serge’s face reddened, cursing under his breath.

“What’s the matter?”

“Look at all these jackasses not pulling over for an emergency vehicle,” said Serge. “When the fuck did this deterioration start?”

Coleman twisted around in his seat. “We’re the only car stopped.”

“Another sign our civilization will soon be covered with dust.”

Coleman popped another beer. “What’s wrong with people?”

More cars sailed by as the siren grew louder.

“These are the first responders,” said Serge. “Our state’s finest, putting their lives on the line for the rest of us every single day, and what thanks do they get? A highway of dickheads who don’t want to miss the next traffic light.”

“It just isn’t correct.”

“Not stopping for these heroes represents an inexcusable affront to the entire community. You might as well walk down the street throwing handfuls of shit at everyone you see.”

“That really happened,” said Coleman. “I saw this TV thing about a guy in Miami—”

“Get a grip,” Serge told himself. “A heart attack will solve nothing.”

“Wait,” said Coleman, looking out the back window. “Another car’s stopping. He’s pulling up behind us.”

“Thank God I’m not alone,” said Serge. “Maybe all isn’t lost.”

Honk-honk!. . . Honnnnnnkkkkkkkk!

“Serge, why is he honking at you?”

“Because he didn’t stop for the fire engine. He just got boxed in behind me from all the other rule-breakers flying by in the next lane.”

Honnnnnkkkkkk! Honnnnnkkkkk!

Serge reached under the seat for his .45 automatic. “No, it’ll only increase work for first responders.” He slid it back under.

Honnnnnnnnnkkkkkk!

Coleman stuck both arms out the passenger window, shooting double birds. “Eat my asshole!”

He came back inside and smiled.

Serge looked across the front seat. “That was Gandhi, right?”

The honking was now nonstop, just leaning on the horn, thanks to Coleman.

Serge closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. “. . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”

“Here comes the fire engine,” said Coleman. The siren whizzed by, dropping in Doppler pitch. “And there it goes.”

Serge opened his eyes and took his foot off the brake. “Finally. Our lives can diverge, and he’s free to go his own separate way toward an anti-future.”

“He’s not going his separate way,” said Coleman, kneeling backward in his seat. “Still right behind us.”

“Because he hasn’t found a gap yet in the next lane to pull around.”

“Then why is he still honking?”

“Involuntary genetic reflex, like getting a mullet.”

“He’s still there.”

“I’ll speed up and open a gap.”

“Still there.”

“Then I’ll slow down and force him to pass.”

“Still there. Still honking.”

Serge took another deep breath. “Okay, I’ll turn down this next side street.”

“I’m amazed,” said Coleman.

“I know,” said Serge. “As the saying goes, the difference between genius and stupidity is genius has its limits.”

“Not him,” said Coleman. “You.”

“What about me?”

“I’ve never seen you go this far to avoid an idiot.”

Serge hit his turn signal. “I’ve completely rededicated myself to a life of nonviolence.”

“But you still have that gun.”

“No need to
obsess.
”

The Challenger swung around a corner.

“He’s turning, too,” said Coleman. “Still following.”

Serge’s head sagged in exasperation. “And I’ve got a full to-do list.”

“He just threw something out the window.”

“Litter,” said Serge. “A beer can, no less.”

The Challenger pulled to the side of the road behind an aluminum scrap yard. A low-riding Toyota parked behind. The driver got out. Barrel gut, stained tank top. He walked to the Challenger and banged hard on the driver’s window.

Serge stared straight ahead. “Haven’t we been here before?”

Coleman grinned and waved across Serge at the other driver. “I can’t count that high.”

Bam! Bam! Bam
!—Right up to the Underwriters Laboratories shatter point. “Get the hell out of the car! I am so going to fuck you up!”

Serge rolled his window down a crack. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Did you tell me to eat your asshole?”

“Not me.” Serge turned. “What about you, Coleman?”

“Might have mentioned it in passing. But I don’t want him to actually do it, if that’s what he’s asking.”

Serge returned to the window slit. “Apparently it was figurative. He’d rather you not eat his asshole. Are we done now?”

The Challenger was a beaut, Serge’s dream car ever since
Vanishing Point
and
Death Proof.
Recently restored, new rings and valves. Snow-white paint job, tangerine racing detail. And now shivers up Serge’s neck, as a car key scraped the length of the driver’s side.

Serge grabbed the door handle with his left hand and reached under the seat with his right. “Coleman, I won’t be long.”

SOUTH OF MIAMI

Ringing on a triangle bell.

“Dinnertime!”

Four men, twenty-nine to thirty-five years old, filed in from the back porch where they’d been smoking. Chairs filled around the long cedar dinner table of Cuban-American cuisine in steaming bowls and casserole dishes. Beans, rice, mashed potatoes, yams, plantains. In the middle was a large paella, a slab of roast beef and a ceramic pitcher of milk.

The woman said grace. They made the sign of the cross. Serving bowls passed clockwise.

It was a three-bedroom Spanish stucco ranch house with an orange tile roof and black burglar bars. One of those homes that seemed smaller inside because its owner was from the culture that respected too much contents. Sofas, quilts, pillows, family pictures, magazine racks, display cabinets of china. It used to be an upper-middle-class neighborhood, just off Old Dixie Highway between Palmetto Bay and Cutler. Now it was lower. The home stood out with its regularly maintained yard, because of the men at the table.

The woman stood in a red-and-white checkered apron, slicing meat with an electric carving knife. She offered a generous piece balanced on the tip. “Raul?”

He raised his plate. “Thanks, Madre.”

She was slightly plump at sixty, hair always up in a tall, dark bun with streaks of gray. Her name was Juanita, but they all called her Madre. They weren’t related.

The men ate with manners and strong appetites. Cuban loaves at one end, Wonderbread in its original sack at the other. Bottle of sangria. Idle conversation, weather, sports, relatives’ diseases. Against the wall, eighty bank-wrapped packs of hundred-dollar bills on a dessert cart.

The woman rested back in her chair, sipping wine. She looked to her left. “Guillermo, will you be able to take care of our situation today?”

He washed down a bite with milk. “Yes, Madre. No problem.”

“Good.” She paused and nodded. “Very good.”

Behind her on the kitchen counter, stacks of tightly bound kilo bricks and a yellow raincoat.

“What about civilians?” asked Miguel.

Juanita shrugged. “If that’s what it takes to be certain.” She stood and dug two large wooden spoons into the paella. “Pedro, you’re getting too thin.”

He placed a hand on his stomach. “Stuffed.”

She turned with the spoons. “Miguel?”

He pushed his plate back. “Can’t eat another bite.”

The rest set napkins on the table.

Juanita reached into her apron and handed Guillermo a folded sheet of stationery. “Here’s the list of names he gave me.”

“Glad
he’s
not working for us.” Guillermo stuck the list in his pocket. “Didn’t hold out very long.”

“They never do,” said Juanita.

Everyone turned toward the head chair at the opposite end of the table.

Juanita stood again. “Is he secure?”

“Won’t be running off anywhere soon.”

“Funny,” said the woman. “Didn’t touch his food.”

A round of laughter.

Juanita walked along the back of the table. Her shoes made a crinkling sound on the plastic tarp under the last chair. She looked down at the tied-up man, a black hood over his quivering head.

Guillermo came over from the other side and yanked off the hood. The man stared up at them with pleading eyes, gag in his mouth.

Juanita simply held out her arms. Two others at the table quickly got up, grabbed the yellow raincoat and slipped it on her. She smiled and patted their involuntary guest on the head, then turned her back.

When she faced him again, the man’s eyes went to what was in her hands.

Juanita leaned forward, placed the electric carving knife to his neck and pressed the power switch.

FORT MYERS

T
hud, thud, thud.

Coleman turned around in his passenger seat. “We got another that likes to bang.”

“Note to self,” Serge said into a digital recorder. “Soundproof trunk.”

The Challenger pulled into a strip mall.

“What are you doing?”

“My new business. Spring-training tickets and trunk insulation aren’t free.” Serge got out, popped the rear hood and motioned with a pistol. “Would you mind rolling a little to your left? You’re on top of something I need . . . Thanks.”

He closed the trunk.

Thud, thud, thud.

They started at the far end of the shopping center. Dry cleaners. Bells jingled. Serge approached the counter.

“Can I help you?”

“No, but I can help you!” said Serge. “Hate to cold-call like this, but spring training left me no choice.”

“I’m sorry,” said the clerk. “We don’t allow solicitors.”

“Then we’re brothers in the struggle!” Serge held up his hand for a high five that never came. The clerk looked curiously at Coleman, swaying and drinking from a paper bag.

Serge slapped the counter. “Pay attention! Opportunity knocks! Sometimes it plays a tambourine or makes shadow puppets, but mostly it knocks. Are you ready? Bet you can’t wait! Knock-knock! Hi, I’m Opportunity!” Serge placed a pile of large, thick-stock white cards on the counter. He flipped up the top one, covered with Magic Marker handwriting.

N
O
S
OLICITING
.

The clerk scratched his head. “You’re soliciting to sell ‘No Soliciting’ signs?”

“I know! Can’t believe it hasn’t been thought of before: The perfect mix of product and presentation. We came in here creating a problem
and
providing the solution. Just look at my friend here . . .“ —Coleman burped and fell back against the door frame—”. . . Do you need this kind of nonsense all day long?”

_“I—”

Serge pounded the counter again. “Hell no! You have important stains to get out and can’t waste time with every bozo who wanders in from the street with bottles of the latest stain-removal craze, but they’re really just giving all their money to a doomsday cult with their fancy suicide machines and little or no interest in the laundry arts. I’m sure they’ve already been in here a thousand times.”

“Not really—”

“Five dollars,” said Serge. “I’ll even throw in ‘No Public Rest-rooms.’ That’s actually more critical. Ever seen a restroom after Coleman’s done his fandango?” Serge whistled. “Not a pretty picture.”

“I don’t think—”

“There’s a guy in our trunk,” said Coleman.

“Maybe I need to amp the presentation.” Serge leaned comfortably against the counter and stared at the ceiling. “I love dry cleaners. Could hang out for hours . . .”

Coleman raised his hand. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“. . . Always wondered,” said Serge, idly tapping his fingers. “What the fuck’s Martinizing?”

“If you don’t leave I’m calling the police.”

Next stop, dentist office. Same story. Accounting firm, ice cream parlor, nope, nope.

Computer repair, walk-in clinic. “Howdy! Pay no attention to the man behind the beer . . .”

The owner of the dog-grooming service pointed at an already-posted N
O
S
OLICITING
sign.

“My point exactly,” said Serge. “Did it stop
us?
”

“Out!”

They reached a drugstore. Serge pulled a handwritten list from his wallet and headed toward the back.

“Wait up,” said Coleman. “Aren’t you going to sell your signs?”

“Not yet. Have to pick up a few things. Let’s see . . .” He began grabbing items off shelves. “. . . Nylon rope, pliers, razor blades, duct tape—naturally—nine-volt batteries, broom, saw . . .”

“One of your projects?”

Serge turned up the next aisle. “If this baby doesn’t win me a grant . . . Kwik Dry superglue, wire cutters, tape measure, kite string . . .”

He finally arrived at the counter and tried to pay with some signs, but the cashier said they only took dollars and credit cards.

“But America was founded on a barter economy.” Serge reached for his wallet. “That’s the whole problem with stores. It’s all about money.”

Serge walked across the parking lot and opened the Challenger’s trunk. A head popped up. He smacked it with a tire iron. “Not your turn.”

Coleman peed on the side of the building. The front side. He straggled over. “We didn’t sell any signs . . . What are you doing now?”

“The free market was built on artificial demand.”

Serge rummaged through the trunk and removed a larger sign on a wooden stake. He hammered it into the ground next to the road.

They drove away. Downtown came into view.

“Fort Myers, City of Palms!” Serge raised a camera.
Click, click.
“And there’s the new baseball stadium!”

“Serge, do we really have to watch a stupid baseball game?”

“It is not stupid.”

“Nothing happens. Dudes stand in a field a long time, then every once in a while someone runs a little bit, then they stand around again.”

“They serve beer.”

“I love baseball.”

A few miles back, passing motorists stared curiously at a sign in front of a strip mall.

C
LEAN
P
UBLIC
R
ESTROOMS
(S
OLICITORS
E
AT
F
OR
F
REE
).

“We’re here!” said Serge, screeching into the parking lot. “Spring training home of the Red Sox!”

“Thought the Tampa Bay Rays were your favorite team.”

“They are,” said Serge. “Boston was my team before Florida had any, but now we do. And that’s why we drove down here today. They’re playing the Rays! Anyone who doesn’t root for his home team deserves to be spat upon and have his head shaved like those French chicks who screwed Nazis during the Resistance.”

“Are there Nazis at spring training?”

“Yes, but they keep a low profile in the bleachers and are now too old to goose-step and start their shit again.” Serge grabbed a baseball glove from the glove compartment. “I’m getting a ton of foul balls!”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You haven’t seen me in action.”

19 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

City plows had pushed the previous day’s snowfall into dirty banks. People bundled in thick coats walked quickly along Lans-downe Street, heads ducked low in the icy wind. They were made even colder by a structure towering up the south side of the road that blocked the sun. At its top, thirty-seven feet above street level, sat a cantilevered balcony. More foot traffic came around the corner, scurrying past the back side of the Green Monster, the fabled left-field wall at Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox.

One of the pedestrians blew into freezing hands as he reached Brookline Avenue and made a sharp right turn, climbing through the gray, wet crust. He grabbed a door handle and jumped inside. Rambunctious chatter and cheering. Waitresses rushed by with teetering trays.

Overhead TVs everywhere, all the same channel.

The man rubbed his arms and climbed onto one of the few vacant stools. A finger went up for the bartender. “Sam Adams.”

The televisions showed a news correspondent in bright natural light, surrounded by palm trees and dozens of screaming, waving people with baseball caps and ghostly non-tans fighting their way into the camera frame.

“
This is Jill Montgomery down in sunny Fort Myers, Florida, where the temperature is a fabulous seventy-eight degrees, and the faithful of Red Sox Nation have begun their annual migration to the spring training home of their beloved team. Let’s talk to one of them right now . . .
” She motioned for a bald man in a Josh Beckett jersey. “
Sir, where are you from?
”

“
Red Sox going all the way! Wooooooooo!
”

“
And where are you from?
”

“
Yankees suck!
”

Beer arrived. The man on the next stool looked out the windows at dreariness, then up at the TV. “I’m jealous.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, if you can’t be there in person . . .”—he glanced around the pub’s crowded interior—“. . . Cask’n Flagon is the next best.”

“Won’t argue with that.”

The man extended a hand. “Carl Lemanski.”

They shook. “Patrick McKenna.”

Eyes back to the TV. “Lucky sons of bitches.”

“
. . . But a down note this morning as emergency personnel hospitalized an eighty-one-year-old fan from Quincy bludgeoned in a local economy motel. Under arrest are two unemployed construction workers who were on a weeklong crack binge in the next room . . . Now, back to the game!
”

“I’m a supervisor at the water department,” said Carl.

“Day off?”

“No.” He signaled for another beer. “So what are you into, Pat?”

“Hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“Fancy title is ‘commercial location specialist.’”

“Never heard of it. What do you do for that?”

“Count parking spaces.”

“Spaces?”

“Or at least ones with cars in them.”

“Seriously, what do you do?”

“Seriously.”

“
. . . Varitek doubles to the right, bringing home Pedroia!. . .
”

“That’s really a job?”

“Boring stuff.”

“I’d like to hear.”

“You would?”

In most circumstances, Patrick was economical about himself. But more beer came and the Sox took the lead. “Niche specialty, skyrocketing demand.”

“From who?”

“Chain stores and mall developers,” said Patrick. “Always expanding into new markets. But pick the wrong location, it’s an expensive mistake. And at least one person’s job.”

“That’s where you come in?”

“Scout the competition. If a rival chain’s already got a store in the target locale, we count customers’ cars in the parking lot. Various hours, weekdays, weekends, Christmas rush. Then crunch raw numbers into usable data that determines whether the location can support a second store. Or a whole shopping center.”

“
. . . Youkilis takes strike two, looking not happy with the call. . .
”

“But doesn’t that take a lot of time?”

“Back in the day, it took a
hell
of a lot of time,” said Patrick. “We actually had to drive to the sites, stand on ladders and count manually with binoculars.”

“Every car?”

Patrick shook his head. “Estimates with geometric sampling equations, but statistically reliable.”

“I had no idea this was going on.”

“It isn’t anymore. Today, computers do it all.”

“Computers count cars?”

“No, satellites.”

“You just lost me.”

“Like the proliferation of the Internet. In the beginning, when they first made orbital photography available to the private sector, resolution was too low. Plus you’d be lucky to find a picture a month of your site—not enough to extrapolate consumer behavior. But now . . .” He made an offhand gesture toward the pub’s ceiling. “. . . So many whizzing around up there I’m amazed they don’t crash into one another, and not just government ones anymore. If you buy from all the ser-vices—which we do—you can get several shots a day.”

“Must cost a fortune.”

“It does. But our customers pay even more because it’s nothing compared to the price of an empty store,” said Patrick. “And photo resolution’s gotten so good we just started a new service: analyzing makes and years of cars so we can sell reports on shopper demographics, including income level.”

“You can tell all that from a satellite photo?”

“Up to seventy percent accuracy, but we’re shooting for ninety by year’s end.”

“Wow. Sounds really interesting.”

“More so than actually doing it.”

“
. . . Jim, there’s some kind of disturbance in the right-field stands over a foul ball. Let’s see that on slow-motion replay . . . Holy cow! . . .
”

The water supervisor looked up at the TV. “Is that guy out of his fucking mind?”

“And here come the security guards,” said Patrick.

“
. .. We’ll take a short break in the seventh, Sox up five to three ...
”

The TVs switched to a local news update. “
. . . Authorities are still seeking the public’s help in the disappearance of an eighteen-year-old Boston freshman last seen Saturday night leaving her Cambridge dorm . . .
”

Carl formed a disgusted look. “Been following this story?”

“Horrible.”

“They act like there’s hope, but frig it. She’s already dead.” He drained his mug. “What’s happening to the country? It’s a constant backbeat of abducted kids and college students . . .”

“Or wives who go missing,” said Patrick, “and the husbands appear on camera like they’re okay with it.”

“
. . . Meanwhile, city officials are responding at this hour to a major water line break near the Charles . . .
”

“Shit.” Carl jumped up and grabbed his coat. “You didn’t see me.”