Gator A-Go-Go (21 page)

NEW SMYRNA BEACH

T
wenty minutes south of Daytona, the Challenger turned west on State Road 44. Serge parked beneath a neon outline of Florida.

“Another biker bar,” said Coleman. “Cool!”

“Why are we stopping?” asked Andy.

“Because it’s Gilly’s Pub 44,” said Serge. “I
love
Gilly’s! ‘Where everyone is treated like a local.’”

“But I mean, aren’t we running for our lives?”

“Exactly.” Serge opened the driver’s-side door. “They’ll never expect this.”

Everyone grabbed stools. Coleman ordered four drinks.

“All right!” said Serge, looking at a TV on the wall. “A congressional hearing! Congressional hearings crack me up! Children argue better:
I know you are, but what am I?
. . .”

“What’s this one about?”

“Eeewwww.” Serge got a queasy feeling. “This one ain’t so funny. They’re questioning oil executives again, who continue bleeding my Florida travel budget. And if you know anything at all about Serge, you don’t want to go there.”

“Oh,
gasoline,
” said Coleman. “So that’s what everyone’s been talking about?”

Serge turned slowly. “Did you just arrive on Earth?”

Coleman tossed back a shot. “No, I’ve been here almost my whole life.”

“The part that kills me is their latest wave of commercials.” Serge tipped back his bottled water. “The message now is that they’re
against
oil. How stupid do they think we are? BP’s new slogan: ‘Beyond Petroleum.’ The name of the damn company is British fucking Petroleum. They’re not beyond petroleum; they’re waist-deep in North Sea crude with the gas pump up our ass . . .”

“Serge, your head’s turning that color again.”

“. . . Or the ones showing cute Alaskan wildlife, wheat fields and wind farms, with the voice-over from a woman who sounds like she’s ready to fuck: ‘Imagine an oil company that cares.’ Holy Orwell, why not ‘Marlboro: We’re in the business of helping you quit smoking, so buy a carton today! ’ . . .”

Farther down the bar.

Four white-haired ladies in leather jackets watched TV. “I hate those oil company pricks.”

“Why doesn’t the government do something?” asked Edna.

“Are you listening to yourself?” said Edith. “The government?”

Back up the bar, Serge’s ears perked. “Those voices . . .”

“The ones in your head?” asked Coleman.

“No, those are just the backup singers.” He looked around. “Why does it sound so familiar?”

“Where are they coming from?”

Serge strained his neck. “Coleman! Over there! It’s our old friends!”

He jumped off his stool, ran over and spread his arms. “The G-Unit!”

“Shit.” Edith picked up her gin. “Another fan.”

Edna slipped on chic sunglasses. “No autographs.”

“I don’t want an autograph.” He hopped on the balls of his feet. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Not really.”

“It’s me! Serge! From that crazy cruise to Cancun. And a decade back on Triggerfish Lane.”

“Dear God.”

“Glad to see me? What are you drinking? I got it.”

“Tanqueray.”

Serge raised a finger for the bartender and opened his wallet. “What’s with the leather getups?”

“We’re bad to the bone,” said Edith.

“So what have you been doing with yourselves these days?” asked Serge.

“Just ridin’ the big slab,” said Eunice.

“And hating this jackass,” said Edith, nodding up toward the TV.

“That oil guy?” said Serge. “Don’t get me started. Saying he’s just a regular Joe with money concerns like the rest of us.”

“Listen to that heartless fiction coming out of his mouth,” said Edna. “When gas went back down under two dollars a gallon, I thought we’d seen the last of it, but these snakes were just lying in wait.”

The TV switched to a correspondent standing outside the committee meeting room: “
. . . Meanwhile, investors in the oil giant are elated with record profits, and CEO Riles ‘Scooter’ Highpockets III, who gave himself an eighty-million-dollar securities option this year, should receive a much more welcome reception when he appears at the company’s annual stockholders’ meeting at an Orlando resort tomorrow . . . Back to you, Blaine . . .
”

“How can he lie so completely and get away with it?” asked Eunice.

“Maybe he won’t,” Serge said with a grin.

“What do you mean?”

“How’d you like to have some fun?”

“We ain’t never stopped havin’ fun.”

DAYTONA BEACH

Hotel business center.

Agent Ramirez tapped computer keys and opened his e-mail. An hour later, a cursor slid over “Serge Commencement #2.”

The video opened with a post-event interview of the principal at police headquarters:

“Said he was a children’s author?” asked a detective.

“That’s right.”

“And you didn’t sense anything was wrong?”

“Claimed to be an alumnus, even knew the old playground layout,” said the principal. “And that was years ago before it was replaced. There’s this advanced new safety padding under the teeter-totters in case someone plays a prank and jumps off—”

“I’m sure it’s a fine playground. What about his commencement address?”

“That’s why we started wondering. But whenever we thought, ‘Where the heck is he going with this?’ it snapped into place. By the time we finally caught on, he was already waving good-bye.”

“This is most important of all,” said the detective. “Any indication where he might have been going? Someplace we can pick up his trail?”

“When we ran outside to watch him drive away, I got the impression he was living out of his car.”

The detective massaged his forehead. “How are the kids holding up?”

“Not too good,” said the principal. “Most of them keep crying because he isn’t their first-grade teacher next year.”

The video became static, then flipping vertical lines, which soon cleared to reveal the view from a camera tripod in the back of a packed cafeteria. Drone of conversation. Hundreds of crowded parents taking snapshots from a sea of folding chairs. Up front, rows of cute tots in white caps and gowns. Serge pushed his way to the stage, where an active microphone picked up conversation.

The principal reviewed notes behind the podium. A tap on his shoulder. He looked up. “May I help you?”

“I’m the commencement speaker.”

“We don’t have a commencement speaker.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Who
are
you?”

“Serge A. Storms, bestselling children’s author and legacy, Kinder Kollege class of ’67.” He extended a hand. “You must be the Principal Adams I read about in the paper. Great job you’ve done with the playground.”

“Who’s this guy with you?”

“My illustrator.”

“They didn’t tell me about a commencement speaker.”

“Everything’s okay now. I’m here.”

Fast-forward . . .

Parents and children politely clapped as two men walked onto the stage. Coleman sat in a chair next to the podium, and Serge grabbed the mike: “Good morning!”

“
Good morning!
”

“This is Coleman, my illustrator.” Serge opened his manuscript. “He’ll be helping me today as I read from my upcoming blockbuster,
Shrimp Boat Surprise
. . . Prologue: Once upon a time there was a little girl named Story, bobbing along the sea in a big, happy shrimp boat . . .”

Coleman held up a crude drawing of a boat and a smiling stick figure with too many arms.

“. . . Story had dreams of being a dancer. As she grew older, she never let those dreams die. And guess what? Those dreams came true! . . .”

Coleman held up a drawing of a larger stick figure doing a split on a catwalk.

Parents exchanged confused looks.

“. . . And her dreams just kept getting bigger! . . .”

Coleman raised another sheet of paper. A stick figure swung around a fireman’s pole.

Serge glanced up at growing murmurs. “Guess you’re right. Still needs editing.” Serge closed the notebook and began his trademark pacing across the stage.

“What a special day! I see you all can’t wait to get out there in the workforce, make 401K contributions and drink lots of coffee. But I know what you’re thinking: My legs are too short to drive. So you still have twelve more years and hopefully college. Use them wisely. Remember the bestselling book that said, ‘Everything you need to know about life you learned in kindergarten’? Well, he lied. Everything you
really
need to know about life you learn in prison, but that won’t be practical for a while. You don’t want to go to prison yet, do you?”

Little heads swiveled side to side.

“Who’s over there nodding ‘yes’? That is
so
pre-K. You think this is a joke? Take a look at my illustrator . . .”

Coleman smiled and waved.

“. . . The most important contribution you can make now is taking pride in your treasured home state. Because nobody else is. Study and cherish her history, even if you have to do it on your own time. I did. Don’t know what they’re teaching today, but when I was a kid, American history was the exact same every year: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock, Pilgrims, Thomas Paine, John Hancock, Sons of Liberty, tea party. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, we have to start somewhere— we’ll get to Florida soon enough.’ . . . Boston Massacre, Crispus Attucks, Paul Revere, the North Church, ‘Redcoats are coming,’ one if by land, two if by sea, three makes a crowd, and I’m sitting in a tiny desk, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. Hello! Did we order the wrong books? Were these supposed to go to Massachusetts? . . . Then things showed hope, moving south now: Washington crosses the Delaware, down through original colonies, Carolinas, Georgia. Finally! Here we go! Florida’s next! Wait. What’s this? No more pages in the book. School’s out? Then I had to wait all summer, and the first day back the next grade: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock . . . Know who the first modern Floridians were? Seminoles! Only unconquered group in the country! These are your peeps, the rugged stock you come from. Not genetically descended, but bound by geographical experience like a subtropical Ellis Island. Because who’s really from Florida? Not the flamingos, or even the Seminoles for that matter. They arrived when the government began rounding up tribes, but the Seminoles said, ‘Naw, we prefer waterfront,’ and the white man chased them but got freaked out in the Everglades and let ’em have slot machines . . . I see you glancing over at the cupcakes and ice cream, so I’ll limit my remaining remarks to distilled wisdom:

“Respect your parents. And respect them even more after you find out they were wrong about a bunch of stuff. Their love and hard work got you to the point where you could realize this.

“Don’t make fun of people who are different. Unless they have more money and influence. Then you must.

“If someone isn’t kind to animals, ignore anything they have to say.

“Your best teachers are sacrificing their comfort to ensure yours; show gratitude. Your worst are jealous of your future; rub it in.

“Don’t talk to strangers, don’t play with matches, don’t eat the yellow snow, don’t pull your uncle’s finger.

“Skip down the street when you’re happy. It’s one of those carefree little things we lose as we get older. If you skip as an adult, people talk, but I don’t mind.

“
Don’t
follow the leader.

“Don’t try to be different—that will make you different.

“Don’t try to be popular. If you’re already popular, you’ve peaked too soon.

“Always walk away from a fight. Then ambush.

“Read everything. Doubt everything. Appreciate everything.

“When you’re feeling down, make a silly noise.

“Go fly a kite—seriously.

“Always say ‘thank you,’ don’t forget to floss, put the lime in the coconut.

“Each new year of school, look for the kid nobody’s talking to— and talk to him.

“Look forward to the wonderment of growing up, raising a family and driving by the gas station where the popular kids now work.

“Cherish freedom of religion: Protect it from religion.

“Remember that a smile is your umbrella. It’s also your sixteen-in-one reversible ratchet set.

“ ‘I am rubber, you are glue’ carries no weight in a knife fight.

“Hang on to your dreams with everything you’ve got. Because the best life is when your dreams come true. The second-best is when they don’t but you never stop chasing them. So never let the authority jade your youthful enthusiasm. Stay excited about dinosaurs, keep looking up at the stars, become an archaeologist, classical pianist, police officer or veterinarian. And, above all else, question everything I’ve just said. Now get out there, class of 2020, and take back our state!”

ORLANDO

S
erge flattened out the front of his jacket. “How do I look?”

“Hey, handsome,” said Eunice.

Edna checked herself in the mirror. “Never thought I’d catch you in a tux.”

“It’s too binding for my lifestyle, but some things are worth sacrificing for.”

The G-Unit had suspended the leather dress code for their most elegant social attire.

The adjoining door to the next suite opened. Students poked heads in. “What are we doing here?”

“The Master Plan has detours,” said Serge. “Just don’t leave that room.”

“For how long?”

Serge pushed the door shut.

“
Ow.
”

“Okay,” said Edith. “What am I supposed to do again?”

Serge walked across the suite of a swank resort on International Drive. Two sets of gloves sat on the dresser. A dainty white lace pair. And latex.

“Put the plastic on first, then the white ones will conceal them.” She slipped them on. “How’s that look?”

“Perfect.” Serge handed her a Ziplock bag containing a single dollar bill. “Now stick this in your pocket and don’t open it until the last second. And when you do, make sure the dollar doesn’t touch any part of your body but your hands. The inner gloves will protect them.”

“It’s just going to cause embarrassment, right?” said Edna. “I mean, he’s not going to get hurt or anything.”

“All my pranks are completely safe,” said Serge. “Everyone ready?”

Elevators opened on the convention floor. A spiffy Serge stepped out with Edith on his arm, followed by the rest of the G-Unit.

A bustle of activity greeted them at the entrance of the largest conference hall. Reporters, TV cameras, hotel staff wheeling carts of water carafes. Enthusiastic applause roared out the doors.

Edith tugged Serge’s arm. “You sure they’re going to let us in?”

“Positive.”

“But what if we get caught? None of us has any shares in the company.”

“That’s the beauty of stockholder meetings. Just dress appropriately. At this financial level, the last thing they want to do is insult investors with something bourgeois like asking for ID. And they
especially
don’t want to demean my sweet grandmother who obviously controls a massive block of voting shares.”

Just as Serge predicted, they strolled right in unquestioned.

Riles Highpockets was already up on the elevated dais. The hall remained extra dark except for the podium spotlight and a Jumbo-Tron on each side of the stage, filled with his sweaty jowls.

Each time the tycoon bellowed another glowing financial number into the microphone, rolling ovations swept across a thousand padded folding chairs.

“What do we do now?” asked Edith.

Serge gestured toward the right of the stage. “That’s the cable news people for the post-speech interview. We need to start working our way over. No chance he’ll snub my charming grandmother’s request in front of a national audience.”

Another wave of wild applause. Riles reached his climactic conclusion. “
. . . And with the help of our government friends, next year will be even better!
”

A thundering standing O erupted as Riles made his way down stage steps toward the cable networks. Camera lights came out. A boom microphone dipped over the baron’s head.

The interview had just begun when Serge stepped up. “Excuse me, Mr. Highpockets, but my grandmother has wanted to meet you for years.”

“Sir,” said a TV correspondent. “We’re in the middle of a segment.”

Highpockets held up a hand. “It’s okay. There’s always time to respect our elders.”

“You’re a great man,” said Edith. “America needs more like you. Could I possibly get your autograph on this dollar?”

Riles glanced toward the camera with a grin, thinking, my PR people couldn’t have planned this any better. “Why it would be my pleasure.”

He took the bill and a pen, scribbling a large signature. Then another practiced smile. “There you go.”

Edith held open a plastic bag. “Just drop it in there. Wouldn’t want it to smudge or anything before I get it framed.”

The interview resumed.

Serge and the G-Unit watched from behind the news people. “What happens now?” asked Edna. Serge rubbed his palms. “Wait for the fun to begin.” Three minutes later, a handler interrupted and whispered in Riles’s ear.

“Sorry,” said Highpockets, “but they have me on a tight schedule.” He gave a big wave to the crowd before being ushered out the side door to a waiting stretch.

The correspondent turned toward her camera. “Another busy day for one of the country’s richest oilmen, who will now be flown by private jet helicopter to a drilling platform in the Gulf of Mexico, where he will personally thank his corporation’s hardworking blue-collar employees . . .”

“What the hell?” said Serge.

“I didn’t see any embarrassment,” said Edna.

“Not enough time to take effect. Crap.”

“All this for nothing?” said Edith.

“We might get lucky and see something later on TV.” Serge took her by the arm and strolled out of the hall. “My guess is there’ll be a camera crew on that helicopter for carefully choreographed photo ops of him mixing with the common man at the drilling platform. No way he’s just doing it for the good and welfare.”

ROD AND REEL PIER

Mahoney accidentally caught a fish.

He cranked it in, removed the hook and threw it back. “Be free. Have a long and productive life . . .”

A pelican waiting below caught it on the fly and gulped it down. “Isn’t that always the case . . .”

The agent stared off at a distant tanker making its way up the ship channel. A gut feeling had been nagging him ever since Serge’s name came up. That business in Panama City just wasn’t his guy. He threw a toothpick in the water.

“Something’s not jake.”

Mahoney cast his line again, set it in a rod holder and dialed his cell.

“Agent Ramirez here.”

“It’s Mahoney. What’s the name of the kid?”

“That’s confidential.”

“One hand washes the other.”

“What’s this about?”

“If Serge is your man, there may be a connection. And nobody knows Serge like me.”

“It violates about ten rules.”

“Who got you those files? I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

“I guess you’re right. Andrew McKenna.”

“Consider us even.”

Mahoney knew people, and he knew Ramirez was too by-the-book for his tastes. But Mahoney held markers from people all over the state. He dialed again. An old friend at the bureau.

“. . . Should be under Andrew McKenna,” said Mahoney.

“But the protection program files are confidential.”

“Just bring me up to speed on background.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who got you out of that scrape in Lantana?”

“I was innocent. You try to be nice and give a stripper a ride home, and she pays you back by smoking ten joints in the car when you’re not there and leaving all the roaches in the ashtray.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Call you back . . .”

He did, giving Mahoney chapter and verse, right up until “his mother shot herself and we had to move them again out of Michigan.”

“Shot herself?”

“That’s what it says.”

“One more thing: I need a trace on his credit card.”

“I’ve already stuck my neck out.”

“
My
neck was out for you at the other business in Boca.”

“That’s the thing about strippers: No good deed goes unpunished.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“I got your number.”

“Thanks, Bugsy.”

“It’s Harold.”

GILLY’S PUB 44

Edith sipped gin. Back in leather.

“Great to get out of those stuffy rags.”

“Anything on TV yet about Highpockets?”

Edna shook her head.

“Serge,” said Eunice. “Where’d you come up with that idea anyway?”

“Coleman gets the credit for this one. He’s to drug knowledge what I am to Florida.” Serge tipped back a bottle of water. “Plus it’s from the sixties, which means I couldn’t resist.”

“What’s the sixties got to do with it?” asked Ethel.

“Rumors circulated about radicals like Ken Kesey, the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead planning to mix LSD with DMSO, then spread it on doorknobs and stair railings at political conventions so the establishment would have a psycho-meltdown on network TV.”

“What’s DMSO?” asked Eunice.

“Dimethyl sulfoxide, from wood pulping,” said Serge. “Powerful skin penetrant. Mix it with any other chemical, and it goes right to the bloodstream. If you put some on your arm and rub, say, a lime, you’ll taste Key lime pie. Coleman scored the acid; I got the DMSO.”

“And that’s what you soaked the dollar bill in?”

“How was I supposed to know they’d whisk him away so fast?”

“That doesn’t sound like a harmless prank,” said Eunice. “Not only is it harmless,” said Serge, “it’s totally fair.”

“How’s that fair?”

“Everything hinges on Riles’s character.” Serge took another calm pull of water. “If his inner soul’s pure, he could actually come off looking more sympathetic than ever. If not . . .”

At the other end of the bar, Andy was tapped out. He searched his empty wallet. The bartender had seen it many times before and hovered with growing suspicion. As a last ditch, Andy tried the compartment behind his family photos, where he sometimes kept an emergency twenty for cab fare. “So there’s my credit card . . . Here . . .”

The bartender relaxed with a smile and ran it through a magnetic slide.

“Look,” said Edith. “Something’s happening on TV!”

“Turn it up,” Edna told the bartender.

He handed Andy his receipt and aimed a remote at the set.

“
. . . Breaking news at this hour concerning the shocking death of oil magnate Riles ‘Scooter’ Highpockets III in a bizarre drilling platform mishap . . .
”

“You promised just embarrassment,” said Edna.

“Shhhhhhh!” said Edith.

“
. . . Our correspondent on Highpockets’s personal helicopter noticed extremely unusual behavior on the flight out to the gulf, captured in this exclusive footage . . .
”

The image switched to a wild-eyed Riles grabbing the lens of the camera and pulling it to his nose. “
I’m rich! I’m so fucking rich. We can do anything we want and nobody can stop us! Everyone out there: Keep drivin, suckers!. . .
”

Back to the anchor desk. “
The erratic antics continued after landing on the platform, where Highpockets immediately ran to the massive drill. A warning to viewers: The following footage may be disturbing . . .
”

Riles looked down and spread his arms. “
Oil! Oil! I want to
[bleep]
it.
” He lunged. The TV abruptly cut back to the anchorwoman. “
We must stop the film here, but it was at this point that all witnesses agree Highpockets voluntarily took a running leap down into the drill shaft mechanism. The rig’s crew briefly considered suspending operations out of respect and concerns of product contamination, but a petroleum engineer at the site assured them that the magnate’s organic matter added octane and gas mileage . . . In a prepared statement just released by corporate headquarters in Houston, the board of directors extended its condolences to the victim’s loved ones while lauding their CEO’s actions on the platform. I quote: ‘Riles was a dear friend to the entire Lunar Holdings family, and everyone is deeply touched by his ultimate sacrifice in the development of alternative biofuels. We are moving beyond petroleum to a greener America. Who would expect that from an oil company? Riles, that’s who.’
”