Gator A-Go-Go (4 page)

BOSTON

P
atrick McKenna arrived for work, punctual as always. He got off the elevator. All the cubicle people stood and began clapping.

“What the heck?” Patrick went in his office and sat down at the computer.

A colleague opened the door and ran in. “Turn on the TV!”

“What’s happening?”

“Just turn it on!” He hit the remote.

“
. . . It was an emotional homecoming after FBI agents raided a remote farmhouse in Essex County and rescued a college freshman who’d been held hostage for more than a week. The big break came when a local satellite imaging company . . .
”

A commotion back in the doorway. His boss rushed in, followed by three TV crews jockeying for position. Patrick jumped up.

The boss threw an arm around his shoulders. “Here’s your hero!”

Blinding camera lights. Patrick shielded his eyes. “Get them out of here!”

“Smile,” his boss whispered sideways. “It’s great publicity for the firm.”

“I don’t want publicity.”

A thrusted microphone. “How does it feel to be a hero?”

FORT MYERS

Shafts of light hit the empty street.

“Sun’s rising,” said Serge. “We have to work fast.” He threw another rope to Coleman. “Pull!”

Moments later, they were done. Serge stood proudly before another enigmatic scene.

Their guest lay on his back, lashed into precise position with a spiderweb of thick rope stretching his limbs to the aching point and knotted around open wall studs and various heavy objects. His body was inside the garage, head resting on the ground outside, just over the threshold, staring up at the edge of the open automatic door.

Serge chugged a coffee thermos, then grinned gleefully and rubbed his palms together. “This is usually the part where I get a thousand questions! But I pride myself on being the perfect host and anticipate them all. Let’s get to it!”

Serge held a plastic box to the captive’s face. “Dig! RadioShack! I rigged my own universal garage door opener, conveniently tuned to this house’s frequency.” He reached up and carefully ran a finger along ultra-sharp metal. “Also sawed a horizontal groove in the broomstick attached to the bottom of the door. Now that’s patience! No need to thank me. Then I took the liberty of applying Kwik Dry superglue the entire length of the notch and inserting a bunch of razor blades I got at the drugstore.”

Coleman picked his nose. “Wondered what you were going to do with those.”

Serge squatted next to the head. “By your eyes I can tell you’ve guessed it. That’s right: Serge’s Garage-Door Guillotine! Patent pending.”

Fierce wiggling and gag-muffled screams.

“Better conserve energy because there’s a lot of work ahead if you want to make it out of here.” Serge looked back at the growing dawn light. “You’ll have at least an hour to free yourself.” Serge smiled again and tapped the man’s terrified cheeks. “Just joking. I wouldn’t put you through that kind of inconvenience. I made sure you can’t get loose . . . Although I could be bluffing. You’ve probably noticed I’m a different kind of cat. Maybe I made one of the knots a
slip
knot. Ain’t this a fun riot! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. More coffee for everyone!”

“But, Serge,” said Coleman, “garage doors come down pretty slow. It’ll just cut him a little. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not very impressed by your guillotine.”

“That’s the whole beauty.” Serge walked to the middle of the garage and pointed up at the motor mounted to the ceiling. “This is a newer model I wasn’t familiar with, so it took a bit of extra analysis, but I finally cracked the code. The special chain here is key, with sprocket holes that go around the main gear.” He kept pointing above as he walked forward. “And here’s the end of the chain, which reaches the gear when the door gets near the bottom. Notice how I’ve removed a section of metal links and tied the other two ends together with kite string. Then I used my pocket knife to slice partially through the twine.” Serge spread his arms upward like a preacher. “And there you have it!”

Coleman fired a jay. “Have what?”

“When activated by my remote control, the chain lowers the door halfway, until it reaches the string, which snaps because the load’s too heavy, and the door free-falls under its own weight.”

“Is that enough to chop his head off?”

“Of course not. What is it with you always asking about chopping heads off?”

He shrugged. “Never seen it done.”

“Razor blades aren’t that long, but more than enough to do a number on major blood vessels, like the jugular and carotid, just to name a couple.” Then, looking down: “Will you stop trying to scream? That’s so impolite when someone’s attempting to have a conversation.”

Serge dragged garbage cans and a lawn mower into the driveway— “Blocking views from the street, in case you were curious.”

“When do we get to watch?” asked Coleman.

“We won’t be here.”

“Knew you were going to say that.” Coleman sighed and took a hit. “I always wait bored while you do your hobbies, but then you don’t let me see the good stuff.”

“Coleman, it’s going to get ridiculously bloody.” He shivered at the image. “Not something a normal person would enjoy.”

“But how will it happen if we’re not here?”

“The crowning cherry!” Serge held up a shiny, square plate with a lacquered surface encasing loops of embedded metal strips. “My alternative power source.”

“What is it?”

“Solar cell. I’ve decided to go green.” Serge laid it in the driveway. A wire extended from the side and into his modified garage opener. “When the sun rises high enough, it’ll activate my transmitter.” Serge reached toward the box.

“Can I?” asked Coleman.

Serge stepped back. “Be my guest.”

Coleman threw the toggle switch to “On.”

Serge stood over his guest a final time. “My advice? Pray for rain.”

SOUTH OF MIAMI

The early-afternoon sun gave everything a harsh yellow haze. All across Metro-Dade, long lines spilled from convenience stores and bodegas, people handing pink-and-white cards across counters. Lottery machines clattered and spit out tickets at a blistering rate.

“
Those are my grandchildren’s birthdays . . .
”

“
I just feel extra lucky . . .
”

A royal poinciana struggled to rise from a tight alley between two pastel green apartment buildings in West Perrine. The rest of the landscaping was accidental. Weeds; abandoned tires; a smattering of old-growth palms, some dead, leaving withered, topless trunks. Spanish store signs and billboards for menthol. Children played in broken glass, throwing rocks at lizards.

A late-model Infiniti sat across the street with the motor running.

“How long are we going to wait?” asked Miguel.

Guillermo’s eyes stayed to his binoculars. “As long as it takes.”

Raul leaned forward in the front passenger seat and twisted a knob.

Guillermo lowered the binoculars. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Listening to the radio.”

“
. . . With no winners for the last five weeks, Florida’s Lotto jackpot now stands at forty-two million dollars, and merchants are reporting huge backups—
”

Guillermo clicked it off. “We’re working.”

The sun drew down.

“Maybe they’re not even home,” said Pedro.

“They’re home all right,” said Guillermo.

“How do you know?”

“Here they come now.”

The Infiniti’s passengers looked up at the second-floor balcony, where a door had just opened. Three men filed out. Colombian. They trotted down a concrete staircase by the poinciana and piled into the boxlike frame of a vintage Grand Marquis with gray spray-paint splotches over body work.

Guillermo threw the Inifiniti in gear and followed.

Raul unzipped a small duffel bag, handing out Mac-10s with extended ammo clips. “When do we move?”

“Not until I say.” Guillermo made a right behind the Marquis. “Let’s see where they’re going.”

“But we could pull alongside right now.”

“And a cop comes around the corner,” said Guillermo. “I personally want to get away.”

The Marquis reached South Dixie Highway and turned left.

“Brake lights,” said Miguel. “They’re pulling into that parking lot.”

The Infiniti slowly circled the gas pumps of an independent convenience store with water-filled potholes and a lunch window for Cuban sandwiches. Four steel pylons had recently been installed at the entrance after a smash-and-grab where a stolen Taurus ended up in the Slim Jims. The Marquis’s passengers went inside.

Guillermo parked facing the quickest exit back to South Dixie. He opened the driver’s door. “Don’t do anything until I give the signal.”

“But they’re all in there.”

“And armed,” said Guillermo. “Wait until they’re in the checkout line. Otherwise we’ll be chasing them all across the store, shooting at one another over the top of the chips aisle like last time.”

The crew tucked Macs under shirts and slipped to the edge of the building. They peeked around the outdoor self-serve freezer of ten-pound ice bags.

“Look at that fuckin’ lottery line,” said Raul.

“They’re all up front,” said Guillermo. He pulled a wad of dark knit cloth from his pocket, and the others followed his lead. “Try to keep your spread tight.”

Customers forked money across the counter and pocketed tickets of government-misled hope, just as they had every minute since the owner unlocked the doors.

The Marquis’s passengers looked down at their own penciled-in computer cards. One sipped a can of iced tea. Another idly looked outside. Four ski masks ran past the windows.

“Shit.”

He reached under his shirt for a Tec-9. The others didn’t need to see the threat, just reflexively went for their own weapons upon noticing their colleague’s reaction.

The doors flew open.

Then all hell.

Ammo sprayed. Beer coolers and windows shattered. Screaming, running, diving over the counter, two-liter soda bottles exploding.

Miguel took a slug in the shoulder, but nothing like the Colombians. A textbook case of overkill. They toppled backward, their own guns still on automatic, raking the ceiling.

Stampede time. Guillermo and the others whipped off masks and blended with a river of hysterical bystanders gushing out the door. After the exodus, an empty store revealed the math. Three seriously dead Colombians and four crying, bleeding innocents, lying in shock or dragging themselves across the waxed floor.

Sirens.

The Infiniti sailed over a curb and down South Dixie.

TAMPA

A
bong bubbled.

Coleman looked up from the couch. “Hey, I’m on TV.”

On the screen, a bong bubbled.

“Serge, when did you shoot that?”

“Couple minutes ago.” He loaded a fresh tape in his camcorder.

Coleman watched as the TV scene panned around their one-bedroom apartment. Souvenirs, ammunition, row of ten bulging garbage bags against the wall.

A cloud of pot smoke drifted toward the ceiling. “You filmed the inside of our crib?”

“The big opening of my documentary.” Serge switched the camera to manual focus and aimed it at the television. “I finally found my hook.”

“Why are you filming the TV? It’s only playing what you just filmed.”

“This is bonus material. The ‘making of’ documentary of the documentary. You need that if you expect decent distribution in Bangkok.”

“What’s your documentary about?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

The camera rolled as Serge walked into the kitchen and grabbed a mug of coffee with his free hand. He filmed the cup coming toward the lens. “If you’re going to do something, shoot for the best. People have made documentaries about the Civil War, baseball, ocean life, Danny Bonaduce, but as yet nobody’s attempted to document absolutely everything. My director’s cut box set is slated to top out at seven hundred volumes.”

“Will it include Danny Bonaduce?”

“Volume three hundred and twenty-four.”

“But how can you do a film on
everything?
”

“Spare batteries.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m also thinking of getting at least three more cameras that run continuously.” He held up the current unit. “This will be angle one, pointing forward with the viewfinder. Then I’ll have two waist-mounted cameras on a special belt, and finally a fourth in a sling on my back, aimed behind me, in case something important happens after I leave.”

Serge drained his coffee and turned off the camera. “My documentary on everything is complete.”

“Thought there were seven hundred volumes.”

“Flexibility is critical during production.” Serge ejected the tape from his camera. “The key to filmmaking is knowing what to leave out. That way you make the audience think, filling in gaps themselves and arguing about it on the way home.”

Coleman scraped out his bong and strolled over to the row of garbage bags.

“Been meaning to ask,” said Serge.

“The bags? I’m letting them age.”

“Silly question.”

“It’s all timing.” Coleman bent down and read adhesive labels he’d stuck on each: drugstore addresses and dates. “This one’s ready.”

Serge watched, puzzled, as Coleman carried it into the kitchen and dumped the contents on the table. “Let’s see what we’ve got . . .” He pawed through refuse. “Here’s something promising . . . here’s another . . . and another . . .”

“Prescription bags?”

“Three weeks old,” said Coleman. “Between the pharmacy counter and the front door, a lot of people just rip their sacks open, pocket the bottle of pills and toss the rest in the trash can outside the door. Then I make my rounds.”

“I’m guessing there’s a point, but I’ve been wrong before.”

Coleman held up one of the small paper bags. “See? Got all the information: patient’s name, medicine, day prescribed and, most crucial of all, any refills.”

Serge sat back at the table with amused attention.

“Of all people, I thought you’d figure it out by now,” said Coleman. “When was the last time they asked for ID picking up a prescription?”

“Never, but—”

“I calculate the pill quantity and dosage directions off the bag, then call a day or two before the person would normally order a refill.”

“What if the real customer’s already called? You’ll get caught.”

“Let me see your cell.”

Serge handed it over. Coleman dialed. He read the side of the bag, pressed a sequence of numbers and hung up.

Serge took the phone back. “What just happened?”

“Big chain stores now use automated phone refill systems. If the customer already called, you’d get a robot’s voice saying it’s too soon to refill. No harm, no foul.”

“I’m amazed at the level of thought,” said Serge. “And yet you still put your shoes on the wrong feet.”

Coleman looked down. “There’s a difference?”

Serge logged on to his laptop.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Planning my next documentary. But not too hasty: This one must be stunningly insightful and redirect the flow of culture as we know it.”

“Why?”

“My Documentary on Everything set the bar prohibitively high. Reviewers unfairly hold that against you.”

Coleman pulled up a chair. He took off his shoes and switched them. “The pain’s gone.”

“It definitely has to be about Florida.” Serge surfed various history sites. “Just haven’t zeroed in on the specific topic.”

“Why does it have to be about Florida?”

“To set the record straight. Remember the highest-grossing movie ever filmed here?”

“You told me.
Deep Throat.
”

“Bingo. And the state’s bestselling documentary?”

Coleman shrugged.

“
Girls Gone Wild: Spring Break.
”

“Oh, yeah!” said Coleman. “Great plot!”

“Plot?”

“Get chicks drunk and have them make out with each other.”

“That’s your idea of a plot?”

“The best there is,” said Coleman. “Unless, of course, they can convince
three
—”

“That’s exploitative!” Serge tapped his way around the Internet. “I cannot idly stand by and allow that gooey stain to sully my home state’s fabric.”

“There’s a sequel,” said Coleman. “They have this hot tub—”

“Enough!”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Now I absolutely must make this film. But what subject? Calusa shell mounds? The eight ‘lost’ Florida parishes when the Panhandle used to extend to Louisiana? Tampa’s Great Blizzard of 1899? Mosquito control through the ages? . . .”

Time flew. Coleman passed out at the table with his cheek on a wicker place mat.

“. . . Sports? Rail infrastructure? Osceola’s heartbreak? Our chief export behind citrus: fucking up national elections? . . .”

Coleman raised his head and looked around. “Am I here?”

“Why can’t I find the hook?”
Tap, tap, tap . . .

Coleman drank from the open beer he discovered in his hand. “Just remembered. What about the horn-honker in your trunk? He’s been in there a day now.”

“That’s why I hung gerbil-pellet and water dispensers from the spare tire.”
Tap, tap, tap . . .

“What are you doing?”

“Checking my in-box.”

“Wow, you really won the Irish lottery?”

“Coleman—”

“We’re rich!” He jumped up and broke into a Riverdance jig. “We’re rich! We’re rich! We’re-rich-we’re-rich-we’re-rich! . . .”

“Coleman—”

He plopped back down and wedged his head between Serge and the laptop. “How much did we win?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really?”

“I’m serious.”

“Nothing?” Coleman sat back in his chair. “Then why do the Irish buy the tickets?”

Serge scrolled down the screen, deleting more spam. He stopped.

“What’s this?”

“What?”

Serge opened the next junk e-mail:
Online Pharmacy Spring Break Blowout! Quality meds without prescription!

“Coleman, it’s a sign from God!” Serge got up and pulled a suitcase from the closet. “That’s two references this afternoon, which can be no coincidence. I’ve just got my new documentary.”

“What’s the subject?”

“Serge and Coleman do spring break!”

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

Friday afternoon, last class of the week.

Gray sky. Gusting wind.

Students in bulky coats and parkas dragged luggage down snow-covered dormitory steps. Others with wool scarves up to their eyes pumped gas.

Madison, Wisconsin. Ice scraped off windshields. Portable stereos went in trunks.

Columbus, Ohio. Car heaters warmed. Traffic stacked up at red lights heading out of town.

The same scene across the northern tier of the country. Milwaukee, Chicago, East Lansing, Hartford. Everyone in the starting gate. Heading south, expressways, truss bridges, railroad yards, brick chimneys, leafless trees, frozen riverbanks.

Rear window paint:

F
LORIDA OR
B
UST
.

In Durham, three University of New Hampshire students loaded final bags into a station wagon with wood paneling.

“Hope you didn’t forget to make reservations like last time,” said the driver.

“No,” said another student, slamming the rear hatch. “Taken care of. Alligator Arms.”

“Sounds like a dump.”

“It’s cheap.”

The driver checked his watch. “Where is he? We have to get moving.”

“He doesn’t realize he’s going yet.”

“What?”

“You know the guy. He’d never come on his own. And even if he did agree in advance, he’d back out at the last minute like he does for everything else.”

“Nobody told me about this.” The driver looked at his wrist again as a snowflake landed on the Timex. “It’s going to blow our schedule. Weather’s turning.”

“But he’s our friend. All that studying can’t be healthy. We owe it to him to show him some fun.”

“When do we break the good news?”

“When we find him.”

“You mean you don’t know where he is?”

“Sure I do. Somewhere studying.”

“This is already a disaster,” said the driver.

“It won’t kill us to do a good deed. I’m actually starting to worry about him.”

“You overthink shit.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The more I’m around him, the more I get this vibe.”

“What kind of vibe?”

“Like he’s trying to hide something.”