Authors: Tim Dorsey
“The guy’s amazing,” said another student. “How does he do it?”
“Easy,” said Serge. “He’s been on spring break since 1977.”
City rummaged through the mini fridge. “Country, screwdrivers?”
“I’m in.”
“Serge?”
“Coffee.”
The three huddled and watched the proceedings from the relative safety of the kitchenette. Coleman stood on a chair and raised a bottle toward the smoke detector.
City opened cabinets fully stocked with spotless plates and cups. “Impressed.” She closed them. “When you offered your place, I pictured a dump.”
“Got the one-bedroom suite. It has everything, which reminds me . . .” Serge opened a closet door and grabbed an electric cord. “I heard a comic say this is what separates us from animals, but I beg to differ.”
“You’re going to do housework?” asked Country.
“Observe.” Serge plugged in the vacuum cleaner.
A beer bottle shattered on the floor, and Coleman ran and hid in the bathroom.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
T
radition continued.
Bars closed in the wee hours.
Ten minutes later, the night people appeared. Silhouettes on the beach against the edge of the surf. They stumbled through the sand, individually and in bunches of five or six, trying to find the way back to their hotels. Some made several passes in both directions. A freshman carrying a pizza box tried climbing over the locked back gate of the Alligator Arms.
Serge used low-light mode to film the spectacle from his balcony, then went back to bed.
Country opened her eyes. “Where’d you go?”
“The documentary continues.”
“What’s that yelling?”
“Kids on other balconies. After last call, the ones who make it back to their hotels resume partying where they’re most likely to take dangerous falls.”
Down on the pool patio, a night security guard in a smartly pressed uniform made rounds. His shoulder patches featured gallant eagles that projected the intimidating authority of someone who has cheap shoulder patches. He walked across the patio, helped a student up off the ground and peeled pizza from his chest. Then he returned to his post, stationary, back against the fence on the far side of the pool.
Staring upward.
At hotels in other cities, night watchmen patrol for muggings and car break-ins. In spring break towns, they’re on balcony duty. Some of the cheaper, off-beach joints along the Panhandle had seen enough and didn’t need the liability headaches. Balconies overlooking the pool were caged in with burglar bars or chicken wire.
These options weren’t available to the higher-priced waterfront properties, where that kind of low-rent eyesore would run off a profitable slice of their rest-of-the-year clientele. Hence the guard right now behind the Alligator Arms. Tonight he had his hands full, eyes on five different balconies spread across the back of the hotel. Kegs and coolers and shouting.
He continued round-robin surveillance, scanning two seconds on each balcony. The guard saw something three floors up and dashed around the pool. He clicked on his flashlight. “Hey! . . .”
A kid sat backward on the balcony railing, swaying with a plastic cup. The beam hit the side of his face. “What the hell?” He looked down.
“Are you crazy?” yelled the guard. “Get off that.”
“Sorry.”
The guard went back to his post, taking deep breaths to lower heart rate. It was the same all night, every night, like monitoring a kindergarten class issued razor blades, racing to head off the next brainless crisis almost before the last had ended.
Inside Serge’s one-bedroom suite, a crash.
Country raised her head. “What was that?”
“Don’t know . . .” Serge listened. More bad noises, things banging. He threw the sheets off his legs. “But I have a good idea.”
He went out to the living room. “Coleman?”
No Coleman.
He turned the corner. “Oh my God! Coleman! No! Don’t do it!”
Coleman was on the balcony. He’d climbed atop a plastic chair, braced his left arm against the side wall and put an unsteady foot on top of the railing.
Serge ran forward. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it! This isn’t the answer.”
Coleman got his other foot on top of the bar, and without hesitation: “
Wheeeeeeeeeeee!. . .
” —voice trailing off as he disappeared.
Serge sprinted for the balcony.
Down below, the security guard assisted another student who’d taken a nasty spill over the locked gate. His back was to the pool when he heard the explosion of Coleman’s cannonball.
“Oh my God!” He ran toward the edge of the water, kicking off shoes, but Coleman cheerfully bobbed to the surface and dog-paddled toward the stairs at the shallow end. The guard switched from rescue to enforcement mode. He grabbed Coleman roughly as he staggered up the steps.
The watchman had the disadvantage of not seeing which balcony Coleman came from. “What room are you in?”
“Uh, five forty-three.”
“You’re in big trouble!”
Serge watched it unfolding from the balcony and filled in the coming attractions. “Damn it, Coleman!” He raced for the front door. Country came out of the bedroom. “What’s going on?”
“Just stay here.”
He sailed down flights of stairs and onto the pool deck. The unamused guard led Coleman by the arm.
Serge went for the respect approach. “Is there a problem,
officer?
”
“You know this man?”
“We’ve met.”
“Better get some bail together.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a misdemeanor. I’m calling the police.”
“Is that really necessary?” said Serge. “I’ll take him into my personal custody. You have my word it won’t happen again.”
“And you’re out of the room, too!”
“Wait. Stop walking,” said Serge. “We can discuss this. How much for your trouble?” He opened his wallet. “I have three hundred.”
“You trying to bribe me?”
“It’s only a bribe if you’re a real cop,” said Serge. “You just got eagle patches . . . Four hundred?”
“That’s it. Conversation over.” The guard stepped forward. Serge blocked his path. “Get out of my way.”
“Let go of my friend.”
“Just wait till the police get here.” He tried to push by. Mistake. Serge seized the guard’s wrist and yanked it off Coleman’s arm. “You need to calm down. My very strong advice is to forget any of this ever happened.”
The guard was in his mid-twenties, average weight and height. Not much to bring to a fight, but he’d gotten cocky handling confrontation at the hotel since all the kids were hammered. Now he felt the latent energy in Serge’s sobering grip, and self-preservation made the correct decision to keep his powder dry.
He pulled away from Serge and backed across the patio, snatching the walkie-talkie off his belt.
“Crap.” It was Serge’s turn to grab Coleman’s arm. “Time to leave.”
ATLANTA
Muzak tinkled through a hollow terminal at Hartsfield. Just the janitors. Mop buckets and ropes across restrooms. C
LOSED
.
The last flight from Boston taxied to the terminal, hours late. Bleary travelers stumbled through the echoing airside. Unusually alert was a team of federal agents who were met at baggage claim by a local counterpart with a company car.
They watched hanging rubber flaps for luggage to appear.
Next to them at the belt, a man in a pulled-down baseball cap checked the name tag on a suitcase, pretended it wasn’t his and set it on the conveyor. It traveled thirty feet until Guillermo grabbed the handle and headed for a rental counter.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
The gals were wide awake when Serge hit the door.
“We saw you guys from the balcony,” said Country.
“What the hell did that idiot do now?” said City.
“No time.” Serge threw his suitcase on the sofa bed. “Collect your shit. We have to get out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said City. “Except back to bed.”
Serge looked in her eyes. Didn’t have to raise his voice. “The cops are coming.”
“Shit.”
He’d never seen women move so fast. In under two minutes, they’d packed essentials. Everything else would be memory. Serge opened the door.
The first patrol car was already in the parking lot as a backup arrived. The sound of elevator doors opening. Serge saw officers step out fifteen rooms down. He jumped back, crashing into the women.
“What’s going on?” asked Country.
“They’re already here,” said Serge. “Not fair. Four-minute response time is the minimum.”
The usually cool women looked at each other in panic, then at Serge. “What do we do?”
“Say good-bye to your luggage. There’s only one exit strategy.” He looked across the room.
“Jump off the balcony?” said City. “Fuck that!”
“They’re going to be banging on the door any second,” said Serge. “If Coleman can make it . . . Coleman, you think you can make it again?”
“Eyes closed.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! “Police! Open up!
”
The gang looked oddly at one another.
More door banging.
Except it wasn’t their door.
Thuds and voices muted by distance.
“
Don’t make us knock it in!
”
Serge slowly turned the knob and peeked outside. Two cops continued beating on the door nine rooms up, the security guard and hotel manager behind them in the wings.
City was right over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Unbelievable. They got the wrong room.”
“How’s that possible?” asked Coleman. “I told the guard where I was staying.”
“What’d you say?”
“Five forty-three.”
“Coleman, we’re in five thirty-four.” Serge wiped his forehead with relief. “Sometimes it’s better to be stupid than good.” He peeked again. The cops had gone inside the other room. “This is our break. Now!”
Three people ran onto the landing with suitcases.
“Where’s Coleman?”
Serge looked back inside just as fleshy feet left the balcony railing again. “
Wheeeeeeeeee!. . .
”
He groaned in agony. “Why is God doing this to me?”
“What happened to Coleman?” asked Country.
Serge raced for the elevators. “Didn’t get the memo on the updated exit strategy.”
Meanwhile, in room five forty-three:
The guard scratched his head.
An officer repeated the question: “You absolutely sure none of them is the guy you pulled from the pool?”
“This guy I’d definitely remember.”
“We weren’t even awake,” said Andy McKenna, pointing at the sleeping-bag-covered floor. “We haven’t done anything.”
“Jesus,” said the manager. “How many people are staying in this room?”
“Uh, six or seven. I think.”
“They might be telling the truth,” said the guard. “I didn’t see which balcony.”
“Bullshit,” said the manager. “They’re hiding him like the others . . . All you guys: You’re out of my hotel!”
“Don’t want any trouble,” said Andy. “We’ll be gone first thing in the morning.”
“No! Now!”
One of the officers radioed their status to dispatch. He clipped the microphone back on his shoulder and turned to the manager: “Without a positive ID from your guard, we really can’t do anything.”
“That’s okay,” said the manager. “I got it from here. Appreciate your assistance.”
The officers tipped their caps and left.
Down at ground level, four pairs of eyes peered from bushes. Three dry people, one not. Fishing Coleman out of the pool had critically delayed their escape. By the time they reached the parking lot, officers were getting off the elevators. The eyes followed blue uniforms across the pavement.
Patrol car doors slammed. One cruiser drove off; a dome light came on in the other.
“Why isn’t he leaving?” asked Coleman.
“Crap.” Serge swatted a mosquito. “He’s filling out the report.”
They all gazed at the Challenger, tantalizingly close, next to the police car.
A light rumbling sound.
“Get down!” said Serge. “Someone’s coming!”
A half dozen deflated students rolled luggage from elevators, the manager right behind to make sure. “I’ve got all your names and license numbers! Don’t ever come back!” He returned to his office.
The light went off in the patrol car. It drove away.
Students surrounded a pair of vehicles in the dark lot and loaded suitcases. “What are we going to do now?”
Four nonstudents broke from the bushes and rushed for the Challenger.
“They kick you out, too?” asked Andy. “What?” said Serge, sticking a key in the trunk. “Kick you out.” He pointed at the fifth floor. “We just got tossed for something we didn’t even do. What’d they get you for?”
“Get us for?”
“Why else would anyone check out at this ungodly hour, unless—”
“Oh, right,” said Serge. “Kicked out. Assholes! We should Molotov the office! What do you say? It’s looks really cool at night.”
Another student put his hands up passively. “All the same, we don’t need any more problems right now.”
“Just joshin’,” said Serge. He smiled. Then he didn’t. “Wait. Your voice . . . Do I know you?”
“Doubt it.” He grabbed a door handle.
“Damn it!” City yelled from the backseat. “Will you fucking get in already?”
“Hold that thought.” He looked back across the Challenger’s roof. His eyes suddenly lit. “Melvin! You’re Melvin Davenport!”
The student released the door handle. “How do you know my name?”
“Melvin! . . .” —thumping his own chest—“. . . It’s me, Serge!” Melvin squinted. “Serge?”
“We played catch when you were a kid. Don’t you remember?”
“No, I remember. It’s just—”
“Almost didn’t recognize you either.” Serge looked the kid over. “Wow, you really squirted. What? Six-one, two? But barely a buck thirty. Don’t fret; you’ll fill out soon enough. How’s Jim?”
“Dad’s fine.”
“And your mom?”
“Seriously pissed at you.”
“Still?”
“Probably strangle me just for talking to you like this.”
“Hoo, they really don’t forget.” Serge shrugged. “But that’s the whole point of college: Doing everything that would give your mother ten heart attacks. Speaking of which, I was only half-kidding about the Molotov. You in?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Good idea—it’s like
forever
getting that gasoline smell off your hands.”
“What the hell’s taking so long?” yelled City.
“Relax! Doesn’t Country have a joint or something?” Serge turned back around. “Sorry. Chicks.” He gestured up the empty street as pot smoke curled out the Challenger’s back window. “So where you heading?”
“No clue,” said Melvin. “Still hasn’t sunk in that we’re out on the street.”
A grin spread across Serge’s face. “Got the perfect idea. Swear you won’t regret it.”