Authors: Tim Dorsey
DAYTONA BEACH
W
e should take up surfing,” said Edna.
“But we don’t know how,” said Edith.
“That’s why it’s called ‘taking it up.’” She looked down a hundred feet at a handful of surfers in black wet suits trying to milk meager East Coast waves breaking off the Daytona Beach Pier. “It looks easy.”
The G-Unit continued out over the Atlantic Ocean in a pair of ski-lift-style gondolas that chugged slowly over the length of the pier and headed back to shore.
“Doesn’t this thing go any faster?” said Eunice.
“It’s a gondola,” said Ethel.
“This ride bites.”
As the cable cranked down to the docking station, a sudden, distant scream.
“What was that?” said Eunice.
“Up there.” Ethel pointed. “Those kids.”
“Now
that’s
a ride!”
Moments later, the G-Unit members each had twenty-five dollars in hand.
The ride’s operator collected money and pointed at a stack of plastic bowls. “Put all your personal possessions in those.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want anything flying off.”
Ethel and Edna went first.
“
Wheeeeeeeeee!. . .
”
The remaining gals shielded their eyes, squinting up into the bright sky as an open-air ball sailed up until it was a tiny dot. It reached the ends of its bungee cords and jerked back down. Then up again, down, bouncing over and over with decreasing range until it ran out of steam.
The ride’s operator stepped onto the platform and raised the padded safety bars. The women climbed down.
“How was it?”
“Mind-fucker!” said Ethel.
The others’ turn on the Rocket Launch. The operator locked the safety bars over Eunice and Edith. “Sure you put everything in the plastic bowls?”
They nodded.
He went back to his control station. “Ready?”
“Hurry up before we croak.” The catapult released. “
Wheeeeeeeeee! . . .
”
At the top of the arc, Eunice covered her mouth and looked up at a jettisoned piece of space debris heading for orbit.
“What was that?” asked Edith.
“My dentures.”
Edith looked at the safety bar and into the tiny camera filming them. “I’m definitely buying this video.”
Down below, Coleman led the students across the beach. “. . . I once bought a modified Frisbee from a head shop that had a secret pot chamber in the middle. It was called Catch a Buzz . . .”
One of the kids looked up at faint screams. “Hey, check out those old ladies.”
They continued through the sand. A rescue team from
Ocean Cops
ran by with paramedic bags. They knelt and rendered aid to an unconscious young coed from Vanderbilt with a bloody forehead wound where dentures were embedded.
Johnny Vegas sat in the background, tears trickling down his cheek.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“What do you mean a preexisting condition!”
Randall Sheets caught himself and lowered his voice on the phone. “It was not preexisting. She was in perfect health when we bought the policy . . . What? She already had it and we just didn’t know? That’s garbage! . . . But I don’t have the money and she’s going to die without treatment . . . Could you repeat that? . . . It’s classified as uncovered hospice care instead of corrective medicine? . . . Now you’re just making up reasons . . . Look, don’t think I won’t sue . . . Why can’t you talk to me anymore? . . . What company directive? . . . Because I mentioned litigation I can only talk to your attorneys from now on? . . . Wait! Don’t hang up!”
Click.
Randall slowly closed the phone.
“Honey . . .” The voice came from down the hall. Randall entered the master bedroom, his weak wife propped up on pillows. “Who were you talking to?”
“Nobody important.”
“Insurance people again?”
Randall pulled up a chair. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”
He lightly grabbed her hand. “I’m supposed to be here.”
“I’ll be fine. You should go to work.” She smiled. “It’s not like we need the money or anything.”
“But—”
“Go ahead.” She grabbed a remote control. “One of my shows is coming on.”
Randall drove across town with a head full of thoughts.
An hour later, a Cessna came into view. It cleared the fence of another private strip, this one in southern Palm Beach County. The landing was more than shaky, skipping twice before the wheels stayed down for good. No cross draft.
The propeller slowed to a jerky stop. Randall removed headphones and turned to the dermatologist in the passenger seat. “Not bad for a first landing. Same time next week?”
They climbed down from the four-seater with cursive lettering on the side:
T
RADEWINDS
F
LIGHT
S
CHOOL
.
The student hopped in a Corvette and sped off. Randall headed the other way for his own car. Next to it, four men with arms crossed leaned against the front of a BMW.
“Randall Sheets?”
“How can I help you fellas?”
“We need to hire a plane.”
“You want flying lessons?”
Guillermo shook his head.
“Then what?” asked Randall.
“We’ll get to that later.” Guillermo bent down and released a handle.
“What’s the briefcase for?”
“You.”
Randall hadn’t been in trouble a day in his life, the proverbial community pillar, as far removed from criminal circles as one gets. But he’d also been a pilot in Florida during the eighties, and he’d seen this movie before—what temptation had done to other pilots he’d known.
“I think you should leave.”
“How’s your wife?”
Randall’s expression changed. “What about my wife?”
“If we’re going to be friends—”
“We’ll never be friends! Leave! Now!”
“Have we offended you in some way?”
Randall reached in his pocket. “I’m calling the police.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Guillermo opened the BMW’s driver-side door. “We’re late for an appointment.”
The others piled back in.
“You forgot your briefcase,” said Randall.
“No, I didn’t.” Guillermo started the car. “Give my best to Sarah.”
They drove off.
Randall stood motionless and stared down at the brown leather case for what seemed like an eternity. Brain racing. He finally crouched, set it on its side and slowly raised the lid. Breathing shallowed. Then he heard something, like a far-off explosion.
Randall looked up through yellow aviator glasses at the clear southeastern sky: a tiny fireball smaller than a dime a thousand feet above the horizon toward Bimini. At a range of thirty miles, the sound of the blast still carried, but nothing like what the boats below in the Atlantic heard as twisted metal fluttered into the ocean from a Cessna registered to Cash Cutlass.
THE PRESENT
Coleman and followers continued along the Daytona shore.
“What’s going on over there?” A student pointed up the beach. “Looks like a concert or a fight. There’s a big crowd.”
And getting bigger. Word spread about something happening at the historic band shell. People running over from the hotels, the water, the bars.
Coleman’s gang arrived at the back of the audience. Someone in a necktie took notes. A press ID hung from his neck. Davis.
“Why are you taking notes?”
“I’m a reviewer for the
News-Journal
”—not taking eyes off his steno pad.
“What’s the deal onstage?” asked a student. “Is that some DJ warming up for a band?”
The reviewer shook his head and kept writing. “Incredible mono-loguist, like Eric Bogosian or Spalding Gray. He’s been going nonstop for over an hour. I don’t know how anyone can jump rapidly between so many topics and keep it all straight, let alone memorize an act this disjointed and long.”
“I didn’t know they had monologuists on the beach,” said a student.
“Neither did I.” The reviewer flipped a page. “Nothing about it in our events calendar—going to complain to the city about not getting us a press release. Luckily, I was down here covering something else.”
Coleman felt a tug on his arm. “Melvin, what’s the matter?”
“Holy cow! Look who it is.”
“Serge!”
“You know that guy?” asked the reviewer. “My best friend,” said Coleman.
“What’s his secret?”
“Special diet.”
They looked back up at the band shell. Serge cartwheeled toward the front of the stage, doubled over and laughed until his sides ached.
“Ooo-gah-chaka! Ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang! Su-su-ssudio!” He stood upright. “Sorry, got the giggles. Just thinking about Florida’s first family. That’s right, the Hulk Hogans. They’re everything our state stands for: weird, dangerous, crazy, childish, attention addicts, but above all, a freakin’ hoot! Victimized by a car-crash
victim!
Hurts too much to laugh! They nearly killed the guy and tried to squeeze a reality show from his morphine-drip bottle! News flash: They already have a reality show, and all of us are in it, too. It’s called the Sunshine State. Watch any national news. It’s the
local
news: Passenger boards plane at Tampa International with three gunshot wounds and asks flight attendant for Band-Aids, youth sodomizes grandmother’s Yorkshire terrier named Duchess, man arrested for selling beach sand on eBay, body found in orange grove, body found half-eaten by gator, body found in line at Disney, ‘The lone clue was a sawed-off thigh bone,’ ‘Wesley Snipes’s tax attorney claims the truth will shock and surprise the public.’ And who can forget those future brain surgeon teen girls who beat the snot out of a classmate, videotaped it and posted it on the Internet? Then Dr. Phil invites one of the
attackers
on his show, and everyone gets bent in pretzels. I say, No! No! No! Those Rhodes scholar predators are exactly the global TV face we want to put on our state. How else are we going to stop this viral, doomsday overdevelopment? The Hogans and that chick posse deserve citizens of the year. They’re helping get the word out that the quality of people down here is so fucking bad, you don’t want to come near us.“ He doubled over again with giggles.”Whoa, just noticed my feet. Aren’t feet insane? All day long: left, right, left, right. How
do
they do it? I suddenly want five pizzas and a loud stereo. Look, there’s an osprey. It’s got a fish in its claws. Every time I see an osprey flying with a fish, I always think: Fish lives entire life in the sea, then at the end, he’s looking down at everything from hundreds of feet up, thinking, ‘Oh,
now
I get it.’ “ More giggling.”Actually, he’s thinking, ‘Hey, watch the talons, man.’ Back to the headlines! Trapped retiree dials 911 with big toe; hurricane reporters in Key West jeered and hit with Super Soakers; frozen iguanas rain from trees during cold snap, injuring five; more families opting to live in storage units; man attempts to avoid DUI by abandoning car and jumping on horse in pasture; armed bandits invade home demanding nothing but an egg beater. Let’s sing! Everybody, after me:
Biscayne Bay, where the Cuban gentlemen sleep all day . . . Free-credit-report-dot-com
. . . Don’t you love those ads? Here’s mine:
Florida-crime-report-dot-com, don’t let winos pork your mom. F-L-A, that spells flaw, tourists goin home in a box, doodah.
Is it me, or do colors seriously rock today? I’m looking in your direction, Mr. Green.“ Another giggle fit. Serge felt something and looked down at a growing bulge in his pants.”Yowza. Who out there owns a stereo, wants to fuck and eat five pizzas? But you say, ‘Serge, what can
I
do about development?’ Give money to every street-corner lunatic you see with a cardboard sign and pipe cleaners in his hair. It’s like those minimum-wage roadside people in gorilla suits, waving you off the road for tax preparation. Except in reverse: The cardboard-sign brigade drives would-be residents
away.
But again, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Serge, if we promote “crazy,” then what kind of place is left for us to live in?’ And that’s exactly the litmus test for any true Floridian. It may be crazy, but it’s
our
crazy, it’s
fun
crazy, and in Florida,
being
crazy is the only way to stay sane. That circus-geek colony in Gibsonton is now the most normal place we got. The whole state’s an asylum, and I love every last freak show, even the schizos at the bus station who yell at me, ‘Motherfucker, we know the planetary council sent you to implant transmitters!’ And I smile and go, ‘Say no more. You had me at “motherfucker.” ’ . . . Speaking of transmitters, I’m picking up ten channels in my noodle: Rooftop bandits steal copper from strip mall air-conditioners, DNA proves restaurant’s grouper is Asian catfish, Patriot missile found in Ybor City junkyard, missing children, missing wives, drag queen bingo night, boot camp deaths, baby formula thefts, loggerhead die-offs, red tide outbreaks, ‘Anglo flight,’ Solarcaine beats sunburn pain . . . Why am I so hungry? Could eat a horse, don’t cry over spilled milk, all that and a bag of chips, Jimmy crack corn, Jack Sprat could eat no fat, proof’s in the pudding, plum tired, bought a lemon, selling like hotcakes, bun in the oven, on the gravy train, my meal ticket, since sliced bread, we’re toast, you’re dead meat, stick a fork in it . . .
Coleman!.. . Where are you? . .. How . . . do . . . I. . . turn . . . this . . . shit. . . off!. . .
”
PERRY, FLORIDA
B
lastoff.
Guillermo had the gang packed and loading the car in record time. Peaceful in the parking lot—silence so complete that when it was broken by the occasional car, the vehicle could be heard coming and going a half mile in both directions. Then stillness. Nothing but a lone pedestrian with a bag of pennies and a spatula, who suddenly disappeared into bushes as a career move.
The last door slammed, and the Oldsmobile Delta 88 sped away from the Thunderbird Motel.
“How did Madre find out?” asked Miguel.
“One of our informants. Been following the APB in state police computers. He pawned his class ring.”
“Never been to Daytona,” said Raul. “Hear you can drive on the beach. That’s fucked up.”
“We’re not on vacation.” The AC had been leaking freon since the Panhandle. Guillermo rolled down his window and held a flapping map against the steering wheel. No direct shot across the peninsula for where they were heading. Country roads, a spur at Bucell Junction, up through Foley and Fenholloway. Water towers, boarded-up feed stores, ancient granite courthouses from when there was population. Then across a wide, rolling expanse of Florida where the economy is state prisons and renting inner tubes out the backs of trucks to people rafting the Ichetucknee.
A couple hours later, they reached the Daytona coast and cruised down A1A. Guillermo found a parking space in front of the old Stamie’s Swimwear shop with a vintage fiberglass bathing beauty diving off the porch roof.
“Bathing suits?” said Pedro.
Guillermo ignored him, looking one block up at a logo with three dangling balls from the crest of Italy’s Medici family.
L
UCKY’S
P
AWN
.
They got out and trotted up the sidewalk.
Bells jingled.
The short-sleeved owner leaned with hands atop a glass case. “Afternoon.”
Guillermo sported another warm smile. “You must be Lucky.”
“No, he got killed. Lookin’ for anything particular?”
“Actually I am. Class rings.”
The owner laughed. “You look a bit old for regret.”
“Why do you say that?”
The owner pulled a display tray from under the counter. “Wouldn’t believe how many of these I sell back to the same kids after they return to their senses and wrangle some cash.”
“I kinda do the same thing. Except there’s more money contacting the parents—once the yelling stops after they find out what their children did.”
Another laugh. “Have to remember that.”
Bells jingled. Hungover students entered with a set of hubcaps and a car jack. The owner shook his head. They left.
Then back to Guillermo. “Where were we?”
“Rings. My best harvests are spring break destinations.” Guillermo bent over the tray. “Let’s see what you got here . . .” He pulled one out of its velvet slot.
“You’re looking at a real corker there.”
Bells again. A student walked up with something cupped in his hands.
“Don’t need hash pipes,” said the owner. “Try High Seas up the block.”
Guillermo turned the ring around. UNH on one side, 2012 on the other. “Guy still doesn’t graduate for a couple years. This must have just come in.”
“It did,” said the owner.
“Remember him?”
“Sure. Nice boy. But the reason it stuck with me was the rest of his gang, especially this older, drunk guy. Nearly broke the display case.”
“Got a loupe?”
The owner handed him a round magnifier. Guillermo brought the ring to his eye and checked the engraving inside the band. A. M
C
K
ENNA
.
Bells again. A student in a full leg cast hobbled inside.
“What am I going to do with crutches ?” said the owner. “I can
sell
you some . . .” pointing at a pile in the corner.
Guillermo handed the magnifier back but kept the ring. “I’ll take it.” The owner rang him up.
“Hear them talking about anything?” Guillermo said with feigned idleness.
“They never
stopped
talking. Like what?”
“Coincidentally, I went to the same school.” He stuck the ring in his pocket. “That’s how it caught my eye. Be kind of nostalgic to catch up with the new class.”
“Dang. What was it?”
“What was what?”
“One of them mentioned where they were staying. I remember ’cause they wanted more for their rings since they were paying top dollar without reservations. And I know the place well, know them all. Easy name, too . . .” He stared off at a shelf of clarinets. “What the heck was it? . . .”
The kids with hubcaps returned. “Sir, can’t you give us anything at all for these? They’re about to kick us out of the Dunes.”
“The Dunes!” said the owner. “That’s it. I’m positive.”
THE DUNES
A day in full swing. Blender going, Led Zeppelin. Coleman continued slicing up limes with bandages on three fingers.
“
. . . I’m gonna send you . . . back to schoolin’!. . .
”
Serge staggered into the room. “Coffee . . .”
“Hey, Serge. How do you feel?”
No answer until he’d drained the dregs of an old pot. “That shit’s insane. No wonder you don’t have any ambition . . . What are the kids doing over there?”
Coleman looked up at a crowd around the television. “News from Panama City. Think they found some bodies.”
Serge walked up behind the students. “What’s going on?”
“
Shhhhhh!
”
On TV, a female correspondent stood in a parking lot, intentionally framed with the Alligator Arms sign over her shoulder. “
. . . Police are releasing few details about the massacre in this unassuming motel. All we currently know is that authorities removed five bodies from room 543, the apparent victims of multiple gunshots . . .
”
Behind her, students waved and held up beer cans. “
Woooooo!” “Party hearty!” “I see dead people!
”
“
. . . One source who spoke on the condition of anonymity said the entire room had been sprayed heavily with automatic weapon fire. We’ll report more as soon as we know it. But for now, it looks like a real spring break buzz-kill. . .
”
The report ended, and the students came alive with chatter.
“That was our room!”
“Happened just after we left!”
“Can you imagine if they hadn’t kicked us out?”
“What kind of madman would do such a thing?”
“Not a madman,” said Serge. “Professional job.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Standard protocol for a Miami hit.”
“If it’s Miami, then why up there?”
“Probably some connection to a smuggling operation,” said Serge. “The whole state’s one big northern pipeline.”
“All those kids were in on it?”
Serge shook his head and walked back to the coffeemaker. “That’s why I said standard protocol. Most likely after just one target. They like to be thorough.”
“But it was all students. How could any of them be involved in something that major?”
“Guessing they weren’t.” Serge dumped scoops of Folgers in the filter. “Smells like a case of mistaken identity. Shooters were probably after someone else who was supposed to be staying in that room.”
The students were practically dizzy, running the fatal near miss through their heads. They changed channels to a special Daytona Beach edition of
Ocean Cops.
Serge came back with a fresh cup. Something wasn’t right. He looked around. “What happened to your class rings?”
“We pawned them.”
“You what!”
“Pawned them . . . Hey, Coleman, come quick! You’re on again!”
“When did you do this silliness?” demanded Serge.
“Recently.”
Coleman arrived with a triple-strength pifla colada. “Where am I?”
“Right there.” On TV, rescuers on Jet Skis chased an unconscious person floating out to sea in an inflatable swim ring with a seahorse head.
Spooge high-fived Coleman. “You take no prisoners!”
“You can’t pawn your class rings!” said Serge. “That’s heritage, some of the best souvenirs of all!”
“I know,” said Andy. “But what’s done is done.”
“Not as long as I’m alive,” said Serge.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t let you do this.” Serge checked the contents of his wallet. “We’re going to get them back right now. I’ll spot you, though I doubt I’ll see any of it again. But that’s how I roll.”
They went downstairs and drove out of the parking lot.
A Delta 88 pulled in.