Authors: Tim Dorsey
LUCKY’S PAWNSHOP
T
ing-a-ling.
A pack of students entered.
The owner looked up from his racing form. “Back so soon?”
“I want to buy their class rings,” said Serge.
“No problem.” The owner hoisted a metal pail onto the counter. “They should be somewhere near the top. But you understand there’ll have to be a modest surcharge. I got rent.”
“Of course.” Serge turned to the students. “Go get ’em.”
The kids dug through rings from all years and states. The owner set two velvet display trays beside the bucket. “Some also might be here.”
“I found mine!” A ring slipped on a finger.
“Me, too . . .”
“There it is . . .”
Soon, all hands had jewelry again. Except one.
Andy McKenna scanned velvet slots.
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge.
“Can’t find mine.”
“Oh, just remembered,” said the owner. “What school do you go to?”
“New Hampshire.”
“That’s right. Guy bought it.”
“When?” asked Serge.
“Just before you came in.”
Serge placed a consoling hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Very sorry.”
“I’ll live.”
“You might still get it back,” said the owner. “How’s that?” asked Serge.
The owner turned to Andy. “Your name was engraved inside the band, right?”
Andy nodded.
“Man said he was an investor. Selling rings back to parents of kids who, well, spring break happens.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Serge.
“Who knows?” said the owner. “Guy went to the same college.”
“UNH?” asked Andy.
“Real nice gent.” The owner put a pail back against the wall. “Told him where you were staying.”
“Why?”
“He asked.”
“That’s weird,” said Serge.
“Got the feeling it was a school pride thing,” said the owner. “Told me he wanted to catch up with the new class, maybe even give it back to you for free.”
“But how’d you know where we were staying?”
“You told me, remember? No reservations.” The owner slid velvet trays under the counter. “Man, these rings sure are getting popular.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Serge.
“A second guy was in here. Showed me a badge.”
“Cop?”
“Latin name, Ramirez or something.”
“What did he want?”
“Same as the other guy. I told him you kids were staying at the Algiers.”
“We’re at the Dunes,” said Andy.
“Whoops,” said the owner. “Well, I guess he’ll be coming back. At least I told the first guy the right place.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Another family meeting.
Prospect reports covered the cedar table in a stucco house south of Miami.
Guillermo thought—but didn’t say out loud—“Has it really been six months already?”
“This one,” said Luis. “Likes to sample product . . . Everything in Bimini on track?”
“Like glass,” said Hector. “Wiring explosives into the fake shipment as we speak.”
Sixty miles away, Sarah Sheets puttered around the house. Her husband checked the mailbox. More medical bills. So what? He sat at the kitchen table and made out checks.
Sarah packed sandwiches. “Can’t believe the insurance company just reversed their decision.”
“Guess when I mentioned suing . . .” Randall licked a postage stamp. “Lawyers must cost more than doctors these days.”
She gave him a lunch box and a kiss at the front door. “When do you think you’ll be home?”
“Late. Got a full schedule of students today.”
“Again?”
“Told you not to worry. Everything eventually works out.”
Randall drove across southern Palm Beach County, out past the turnpike and through the gate of an empty airfield. He pulled a tarp off his Cessna. Preflight checklist. Everything in order. He looked up at a clear sky and a deflated wind sock. Perfect day to fly.
Randall climbed inside, put on his headset and radioed the flight plan to Bimini.
A propeller churned to life. The plane taxied a short distance and rotated in place at the end of the strip. One last survey of instruments. He pushed a lever forward. The prop increased to a high whine. The Cessna started down the runway. It quickly gathered speed, approaching takeoff velocity.
Randall was monitoring an oil pressure gauge and didn’t notice the tight formation of sedans race through the gate. He looked up at a dust trail speeding toward the runway at a ninety-degree angle.
“God!”
The first cars screeched to a stop, blocking takeoff. Randall jerked the throttle back, almost breaking the lever. “Please, please, please . . .”
The Cessna began to skid, bleeding off speed. But not fast enough. Cars filled his vision.
“Come on! Come on! . . .”
Fifty miles an hour, forty-five, forty . . . The plane fishtailed. Agents scattered.
Thirty, twenty-five, twenty . . . The aircraft spun sideways and slammed into a pair of Crown Vics. A prop blade snapped and landed a hundred yards away in a field.
Grogginess. Randall pushed himself up from the controls and removed a headset that had shifted around and covered his eyes. He looked out to see the plane surrounded, dark sunglasses, guns drawn. The next sequence happened in a blink from academy training.
His pilot door flew open. No fewer than six hands grabbed Randall and threw him facedown on the tarmac. Arms twisted behind his back. Cuffs. Then he was yanked roughly to his feet before another hand pushed his head down, shoving him into the back of an undamaged car. What was left of the convoy sped off.
THE PRESENT
A Delta 88 sat below one of the strip’s many half-burnt-out neon signs. A camel on a sand dune. When it came on at night, the camel winked.
Guillermo winked at the plump receptionist in a hairnet. “Hoping you can help me.”
“Sorry, we’re sold out.”
Like many mom-and-pops, the Dunes hadn’t been updated since the fifties. Original wooden mail slots behind the desk and real metal keys on numbered plastic fobs.
“I don’t need a room,” said Guillermo.
“Then how can I help you?”
He reached in his pocket. “Found this ring in the parking lot. You have an ‘A. McKenna’ staying here?”
She checked paper files. “Yes, we do.”
“Great. What room?”
“Can’t give that out.”
“Understand.” He looked over her shoulder at numbered mail slots. “Just want to make certain he gets this back.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Don’t want it to get stolen or anything.”
“It’s okay. Everyone who works here is family.”
“I have a business like that, too.”
He handed over the ring. She was on the short side and dragged a footstool, then climbed two steps and reached for slot 24. “Want me to leave a note with it?”
She turned back around. The door to the empty office was closing.
THE DUNES
S
erge’s entourage arrived back in the parking lot and headed for the stairs.
The office door opened behind them. “Excuse me,” said a woman in a hairnet. “Aren’t you the guys in room twenty-four?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone left you a message. Well, not really a message. Think it was just a ring.”
Serge looked at the woman, then up at their room. Could have sworn he left those curtains open. “Guys, wait here a minute.” He followed the receptionist inside.
She walked back behind the front desk. “Real nice guy. I think he wanted to give it back himself, but we don’t disclose room numbers. Security, you know.”
Serge looked up at a ring sitting in a wooden slot marked “24.”
“Ma’am,” said Serge, “was he standing right where I am when you put that in the slot?”
“I guess so.” She dragged over a footstool again, grabbed the ring and climbed back down. “Here you go—”
The glass door to the empty office was closing.
Serge bolted for the Challenger. “Back in the cars! Back in the cars!”
“What’s going on?”
“Just hurry!”
The vehicles raced a half mile, and Serge whipped up a circular drive to the valets. “Staying with us?”
“Only dinner.” He took the ticket. “Hear your food’s great.”
Serge hustled the gang into the lobby of one of the strip’s newest luxury resorts.
“Where are we going?”
“Just keep up.”
They ran out the back doors on the ocean side.
Minutes later, a row of kids sat mutely along a stone ledge, legs dangling over the side.
Serge paced feverishly in front of the seventy-year-old coquina band shell.
“I pray I’m wrong, but I seriously doubt it . . .”
Serge’s voice echoed back at them from the concave dome. He spun and paced the other way. “That shooting in Panama City Beach? Now I’m a hundred percent it
was
mistaken identity.”
Melvin raised his hand. “Why do you think that?”
“Because they were really after you.”
“Us?”
“Well,
one
of you.”
Murmurs shot down the row, students glancing at one another.
Another hand. “Why would someone want to kill one of us?”
“Who knows? Anyone witness a murder lately?”
Heads shook.
“Maybe a second case of mistaken identity,” said Serge. “But unlike those poor kids in the Panhandle, this case follows you around.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got one of your names.” Pacing resumed. “I’d bet my life on it. Could simply be an identical name they confused with the target they’re really after.”
“It was Andy’s ring,” said Joey. “Must be his name.”
“Or not,” said Serge. “You booked Panama City with his credit card. Maybe they just think it’s someone staying with him.” He turned. “Andy, anything in the family closet?”
Andy heard guilty thoughts blaring out his ears. “Uh, nope.”
“What about the rest of you?” Serge slowly walked down the row of students, each wilting under his gaze. “We’re all in this together now. If someone’s got a secret, this is the time.”
Heads shook again.
Serge hopped up and sat on the ledge, leaning with elbows on knees. “This is a tough one.”
“So we’re going to take off,” said Andy. “Right?”
“Absolutely not. This is our big chance.”
“Chance?”
“We have a rare window of advantage. They don’t know where we are, but I know where they are.”
“Where?”
“In your room. The guy got the number from the mail slot in the office when he dropped off the ring. And I’m positive we left the curtains open.”
“Oh my God! They’re here?” said Spooge. “In our room!”
A group freak-out. “We should definitely split! . . .”
“I’m calling my parents! . . .”
“No!” snapped Serge. “Stop pissing yourselves. If one of you really is the target, the first thing they’ll do is watch relatives’ houses and tap their phones.”
“But they’re not cops. How do they get inside to tap?”
“They can do it across the street in a car. Parabolic receivers pick up portable phones and now even hardwired landlines. Back in the eighties, Miami had a counter-surveillance store on every block.” Serge hopped down from the ledge. “Until I find out what we’re dealing with, nobody makes any outside contact.”
“What about the police?”
“
Especially
the police,“ said Serge.”Coleman and I do a lot of pawning, and I have a pretty good idea how they found that ring.”
“How?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“If you want us to trust you . . . ,” said Spooge.
“Okay,” said Serge, and he told them.
“Dear Jesus,” said Doogie. “The police are in on it?”
“Only takes one,” said Serge.
“Where do we go in the meantime?”
“I’ll get you registered into this place.” Serge headed back toward the resort. “Then I have some business.”
The Challenger sat behind a liquor store three blocks up A1A from the Dunes.
Serge whistled merrily up the sidewalk, climbed stairs and walked along a second-story landing. Eyes peeked from a curtain slit as he passed room 24. He stuck a key in the next door.
City and Country were kicking back with a bong and HBO.
“There you are!”
“We thought you ditched us again!”
Serge went straight for the door to the adjoining room and quietly locked it. He pressed his right ear to the wood.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“We have a problem,” said Serge.
Country blew City a shotgun. “
You’re
the one with a problem.”
“This isn’t a joke. I need a favor.”
“What’s happening?”
He told them, play by play. “. . . They’re in twenty-four right now, but they don’t know we have the adjoining room. I can’t do this without you.”
“Bullshit on that,” said City.
“Double bullshit,” said Country. “We got enough trouble as it is.”
“But these kids are sheep,” said Serge. “They don’t stand a chance.”
The pair stared and stewed. Finally, City snatched the bong and lighter. “You bastard.”
“That means you’ll help?”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Randall Sheets saw his future disintegrating.
“Turn the other way,” said Agent Ramirez, sitting with him in the back of a speeding sedan.
The agent twisted a tiny key; cuffs popped loose.
Randall rubbed his wrists. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Better than if we didn’t show up.”
Waves of panic were so strong, Randall felt himself drowning. Then it came from nowhere, an eruption of sobs and babbling. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know what to do. My wife. The bills. These guys. The briefcase. I’m so sorry! . . .”
Ramirez gave him a handkerchief. “We know about your wife.”
Randall blew his nose. “You do?”
Ramirez continued facing forward. “So did they. You got played. It’s how they operate. You never had a choice.”
“I didn’t. What would you have done?”
“Same thing. But that’s behind you.”
“It is?”
“You’re going to testify before the grand jury.”
“Not a chance. They’ll kill me for sure.”
“There’s a duffel bag waiting for you in Bimini,” said Ramirez.
“You know about that, too?”
“Weighs the same as the others with coke.”
“Not coke?”
“Bomb.”
“Doesn’t make sense. I’ve got a perfect delivery record, making them a fortune.”
“They change pilots every six months. And not by mutual agreement. That’s why we had to take you in now.”
Randall’s face fell in his hands. “How long have you known?”
“Two days. Finally got an informant, someone on their inside. Been trying to get a pilot for years but, well, you’re the first.”
“Oh my God!” Randall just remembered. “My family!”
“All taken care of. Picked up your wife and son an hour ago.”
That’s what mattered most to Randall, the next less so: “How much prison am I looking at?”
“None. You testify, we put you in the witness program.”
“Where?”
“Won’t be as warm as here.”
“How long do I have to stay?”
“You don’t understand.” Ramirez gazed out the window as a DC-10 touched down at West Palm International. “These people never forget.”
THE PRESENT, MIDNIGHT
Pop.
Country uncapped a wine bottle in the backseat. “Nobody’s left the room for hours. Maybe they’re not there.”
“They’re still there, all right.” Serge leaned toward the windshield of the Challenger, strategically parked face-out in an alley with a full view of the Dunes. “They don’t want to open the door and give away their ambush position in case the kids are on their way back.”
“So why are we waiting over here?”
“Everyone eventually gets hungry.”
Another hour.
“Now
I’m
hungry,“ said City, stubbing out a roach.”Me, too,” said Country.
“So is someone else.” Serge looked up at the second floor, where a man had quickly slipped out the door of room 24, then pretended he hadn’t. He leaned nonchalantly against the landing’s rail, scanning the parking lot and street. All clear. Cowboy boots trotted down stairs.
The Challenger rolled out of the alley without headlights.
Boots clacked across the street and up the opposite sidewalk.
“You were right,” said Country. “He’s heading for Taco Bell.”
“I’d kill for a taco right now,” said City.
Serge pulled along the curb. “You’re going to get your wish.”
Pedro’s arms were weighed down with bags of
grande
meals when he finally came out the restaurant’s side door.
A distressed female voice: “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said City. “We might have to ask a stranger.”
“But that’s dangerous.”
“Excuse me.” Pedro politely bowed his head. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Flat tire,” said Country, reaching in one of his bags for a taco.
“But the lug nuts are too tight.” City reached in another bag. “We’re not strong enough.”
Pedro puffed out his chest. “You beautiful ladies shouldn’t have to change a tire. Especially at night.”
“You’ll help us?” said Country.
“You’d really do something that nice?” said City.
“Of course Pedro will help you. Where’s your car?”
“Right around the corner. Just follow us.”
He did.
They turned the corner.
Pedro dropped his tacos. “Who’s that guy?”
“Oh,” said Country. “You mean the one with the gun?”