Gator A-Go-Go (19 page)

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

A
late-model Mercedes raced west through Little Havana on Calle Ocho. The road became the Tamiami Trail. A half hour later, they left civilization behind and entered the Everglades.

Hector was driving, Luis riding shotgun. Guillermo sat in the backseat like an only child, arms around a big briefcase.

“No deviating from the plan,” Hector said over his shoulder. “We can’t be in the same place as the payment.”

“Why not?” asked Guillermo. “You raised him like my brother. Don’t we trust him anymore?”

“Yes, but he may be followed. He’s on the inside now.”

“I still don’t understand how we got him there. He had a record, from when Madre first picked him up at the jail.”

“Juvenile. Had it sealed.”

Guillermo looked out the windows. “Where is he?”

“Nearby, but he won’t know the final location until you call him.”

Fifty miles into the ’glades. No shade from the withering swamp heat. People in wide-brimmed straw hats reclined on lawn chairs along the shoulder of the Tamiami, cane-pole fishing an alligator-filled canal. Vultures picked at unrecognizable remains, taking flight when the Mercedes blew by. Hector slowed as they passed one of the water district’s drainage control dams. A quick look around. No other cars. He hit the gas for a dust-slinging left turn onto an unmarked dirt road.

“Where will you be?” asked Guillermo.

Hector jerked a thumb north. “Back on the trail. When we see his car leave and are sure he had no tails, we’ll come back to pick you up.”

“But why do we have to pay one of our own extra for the name?”

“You talk too much,” said Luis.

“He’s got to learn sometime,” said his brother, looking over his shoulder again. “We’re not paying him. The files on their confidential sources are sealed tighter than ever since that grand jury. He needs the money to bribe someone
else.
”

“I still can’t believe we have an informant in our family.”

“It’s the business we’ve chosen.”

The Mercedes rolled to a stop in a small clearing. Dragonflies, sun-bleached beer cans, a single sneaker in weeds.

Guillermo opened his door, filling the car with a blast of scorched air and the buzz of insects.

“We’ll be waiting for your call.” Hector reached for the gearshift.

The car’s horn suddenly blared. Solid.

“What on earth—” Luis looked toward his brother.

The inside of the driver’s windshield was splattered red, his brother facedown on the steering wheel. Luis spun toward the open back door. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

A pair of nine-millimeter rounds entered Luis’s forehead through the same hole.

Guillermo calmly placed the pistol back in his briefcase and walked around to the driver’s side. A dust cloud appeared in the distance as another Mercedes came up the road from the direction of the Tamiami. He opened Hector’s door and pulled him back by the hair. The horn stopped.

So did the second Mercedes.

Guillermo walked to the trailing vehicle and retrieved a gas can from the passenger seat.

“Remember to roll their windows down,” said the driver. “Those other fools left too much evidence when the fire suffocated itself from lack of air.”

Moments later, Guillermo climbed into the second car, which made a tight U in the clearing and drove back out the dirt road. Behind them, flames curled from open windows.

“The last people I would have expected,” said Guillermo. “Why would they turn on the family?”

“One of them did.”

“One?”

Juanita nodded. “Our informant couldn’t figure out which.”

“So you had me kill
both
your brothers?”

She smiled and patted his hand. “You’re a good boy, Guillermo.”

“Thank you, Madre.”

THE PRESENT

A ’73 Challenger raced up the strip.

Serge reached into a small drugstore shopping bag.

“Smelling salts?” asked Coleman.

“Explain later.” Serge removed a greeting card from the same bag. “Right now I must depend on your particular talents. Nearest liquor store?”

“Three hundred yards. Left one block, then right, north side of the street.”

He hit the gas.

“But, Serge, you don’t drink.”

The Challenger hung a hard left. “It’s not for me. It’s for one of Guillermo’s goons.”

“You’re buying one of his goons a drink?”

A skidding right turn. “Several.”

They dashed into the store. “Coleman, time’s of essence. Your expertise again—liquor store layout. Where’s the . . .”

Coleman quickly guided Serge to respective products on his mental list. They ran for the cash register with arms full of bottles.

Minutes later, the Challenger patched out of the parking lot.

“What’s the big rush?” asked Coleman.

“Pedro just made the TV news.”

“And?”

“So up to now we’ve had the advantage of them not knowing what we know. But as soon as Guillermo sees the news, he’ll realize they’ve been made. We already might be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“Before they have a chance to clear out, I’d like to thin the herd a little more and improve our odds.”

“How does all that liquor fit in?”

“It has to be a quick strike. I wanted to set up a series of levers, gears, bowling balls and axes on roller skates, but this is no time for fun. Had to think up something quick—that also
works
quick. Unfortunately, my plan leaves us trapped without escape from Guillermo’s murderous retaliation.”

“I usually prefer a way out of that.”

“Most people do, which is why I added liquor to the Master Plan’s cocktail. It simultaneously accomplishes both objectives: taking out the target and creating an escape clause.”

“How does it do that?”

“Through a potent mix of French cuisine and
The Simpsons.
”

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Twenty people with latex gloves walked extra slow, performing a grid search in the dirt and weeds around the charred carcass of a Mercedes.

Just another day in the Everglades.

“Looks like he picked up the shell casings.”

“Obviously knows what he’s doing. I’m guessing those windows weren’t originally rolled down in this heat.”

A cell phone rang.

“Ramirez here.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Calm down.” The agent walked to the side of the clearing for privacy. “Is the encryption box switched on?”

“How can you tell me to calm down at a time like this?” Patrick McKenna paced in front of the TV set in his Battle Creek living room with snowflakes on windowsills. “Have you seen the news? Prosecutor says they have to drop all charges.”

“The encryption box!”

“It’s on! Jesus!” McKenna paced the other way, past a televised press conference in the Miami sunshine. “You told me it was a done deal. They’d all go away for a long time.”

“Immunity’s still intact.” Ramirez paced behind a burnt-up car and wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything with your family.”

“One of the dead guys in the Everglades was your other witness, wasn’t he?”

No answer.

“Oh, my God! What am I going to do?” Children across the street stuck the carrot nose in a snowman. “. . . They’re going to find us, I just know it.”

“Listen very carefully. Nobody’s going to find anyone. You have my word.”

“I’ll bet your other witness had your word.”

“It was completely different with him.”

“Right, he’s dead.”

“No, I mean he wasn’t only a witness. He was a top member of their organization.”

“What’d you do, promise him the same sweet deal as me?”

“I had leverage. Caught him on his yacht, but that’s all I can say except we offered him life without parole or work with us.”

“I’m only a flight instructor. I wasn’t made for this.”

“Just hang in there.”

THE DUNES, ROOM 24

R
aul peeked out the curtains for the hundredth time. “What could have happened to Pedro?”

Miguel joined him at the window. “And when are those kids ever going to come back?”

“They’re not,” said Guillermo.

“How do you know?”

Guillermo watched TV. Live aerial footage from a helicopter hovering over the roof of a nearby motel, where cops clustered around a sheet-covered body. “We just found Pedro.”

Outside, Serge and Coleman ran up the concrete stairs and into room 25.

“Where the fuck have you been?” said Country.

“Booze run,” said Coleman, lining bottles on the counter.

“You left us bored in here while you were out having fun?”

“It’s not like that,” said Serge. “I’m working.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re working.”

“Trust me.” Serge uncapped bottles. “You won’t be bored for long.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Now’s not the time to argue. We still have a tiny advantage.”

“What are you, playing fort again?”

“Guillermo knows the kids were in room 24 from the class ring in the mail slot . . .”—uncapping more bottles—“. . . But like I told you before, he doesn’t know we also have
this
room—not yet. And when he does . . .“ Serge tossed his keys to City.”I parked the car in front of the convenience store at the end of this block. Wait for us there.”

“Another place to wait? And this time in the heat? Fuck that!”

“Please.” Serge pulled pliers from his pocket. “I’m thinking of your safety. And I’m taking a wild guess this will draw the cops.”

“Come on, Country.” City sneered at Serge as they headed for the door. “You owe us big-time.”

“Will you hurry?” Serge opened the rest of the bottles.

Other side of the wall: “How does that mean the kids aren’t coming back?” asked Miguel.

“I’ll speak slowly for you.” Guillermo grabbed his keys. “We’ve been identified. Apparently those kids aren’t as harmless as we’d thought.”

“Maybe they had help,” said Raul.

“Gee, you think?”

Guillermo went to the curtains for his own parking lot assessment.

“What do we do now?” asked Miguel.

“Clear out,” said Guillermo. “Who knows who’s involved? Maybe Andy’s not even here. We don’t know what he looks like. The feds could be using young undercovers as bait.”

“That class ring
was
kind of easy. You sure we can trust our inside guy?”

“Don’t talk anymore.” Guillermo grabbed the door handle. “I’ll get the car. Miguel, you do a final walk-around of the hotel for anything out of place. Raul, wipe the room for prints and meet us.”

Two men left and slammed the door. Raul grabbed a bath towel.

Room 25: Serge heard the door slam in the next room and peeked out the curtains. Guillermo and Raul trotted down the steps. They split up, Guillermo climbing into a Delta 88. Serge closed the curtains. “Excellent. We’re not late after all. And if Pedro’s count was correct, that leaves one.”

Serge ran for the bathroom.

Coleman strolled at a less purposeful pace. He looked down and saw legs across the floor.

“Serge, what are you doing under the toilet?” Serge adjusted pliers. “Killing the pressure feed. I need a dry tank and bowl.”

“Is this the
Simpsons
part?”

A twist on the pipe valve. “Just flush that, will you?”

Coleman hit the lever.

Swoosh.

Serge crawled back out and ran into the kitchenette. He wet paper towels under the faucet.

“What are you doing now?” asked Coleman.

“Need a total seal.” He crammed balls of wet paper down the drain. “Don’t want to trust the sink trap. Grab some bottles.”

Down in the parking lot, Guillermo kept checking his watch and glancing out the windshield at the second floor.

Miguel finished circling the motel and climbed in the passenger seat. “Nothing.”

“What the hell’s taking him so long?”

“Probably trying to do a good job.”

“He couldn’t find his own ass if he had three hands.” Another look at his watch. “You better go check.”

Miguel got out of the car and ran toward the stairs.

Room 25: Serge’s right ear was against the adjoining door to the next unit.

“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.

“Shhhhhh!” said Serge. “It’s falling in place just like I planned. They’re beginning to get sloppy.”

Serge pulled the .45 from his waist and silently opened the connecting door. Guillermo’s crew had failed to check the tandem door on their side, which was still unlocked from when Serge and the kids moved freely between the two rooms. He slowly turned the knob . . .

Outside, Miguel ran up the stairs and along the landing.

Serge crept quietly into room 24. Just ahead, Raul, with his back to him, rubbing the dresser with a towel. He never heard ginger footsteps from behind. The butt of the pistol came down.

Stars.

Serge grabbed Raul under the arms and dragged him into the other room. He closed the adjoining side door as Miguel opened the front one.

“
Raul? Where are you? . . .
”

“Coleman,” said Serge. “Hand me that bottle and my smelling salts. Here’s what I need you to do . . .”

Guillermo watched from the parking lot. Miguel went in . . . then came out. He leaned over the second-floor railing and lifted upturned arms in a haven’t-got-a-clue gesture.

“Unbelievable.” Guillermo hopped out and ran up the stairs to 24.

In 25, Serge’s ear was against the door again. Heavy footsteps. “Perfect. Lured them back into the room and away from the car, where they would have been able to intercept and retaliate.”

“Escape clause?” asked Coleman.

“The exit window won’t stay open long. We have to work fast.” Serge waved smelling salts under Raul’s nose. His woozy head snapped sideways. Another whiff of the salts, and he was back with the living. Raul felt something wet in his hair. He reached up with his hands.

“Don’t touch it.” Serge aimed his .45. “On your feet!”

“Who are you?”

“Pedro says, ‘Hi.’ Actually, he says,
‘Ahhhhhhhhh!
’”

“You’re so dead!”

“Someday,” said Serge. “Save me a seat.”

As previously instructed, Coleman walked behind their guest.

Raul glanced over his shoulder, then back at Serge. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Here’s a critical fact you need to remember,” said Serge. “No matter how much you panic, the closest source of water is the toilet.”

“Why do I need to know where water is?”

Guillermo raced around number 24.

“Sure he didn’t slip out without you seeing him?” asked Miguel.

“Positive. Never took my eyes off the room.” Guillermo opened the sliding glass door and looked down off the balcony. He came back in with a puzzled look. “What could have happened to him?”

“It’s like he vanished into thin air.”

On the other side of the wall, Serge tapped his nose. That was Coleman’s cue. He flicked a disposable lighter behind Raul and touched it to the Bacardi 151 in his hair.

Raul’s hands shot up. “
Aaaaaauuuuhhh!
I’m on fire! I’m on fire!”

“The toilet!” yelled Serge, pointing toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget the toilet!”

Raul ran by screaming.

“I love flamb—,” said Serge.

“But there isn’t any water in the toilet,” said Coleman. “You filled it with another bottle of one fifty-one.”

“Did I do that?”

“
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!
“ Raul came running out.”I’m more on fire! . . .”

Guillermo heard the hysterical screaming in Serge’s room. But then, there was even louder yelling from spring breakers in the unit on the other side.

“Guillermo . . . ,” said Miguel, picking up a towel dropped in front of the dresser.

“Quiet. I’m trying to think.” Guillermo slowly rotated. He stopped and stared at the adjoining door. “What is it?” asked Miguel. “The next room. That’s it.”

Guillermo ran over and opened the first door but the second was locked. He put his shoulder into it. The door gave slightly, but the deadbolt held. He hit it again.

“Serge,” said Coleman, watching Raul run in frantic circles, slapping the top of his head, “I think I hear someone trying to knock down that side door.”

“Right on schedule. This is going to be tight timing.” Serge grabbed Raul by the arm and pointed. “The sink! Water in the sink!”

Raul ran.

Coleman stepped up next to Serge and looked toward the kitchenette. “More one fifty-one?”

“That would be repetitive. One-ninety-proof grain alcohol.”

A shoulder hit the side door again.

Coleman looked at the ceiling. “Why aren’t the sprinklers going off?”

“He’s not staying in one place long enough, and alcohol burns at a low temperature,” said Serge. “But he still doesn’t like it.”

“
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!
More fire! . . .”

Another shoulder into the door. This time the frame began to fracture.

“The pool!” Serge pointed at the open sliding glass doors. “Water in the pool! You can make it!”

Raul dashed across the room and never broke stride as he dove off the balcony.

Serge and Coleman ran out and looked over the railing.

“Oooooh,” said Coleman. “He didn’t make it.”

Guillermo had given up on his shoulder and pulled a .380 automatic, preparing to shoot his way through.

Suddenly, even louder shrieking from some kind of pandemonium outside.

“Guillermo!” Miguel shouted from the balcony. “Come quick! The patio! I think I found him!”

Guillermo ran to the railing. People splashed water from the pool onto a smoldering Raul.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “The guy stopped trying to knock down the door.”

“Shhhhhh!” Serge counted under his breath. “Five, six, seven . . . They must be out on the balcony now, trying to figure where their pal fell from . . . Escape window just opened!”

They ran out the door and down the stairs. “I get the
Simpsons
part now,“ said Coleman.”Flaming Mo.”

Guillermo leaned over the balcony, tracing Raul’s flight trajectory up to the next room. “Miguel! Quick!” He ran back inside and unceremoniously shot the locks off the connecting door with excess ammunition.

They rushed inside. Empty but recently occupied.

Miguel fanned his nose. “Jesus, what is that smell?”

“Liquor.”

Another urgent room sweep. They checked the bathroom, closet, under beds. Then a second round. Guillermo ran past the TV and hit the brakes. He looked back. “Fuck me.”

“What is it?” asked Miguel.

They both looked on top of the television. A propped-up envelope. In big letters across the front: G
UILLERMO
.

He tore open the flap and pulled out a get-well card.