Authors: Tim Dorsey
GUILLERMO
B
ack in the nineties, Juanita was always taking in strays.
Young street boys looking for trouble.
She waited in a Mercedes outside the county jail.
Her extended family was growing in both size and loyalty. She should have been a psychiatrist.
Guillermo was barely eighteen when he finished a three-month stretch for petty larceny. He walked out the back of the jail with two plastic bags of personal junk and no direction.
Juanita rolled down her window. “You need a place to stay?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Whatever I tell you.”
He got in.
To the cast of surrogate sons, she was the mother they never had. To Juanita, it was business.
Guillermo quickly became her most valuable asset. Grooming time.
One Saturday afternoon, he sat alone watching TV in a Spanish stucco house south of Miami. The Mercedes returned from jail.
Juanita came through the front door. “Guillermo, this is Ricky.”
“Hey.”
She set her purse on the table and removed a blood-pressure gauge. “Ricky, come here.”
“What’s that for?”
“Just put out your arm.”
Juanita fastened Velcro and pumped a rubber bulb. She reached in her purse again and handed Ricky a nine-millimeter automatic with a full clip and an empty chamber.
“Guillermo, stand up.”
He did.
She turned to Ricky. “Shoot him.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Shoot him.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Shoot him.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“A test.”
Ricky aimed the gun with a trembling arm. Juanita checked the pressure gauge, needle spiking.
He dropped his arm. “I can’t do it.”
Juanita ripped the Velcro off. “Guillermo, come here.” She refastened the inflatable sleeve around his left arm, then turned her back to them, removing and replacing the clip. “Ricky might have just saved your life.”
Guillermo was confused.
She handed him the pistol. “Shoot him.”
“A test?”
She nodded.
Ricky got it now and smiled. No way the gun was loaded.
Guillermo took aim. The gauge’s needle hung steady at the low end. “One question, Madre.”
“What is it?”
“Did he pass the test?”
“He didn’t do what I asked.”
Bang.
The smile disappeared. Ricky looked down incredulously at the broadening stain in the middle of his chest.
A crash to the floor.
Juanita checked the gauge again. No movement. “Interesting. You can take that off now.”
Guillermo ripped it from his arm.
She stuck the gun back in her purse. “How do you feel?”
“Hungry.”
“Good boy. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
THE PRESENT
Luxury suite number 1563.
Near panic.
Students pounding beers as usual. Except this time it was self-medicating.
“You don’t know who this Serge character is?” said Spooge.
“Thought he was with you.”
“He’s not with us. I thought he was with you.”
“Holy God. Maybe everything he’s said is bullshit. Maybe
he’s
the killer.”
“But he left Panama City with us before that mess in our old room.”
“That just means he’s working with someone else. Remember, he’s the one who started all this talk about assassination.”
“Spooge is right. We never saw anyone in our room at the Dunes. He could have closed those curtains himself.”
“We’ve got to get out of here!”
They all jumped up at once, stuffing what was left of their luggage. Melvin walked out of the bathroom. “What’s going on?”
“We just realized nobody knows who Serge is.”
“I know Serge.”
They stopped and stared at Melvin.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“So you trust him?”
“It’s really my father who knows Serge.”
“But your dad will vouch for him, right?”
“My dad’s scared shitless of him.”
“Screw this. We’re out of here!”
“Why?” asked Melvin.
Joey said, “We think he might be the killer.”
“Serge?” said Melvin. “No way.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Serge may be a lot of things, but I guarantee he’s not the killer,” said Melvin. “Bet my life on it.”
The students half relaxed.
“Still feel better if we moved. I’m getting nervous staying in one spot so long.”
“I’m with Joey,” said Spooge. “Even if Serge is legit, those bodies in Panama City were for real.”
The other students picked up bags and headed for the door.
It flew open.
“Hey, everyone! I’m home!”
Serge strolled in with Coleman, City and Country. He headed for the coffee machine. “What’s with all the packed bags? You going somewhere?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Spooge. “I mean, we know you said to stay put, but we hadn’t heard anything from you in so long . . .”
“. . . That’s right,” continued Doogie. “Figured we’d use the time to pack and be ready when you said to split.”
“Excellent thinking,” said Serge. “In fact, we do need to roll.”
“When?”
“Immediately. I’ve made contact with the assassins and baited them, so they could be kicking in the door any second and spraying the place with bullets. We leave right after my coffee’s ready.”
They began to unravel again.
“Look on the bright side.” Serge poured water in the back of the machine. “We’re going to a most righteous place. It’ll be a blast!”
“Where?”
“Come on, use your brains. You can figure this out. Guillermo probably has.”
“Who’s Guillermo?”
“That will only upset you. Maybe you’ll meet him, maybe you won’t. But if you do, what good is it to die a thousand deaths in the meantime?”
“I feel faint.” Cody grabbed a chair.
“Remember I told you it’s all about history?” Serge switched the machine on. “We started in Panama City. Now we’re in Daytona. What’s the next logical progression? Anyone?”
They stared.
“The birthplace of spring break in America!” said Serge. “Guaranteed to be a killer!”
TAMPA BAY
T
he single-floor Rod and Reel Motel hangs on as one of the great old Florida holdouts, resting on the shore of Anna Maria Island, just inside the southern lip of the bay. A small seawall and narrow ribbon of white-sand beach . . .”
Agent Mahoney didn’t realize he was talking to himself, which meant off the meds.
“. . . Behind the motel stands a short, weathered fishing pier— also called the Rod and Reel—and at the end sits a small, boxlike, two-story wooden building. Run-down, in the good way. Its top floor houses a casual seafood restaurant. The bottom sells live shrimp from large, aerated tanks giving off that unmistakably salty bait-shop funk. Inside is a cozy, rustic bar. The doors stay open. And through the great tidal surges at the mouth of Tampa Bay come some of the largest fish in the world. Without this knowledge, it seems improbable that from the tiny pier, just a few swimming yards from shore, on June 28, 1975, a then-record 1,386-pound hammerhead shark was landed. The jaws used to hang on a plaque in the bar, but now they’re at a museum up the street . . .”
Mahoney sat on the wraparound deck behind the bar, the only person in a tweed coat and rumpled fedora.
He wasn’t shark fishing.
Wasn’t fishing at all, even though he had a pole and a line in the water. It was therapy. He was dangling for the natural approach because, like Serge, he found medication to be a thick glass wall between him and Florida. Mahoney removed his hat and relaxed on a splintered bench, casting his line again without design. “. . . And pelicans floated down by the pilings, hoping for toss-aways, as I absentmindedly bobbed my pole and scanned the wide, soothing view over water. Sunshine Skyway bridge in the distance, and Egmont Key in the middle of the mouth. The 1858 lighthouse still stood, but defensive fortifications from the Spanish-American War lay in ruins . . .”
Mahoney let a smile escape. Heart rate at a six-month low. His decade-long clinical obsession tracking Serge appeared to have gone latent. The detective was on indefinite sabbatical, with an open-ended reservation for room 3 of the Rod and Reel Motel.
D
O
N
OT
D
ISTURB
.
“. . . The sun tacked high at the hottest part of the day, and I retired to the bar. A trough of iced-down longnecks had my name. Nautical maps, oscillating fan, TV on a Weather Channel tornado report with overturned cars. Lacquered into the countertop were yellowed newspaper photos of anglers posing with catches . . .”
Mahoney chewed his toothpick and thumbed a morning paper. He reached the State section and read a lengthy wire report of the since-dubbed Spring Break Massacre in Panama City Beach. The toothpick went in the trash.
“So they threw the midget off the balcony,” he said ruefully. “Isn’t that how it always starts?”
A cell phone rang.
“Mahoney. Speak to me.”
“Mahoney? This is Agent Ramirez with the bureau.”
“To what do I owe the federal pleasure?”
“Just read your psychology article on profiling. Good stuff.”
“You must have a very old pile of magazines.”
“Found it on a computer search.”
“Search for what?”
“Serge.”
Mahoney winced.
“Hear what happened in Panama City?” asked Ramirez.
“Nasty business. Must have your hands full.”
“Interviewed all the guests and staff—almost everyone came up clean.”
“Almost?”
“One guy whose name wasn’t in the registration book turned up on a number of surveillance tapes around the same time. Our database got a six-point facial recognition match.”
“You’re not looking for Serge,” said Mahoney. “This isn’t his signature. Innocent kids, and he likes to get complex.”
“He was staying on the same floor at the same time. Then I saw his file . . .”—Ramirez whistled—“. . . subject of interest in at least two dozen homicides.”
“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong tree to bark at.”
“Still a coincidence we can’t ignore.”
“Anything from your credit card check?”
“What credit card check?”
“On the son of your protected witness.”
Silence.
“Hello?” said Mahoney. “You still there?”
“How’d you know?”
“Did the math. Pro hit, spring break, your job specialty. Adds up to trouble.”
“Card dead-ends at the Panama City motel. Hasn’t been used since, but he did pawn his class ring in Daytona. Tracked down his motel there—another uncanny coincidence.”
“Serge on security cameras?”
“And two more bodies.”
“Kids?”
“No, pros. Weird murders.”
“That’s more like Serge.”
“I need your help,” said Ramirez. “Anything you got on him.”
“You don’t have that much storage space.”
“Then just the latest. Here’s my e-mail . . .”
Mahoney jotted it down.
“One more thing,” said Ramirez. “Nobody else can know we talked or what you send me.”
“Informant?”
“You’re as good as I’d heard,” said Ramirez. “Someone else was asking around at the pawnshop before I got there.”
“Serge?”
“Don’t know. But the APB that turned up the sale of the class ring was for law enforcement eyes only.”
“That’s a rodent smell, all right.”
“Can I count on you?”
“Like blackjack.”
Agent Mahoney strolled off the pier and returned to his room. A vintage alligator briefcase sat on the dresser. Mahoney considered it for the longest time. Doubt. But he’d given Ramirez his word.
“I know I’m going to regret this . . .”
He flipped brass latches. Out came a laptop. He opened it and located a dedicated folder for Serge. The first item was a scanned Christmas message. The next two were digitized videos of commencement addresses—one at least a decade old from the University of South Florida, the other more recent. Mahoney involuntarily chuckled at the thought of the second. He’d practically fallen out of his chair when it first came in. Of all things, Serge delivering the graduation address at a kindergarten.
The agent attached them, plus lengthy data files, and sent the whole batch to Ramirez’s e-mail.
Then another long look at the gator-skin case. He reached in a back pocket and removed the original copy of the Christmas message: a greeting card with a barefoot Santa lying against a palm tree on the beach. Inside was a folded sheet of paper with single-spaced typing. Mahoney sat on the edge of the bed, slipped on bifocals and began reading . . .
December 25
Dear friends and enemies,
Season’s greetings! It’s me, Serge! Don’t you just hate these form letters people stuff in Christmas cards? Nothing screams “you’re close to my heart” like a once-a-year Xerox. Plus, all the lame jazz that’s going on in their lives. “Had a great time in Memphis.” “Bobby lost his retainer down a storm drain.” “I think the neighbors are dealing drugs.” But this letter is different. You
are
special to me. I’m just forced to use a copy machine and gloves because of advancements in forensics. I love those TV shows!
Has a whole year already flown by? Much to report! Let’s get to it!
Number one: I ended a war.
You guessed correct, the War on Christmas! When I first heard about it, I said to Coleman, “That’s just not right! We must enlist!” I rushed to the front lines, running downtown yelling “Merry Christmas” at everyone I saw. And they’re all saying “Merry Christmas” back. Hmmm. That’s odd: Nobody’s stopping us from saying “Merry Christmas.” Then I did some research, and it turns out the
real
war is against people saying “Happy holidays.” The nerve: trying to be inclusive. So, everyone . . .
Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Good times!
Soul Train!
Purple mountain majesties! The Pompatus of Love!
There. War over. And just before it became a quagmire.
Next: Decline of Florida Roundup.
—They tore down the Big Bamboo Lounge near Orlando. Where was everybody on that one?
—Remember the old “Big Daddy’s” lounges around Florida with the logo of that bearded guy? They’re now Flannery’s or something.
—They closed 20,000 Leagues. And opened Buzz Lightyear. I offered to bring my own submarine. Okay, actually threatened, but they only wanted to discuss it in the security office. I’ve been doing a lot of running lately at theme parks.
—Here’s a warm-and-fuzzy. Anyone who grew up down here knows this one, and everyone else won’t have any idea what I’m talking about: that schoolyard rumor of the girl bitten by a rattlesnake on the Steeplechase at Pirate’s World (now condos). I’ve started dropping it into all conversations with mixed results.
—In John Mellencamp’s megahit “Pink Houses,” the guy compliments his wife’s beauty by saying her face could “stop a clock.” Doesn’t that mean she was butt ugly? Nothing to do with Florida. Just been bugging me.
Good news alert! I’ve decided to become a children’s author! Instilling state pride in the youngest residents may be the only way to save the future. The book’s almost finished. I’ve only completed the first page, but the rest just flows after that. It’s called
Shrimp Boat Surprise.
Coleman asked what the title meant, and I said life is like sailing on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading and asked if a children’s book should have the word “motherfucker” eight times on the first page. I say, absolutely. They’re little kids, after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition . . . In advance: Happy New Year! (Unlike 2008—ouch!)
DAYTONA BEACH
Serge and the gang pulled out of town as a custom motor coach rolled in.
Male motorists honked at the bus, as they always did wherever it went, because of the topless women painted on the side with strategically positioned
CENSORED
labels.
Someone near the front of the bus hung up a phone and walked to the back. He knocked on the RV’s rear suite with circular bed.
Other side of the door: “Not now.”
“Sir, it’s important.”
The door opened a crack. Camera lights. Seventeen-year-olds. Rood stuck his head out. “Can’t it wait?”
“Sir, we’ve been sued again by parents. Ten million dollars. This time they said she was
six
teen.”
“So handle it like you always do.”
“Sir, that was Charley. He quit. Remember?”
“Bastard!” Rood fumed at the thought of his former chief assistant walking out in Panama City. “After all I did for him.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Rood looked back. “Guys, get the dildos.” He stepped outside and closed the door. “Offer five hundred thousand, the cost of doing business.”
“I don’t think they’ll take it. Pretty mad.”
“Their lawyer will get them to take it.”
“Their lawyer’s booked them on TV.”
“Everyone has a price,” said Rood. “You make an appointment to see him and negotiate.”
“But I’m not an attorney.”
“Not as a lawyer. A potential client.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s only going to get a third of the five hundred K we’re offering to settle for, which is why he won’t take it.” Rood lit a fat cigar. “So you say your company’s staff attorney is a fuck-up and you want to hire him on retainer. Million a year.”
“What does my company do?”
“I don’t give a shit. Widgets, copper mines.”
“But he won’t have any work to do.”
“He’ll know that.” Smoke rings drifted toward the ceiling. “It’s a legal bribe.”
The assistant coughed. “Isn’t that unethical?”
“That’s why it’ll work.”
“Won’t he wonder that I walked in out of the blue?”
“Tell him you admire his lawsuit—that you hate my guts and am glad to see I’m getting what’s due.” Another big puff. “Say you hope he can wrap up a settlement in my case fast, a week tops, because your company needs him available right away or you’ll have to go somewhere else.
Then
he’ll be ready to accept my lowball five hundred K offer.”
“He’ll buy that?”
“No, he’ll see right through it. But it’ll give him plausible deniability . . . Put out your hand.” The assistant did.
Rood tapped an ash into it. “Can’t fail.”
“But you don’t even know this guy.”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“What about the girl?”
“Fuck her.”
Squealing behind the suite’s door.
Rood grabbed the knob. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Filming continued as the bus pulled into the parking lot of a luxury resort.
“Here.” Rood handed the girls a presentation case. “Use the ben wa balls.”
Suddenly, a screeching of cars all around the bus. Loud voices.
“Cut!” yelled Rood. He left the suite and headed toward the front of the coach. “What the hell’s all that racket?”
“Sir,” said his assistant. “They’re here again.”
“Who is?”
They leaned toward side windows. Middle-aged women in the parking lot, waving picket signs and yelling.
“How’d they find us so fast?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Son of a bitch.” He turned to the driver. “Keep going.”
The bus pulled away from the hotel and headed south.