Authors: Tim Dorsey
PANAMA CITY BEACH
T
he lobby of the Alligator Arms was jammed and loud. Gal-vanized-steel parade barricades separated lines of students at the check-in.
Coleman dragged luggage and huffed. “What’s with the barricades?”
“A hint,” said Serge.
“About what?”
“If you ever want to be treated like shit by the hospitality industry, check into a spring break hotel. That’s why I booked four nights.”
“We’re staying that long?”
“No, the reservation is for four. But we’re only staying three.”
“Why?”
Serge nodded toward a sign: Checkout 8
A.M.
“Eight?” said Coleman. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“Welcome to Give-Us-Your-Money Town. Population: You suck.”
They eventually reached the desk. “Reservation, Storms, Serge.” He winked at Coleman. “Eight
A.M.
? Is that sign correct?”
The receptionist relished firing another routine bow shot. “Look, I got two hundred rooms and it’s the only way we can turn them around in time.”
“Really?” said Serge. “I’ve stayed in five-hundred-room Marriotts, and they seem to manage. But you must know better, because the pay at a dump like this can only attract the best and brightest.” A grin.
Glare in return. “Fill out this form. And we need a twenty-dollar deposit for the phone.”
“But you have my credit card.”
“We need cash.”
“Can I get a receipt for the deposit?”
“Don’t have any.”
“What a shock.” Serge scribbled a false address, then tapped the desk with his pen. “I don’t remember my license plate. Sheraton lets me slide with just the make and model. Is it okay?”
“No.”
“That was a test.” Serge leaned over and scribbled. “I know my plate number.”
“Test?”
“Quality check to ensure no leaks in your exquisite business model: Making us feel like family . . . the Gambino family.” Another grin.
The receptionist’s face turned bright red. “Your keys!” Slapped on the counter.
Serge grabbed them and raised his video camera. “I’m shooting a documentary. May I capture the recreational rudeness that is the high-water mark of your existence?”
“No! Turn that off!”
“More! . . .” Serge beckoned with his free hand. “Give me more!”
“Turn that thing off right now!”
Serge raised a clenched fist. “Now with feeling!”
“I said turn that goddamn thing off!”
“Excellent!” Serge lowered the camera and gave her another iridescent grin. “You take the ‘service’ out of ‘customer service.’”
They hit their fifth-floor unit.
Coleman dropped bags. “It’s huge.”
“I got the one-bedroom suite. You snore . . . Here, take this.”
“Another video camera?”
“I picked up a second for you to film the ‘making of’ documentary. Can you handle that responsibility?”
“Which way does it point?”
Unloading routine: Serge with his usual electronic gadgets, souvenirs and weapons. Coleman’s paraphernalia: an endless assortment of clips, glass tubes, circular metal screens and hypodermic needles.
Serge stared at the last items. “Coleman, please tell me you’re not riding the white pony.”
“Heck no. That’s dangerous.” He pulled something else from his bag.
“Oven mitts?”
“Needles and oven mitts are the cornerstones of commercial-grade partying.”
Serge darted one way with a small zippered bag, and Coleman went another for the TV. He pointed the remote and channel-hopped, stopping on a beach backdrop.
“Hey, Serge, look! It’s that cool new show
Ocean Cops.
” Coleman got an odd sensation. He looked at the television, then off the balcony. “I think they’re filming here . . . Yeah, they’re definitely filming here. Just said on the screen, ‘Spring Break Special, Panama City Beach.’”
Serge hung a tri-fold toiletry bag in the bathroom. “What’s happening?”
“Some unconscious guy on a raft is drifting out to sea.”
“Sure it’s not you?”
Coleman looked down at the front of himself. “Pretty sure.” He wandered onto the balcony for a joint break. He raced back in. “Serge! Come quick! There’s so much tits and ass you can’t see the sand!”
“It’s spring break.” Serge organized dental-care products and plugged in his rechargeable razor.
“Something’s going on,” said Coleman. “They’re throwing this little guy around.”
“How little?”
“Pretty little.”
“Is he wearing a crash helmet?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the midget.”
“Midget?”
“High-society tradition that started in Australia.”
“Why do they throw midgets?”
“Sometimes for distance, sometimes style points, like when they’re covered with Velcro and stick to walls.“ Serge joined him on the balcony.”Or greased up for bowling lanes.”
Coleman leaned over the railing. “Looks like they’re just tossing him around the sand.”
“Because the legislature intervened.”
“
Legislature?
Are you just making up words now to fuck with me?”
“In 1989, we became the first state in the union to ban midget tossing.” Serge uncapped a water bottle. “Bunch of people thought, it’s about time. Finally, Florida’s forward-thinking . . .”
“Serge, cops are moving in with riot shields.”
“. . . But those of us who live here know the truth. It wasn’t legal foresight; they were simply forced to extinguish another wildfire weirdness outbreak.”
“What does it have to do with him being out on the beach?”
“Because of that law, he can’t work anymore except on the sly . . .”
“Ooooooh, the little dude just bounced off a shield.”
“. . . So he’s forced to strike out on his own in public venues like street musicians.”
“You don’t mean—”
“That’s right.” Serge nodded solemnly. “The Wildcat Midget.”
Down on the shore, a TV correspondent worked quickly with a brush. “How’s my hair?”
Thumbs-up from the cameraman. He gave a silent countdown with his fingers.
“Good afternoon. This is Meg Chambers, reporting live from spring break in Panama City Beach. Homelessness is a difficult life, particularly for dwarfs, who are often driven into the midget-tossing trade for spare change and leftover pizza. As you can see behind me, local police are continuing their crackdown on the controversial sport, which has drawn mixed reactions from the midget-advocate community . . .” The camera swung left, where a tiny person in a helmet was handcuffed, to loud jeers from students. “It looks like they’ve again arrested local favorite Huggy ‘Crash’ Munchausen . . . Let’s see if I can get a word . . .” She stepped forward as police led him by. “Crash, anything to say to our viewers?”
“It’s a victimless crime. Why not legalize and tax it?” Police hustled him into a squad car.
The reporter turned back to the camera. “Victimless crime? You be the judge! . . . This is Meg Chambers reporting for Eyewitness Close-Up Action News Seven.”
The cameraman signaled they were clear.
She threw the microphone down in the sand. “I got a master’s for this shit?”
The correspondent stormed past Serge and Coleman.
BOSTON
A United 737 from Miami landed in a light dusting of New England snow at Logan International.
Two case agents walked purposefully through the terminal.
“We’re all FBI,” said Ramirez. “Do we not talk to each other anymore?”
“How were they supposed to know who he was?” said his partner.
“What an unbelievable cluster-fuck,” said Ramirez.
A local junior agent met them at baggage claim. He went to shake hands but saw that wasn’t happening. “Awfully sorry. Just want you to know everything’s under control now.”
“Everything
was
under control.”
Their unmarked sedan sped south to Dorchester and pulled up in front of an older, two-story brick house surrounded by field agents, TV crews and satellite trucks. A sniper stood on the roof behind a chimney.
Ramirez took a deep breath and massaged his forehead. “Is this what goes for ‘under control’ up here?”
Sedan doors opened. An armored van screeched up. G-men sprinted across a brown lawn as TV lights came on. A correspondent broadcast live to lead the six o’clock.
“. . . Tom, we have yet to learn exactly what’s happening, but something major has developed at the home of hero Patrick McKenna, now swarming with FBI . . .”
Moments later, the front door flew open. A ring of agents circled a man in a Kevlar vest and rushed him toward the curb.
“. . . Tom, I think it’s our hero now, but I can’t be sure because of the coat over his head . . . Let me see if we can get a closer look . . .”
The feds ran for a dozen government vehicles lining the street, assembling a protective convoy. They shoved Patrick in the van, and a shielding agent jumped on top of him.
“Mr. McKenna, how does it feel to be a hero? . . .”
The motorcade took off.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
C
oleman trudged through sand, toting a plastic convenience store bag. “We missed the midget riot.”
“There’ll be others.” Serge’s eyes stayed on the viewfinder as he filmed continuously, the only person on the beach with a cup of coffee.
They reached the advertising. Twenty-foot inflatable suntan lotion bottles and promotional booths for energy drinks. Army recruiters had set up an obstacle course, where drunk students fell from rope ladders. Closer to shore, navigation became tricky with the growing concentration of bodies on blankets.
“
Hey, watch it, asshole!
”
A Frisbee glanced off Coleman’s head. “Ow.”
“One of nature’s awesome mating spectacles.” Serge stopped and panned. “This shames any salmon run.”
“I hear a loudspeaker.” Coleman turned in a circle. “Where’s it coming from?”
“Over there.” He gazed several hundred yards up the beach at a massive stage with scaffolds and amps. “A free concert from MTV.”
“You mean the channel that doesn’t play music?”
“That’s the one,” said Serge. “MTV has become the pork and beans of television.”
“What do you mean?”
“You buy a can of pork and beans, getting all excited about upcoming pork, and then you open the can and go, ‘What the fuck?’ So you poke around and the only thing you find is a single, nasty-ass slime cube from a liposuction clinic. I wouldn’t even mind that if they’d just be straight and call it what it is on the label.”
“Who would buy ‘nasty-ass slime cube and beans’?”
“Me,” said Serge. “Just to taste truth.”
Coleman peeked back and forth, then furtively popped a can of Schlitz inside his convenience store bag. Another suspicious glance. He raised the bag to his mouth and chugged.
“What are you doing?” asked Serge.
“Not getting arrested.”
“Coleman, look around.”
He did. “Serge, everyone’s drinking openly. How can that be possible?”
“It’s not only possible, it’s encouraged.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“That’s the core history of spring break I was telling you about.” Serge filmed a beer-bong contest. “When I mentioned that communities alternately welcome and reject students, their chief tool is the alcohol-on-the-beach policy: either look the other way or crack down like Tiananmen Square. And right now, Panama City Beach is the most party-friendly town in Florida, maybe the whole United States.”
Coleman stopped and placed a reverent hand over his heart. “I’m never, ever leaving this place.”
“We’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“There’s more?”
“You have no idea.”
Coleman discarded the plastic bag and carried the six-pack by his side. “Wait up.”
Serge approached a group of students tanning beneath a giant Georgia Bulldogs flag.
“Howdy!” Serge drained the foam coffee cup and aimed his camcorder.
Coleman: “Check out the chicks’ butts! . . . Ooooh, don’t feel good . . .”
An engineering major stood. “You guys from
Girls Gone Haywire?
”
“No,” said Serge. “I’m from the Florida Betterment Coalition of One, and my friend”—he gestured at Coleman, on all fours, burying his puke in the sand—“is working on his thesis.”
“What’s his freakin’ problem?”
“A special case I’ve been studying for years,” said Serge. “Coleman’s the only human afraid of vacuum cleaners.”
The student gave him a condescending up-and-down appraisal. “What the hell do you want?”
“Just a few questions for my documentary on the zeitgeist of today’s top scholars. Number one: pork and beans. Your thoughts?”
“Get lost!”
“I’m already lost. In my love of history! Did you know Colgate University started spring break in 1935?”
“Want to move along or be hurt?”
“That’s an easy one. Come on, Coleman . . .
Coleman?
”
Serge wandered the beach. “Coleman! . . . Where are you? . . .”
He came across a group of Yale premeds standing in a circle, looking down. Conversation in the back row:
“Amazing . . .”
“Some kind of genius . . .”
“Probably has a chair at MIT . . .”
Serge tapped a shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“This guy’s teaching us thermodynamics of maintaining proper beer temperature.”
Serge cupped his hands around his mouth. “Coleman!”
“Is that you, Serge?”
“Excuse me,” said Serge. “Mind if I slip through?”
He reached the inner circle. Coleman was on his hands and knees again, sand flying out between his legs as he rapidly dug a hole like a Labrador retriever. “. . . It’s best to start below the mean high-tide mark, then excavate until you reach the water table . . .”
“But what about our coolers?”
“Sun’s too hot out here,” said Coleman. “Wet sand is a better insulator. Someone hand me a sixer . . .”
A student complied. Coleman crammed it in the hole. “If you plan on power-partying into the late afternoon, insulation technique is absolutely critical.”
“Thanks, mister. Any other advice?”
Coleman scratched his crotch in thought. “Well, you got any events back up north where they allow coolers but not alcohol?”
“Yeah,” said a sophomore. “We try to hide the booze in plastic soft drink bottles, except they always catch us.”
“That never works.” Coleman stood. “What you want to do is get a clear liquor—vodka, gin—pour it into a strong Ziplock bag, then freeze the sack inside a block of ice.”
Serge filmed as Coleman was rewarded with a hearty round of back slaps and all the beer he could carry.
“I’m never leaving this town.”
DINNERTIME
A triangle bell rang.
Men came inside the stucco house south of Palmetto Bay.
A full-course meal awaited on the cedar table. Place settings precise as usual, except this time each also had a one-way plane ticket to Boston under the fork.
After saying grace and passing bowls, Juanita poured sangria for Guillermo. “You’re a good boy.”
“Thank you, Madre.”
“So Randall Sheets now calls himself Patrick McKenna?”
Guillermo mixed beans and rice on his plate. “Yes, Madre.”
Juanita smiled. “It only took fifteen years.” She reached into her apron and handed him a single-page computer printout. “From our private investigator. Those are the addresses of his home and business, plus vehicle information.”
They ate faster than normal because of flight departure.
At the front door, Guillermo gave Juanita a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call as soon as we know something.”
She waved as the car pulled out of the driveway. “Be safe.”
NEW ENGLAND
A highway sign with a pilgrim’s hat went by. The Mass Pike.
The government convoy remained in tight formation.
“Get off me!” yelled Patrick McKenna.
“It’s okay,” said the case supervisor. “You can release him now.”
The shielding agent got up.
Patrick pushed himself off the van’s floor and pulled the coat from his head. “Was that really necessary?”
“Was it necessary for you to go on TV in front of the whole world?” asked a Boston agent.
“Why are you talking to him?” said Ramirez. “It’s not his job to know
your
job.”
“You Miami hotshots fucked this whole thing up.”
“Mother—”
Everyone blew. A loud, overlapping, profanity-laced exchange.
“Hey,” said Patrick. “Guys.”
Nonstop yelling.
Then, uncharacteristically: “Everyone! Shut up!”
They all stopped and looked at their star witness. “Sorry,” said Patrick. “But what about my son?”
“You have a son?” asked a Boston accent.
Ramirez shook his head. “Typical you didn’t know.” The Florida agent placed a reassuring hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “We’re taking care of him.” Then, with an edge of sarcasm, “Someone had to.”
“This isn’t going anywhere,” said the ranking Boston agent. “Let’s start over from right now. Status on the son?”
“My people should have arrived at the college the same time we got to Dorchester,” said Ramirez. He opened an encrypted cell phone. “I’ll check in—probably already have the son and are on their way back to meet us now . . .”