Electric Barracuda (3 page)

Nearby:

No trace of the historic Big Bamboo Lounge, leveled and paved for retail space.

Near that:

A SWAT team monitored a lamp in a window. The parking lot was empty except for a sleek black car at the other end. With all the streetlights off, nobody had noticed it before, but someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“How long has
he
been there?” asked White.

“Who?”

The agent pointed. “Beemer.”

“Not sure,” said Lowe. “Car was already there when we arrived. I think.”

“Some surveillance work.”

Lowe raised his night goggles toward the vehicle. “Looks like he’s got some kind of camera with a long lens. Who can he be?”

Mahoney replaced his toothpick with a wooden matchstick. “Smart money’s a gumshoe.”

“What?”

“Dick, peeper, shamus, sleuth, whore hound, private eye.”

The man in the Beemer set his camera on the passenger seat and got out of the car. Tall, trim, brown leather jacket. He took a step toward the last motel room . . .

“Whoa.” Lowe lost his squat-balance and banged against a fender.

The Beemer’s driver noticed the SWAT team for the first time, then pretended not to. He leaned against his car, lighting a cigarette in a theatrical display of no intentions. Headlights hit his face.

A Cadillac Eldorado pulled into a parking slot five spaces down.

White shook his head. “Now who the hell’s
that
?”

Mahoney dabbed humidity off his forehead with a strip-club cocktail napkin. “The Mystery Man.”

“Mystery Man?” said White.

“There’s always a Mystery Man.”

“What’s he do?”

“Reveals himself later.”

Another car pulled into the lot, this one with headlights already off. It parked halfway between the other vehicles and the SWAT team. A woman behind the wheel of a turquoise T-Bird.

“Lowe,” said White. “What did you do, call a convention?”

Without turning her head, the T-Bird woman looked sideways toward the Mystery Man, whose eyes darted between the woman and the private eye, who watched them both and glanced at the SWAT team, which rotated surveillance among all three cars and the lamp in the window . . .

S
erge sat at the motel room’s desk. Combed hair still wet from a shower. Lightweight tropical shirt with pineapples. Loaded .45 next to the lamp. Coffee mug. The desk had an ashtray under one of its legs to stop a wobble.

Clattering keyboard.

Coleman pulled up a chair. “Typing on your new laptop?”

“Well, not
mine
. But same difference.”

“What are you writing?”

“A rap song.”

“Why are you writing a rap song?”

“For my new website.”
Tap, tap, tap.
“If I want my specialty Florida tours to go global, I’ll need the hip-hop vote.”

“What kind of new website?”

“Remember the old one I launched after visiting that Lynyrd Skynyrd bar in Jacksonville?”

“Yeah, you had to start your own because the other sites didn’t like your reports telling tourists which hookers to trust . . .”

“. . . And how to take evasive, controlled-spin maneuvers during bump-and-jump carjackings.”

“The people need to know,” said Coleman, pointing a joint for emphasis.

Serge tapped keys rapidly. “That’s why I’m taking it to the next level.”

“But, Serge, how is that even possible?”

“I’m adding theme vacations.”

“Like theme parks.”

“Except without the parks.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Florida
is
a theme park,” said Serge. “And the theme is weirdness.”

“So that’s what’s going on out there.”

“My first theme vacation: the ‘tourist fugitive.’ You come down here and pretend to be on the lam.”

“Where’d you get the idea?”

“Schwarzenegger’s movie
Total Recall.
” Serge uploaded a digital photo. “Science-fiction thriller in the next century, where Arnold takes a vacation to Mars, and the travel agency gives him the option of just a regular trip or a theme. And the theme he chooses is secret agent.”

Painful moans and panting from behind. Coleman turned around. “I think he’s unhappy.”

“I love chemical reactions.” More typing. “Especially counter-intuitive ones. Now pay attention.”

Coleman faced the screen again.

“Florida is Fugitive Central,” said Serge. “A single crackdown in 2008 called Operation Orange Crush netted two thousand five hundred outlaws, which conservatively extrapolates to at least a hundred thousand more left at large. That’s one for every three neighborhood blocks, and I like to drive around, trying to guess which one and question them.”

“What do they say?”

“Most just run off, which means I’m guessing right.”

“Why do so many fugitives come here?” asked Coleman.

“We’ve got everything a murderous desperado could want: great weather, cool drinks, a million trailer parks, plus pharmacies and bank branches on every corner. Those qualities also attract retirees, often to the same place, in a naturally occurring sitcom.”

The desk wobbled; Serge’s foot scooted the ashtray back under the leg.

“What are those pictures?”

Serge scrolled down the laptop screen. “A mug shot rogues’ gallery of Florida fugitives. Ma Barker, Bundy, Cunanan, Wuornos and so many lesser maniacs they don’t even make the fine print.”

“Why not?”

“Florida’s the perfect camouflage,” said Serge. “Up in Middle America, even one of our low-profile whack jobs would stick out like Pamela Anderson bronco-riding a UFO. A minimum of fifty calls to the cops. But down here we’re so over-saturated with hard-core street freaks that everyone energetically ignores them. We don’t
want
to notice and report each strangeness flare-up, or we’d totally cease to be able to run errands.”

“I saw a guy this morning eating ants,” said Coleman. “Big red ones, just squashing them with his thumb on the sidewalk.”

Serge coded up a Web link. “The public will never stop thanking me for this vacation.”

Coleman pointed. “What’s that?”

“Aerial view of the eastern Kissimmee strip. My first fugitive stop.”

“But why would regular people want to pretend to be on the run in the first place?”

“Because it’s the best way to experience the finest parts of our state, which is the underbelly. They’ll naturally resist at first, but once people are forced to taste our underbelly, they won’t be able to get enough.”

“Underbelly’s good?”

“The waiting lines are shorter,” said Serge. “Second, it forces you off the tourist-brochure grid and into the woodwork, where all the best shit is. Third, hiding out is a blast—think of all the chuckles we’ve had in seedy motel rooms.”

Coleman looked back at the moaning hostage. “I see what you mean.”

“Wish he’d pipe down.”

“I don’t think he can help it.”

“Because he’s one of those worrying types:
Oooo, look at me. I’m all tied up. This crazy guy’s going to do something bad.
They don’t realize how uneasy they make everybody around them with that kind of victim mentality.” Serge clicked open some text on his laptop. “On the other hand, he’s the perfect audience to test out my new rap song.”

“You finished it?”

“The chorus is two-part harmony, so I’ll need your help.” Serge pulled up lyrics on the computer screen. Coleman read the song. “Where are my lines?”

“After I sing each verse, we alternate. I marked our respective parts with an
S
and a
C
in parentheses.”

“Which am I?”

“
C
, for cogent.”

Serge found an audio file in the computer and killed the equalizer on the vocals, creating a karaoke version. The music started.

“What’s that?” asked Coleman.

“Flo-Rida.”

“Who?”

“Our homegrown favorite-son rap hero. Even has a map of the state tattooed like a beast on his back.”

The tempo picked up. Serge cranked the volume. He grinned at the gagged hostage. “I think you’ll love this, but give me the honest truth. Don’t be swayed by the ropes and duct tape.”

Coleman finished reading the lyrics. “I think I’m ready.”

Serge cleared his throat. “From the top . . .”

The music blared, and the pair began lunging toward the captive with gang-style hand gestures.

I’m Captain Florida, the state history pimp

Gatherin’ more data than a DEA blimp

West Palm, Tampa Bay, Miami-Dade

Cruisin’ the coasts till Johnny Vegas gets laid

Developer ho’s, and the politician bitches

Smackin’ ’em down, while I’m takin’ lots of pictures

Hurricanes, sinkholes, natural disaster

’Scuse me while I kick back, with my View-Master

(S:) I’m Captain Florida, obscure facts are all legit

(C:) I’m Coleman, the sidekick, with a big bong hit

(S:) I’m Captain Florida, staying literate

(C:) Coleman sees a book and says, “Fuck that shit”

Ain’t never been caught, slippin’ nooses down the Keys

Got more buoyancy than Elián González

Knockin’ off the parasites, and takin’ all their moola

Recruiting my apostles for the Church of Don Shula

I’m an old-school gangster with a psycho ex-wife Molly

Packin’ Glocks, a shotgun and my 7-Eleven coffee

Trippin’ the theme parks, the malls, the time-shares

Bustin’ my rhymes through all the red-tide scares

(S:) I’m the surge in the storms, don’t believe the hype

(C:) I’m his stoned number two, where’d I put my hash pipe?

(S:) Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas

(C:) Tequila, no employment and a bag of grass

Think you’ve seen it all? I beg to differ

Mosquitoes like bats and a peg-leg stripper

The scammers, the schemers, the real estate liars

Birthday-party clowns in a meth-lab fire

But dig us, don’t diss us, pay a visit, don’t be late

And statistics always lie, so ignore the murder rate

Beaches, palm trees and golfing is our curse

Our residents won’t bite, but a few will shoot first

Everglades, orange groves, alligators, Buffett

Scarface, Hemingway, an Andrew Jackson to suck it

Solarcaine, Rogaine, eight balls of cocaine

See the hall of fame for the criminally insane

Artifacts, folklore, roadside attractions

Crackers, Haitians, Cuban-exile factions

The early-bird specials, drivin’ like molasses

Condo-meeting fistfights in cataract glasses

(S:) I’m the native tourist, with the rants that can’t be beat

(C:) Serge, I think I put my shoes on the wrong feet

(S:) A stack of old postcards in another dingy room

(C:) A cold Bud forty and a magic mushroom

Can’t stop, turnpike, keep ridin’ like the wind

Gotta make a detour for a souvenir pin

But if you like to litter, you’re just liable to get hurt

Do ya like the MAC-10 under my tropical shirt?

I just keep meeting jerks, I’m a human land-filler

But it’s totally unfair, this term “serial killer”

The police never rest, always breakin’ in my pad

But sunshine is my bling, and I’m hangin’ like a chad