Electric Barracuda (32 page)

What were they doing? He had to get closer.

Murphy slithered a few more yards and crouched. Practically under their noses. Normally, they would have spotted him except for the heavy, ground-level cloud seeping across the swamp. But that worked two ways: Murphy still couldn’t see clearly. And he couldn’t risk getting any closer.

Then he noticed a large cypress with a thick trunk for cover. Definitely near enough to the action. Only one problem: The tree stood across a brief open stretch of bright mist. It would only take a few seconds, but he’d be completely exposed.

Murphy got ready to spring five times. And pulled back five times. Heart pounding.

He closed his eyes, summoning will. When he opened them, all four men had their backs toward him.

He went for it.

A shovel stopped. “What was that?”

A second shovel stilled. “What?”

“I just heard something.”

“There’s all kinds of stuff out here.” The shovel went back into the ground. “Probably a toad.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t a toad. Someone’s out there.”

“Your imagination’s getting the best of you. Now get back to work. You want to be out here all night?”

Murphy was on his knees, peeking around the trunk. There was the lantern and jackets neatly hung from a tree, and shoulder holsters across perspiration-drenched shirts. His eyes went down to the ground.

“Oh my God!” He covered his mouth.

Murphy wasn’t that crazy. He immediately realized what he saw carried a death sentence: I have to get out of here.

His brain raced: Just stay calm and reverse the process, and you’ll be safe back at the car in no time. The first careful move was to turn around into a branch that broke off with a crack like a rifle shot.

All shovels stopped. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that.”

“Shit,” said Murphy. He took off with abandon.

A fog-encased figure ran across the clearing.

“There he is!”

“Get him!”

Shovels fell. Pistols flew from holsters.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

Back at the lodge, the crew filling bottles from Murphy’s car stopped and looked toward the swamp. Funny they hadn’t noticed any double-crossers being marched off to the gator holes.

Bang, bang, bang, bang . . .

Capone came out the back door. “What’s all that shooting?” He grabbed a moth and ate it.

Murphy crashed through palmettos and thickets, mindless of noise, bullets whistling by his ears and slamming into trees. He could see the lodge. If he could only . . .

A bullet grazed his shoulder. He grabbed it on the run and looked at his hand. Blood.

Bang, bang, bang . . .

Another slug zipped through the fog without hitting anything in the woods. It shattered a bottle of hooch held by one of the guys at the car. They all hit the ground.

Murphy exploded out of the brush and dove onto the dirt near them.

“What’s going on out there?” said the one still holding the neck of the broken bottle.

“I don’t know,” said Murphy. “I was just taking a whiz when suddenly all this shooting started.”

“Your arm’s bleeding.”

“The gunfire made me jump. I scraped it on a tree.”

Four men burst into the clearing behind the lodge. They looked toward the bottle-filling detail flat on the ground.

“See anyone come out of the woods?”

“Nobody . . . Just Murphy. He was taking a leak.”

They turned toward the back steps, where Capone was now surrounded by bodyguards and two lieutenants.

“Someone’s out there,” said one of the foursome in soaked shirts. “I think they saw us.”

A lieutenant stepped forward. “Did you finish?”

“No, we ran after him.”

“Get back out there and finish!”

The other lieutenant opened the screen door and yelled orders into the lodge. More men came pouring down the steps. These had machine guns. They fanned out into the swamp.

Murphy got up. “Done unloading?”

The bottle guys nodded.

“Then I better be getting back.”

He jumped in his car, and took off down the Loop Road.

Present

Serge and Mikey climbed down the water tower.

“That was close,” said Coleman.

Serge examined the short length of chewed-through strap attached to Mikey’s back. He handed it to Coleman. “Hold this tight and don’t let go for anything.” Serge trotted off.

“Ow.” Coleman rubbed his shin and called down from the shell mound: “What are you doing?”

“Checking with the dockmaster.” Serge reached the pier. “Need some supplies.”

Twenty minutes later, they were all down by the water. Serge screwed a steel clamp shut. “That should do it.”

They headed back to the bar, Mikey leading the way again, this time on the end of a chain composed of thick, welded links with anti-corrosion coating used in marinas.

Coleman huffed up the shell mound. “Looks like one of the leashes people use to walk giant pit bulls.”

“Except those don’t have to be as strong.”

They reclaimed their original stools. A new guest sat just to their left, wearing an ensemble of the most expensive yachting attire. Plowing through his third Johnnie Walker Black.

Serge nodded politely as he climbed back on his seat. “Evening.”

An untanned, manicured hand extended his way. “Name’s Hunter. Hunter Bleadoph.”

They shook. “Serge. Serge Storms.” Thinking: Where have I heard that name before?

“Great joint,” said Hunter, snapping his fingers at the bartender and pointing down to an empty glass.

“So, Hunter,” said Serge. “What brings you to these parts?”

“I’m hiding out.”

Serge smiled at Coleman.

Hunter’s refill came. “No bullshit. Who’s going to find us here?”

“That’s what I said.” Serge ordered another bottle of water. “Trouble with the law?”

“You could put it that way.”

“Who are you hiding from? Feds? State? Local heat?”

“Reporters.” Hunter took a belt of scotch.

“Reporters?” said Serge.

“My company flew down from New York for a training seminar.”

“What are you training for?”

“We’re not.” Hunter laughed. “That’s just on paper for the government. I’m really here for a kick-ass vacation!”

“Bleadoph,” said Serge. “Now I remember: You’re the head of that troubled financial group, GUE. Got like seventy billion in bailout money.”

“Eighty.” Hunter smiled. “That’s why we have to hide out and keep a low profile. The last couple of junkets, reporters swarmed all over the place, running stories on TV about our presidential suites, five-hundred-dollar-a-day room service, Dom Pérignon and ice-packed lobsters we had FedEx’d up from the Keys.”

“You were persecuted,” said Serge.

“Tell me about it.” Hunter swirled his drink. “They all falsely reported that the taxpayers were springing for our luxury getaways, when nothing could be further from the truth.”

“What is the truth?”

“The bailout money was kept completely separate, not a penny spent on lavish perks,” said Hunter. “We made absolutely sure of that and scrupulously accounted for where every last tax dollar went.”

“Where did it go?”

“Executive bonuses. And then the press had a problem with
that
.”

“Don’t they know anything?” said Serge.

“Exactly,” said Hunter. “They’re journalists, but
we’re
the businessmen. And we know how to run a business.”

“How
do
you run your business?”

“Move money from point A to point B.”

“That’s it?”

“Then move it back. You should see our homes.”

“But how does that produce anything of value?”

“It doesn’t.” Hunter crunched a scotch-covered ice cube. “That’s the whole idea. We finally perfected a business model that’s pure profit.”

“Amazing.” Serge whistled. “How’d you come up with that?”

“Here’s a crash course in the economy,” said Hunter. “Americans get up each morning and go to factories and farms and fire stations and work their whole lives, creating actual products you can hold in your hands. Or some service that benefits. I mean, what the fuck’s that about?”

“Work isn’t good?”

“It’s the damn workers who crashed the economy.”

“I thought it was you,” said Serge.

“Don’t be a comedian.” Hunter started counting off on his fingers. “They lost their retirement accounts, their mortgages, their homes, even their jobs. Can’t these assholes do anything right?”

“You on the other hand?”

“We ended up with all the cash. And then the people turned to the government and went, ‘Holy shit! What happened to all our goddamn money? Do something!’ So the government takes even more money from the workers and—this part is absolutely priceless—they give it all to us again! Now you tell me who’s the success story.”

“But what’s so hard about accepting free money?”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking when half the country screamed, ‘I’ll kick your fucking ass if you give me health care!’ ”

“Sounds too good for words,” said Serge.

“It’s good enough for one word,” said Hunter. “Socialism.”

Serge pounded the bar with his fist. “Fuck socialism.”

“Don’t say that!” Hunter took a swig. “I
love
socialism.”

“You do?”

Hunter nodded hard. “Finest word in the English language. Just mention socialism, and everyone gets blinded by rage, takes their eyes off us and prints up T-shirts that insult the president.” Bleadoph raised his hands toward the ceiling in exultation. “Thank God he was elected!”

“Forgive my ignorance,” said Serge, “but weren’t the bailouts socialism?”

Hunter shook his head. “It’s only socialism if the money goes down, not up.”

“A toast,” said Serge. “To socialism!”

“To socialism!”

A glass of scotch tapped a plastic bottle.

“Enough about me,” said Hunter. “What do you do?”

“Well, I work—”

“Hold a sec.
Work?
”

“Not to fear,” said Serge. “I don’t actually produce any goods or services.”

“Whew! You had me worried.”

“I just . . . move other people’s money around.”

“So we’re kind of in the same line.”

Coleman tapped Serge’s shoulder. “Mikey’s trying to get through the leash again.”

“He’ll stop when his teeth hurt.”

“He found a hammer.”

Bang, bang, bang.

Serge looked around the bar, then back at Hunter. “You mentioned a company retreat. Where’s everyone else?”

“Oh, we’re not staying here.” He tilted his head south. “Booked this cushy place on Sanibel called – – – –” He looked down at his top-shelf drink. “I just came out here to put the taxpayers’ money to work on a stimulus package.”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “I think he’s about to break through.”

Serge hopped down and grabbed the hammer.

Hunter stood up and drained his glass. “Have to catch the boat back to the mainland, but maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”

Serge shook his hand again and smiled. “I have a funny feeling that’s definitely going to happen.”

Fort Myers

Three state agents sat around a table in a downtown diner. Outside, a gentle evening rain glistened under crime lights.

Plates with egg yolk had been pushed aside for a pair of maps. Lee County. One street, one nautical. Mahoney slowly slid his palms across them like a Ouija board. He stopped and tapped a spot.

Agent White slipped on reading glasses. “Sanibel? You mean the seashell place?”

“Boxcars.” Mahoney’s palms went back to the road map. He closed his eyes. Hands hovered ominously. He opened his eyes and tapped another spot. “Plus this flush.”

“The Edison Museum?”

“Top-weight black pearl fix for the heritage fiend. We shadow-jockey for the deuce bank-shot.”

“Who exactly cleared you for duty?” asked White.

“He likes to be around old stuff,” said Mahoney. “We stake out the Edison in case he shows up. If he doesn’t, it’s on the way to Sanibel.”

“How are you so sure you can predict his movements like this?” asked White.

“Loose chin?”

“Whatever. Any other places that look promising?”

Mahoney began sliding hands across the maps again. Fathom readings. Boat channels.