Electric Barracuda (38 page)

“Just missed him at the museum,” said White. “How far could he have gone?”

“Maybe he left and went back,” said Lowe.

“Nega-tory,” said Mahoney in the backseat, making a cat’s cradle with a yo-yo. “Serge is close, real close. Bumpin’ brass tacks.”

They swung east onto School Drive, winding along the docks at the edge of the Collier River. Stacks of encrusted crab traps and faded Styrofoam buoys, Johnson’s Seafood, Island Seafood, City Seafood, Camellia Street Grill (seafood), back past the convenience store that sold three-pound bags of stone crabs for twenty dollars. Lowe looked out the rear window at their unshakable company of vehicles. The motorcade was long enough, and the city small enough, that as the detectives finished another surveillance loop, they almost caught up with the last vehicle following them.

“That’s about all we can do for now,” said White. “Three rounds. Covered every street in Everglades City.”

“In Everglades City,” said Mahoney.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mahoney’s yo-yo walked the dog. “Chokoloskee.”

“Choko-what?”

“I see it on the map,” said Lowe. “Even smaller place, this little teardrop island below here down a dead-end causeway.”

“With a museum,” said Mahoney.

“There’s a
second
museum?” said White. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He hit the gas and headed south.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chokoloskee

“S
hoot me!” said Serge.

Mikey and Coleman aimed sticks.

“Bang! Bang!”

“Arg!” Serge grabbed his heart and collapsed on the beach.

He jumped up. “Shoot me again! . . .”

On the other side of the Smallwood Store, a caravan led by a Crown Vic parked under pine trees.

Three agents ran up steps.

Ben smiled as the screen door creaked.

White rushed toward him with a mug shot. “This guy been in here.”

Ben leaned and faked non-registration. “Nope, never seen him. Who is he?”

“Name’s Serge. Take another look. It’s very important.”

The other agents wandered the store for clues.

Lowe was overcome by how old everything was. To Mahoney, it was contemporary. He nodded at the 1955 Pan Am calendar. “The future.”

“. . . Shoot me! Shoot me again! . . .”

“Bang! Bang!”

White turned from the counter. “What’s all that yelling?”

“I’ll check,” said Lowe, walking out the rear door to the deck over the bay. He got an obscured view through the trees. “Nothing. Just some guy playing cowboys and Indians with his kid on the beach.” He came back inside, and the three agents huddled.

“What do you suggest now?” asked White.

Mahoney picked up a jar of gum balls. “Serge ain’t flashed marbles on the trifecta trip.”

“And the translation?”

“Probably on his way here, so we should hang tight.”

“Okay, you were on with the other museum,” said White. “So we’ll wait.”

They walked around, entranced in the time capsule, even White.

“Mahoney,” said Lowe. “I’ve been meaning to ask: Why do you talk like you do?”

“Dancing gums to slant the flimflam grease-lick jackaloo.”

“That’s what I thought . . .”

Outside, Mikey strained on his leash all the way back to their car.

“Another excellent re-enactment,” said Serge.

Coleman opened the passenger door. “Look at all these other vehicles.”

“History’s catching on.” Serge started the engine and grabbed his iPod. “Fugitive tunes!”

Whitecaps slammed the side of the causeway as the Barracuda sped north.

“. . . Go on, take the money and run! . . .”

They reached the bottom of Everglades City and skidded into a parking lot.

“We’re going to eat at the Oyster House?” asked Coleman.

“No, climb the observation tower.” Serge pointed up at what looked like an old forestry service fire-watch platform. “I must climb all observation towers for the total picture.”

Serge and Mikey reached the top. Coleman took a bit longer.

“Look at the bay! And Ten Thousand Islands! And the Everglades! . . .” Serge slowly pirouetted with his camera, taking another set of overlapping shots. “. . . And Chokoloskee! And the airstrip! And the big convoy of vehicles coming down the causeway!
I want to fly like an eagle!
. . .”

“What’s up with all those cars?” asked Coleman.

Serge continued turning.
Click, click, click.
“The blackwalls on the sedan up front mean it’s G-men, which means they’re probably after some bad dude.”
Click, click, click.
“Reminds me of Operation Everglades in 1983, when they arrested half the town.”

“Reminds me of Orlando last week,” said Coleman. “When they arrested Snapper-Head Willie.”

The convoy passed and Serge lowered his camera. “I have the big picture. Now we can hit the bar.”

“Bar?” said Coleman. He was the first down from the tower.

They walked next door to the convenience store. Motorcycles and pickups and an old Fleetwood. The store also served as a bait shop, liquor outlet and motel office for the nearby nest of cedar fishing cottages. On the south end of the building sat a large, open room. It was under the same roof but only screened in.

Serge opened the door, and Coleman ran for a stool. “Whiskey! Double.”

“Bottle of water.” Serge looked down. “Mikey, what would you like?”

The child pointed.

“Red Bull it is.”

Jack Daniel’s arrived. “What a cool bar,” said Coleman.

“One of the coolest,” said Serge. “The Rock Bottom—absolutely screams Everglades and lawlessness. The screens make it. Keeping out mosquitoes but letting in a bayou breeze. And I love the crusty regulars!”

Crusty regulars turned.

Serge spun on his stool and sat with his back to the bar, reliving fond memories from the interior: jukebox, pirate flag, ceiling fans, a single pool table under beer lamps, and an arcade game with a real punching bag.

Coleman waved for another bourbon and read signs behind the bar: Cash Only, Live Country Band Saturday, Pit Bull Puppies For Sale and a warning that it’s a federal crime to mess with someone else’s crab traps. Where you’d expect a sink were two green buckets hand-labeled Bleach Water and Rinse Water.

Mikey ran in circles and bit the chain.

“Think he needs to burn off some of that Storms family energy,” said Serge. “Come on, Mikey!”

He led the boy across the bar, hoisted him up at the waist and let him go to town on the punching bag.

“Die! Die! Die you bastard! . . .”

“Mikey!” said Serge. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“It’s what Mommy says when she stabs your pictures with knives.”

T
he sun faded behind the mangroves. Neon flickered at the Captain’s Table motel and the Seafood Depot. The Crown Vic returned from a run to the Tamiami, where White had checked in at the sheriff’s substation, but no leads.

“Better find a place for the night.” They rolled up to a large wooden building with yellow-striped canvas awnings.

White rang the bell at a reception desk with a mechanical cash register and antique rifles over mail slots. The cast from the rest of the vehicles formed a line behind him.

“What an old place,” said Lowe. “And dark. Look at all the mahogany.”

“It’s the Rod and Gun Club,” said White, filling out a registration card. “Built in the 1800s.”

Mahoney and Lowe strolled the lobby, staring at walls covered with game trophies. Deer, hogs, pompano, cobia, barracuda, gator hides, turtle shells.

White held up a key. “Guys, let’s go. We got another big day.” He headed for the front door.

Lowe pointed back at the staircase. “Aren’t we going up there? That’s where the rooms are.”

“No, got a cottage,” said White. “They don’t let anyone stay in the main building anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Too historically valuable and too wooden. One forgotten cigarette, and the whole place goes up like a tinderbox.”

They reached a cottage with an egret on the door and went inside.

Three detectives stared at two beds.

“Where’s the sleeper sofa?” asked Lowe.

White opened his suitcase on a chair. “I love this job.”

N
ight fell and Rock Bottom rocked. Music, dancing, spilled drinks.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “Check it out! Naked babes!”

Serge came over, and they looked up at a roof beam with a row of framed black-and-white photos. Women posing in the swamp.

Serge covered Mikey’s eyes. “I recognize these pictures. You can’t mistake the style.”

“Yeah, they’re naked,” said Coleman.

“No, I mean I know the photographer.” Serge walked to the end of the row and the final picture: a husky, bearded man straddling a motorcycle, dressed all in black and topped with a black cowboy hat. The ultimate outlaw.

“I knew it!” said Serge. “This guy has hot babes from all over the world come down and pay him to photograph them nude out in the Everglades. He’s Lucky.”

“I should say so.”

“No, that’s his name, Lucky. Lucky Cole. And here’s a phone number . . .” Serge went to the bar for a scrap of paper. “I need to get back in touch.”

“He’s a friend of yours?”

Serge nodded and headed with Mikey for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“We need to find a place to stay.”

“But the sun just went down a minute ago. And I’m still drinking.”

“You don’t want to get stuck out here without a room.” The screen door slammed behind them.

Coleman chugged. “Wait for me!”

S
erge pulled into the parking lot.

“Look at all the cars,” said Coleman.

“That’s why I said we needed to get a room.” He went inside and rang a bell. The manager appeared.

“Vacancy?”

“One cottage left.” He grabbed a key off a hook.

“Man, this place is freakin’ old!” said Coleman. “And dark!”

“It’s the Rod and Gun,” said Serge, filling out the registration card. “Teddy Roosevelt stayed here. And Nixon, so it’s a wash.”

Mikey led them across a lawn and up the steps of a cottage with a heron on the door. They went into the room as another door opened.

Three state agents stepped outside and stretched under a full sky of stars.

“This isn’t half bad,” said White, getting out a crick in his neck. “I could lose a lot of stress out here.”

“I’m hungry,” said Lowe.

White spotted a tiny neon sign up the street and began walking. “Let’s get some fish at that depot place.”

Back in the heron cottage: Serge unpacked socks and gadgets. Coleman lined up liquor miniatures atop the dresser. “Let’s go out. I saw a tiki bar at the depot.”

“Other plans.”

“What other plans? It’s only eight o’clock.” Coleman unscrewed three bottles. “And we’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

“We have to hole up for website research.” Serge ran cables from his laptop to the TV. “Let’s watch
The Fugitive
. I got the complete first season boxed set.”

“Serge!”

“Just one episode. Then maybe we’ll do something.”

“Okay, but only one.” Coleman reluctantly sat on the edge of the bed next to Serge. “What are we watching?”

Serge enthusiastically rubbed his palms together. “Renegades on the road from town to town is a uniquely American TV genre.
Branded, Maverick, Kung Fu, Then Came Bronson, Route 66, The A-Team
. But of all of them,
The Fugitive
is the only one that ever came to the Sunshine State: Episode 29, ‘Storm Center,’ first aired April fourteenth, 1964 . . .” Serge started the dvD.

“What happens in the series?”

“Same as my life. I come to a town, act nice to people, they’re not nice back. Except Dr. Kimble doesn’t visit hardware stores before leaving.”

Coleman pointed at the TV. “There’s a hurricane. He’s holed up in Florida.”

“Just like us! Isn’t it great?” said Serge. “Mikey, another Red Bull?”

Wind howled, Kimble’s double-crossed, a mystery revealed, the fugitive escapes.
“A Quinn-Martin Production.”

“That was pretty cool,” said Coleman.

“And deeper than people think,” said Serge. “Kimble is tracked doggedly by Lieutenant Gerard, who was patterned after the deliberately similar-sounding Inspector Javert from
Les Misérables
. Unlike other TV shows, Kimble and Gerard are complex characters who develop a mutual respect, to the point where Kimble saves Gerard’s life a few times, and at other times the lieutenant intentionally lets the good doctor slip away.”