Electric Barracuda (39 page)

“Kind of reminds me of someone.”

“Me, too,” said Serge. “But I just can’t quite remember who . . . What’s that sound?”

“Mikey’s scratching at the door.”

Serge stood. “Looks like I need to take him for a walk.”

“I’ll get my joint and miniatures.”

Up the street, only a few bites of catfish left. Agent White threw his napkin on the plate. “I’m stuffed.”

“Same here,” said Lowe, tossing in his own napkin.

Mahoney didn’t say anything. He had finished first and was reading a thick, dog-eared paperback.

“Les Misérables?”
said White. “I didn’t know you were into Hugo.”

Mahoney turned a page. “Inspector Javert’s aces.”

White smiled and looked out the window into the dark street. “I notice a resemblance . . .”

Coming up the dark street: Coleman tossed a glowing roach in a puddle. “Mikey’s really pulling hard.”

“I think he has to pee,” said Serge. “There’s a place up ahead.”

“The seafood restaurant?” Coleman uncapped a miniature. “Aren’t the restrooms for customers only?”

“Most of the time,” said Serge. “But who’s heartless enough to deny a father with a boy on a chain.”

They walked through the restaurant’s waiting area and into the men’s room as three detectives came around the corner for the register. “I got this,” said White, pulling out a state-expense credit card.

Lowe stared at the giant, stuffed gator by the lobby bar. Mahoney grabbed a handful of toothpicks—“Need to squirt”—and headed into the men’s room. He addressed a urinal, whistling the theme from
The Fugitive
.

In the closed stall behind him, Serge looked up with faint recognition at the tune, then shook his head and continued helping Mikey with his jammed zipper.

In the next stall. “Whoops, a little trouble here . . .”

Crash
.

Serge looked down at Coleman’s face lying on the tiles under the stall’s partition. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Gravity got me again.” He pushed himself up.

Mahoney smirked as he finished his business. “Juicers.” He rejoined the others in the lobby and headed back up the street for their cottage.

Two minutes later, the restaurant’s door opened again. Serge, Coleman and Mikey began walking toward the Road and Gun. Far ahead: three silhouettes on the dim road.

Serge squinted at what looked like the outline of a fedora. “Naw, couldn’t be.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

2:59
A.M.

E
veryone asleep at the Rod and Gun. Almost.

Detective Mahoney was a night owl. He sat up in bed reading Dashiell Hammett.

Next to him on the nightstand was a small transistor radio. In the wee hours, when there was less broadcast competition across the dial—and if weather conditions were perfect—he could pick up an atmospheric bounce from a powerful jazz signal out of New Orleans. It was an oldies station, playing nothing later than 1949. Vintage commercials continued the theme: Bromo-Seltzer, Barbasol, “Call for Philip Morris!” It was meant to make people reminisce about the past.

Mahoney was in the present. He turned a page . . .

Another cottage. Dark, silent.

3:00
A.M.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! . . .

“What the fuck is that?” Serge threw off the sheets and hit a light switch.

Coleman sat up rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?”

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! . . .

Serge ran around the bed and smashed the Off button. “Forgot to unplug the clock. Some asshole set our alarm as a prank.”

“Oh, that was me.”

“Idiot!” said Serge. “If you’re gong to be a jerk, at least wait till checkout.”

“I got confused.”

“Thanks. Now I’m totally awake.” He slipped on shorts and sneakers.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” He opened the door with a heron.

At the other end of the Rod and Gun, Mahoney wore a red-and-white-striped nightcap. Cotton in his ears. Lowe snored. It was hard to miss the noise since they were crammed together in the same tiny bed. Agent White had pulled rank and gotten the other to himself.

But now Lowe’s mouth was wide open, snoring like a buffalo. First Lowe had ruined Mahoney’s radio listening, and now he couldn’t even read. He traded in his nightcap for the fedora and decided to take a walk . . .

Serge strolled along the dock behind the club’s main building. In the darkness, a small fish splashed, which meant a bigger fish behind it. Serge didn’t see it because a rare Everglades fog had rolled in from Okeechobee.

Serge loved night fog.

He came around the back of the club and strolled up the street to the town circle. The few lights that were on cast a haunting glow, especially the blinking red one atop the radio tower. Fog thickened. Not a soul.

Serge was content.

He turned around at the old train depot and started back to the Rod and Gun . . .

Mahoney stood on the dock behind his cottage and struck a wooden match to see what was splashing in the water. Fog too dense. He blew it out and continued along the bank. Mahoney loved night fog because it put him in old movies, especially the climactic final confrontation with a nemesis. He formed a sinister smile, running classic flicks through his head as he came around the front of the Rod and Gun.
Farewell My Lovely, Notorious, The Big Sleep
.

On the other side of the club’s grounds, a foggy shadow appeared, walking back to the cottages from the town circle.

Mahoney smiled wider to himself in the broken solitude. The other night figure completed the detective’s movie fantasy: his adversary, squaring off for the big showdown . . .

Serge noticed the other night stroller. He stopped. So did the second man. Then the distant apparition tipped his hat toward Serge. Serge returned the salutation with a slight nod. The other man went back in his cottage, and Serge returned to his.

He closed the heron door and stretched with a yawn. He slipped back into sweatpants and under the covers.

He turned off the light and shut his eyes.

Silent and dark.

The light came back on.

Serge leaped from the bed. “Everyone up! Coleman! Mikey!”

Coleman lifted a groggy head. “Huh? What?”

Serge shook his shoulders. “We have to split! Now!”

Coleman sat the rest of the way up in bed, watching Serge throw stuff in his backpack. “What’s going on?”

Serge snatched his toiletry bag. “Mahoney’s here!”

“Mahoney? Are you sure?”

“Definitely.” Serge zipped a compartment shut. “Just saw him outside. Took a few minutes for it to click because of the fog.”

Coleman crawled out of bed. “Did he recognize you?”

“Don’t think so. Maybe. Who knows?” He grabbed Mikey and hoisted the backpack. “But I’m not taking any chances.”

“I thought you said nobody was after us—that we were just pretending to be on the run.”

“Dreams come true.” Serge opened the door and looked around. Coast is clear. He looked back. “Be super quiet and tiptoe to the car . . .”

Coleman stumbled over the threshold and crashed on the porch. A light came on somewhere. A tourist peeked out curtains. Dogs barked.

Serge dashed down the steps. “Run! . . .”

Coleman knocked over a garbage can.

M
ahoney sat up in bed and turned on a lamp. What’s all that racket?

He went to the window. A trunk slammed, then car doors.

“White! Lowe! Wake up!”

“What’s with you?” said Lowe. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I saw Serge!”

“Where?” said White, throwing his legs over the side.

“Right out there! He’s getting away!”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No, I was copping a walk and got a visual.”

“And you let him go?”

“Too much fog. Didn’t register till just now when I glommed out the window.” Mahoney grabbed his gun and hat. “Some number in another cottage blazed a porch light, and I nailed his mush hopping wheels.”

White ran to the window. Red taillights from a Barracuda skirted the roundabout at the radio tower. High beams formed twin tubes of glowing fog that stretched fifty yards. The Barracuda made a skidding left at the depot and gunned it for the Tamiami Trail.

“Shit!” White jumped in his shoes.

The agents ran for the Crown Vic. More doors slammed.

Lights now came on in all the other cottages.

People poured out and scrambled for vehicles. Mayhem. They backed up, spun and jumped curbs to avoid crashing into each other and be the first to reach the driveway out of the club . . .

One mile ahead, Coleman faced backward in his seat.

“Anything?” said Serge.

“Just dark.”

“Keep watching.” Serge eyed the speedometer needle, wiggling at ninety. “I don’t think our departure went unnoticed. Saw a lot of lights come on back there when we passed the depot.”

“Still dark,” said Coleman.

Ahead, a flashing traffic light.

“There’s the Tamiami.” Serge hit the brakes and watched the needle dip to forty-five.

“Why are you slowing down?”

“Sheriff’s substation around the corner. Usually has a cruiser lying in wait for speeders.”

“How do you know?”

“Everyone should keep a logbook like me.”

Serge came to a full, slow stop at the light, then turned east and kept it under the limit. They passed the nose of a cruiser with parking lights on and a deputy sitting still.

“You were right,” said Coleman.

Serge leaned over the wheel. “Now I just have to wait for a bend where the trees will put us out of radar . . . Here we go . . .”

The Barracuda made a sweeping turn, and Serge hit the gas. He opened his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Shhhh! It’s ringing . . . Hello? Lucky?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“Serge! Your old pal! Bet you’re thrilled to hear from me!”

“What time is it? . . . It’s after three! In the morning!”

“Too early?” said Serge.

“You disappear for years! No contact whatsoever. Then out of nowhere you call in the dead of night and I’m supposed to celebrate?”

“I kind of have to ask a favor.”

“Already figured that. What have you gotten yourself into this time?”

“I need you to open the gate . . .”

“And then close it real fast. I know the routine.”

“Thanks.”

“Damn it, Serge, it’s good to hear your voice. But next time let’s plan in advance for a cookout or something. During the day!”

“I swear.”

“Don’t, because it ain’t gonna happen. Just call when you’re near. I’ll be waiting by the road . . .”

Two minutes back, a Crown Vic raced toward a flashing red light at the Tamiami junction. White pressed harder on the pedal. “Mahoney, which way would Serge go?”

“East.”

“Is that left or right?”

“Right.”

The Crown Vic made a skidding turn without stopping and accelerated toward Miami.

In the darkness, a deputy watched them blow by at ninety and lit up his rack.

Mahoney turned around. “Got local company.”

“Lowe,” said White. “Put on the bubble and let him know we’re cops. And I’ll see if we’re indeed going the right way. ” He grabbed the radio mike. “Collier sheriff, this is Agent White from the FDLE . . .”

A small, domed blue light began strobing from the Crown Vic’s dash.

“This is Collier sheriff . . .”

“We’re attempting a felony stop. Seen anyone come by?”

“Barracuda.”

“How long?”

“Two minutes.”
The deputy noticed a string of headlights gaining on him from behind.
“You have friends?”

White looked in his rearview. “Explain later. Can you get a roadblock?”

“Affirmative. I’ll radio Miami-Dade—and the tribal police in case he tries to duck down Shark Valley.”

They raced through Ochopee . . .

Ahead: “Still dark,” said Coleman.

“How’s Mikey?”

“Flicking my ears.”

“Where is it?” said Serge, hunched over the wheel. “Come
onnnnnnn
!”

“What are you looking for?”