Electric Barracuda (4 page)

(S:) Serge has got to roll and drop the mike on this rap . . .

(C:) Coleman’s climbin’ in the tub, to take a little nap . . .

(S:) . . . Disappearin’ in the swamp—and goin’ tangent,
tangent, tangent . . .

(C:) He’s goin’ tangent,
tangent . . .

(Fade-out)

(S:) I’m goin’ tangent,
tangent . . .

(C:) Fuck goin’ platinum, he’s goin’ tangent,
tangent . . .

(S:) . . . Wikipedia all up and down your ass . . .

(C:) Wikity-Wikity-Wikity . . .

I
n a dark motel parking lot, a T-Bird’s convertible roof began to retract. The SWAT team’s surveillance rotation stopped, all night goggles on the sports car.

“Good Jesus,” said one of the commandos. “I’m in love.”

The rag-top finished tucking itself behind the backseat, providing an unobstructed view of a smokin’-hot babe with curly, fiery red hair. She looked up in her mirror, sensually applying equally red lipstick.

“I could watch her do that all day,” said Lowe.

“Pardon me,” said White. “The room?”

“Right.” Lowe turned. “Hey look, the lamp just went out.”

“So we move now?”

“No.” Lowe tapped a page in the spiral-bound manual. “Have to wait for him to get drowsy.” He stowed the book in a black tote bag with countless pockets and clasps and snap rings.

“What’s that?” asked White.

“My SWAT team bag.”

“You’re not on the team.”

“Got it at a police supply store.”

“The ones that sell stuff to people who aren’t police?”

“Here’s where my Taser will go, and scrambled telephone, gas mask, parachute flares, bio-warfare antidote syringes, non-electrostatic knee pads for bomb defusing, flexible under-the-door fiber-optic video cam . . .”

“Why are you lugging it around if you don’t have that stuff yet?”

Lowe pulled out a sandwich. “Lunch.”

The SWAT team signaled it was go-time. They choreographed a series of silent hand signals, raised black entry shields and moved out with invisible stealth.

Suddenly a pounding noise from up the street. Growing louder.

“What the hell’s that?” said White.

“Sounds like Kiss.”

A giant semi-tractor-trailer raced toward the motel, its roof fringed with blaring megaphones.

“. . . I . . . want to rock-and-roll all night! . . .”

The truck whipped into the parking lot, followed by an air-conditioned tour bus.

White clenched his eyes and smacked his forehead. “Not him!”

Spotlights along the semi’s side illuminated a mural of a gigantic, snarling canine above a list of network air times.

The truck screeched to a halt in front of the last motel room. People from the motor coach jumped out with shoulder-mounted cameras, others flooded the parking lot with TV lights.

In quick succession, rock-concert flash pots exploded from the semi’s roof, its rear doors flew open and a gleaming motorcycle sailed out the back, flying fifty feet with special tubes shooting fire from the mufflers. It landed with a jarring bounce, made a skidding U-turn and stopped. The bike was a massive chopper with extended chrome forks and a snarling logo on its teardrop gas tank that matched the semi’s mural. Lying far back in the saddle was a muscle-rippled, rawhide-faced man with long, peroxide blond hair that fell down across an open leather vest and hairy chest. From his shoulders flapped a giant, American-flag super-hero cape. Standing on each side were rows of buxom babes in star-spangled bikinis, combat boots and dog collars. The cycle remained stationary, its rider gunning the engine for the cameras.

A SWAT member stood up in what was now practically daylight. “Look! It’s the Doberman!”

Another stood. “I love his show!”

A third pointed at the dog-collar women. “And he brought the Litter!”

White leaned against the side of the Crown Vic and folded his arms. “Change of plans. Let’s see how the element of surprise works.”

“. . . I . . . want to rock-and-roll all night! . . .”

And with a salute into the cameras, the celebrity bounty hunter opened his throttle wide, popped a wheelie and squealed across the parking lot.

“Now that’s a real man,” said Lowe.

The Doberman raced even faster, still balanced on his back tire, preparing to crash through the motel door. Except he misjudged by a half foot and hit the wall. The bike flipped, catapulting him into the bushes. Cameras and lights raced toward thick shrubbery with nothing but cowboy boots sticking out the top.

The dog-collar women pulled him from the hedge and steadied him on woozy legs.

“Where am I?”

A woman on each side raised his fists high in the air like a winning prizefighter. The rest of the Litter hopped up and down and clapped. “The Doberman lives! He was willing to lay down his life for American justice! . . .”

Agent White lowered his head again and took another deep breath. Then he nonchalantly walked across the parking lot toward the last motel room.

Coleman ran to the window. “What the hell is all that noise?”

Serge continued typing. “See anything?”

“Looks like they’re filming
The Doberman
,” said Coleman, firing up a joint. “That show rocks, especially the Litter!”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t know, but there’s like a million people right outside . . .”

Right Outside . . .

Agent White stepped over a broken piece of motorcycle and knocked on the last motel room.

The door opened. “Yes? . . .”

The SWAT team pounced.

Coleman slid the curtains wider. “Serge! Come quick! Across the street! They’re arresting our wino friend, Snapper-Head Willie!”

Serge joined Coleman at the window. “I don’t see him.”

“That big pile of SWAT guys,” said Coleman. “I’d hate to be on the bottom.”

“I’m shocked,” said Serge. “A pile that big means Snapper-Head was into some serious shit. If I’d have known, I never would have let him stay in our other motel room. But I figured since we weren’t using it, why not give back to the community?”

“Why
do
we have another motel room?” asked Coleman.

“Just posted the reason on my new website,” said Serge. “Fugitive Rule Number One: Always have an ‘Out.’ ”

“What’s an ‘Out’?”

“What our government never has: exit strategy.” Serge watched the SWAT team begin to unpile. “A fugitive should never go anywhere unless he knows a back way out. And it doesn’t have to be literal, like a door. It can be a diversionary tactic, psychological ruse, political unrest, crowd-mystifying card tricks or big-tent sale extravaganza.”

“What’s our ‘Out’ this time?”

“I registered a decoy room across the street in my own name. Then I got this other room over here with false ID, so I’d have full view for advance warning in case heat’s on the way.”

“You mean the people over there are actually after us?”

“Not a chance,” said Serge. “I just got the decoy motel for authenticity in my website report. Otherwise this is all a bunch of fucking around. And I’m sure we’re not the real target because I’ve taken every precaution, covering my tracks by zigzagging across Florida on a variety of roads and mental states.”

“Then what’s going on out there?”

“A character flaw in Snapper-Head. Probably chopped someone up and distributed the pieces in trash cans around the Norway pavilion at Epcot.”

They watched the SWAT team lift handcuffed Willie to his feet.

Coleman shook with the heebie-jeebies. “It’s scary to think we were talking to someone so unstable.”

“That’s the thing about Florida,” said Serge, standing in front of his whimpering hostage. “You never know when the guy next to you is a ticking bomb.”

A
gent White stuck a tiny key in the handcuffs and popped them open. “Sorry about that.”

Snapper-Head rubbed his wrists. “Jesus, was it absolutely necessary for all of you to pile on top of me like that?”

Lowe held up the spiral-bound manual.

Behind them at a strip mall, Mahoney dialed an ever-dwindling number of pay phones.

White opened his wallet and handed Willie a ten-spot. “Get something to eat.”

“Beverage?”

White gave him a lawsuit-conscious glance and pulled out another five.

Mahoney returned. “Just mumbled on the blower. Our mark had a decoy room.”

“Gee, you think?” said White.

Mahoney opened a matchbook from a billiard hall that ran a crooked sports parlor. “Scored fresh digits on the flop twenty.”

“What?”

“Got the location and number of Serge’s real motel room.”

“You sure about that?”

“Bet your pecker.”

“Nicely put.” White turned to the SWAT team, milling and eating fast food in the parking lot. “Okay, everyone, listen up. We just got the address of the real motel room. Let’s roll.”

Half-drunk milk shakes hit the ground. Sedans peeled out and raced east on Highway 192, followed by a tactical van, convertible T-Bird, yellow Cadillac Eldorado, black Beemer and a music-blaring semi-trailer.

A
cross the street, two people watched the departing motorcade from a slit in motel curtains.

“Look at all those people,” said Coleman.

“They got a whole dime novel.” Serge loaded his pistol. “Coppers, bounty hunter, private eye, femme fatale and the Mystery Man.”

“Who’s that other guy?” asked Coleman.

“Which one?”

“The dude yelling at the sky, swinging a
Star Wars
lightsaber and peeing on the sidewalk.”

“Just a normal person. He’s not involved.”

The Fugitive
ended.

Horrible sounds of anguish and thrashing from the hostage chair.

“. . . A Quinn Martin Production . . .”

Serge closed the laptop. “Our new friend’s going to be a distraction from here on out.” He stood and tucked the computer under his arm. “Plus, this is the point where he probably wants his privacy. We’ll continue our summit in the bar.”

“Bar? Now you’re talking.”

“Grab whatever you need because we’re not coming back.”

“Why?” asked Coleman.

“I just decided a second ago,” said Serge. “Fugitive Rule Number Two: Always suddenly depart when nobody expects it, especially yourself. To prevent establishing patterns for police to track, we must behave deliberately erratic and question the prevailing wisdom on planetary physics, papal infallibility and sleep-boners. Keeps the mind sharp.”

It wasn’t a lengthy packing process. Serge had proclaimed that for this leg of the tour, luggage needed to be light and versatile since they’d be hopping modes of transportation. “Fugitive Tip Number Seven: Match your personality with the ideal backpack for outstanding warrants.”

Serge’s bag was a high-capacity, K2 base-camp mountain-climbing combo with compression bands and slots for ice hammers. Coleman’s was much smaller with a teddy bear’s head on top.

Once the bags were full, they slipped arms through padded straps and walked up the street to another motel.

Serge strolled through the lobby.

He pulled up short in the lounge entrance. Coleman crashed into him from behind.

“Ow”—rubbing his nose—“why’d you do that?”

“Dig!” said Serge.

“I already dig. You had me at ‘bar.’ ”

“No, I mean dig, it’s the Nu Bamboo! I have to stop and marvel each time I enter, because when history is lost, it’s usually forever. But not at the Nu Bamboo!”

Serge marched to his regular stool at the bar, where a bottle of water appeared without asking.

“Thanks, Patty.” He set his backpack on the floor and opened the laptop on the counter.

Coleman hopped on the next stool and raised a finger: “Bourbon.” He glanced around with an odd feeling. “This joint looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

“Because it used to be across the street.”

“They moved the building?”

“Just the majesty. Remember the Big Bamboo Lounge, where we went after my grandfather’s funeral?”

“Definitely.” Coleman’s drink arrived. “That tiny, dark place with all kinds of shit tacked up like a souvenir cave.”

“Heaven on earth.” Serge took a long pull of water. “Back in the early days, the original Bamboo was the only place for miles, this little hut back in the weeds surrounded by cow pastures to the horizon in all directions. Disney wasn’t operating yet, just under construction, and after a day of drywalling Cinderella’s Castle, workers descended on the watering hole, beginning the tradition of plastering the place with name tags and other theme park keepsakes. Then the Magic Kingdom opened and the torch was passed to other employees who needed a stiff drink after wearing Pluto and Bashful costumes all day. Locals affectionately called her ‘The Boo.’ ”