Electric Barracuda (7 page)

Thus the birth of a reluctant alliance. The two-man Untouchables squad rolled up their sleeves.

Of course, the top brass never expected them to apprehend anyone. They understood media attention span—and their own money woes. “See? We’re doing something about those spring break murders.” Then a war of attrition, out-waiting the reporters until the next shiny case hit CNN.

But they hadn’t counted on White.

And he hadn’t counted on Lowe.

“Lowe, what on earth are you doing?”

Lowe looked up from his desk. “Shaving my arms to decrease drag in case Serge tries to make a water escape.”

“Why don’t we just start with the files,” said White.

“You got it, chief.” Lowe stood and turned sideways to squeeze between the desks, finally reaching a dozen cardboard storage boxes stacked against the wall. “Where should I begin?”

“Whatever’s on top.”

Lowe removed an armload of folders and handed half to his supervisor.

And so began the tedium that never makes the TV shows.

“Look at all these morgue pictures,” said Lowe. “I can’t believe this guy’s never been caught.”

“It’s Florida, fugitive heaven.” White rifled through his own autopsy shots. “We’ve got over a hundred thousand outstanding warrants, making our state the perfect place to fall off the radar.”

Lowe grabbed another folder. “Chief, this one’s got his name spelled wrong. It says ‘Sergio.’ ”

White flipped through his own folder. “What year?”

Lowe looked puzzled. “Says 1964. But Serge was just a kid. Why would he have a jacket back then?”

“Sergio was his grandfather.” White jotted notes from an ancient arrest report. “Belonged to this old Miami Beach gang that ran a small-time gambling and fence operation. Apparently Serge spent a lot of time with his granddad, kind of like the crew’s mascot.”

Lowe whistled in awe at the next page. “Was Sergio really mixed up in the ‘Murph the Surf’ gem heist?”

“So they say.”

“Look at the names of these known associates,” said Lowe. “Chi-Chi, Coltrane, Moondog, Greek Tommy . . .”

“The gang that couldn’t shoot straight,” said White. He stopped and studied one of the last-known photos of Serge. “This picture’s five years old. Got anything newer over there?”

Lowe grabbed a folder from the bottom of the pile he’d just completed. “Here’s one. Six feet tall, trim, Latin features, short black hair with a dusting of gray on the sides, tropical shirt. You can’t see it from the photo, but the dossier describes penetrating ice blue eyes.”

“Say ‘file’ instead of ‘dossier.’ ”

“Also mentions a longtime accomplice, Seymour Bunsen, aka Coleman. Looks like a slob in this booking mug, stains on his Big Johnson T-shirt, five seven, moon face, beer gut, hair like he just got out of bed. Says he’s an omni-substance abuser.”

White laid out overlapping documents. “These guys are all across the state, sometimes in the same week. That’s not cheap.” He opened another folder. “Let’s try to follow the money trail.”

Lowe grabbed another folder. “But how do they make their money? . . .”

“T
ime to make some money!” said Serge.

He drove across Tampa to a sterile office building in the industrial sector just east of the airport, and parked beside a VW microbus.

“The first day at our new job!” Serge bounded joyfully up the front steps. “I always love the first day! Because it’s often the last.”

Coleman followed at a hangover-regulated pace. “Why do we have to work anyway?”

“Because it’s good for the soul.” Serge opened a glass door. “I can’t believe they hired us.”

“I can’t believe how little they’re paying us.”

“Because this is a job that requires a high level of education and compassion for your fellow man,” said Serge. “It’s like teachers. They know they’re decent folk who are going to do it anyway. And when people are that virtuous, there’s only one thing to do under our system: shit on ’em each paycheck.”

“But we’re not qualified.”

“That’s why I had to lie,” said Serge. “I hate to lie, but gave myself a pass this time because we’re actually
over
-qualified. Just no fancy diplomas to prove it.”

“Except the ones you printed up?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a doctor.”

Serge headed down a hall.

“Why can’t we just keep stealing stuff?” asked Coleman.

“We’re going to,” said Serge. “But an honest day’s work will cleanse the palate so we can appreciate it more.”

They entered an office. The most crowded they’d ever seen. Phone banks along each wall; more people gabbing in cubicles.

Serge smiled at the receptionist.

“Can I help you?”

“Serge and Coleman! Your newest valuable hires!”

She picked up a phone.

The door to a side office opened, and a nebbish, gangly man greeted them. Short-sleeved dress shirt, brown clip-on tie, ponytail, counter-culture goatee. He looked at both. “Serge?”

“That’s me.”

They shook hands. “And you must be Coleman . . . Glad to have you on board.” He led them across the room to a pair of empty chairs at a long, continuous desk. “Here’s where you’ll work. Those red buttons activate your phones. By your résumés, I’m guessing you’ve done this a thousand times.”

“At least,” said Serge.

“Groovy. Then I’ll just get out of your way and let you go to it.”

Serge and Coleman sat and pressed red buttons. One of the phones rang instantly.

“Suicide hotline. My name is Serge. How may I save your life tonight? . . .”

The other phone rang.

“Suicide hotline. This is Coleman. I got a question. Do you know what day we get paid? . . .”

“. . . Because life is magnificent,” said Serge. “The problem is our wussy culture . . . stop crying . . . you’re conditioned to be weak and sniveling . . . you really have to stop crying . . . because it’s icky . . . So like on TV last night, I saw a commercial for ‘guilt-free dog treats.’ What the fuck? No wonder you’re screwed up . . . Hey, I’m screwed up, too, except you don’t see me calling a complete stranger on some hotline, droning on and on about how there’s no point anymore . . . When I said stop crying, I didn’t mean start screaming . . . You going to have to stop screaming . . . Jennifer? Who’s that? . . . Well, no wonder she dumped you . . . Great, more screaming. Now I understand why I’m the only person you can talk to—”

Click
.

“Hello? . . .” said Serge. “
Hellllloooo?
Anyone there? . . . Shit, disconnected.”

He hung up.

Rrrrrrring!

“Suicide hotline. Coleman speaking . . . How much did you take? . . . When? . . . What color were the microdots . . . Oooo, purple, not good . . . Do you have a trip chaperone? . . . No? That’s still cool. I’ll walk you through it . . . First, nothing’s melting. Yes, I’m sure. Believe me, I’ve been there . . . Right, and whatever you do, don’t look in any mirrors . . . Because you might start pulling your face off. Any CDs around? . . . Great, do you have
The White Album
? . . .”

Rrrrrrring!

“Suicide hotline. Serge is on the case. Have you done anything crazy yet? . . . Ha! You call that crazy? . . . Yes, I
can
top that . . .”

“. . . You’re doing fine,” said Coleman. “Now open the CD booklet . . . That’s right, the Beatles are with you . . . It really is an excellent tune . . . Okay, this next part is very important: Make sure you skip over ‘Helter Skelter’ . . .”

“. . . Stop!” said Serge. “Life is a fabulous gift from the universe that we don’t deserve, and you’re talking about just throwing it all away? You must be a fun-riot on long plane flights—”

Bang
.

“Hello? . . .” said Serge. “
Hellllloooo?
You still there? . . . Good, because I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with my phone. What was the loud noise? . . . You’re shitting me . . . Because that’s the most retarded thing anyone’s ever said . . . Yes it is. Whoever heard of a warning shot during a suicide? . . .”

Chapter Two

Orlando

T
wo agents pored over dusty case files.

“Unbelievable,” said White. “Almost all these victims were wanted, violent criminals . . . And the causes of death . . . MRI machine?”

Lowe jumped up. “I think I’ve got something.”

“What is it?”

“This agent. With the FDLE, too. Name’s Mahoney.”

“So?”

“He’s a profiler who’s had at least four near misses with Serge.”

“Where is he?”

“Indefinite medical leave. Had some kind of mental breakdown tracking our guy.”

“Let me see that.” White quickly flipped through the file and handed it back. “Find him immediately. Set up a meeting . . . But go gentle.”

St. Petersburg

The downtown core was in transition. A toss-up which way it would land.

Chic, new sidewalk cafés and piano bars with eighteen-dollar martinis—next to barfly joints, un-mopped package stores and park benches with hobos passing brown paper bags.

Serge was pulling for the latter.

Downtown always had held promise. Stunning back in its prime, then urban flight and decades of that desolate, post-Armageddon street-emptiness, which kept the developers’ wrecking balls at bay, preserving an exquisite mix of early-1900s Florida architecture. The Coliseum, wrought-iron balconies, clay tile, Art Deco, manual elevators with accordion cages. Most of the old hotels were still there, curved canvas awnings extending over sidewalks. Some became retirement homes. Others flophouses.

One such building sat beneath the clamor of the elevated interstate. Paint long since weathered down to bleached wood. A man in a tweed jacket stepped over broken wine bottles in a weed-filled yard and ascended creaking porch steps.

“What’s the word on the street, Gums?”

A toothless man looked up from a tin of cat food. “Mahoney!”

Mahoney tipped his fedora and climbed a rickety staircase to the second floor. A feral cat, all ribs, ran down the other way. The agent entered the last unit at the end of the hall and threw his hat on the bed.

The room was spare. A closet of tweed jackets and bowling shirts. Hot plate on the dresser, rows of soup cans, Brylcreem, Burma-Shave, Zippo flints, Philco tube radio. A small desk with a manual Underwood typewriter and stacks of dog-eared paperbacks from bargain bins with the original price—10¢—dames, trench coats, snub-nosed pistols, stiletto heels, switchblades.

Mahoney’s mouth was grim, but his mood couldn’t have been more chipper. He celebrated by chewing two matchsticks. The reason was the envelope in his hand. He’d received it a half hour earlier at a nearby doctor’s office with burglar bars.

Mahoney had been working toward that letter for months. The biggest sham he’d ever pulled.

The agent fished a nearly full prescription bottle from his pocket and jump-shotted it into the wastebasket.

“Good riddance.”

The bottle was mostly full because Mahoney only popped the pills on the days of his appointments. Still, it was a struggle, like earlier that morning:

A pen tapped. It was in the hand of a psychiatrist. There was a couch. A man lay on it in a Brooks Brothers suit and silk tie that made him fight the urge to scratch all over. Manicured nails, haircut like a loan officer, washed and clean-shaven, providing a rare glimpse of his ruggedly handsome Irish features, like Mickey Rourke.

“Nice clothes,” said the doctor. “What happened to your old stuff?”

“Probably at the city dump by now,” said Mahoney. “I looked like a fool.”

The doctor smiled and made a positive notation in his patient file. He looked back up. “What are you thinking about right now?”

Truth: a desperate hankerin’ for the toothpicks outside in his ’62 Cutlass. “This movie I just saw,
Marley & Me
.”

“Really?” the doctor said with genuine surprise. “That’s an interesting choice for you.”

Because he’d actually seen
Chinatown
on a late-night UHF channel. “Very uplifting. Highly recommend it. Too much anger in the world.”

Another positive comment in the folder.

“Are you taking the medication as scheduled?”

“On the hour.”

“What year is it?” asked the doctor.

Mahoney got the right answer.

“You don’t feel like you’re still in the 1940s?”

The agent grimaced. “That was embarrassing. I’d rather forget the whole business.”

“So all these delusions of noir? Humphrey Bogart, Raymond Chandler, Mickey Spillane?”