The Riptide Ultra-Glide (15 page)

Chapter Fifteen

RIVIERA BEACH

C
oleman sipped a bottle of Dr Pepper spiked with vodka. “What are you doing now to your sand castle?”

Serge delicately applied wet sand with a trowel. “Notching the parapets to thwart French aggression—”

Another interruption.

“Hey, Coleman!”

Serge kept his head down in the sand. “Are those guys back?”

“No, new guys.”

“Coleman? Is that really you?”

Coleman took another swig. “All day long.”

“Dig it, guys, it's Coleman!”

Three surfers dropped their boards and sat cross-legged at his feet. “Man, I can't believe we're actually talking to you in person.”

Coleman placed a hand over his stomach and held up a finger for them to wait a second—“Don't feel too good”—then he jackknifed over and threw up on the fort's parapets.

Serge knelt motionless, staring down at his sand castle, then up at Coleman in silence. He sighed deeply and began troweling Coleman's lunch off the cannon deck. “French aggression takes many forms.”

The surfers were beside themselves. “We got to see Coleman vomit!” “The dude knows no limits!” “Nonstop balls to the walls!”

Coleman wiped his mouth and washed his hand in the sand, making it look like a breaded cutlet.

“Coleman? . . . May we call you Coleman?”

He nodded and sat down in front of them.

“Coleman, we've been having a debate. To Bogart or not to Bogart? Your thoughts?”

“Well,” said Coleman. “There's no hard-and-fast weed etiquette on the subject. More of a sliding scale predicated upon a Keynesian economic model. If there's plenty of herb on the market, go for it. But if it's been seriously dry, definitely don't Bogart.”

“What would constitute such a drought?”

“Phone records,” said Coleman. “Everyone making lots of calls to people they've lost touch with since the last drought. And to follow the pot-politeness rule, you don't bring it up for the first two minutes, making small talk. ‘ . . . No particular reason, just thought I'd call to see how you were doing . . . Why do you think we barely knew each other? . . . Yeah, I'm still living with my parents . . . So how are you and Linda getting along? . . . She broke up with you three years ago, haven't seen her since? . . . Wow, that's really a bummer and do you have any pot?' ”

The surfers nodded solemnly. “We rode out those mothers.”

They began getting up. “Here's a twistie for you.” He palmed the joint as they waved good-bye. “Thanks, Coleman!” “Never change, dude!” “Just knowing that you're out there doing your thing keeps us all going! . . .”

Coleman returned to inspect Serge's construction techniques.

Serge grabbed an aluminum-handled floater. “What was that all about?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” said Coleman. “Something really weird is going on . . . What are you doing now?”

Serge ran the tool sideways at the end of a wall. “San Marcos was an exquisite example of ‘star fort' architecture unique to its era. The design first appeared in Italy and was even adopted by Michelangelo before the Spanish imported it to the New World at St. Augustine. The defining feature of the ‘star' was the pointed bastions at the corners, which allowed complete covering fire, unlike the previously rounded bastions that created defenseless ‘dead areas' on the outer curves and were exploited by assailing forces.” Serge grabbed the trowel again for a finishing touch on the diamond-sharp point of the final battlement. He stood and dusted sand off his palms, then kissed his fingertips. “Masterpiece! The fort is finished. Completely impenetrable to my enemies.”

“Joey! I'm open, I'm open! Hit me!”

A football spiraled high through the air on a perfect timing pattern.

A beach stud ran underneath and made a lunging catch.

Coleman looked down at a flattened castle. “That's fucked up.”

The stud raised his arms in the air and did a touchdown dance for the bikini babes, then spiked the football over his shoulder behind him.

“He just smashed the last bastion,” said Serge.

“I thought your fort was impenetrable,” said Coleman.

“In its time,” said Serge. “But modern aggression has obviously rendered its defenses obsolete.”

The stud began trotting back for another pass pattern.

“Excuse me?” Serge called after him. “Could I have a word?”

The young man turned around. “Oh, it's Pops again.” He walked back. “What do you want now?”

“You severely damaged my fort.”

“It was in my way.”

“Look at the surveyor stakes. I was clearly here first.”

“A grown man playing in the sand? What a faggot!”

“I'm going to skip that one for now because it's a nonstarter,” said Serge. “Why begin in the emergency room, right? And I perfectly understand that when you go into the military fort business, you accept that you'll be performing a certain amount of repairs. That's the whole reason we need forts: assholes. But you and I are Americans.” He interlaced his fingers. “We need to pull together. The fabric of the republic. Spacious skies, amber waves of grain. I'm sure you've heard of them in passing.”

“What's your friggin' problem?” The stud bounced the football off Serge's forehead and caught it. “Are you crazy or something?”

“Crazy about promoting understanding,” said Serge. “And I've been dialoguing very politely, so it's only reasonable that you reciprocate. Maybe kick it off with: ‘I'm sorry for destroying your sixteenth-century star-pointed bastions that provided covering fire at the mouth of the Matanzas River in St. Augustine.' It doesn't have to be an exact quote.”

The stud bounced the football off Serge's forehead again.

Serge rubbed the red spot. “That's not exactly the same as ‘I'm sorry,' but maybe among your tribe . . .”

The ball bounced off his forehead again.

“Okay,” said Serge. “We're going backward now. But I have to warn you: I saw what happened earlier to that small child's sand castle. Of course, it wasn't as nice as mine because, after all, whose ever is? But I'm sure that tot gave it her best.”

The ball bounced again.

“I may not look strong, but I'm wiry,” said Serge. “And into patience. Which cuts both ways. Right now patience is why we're still in negotiations. But if our path-to-peace talks break down, I've been known to fight unfair. Sorry, it's a character flaw.”

The ball went to bounce off his forehead again, but Serge caught it.

The stud was momentarily taken off guard at the speed of Serge's reflexes. “Give me my ball back!”

“Apologize.”

“Give it to me or you'll regret it!”

“The smallest sign of respect will do.”

The stud snatched the ball and shoved Serge to the ground. “Go fuck yourself!” He stomped away.

“I must learn more about your tribe,” Serge yelled after him. “Something's getting lost in the translation.”

Coleman helped Serge up into a sitting position. “Jesus, you really are dedicated to patience.”

Serge assessed the damage to his fort.

“You going to make repairs?” asked Coleman.

“Yes, but I'll need to make another trip to Home Depot first. It's clear that protecting the national fabric requires more advanced defensive systems.”

FORT LAUDERDALE

A
rented Chevy Impala cruised south on U.S. Highway 1.

Pawnshops, pain clinics, ethnic grocery stores with burglar cages on the windows.

“Are you sure this is the correct way?” asked Barbara McDougall.

“I've got the address right here.” Patrick held up a street map with scribbled notes across the top. “We're on U.S. 1.”

Bar looked around at people loitering outside a boarded-up gas station. “I thought you said U.S. 1 ran right along the ocean.”

“I think I got it mixed up with A1A.”

“We're in the urban section of the city, not the vacation part.”

“Sorry,” said Pat. “I was only six years old.”

A half dozen blocks later, a long, two-story building needed a pressure washing that it would never receive. Moroccan architecture. A sign with a rock through it.

C
ASABLANCA
.

Pat pulled into the parking lot. “Here we are.”

Only two other cars. Someone in a white T-shirt sat on a milk crate outside one of the rooms, smoking a thin cigar. A cat, all ribs, licked water from a rain gutter.

“Doesn't look like the photos,” said Bar.

“The view from the street always appears worse.” Pat got out and headed for the office. “The pool area's probably great.”

Pat rang the bell on the reception desk. They heard noises in back, so they knew someone was there. He rang it again. A terrible, racking cough. Then a hocking sound. Water ran. Something fell on the floor. Sneezing. More coughs again.

Pat and Bar glanced at each other.

It became quiet. Footsteps in the back room like someone was on their way out. Coughing resumed. A retching noise.
Splat
. A scream. Coughing and burping. Another hock.
“Is that blood?”
Cough, cough. Sneeze, retch. An extra-big cough that caused a simultaneous fart.

Bar stared at the floor. Pat looked at the ceiling and tapped his fingers on the counter.

Some final spitting and a violent clearing of the throat.

A jaundiced man in a soiled bowling shirt appeared from the back room, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. “What do you want?”

“A room,” said Pat. “We have a reservation. The name's McDougall.”

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes.”

“What's your name again?”

Pat took a deep breath. “McDougall.”

The clerk pulled out a sheet of paper with three names. He ran his finger down the page. “Nope, not on here.”

Pat leaned over the counter and tapped the middle name on the page.

The clerk looked up at him oddly. “But that says McDougall.”

“That's our name.”

“Then why did you just give me a different one?”

Bar looked at her husband. “Maybe we should stay somewhere else.”

Pat looked at the clerk. “We think we'll stay somewhere else.”

“No problem.” The clerk headed toward the back room.

“Uh, excuse me,” said Pat. “But our card won't be charged, right?”

The bowling shirt turned around. “We already ran it through. To hold the room.”

“Can we get a refund?”

“You'll have to talk to the owner about that.”

“Okay, we'd like to talk to the owner.”

The clerk stared at them.

“The owner?” asked Pat.

“What about him?”

“We'd like to talk to him.”

“You already said that.”

“And?” asked Pat.

“And what? You didn't ask a question. You made a statement: ‘We'd like to talk to the owner.' Good for you.”

Patrick took a deep breath. “Is the owner here?”

“No.”

“Can you call him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Don't know his number.”

“Where is he?”

“Probably at his house.”

“Where's that?”

“Somewhere in Sri Lanka.”

“When's he coming back?”

“I've never seen him.”

“Is there any other way to get a refund?”

“Maybe at some other place.”

“Do people ever ask you for refunds?” said Pat.

“All the time,” said the clerk.

“What do you do?”

“Wait for them to go away. Then sometimes I watch TV. Or get something to eat if I'm hungry, maybe call my girlfriend. But why are you curious about my girlfriend?”

Bar looked at her husband. “That's payment for seven nights. We can't afford to lose it. We'll have to go back home.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Pat. “Stay here and hope for the best?”

“Why not?” Bar said reluctantly. “We'll commute to the beach. Plus, this is where we told the airline to deliver our luggage.”

Pat turned back to the clerk. “Okay, we'll stay here.”

“Can I see your driver's license and credit card?”

“Sure . . .” Pat pulled two plastic cards from his wallet and slid them across the counter.

The clerk made a Xerox of the license, then swiped the credit card through a magnetic slide. A printout spit from a machine. He handed Pat a nineteen-cent ballpoint pen. “Sign here and put the make and model of your car.”

Pat scribbled. “Why did you need to swipe my card just then?”

“To charge it.”

“You said before that my card was charged when we booked the reservation.”