The Riptide Ultra-Glide (28 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

A FEW HOURS LATER

T
he sun went down, and night fell over U.S. Highway 1.

A Dumpster stood beside a strip mall. Two heads popped up. One of the dirt-smudged faces looked at the other.

“Bar, you're shaking like a leaf.”

“I'm scared witless to go back in that motel room after everything that's happened.” She wiped her nose on the back of her arm. “What if someone's waiting inside?”

“They may know the motel,” said Pat. “But not the room number.”

Bar glanced up and down the street. “What if they're hiding somewhere around here like we are, waiting for us to show back up and see what room we go in?”

“That's why we've been moving around these alleys. To make sure nobody's watching the motel. And it looks like nobody is.”

“They wouldn't be obvious,” said Bar.

“They can't watch forever,” said Pat. “And for all we know, they probably think we split and are three states away by now. I mean who in their right mind would go back to the room?”

“Precisely.”

“We have to do this,” said Pat. “Can't go to the police in this town since that business in the alley. We just need enough money for gas and food. Our only path of survival is through that room.”

“I'm just so terrified.”

“Then stay here,” said Pat. “That would actually be better. It's dark, and they're looking for a couple. A single silhouette might go unnoticed.”

“No way,” said Bar. “Anywhere you're going, I'm going. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” said Pat. “Okay, here's the plan. We'll loop around and come in from the rear, and once we're in that room, we're as good as back to Wisconsin. The most dangerous time is the exposure from when we leave this hiding spot until we reach the door. You sure you want to do this?”

She suppressed a panic attack and nodded.

“Let's go . . .”

They dashed across the highway two blocks down from the hotel and worked their way along a street behind the buildings. The first five minutes seemed like an hour.

Bar stopped by a chain-link fence. “I can barely get my legs to move. They're not doing what I tell them.”

“We have to keep going,” said Pat. “It's not safe to stay in one place.”

They finally reached the edge of the Casablanca Inn on an unlit side street. Pat peeked around the corner. “Looks clear.”

“I don't think I can do it.” Bar grabbed her racing heart. “We'll have to walk out in the light, in front of all those other rooms, until we get to ours. We'll be completely naked—it can't get any more dangerous.”

“Too late to worry about that now. The longer we remain—”

“I know, I know,” said Bar. “Let's look around one more time.”

“Okay.”

Two pairs of eyes made a slow, 180-degree sweep of the street, checking for any movement or out-of-place characters.

“I think we're good,” said Pat. “Walk fast, but don't break into a run . . . Now.”

The couple strolled briskly. Pat got out his brass key and started inserting it into the knob.

Bar's head jerked around, looking behind them.

Clang
.

“Damn, I dropped the key.”

“I got it.” Bar picked it up and unlocked the door.

They darted inside and slammed the door.

“Where's the light switch?”

“I think it's over here,” said Bar. “I found it.”

She turned on the lights.

They froze.

Then slowly looked at each other. “I can't believe we made it,” said Bar.

“Got to move fast,” said Pat. “They may have missed us on the way in, but it could be hairy getting out. Grab just what we need.”

Clothes flew. Pat found the suitcase pocket with the emergency money.

“Pat?”

“What is it?” He grabbed another suitcase and ripped through its contents.

“Pat?”

Without looking: “What?” Socks and underwear hit the wall. Something was off. Pat stopped, realizing there wasn't any sound or movement from his wife's direction. “Honey, what's the—”

She just stared down at an unzipped suitcase just delivered from Nashville.

“Holy shit!” said Pat. “Look at all that money!”

“So that's what this is about. We grabbed the wrong suitcase at the airport . . . Or rather that baggage guy did.”

“Zip it up,” said Pat.

“Why?”

“We're taking it with us.”

“Have you lost your mind? I've never known you to be greedy.”

“Bar, that might be the only thing keeping us alive,” said Pat. “It's our bargaining chip.”

From behind: “You're right.”

The couple spun around. “Who are you?” said Pat. “How'd you get in here?”

“You forgot to lock the door. Happens a lot with these old joints that don't automatically latch . . . And to answer your first question, most people call me Gaspar. You can, too.”

They weren't looking at his face. The gun in his hand meant he wanted to control their movements. The silencer meant something else.

“Wait,” said Pat. “I recognize you. Except without the hat and sunglasses. You're the cop who shot the other cop in the alley.”

“Take the money,” said Bar.

“I will,” said Gaspar.

They got the message.

“Let her go,” said Pat. “There's no point—”

“Shut up and walk backward toward me.”

Moments later, the couple knelt side by side, facing the back of the room. Mouths taped, hands bound behind their waists with plastic wrist straps.

Knees buckled. Tears streamed. Stomachs now heaved with tremors. Out of the corner of her eye, Bar saw the end of the silencer pressed against the back of her husband's head. A muffled scream came from under her tape.

Suddenly the bathroom door flew open.

Two people jumped out with a camcorder.

“Surprise!”

Gaspar looked up. “What the—?” He raised his pistol quickly and fired.

Pfffft.

The camcorder flew out of Serge's hand. He and Coleman dove back in the bathroom.

“Serge, I thought you said everyone loved the ambush interview.”

“Tough room.” Serge pulled his own pistol from under his shirt and stuck it around the corner, firing a blind, high shot.

Bang
.

Pffft, pfftt
.

“What are we going to do?” asked Coleman.

“The element of surprise is lost, so I'll settle for a regular interview.” He fired again around the corner.

Then from the other side of the room:

Bang
.

Coleman looked at Serge. “I thought that guy had a silencer.”

“He did.” Serge fired another shot for cover before looking around the corner.

The McDougalls wisely decided to flatten themselves on the ground. Gaspar had his back to them, ducking behind a dresser and exchanging shots with someone taking cover just outside the door of the room.

Gaspar fired again, spraying plaster. “Catfish! You moron! We can split this!”

“Fuck you!”

Bang
.

Coleman turned. “Catfish?”

Serge shrugged, then jumped out of the bathroom. “Drop it!”

Gaspar turned around and squeezed off a wild shot. Serge jumped back in the bathroom.

Bang
.

Catfish caught Gaspar in the left thigh while he was facing the other way. “Son of a bitch!” Gaspar fired another pair of shots in both directions to buy time.

It wasn't like the movies. Most people think a close-quarters firefight leaves carnage, but reality is the opposite. Just watch a few convenience-store surveillance videos. People too busy ducking to aim, then fleeing at the first chance. Over in seconds.

The Mexican was pinned in a crossfire and made the instinctive decision to attempt a limping charge toward the exit, blasting his way out. Serge stepped from the bathroom and fired at Gaspar's back. He missed but hit Catfish just as he stepped out to take his own shot. The bullet struck his elbow and sent his gun skittering across the parking lot.

Gaspar made it to the door and split stage right. Catfish was already high-tailing the other way.

Serge grabbed Pat by an arm and jerked him up to his feet. “We have to get going . . .” He helped Bar up and shouted sideways: “Coleman, grab that suitcase of cash. I'll get the video camera. We're rockin' . . .”

They all ran out the door for the Gran Torino.

Street people on the sidewalk watched as Serge shoved the bound and gagged couple into the backseat. Then they went on with their lives. The Torino patched out.

“Coleman, my Swiss Army knife in the glove compartment. Cut them loose . . .” Serge glanced over his shoulder. “You're safe now.”

Coleman sliced plastic straps. Pat briefly rubbed his wrists, then pulled the tape off both their mouths. “Thank you! Oh, thank you! You don't know what we've been through.”

“Actually I do,” said Serge. “You accidentally got caught in the middle of a big case.”

Bar rubbed her own wrists. “You're not local police, are you?”

“I can honestly answer no,” said Serge. “And you made a smart move not to go to them.”

“Then who are you with?” asked Pat.

“It's better you don't know.” Serge made a skidding left onto Hollywood Boulevard.

Bar looked at her husband. “Probably federal.”

Pat nodded. “Investigating local corruption.”

“Just doing my job,” said Serge.

They crossed the bridge to the beach.

“So where are we going?” asked Bar.

“A special place.” Serge made another squealing left north on A1A. “It's cool.”

The couple breathed a heavy sigh and fell back into their seats.

In practically no time, they were getting out of the Torino in a jammed parking lot. The foursome walked through overgrown tropical foliage and past a bunch of discarded toilets with houseplants sprouting from the bowls.

Bar whispered as they walked behind Serge. “What's going on?”

“Must be some remote place that the feds use.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Bar.

“Honey, this is a side of life we've never seen before. We have no clue what's normal or not.”

“You might be right,” said Bar. “He saved our lives, so he must know what he's doing.”

Serge waved for them to keep up. “Follow me.”

They threaded their way through an old rustic bar crammed with crab-trap floats, fishing nets, license plates, a stuffed marlin, a pool table, a bathtub, international flags and more toilets. Claustrophobic like a submarine: a multilevel labyrinth of sturdy old boards and intimate bench seating squirreled into corners. Windows open all around to the night breeze off the water.

Serge finally reached the end of the building and gestured at the last bench. “Here we are.”

They all sat down. Pat hunched toward Serge with a low voice. “What happens now? I guess we'll have to give a statement.”

“Definitely.” Serge turned on a camcorder. “I want you to tell me everything.”

The couple nodded at each other. “We can do that,” said Bar. “Are you meeting some backup people here?”

“No, it's just me and Coleman.” Serge raised his hand for the bartender and ordered an iced coffee. “We travel fast and light. Or at least I do. Mornings start a little slow for my partner.”

“If we're not meeting anyone, then why did we come here?” asked Bar.

“Because it's Le Tub, but most tourists miss it.”

The coffee arrived and Serge chugged it. “Ever watch that great new TV show
The Glades
?”

“Heard of it,” said Pat. “Why?”

“In the second episode, Matt Passmore interviewed a suspect on this very bench, right by that window overlooking the Intracoastal.” Serge began rocking back and forth. “Isn't that priceless?” He slapped Pat on the back. “Are you getting fuckin' jazzed?”

“Am I what?” asked Pat.

“Jazzed,” said Coleman, slamming back a shot of whiskey. “He's a Mort Sahl fan.”

The bartender was already on his way over with a refill for Coleman.

Pat pulled his head back. “Should you be drinking so much at a time like this?”

“Why?” Coleman downed the second drink. “You want some weed?”

“What?”

Serge snapped his finger in front of Pat's face. “Pay attention. Things will start happening quickly. I didn't invent coffee; I just do what it tells me. We're heading to the band shell now. It's Hollywood, Florida, so naturally they had to have the Hollywood Bowl. It's not as big as the other one, but they did film
Body Heat
there. I'll play the part of William Hurt, and your wife can be Kathleen Turner for linear tension.” He pulled out a digital camera. “Smile!”