The Riptide Ultra-Glide (29 page)

Flash
.

Serge looked at the preview screen on his camera. “Both your mouths are open like Mr. Bill on
Saturday Night Live
. . . Let's try again.”

Flash
.

“You're not photogenic. Fuck it, we're behind schedule . . .”

Bar nudged her husband. “I don't think they're with the government.”

“Oh, I'm with the government all right,” said Serge. “But when I say ‘with,' I mean in the context of I'm in favor of it because otherwise there are no streets or postage stamps, and everyone wanders the woods carrying their own mail and looking at the sun to know when to eat until there's an eclipse and everyone's blind. That's why you should vote.”

Whispers. “We need to get away from them . . .”

“I know . . .”

“I heard that,” said Serge. “To the car! . . .”

The Wisconsin couple clutched each other and glanced around as they deliberately fell farther behind Serge.

“Now!” said Pat. They took off in the opposite direction and burst through a tall hedge on the side of A1A.

“Hey!” yelled Serge. “The car's this way. Stop fooling around.”

The McDougalls hit the sidewalk and suddenly dug in their heels. A Jeep with fog lights went by. “It's that Mexican,” said Bar. “He followed us.”

They crashed back through the hedge, ran across the lot and dove into Serge's car.

“Are you feeling okay?”

The couple kept their heads down in the backseat. “Just drive.”

“Glad to see you're with the program, because I was beginning to wonder.” Serge sped off down the street and hooked east toward the beach.

Five minutes later:

“We're at the band shell. Smile!”

Flash
.

“Mouths still open. Work on that . . . And this the famous Hollywood boardwalk, and this thatched-roof bar was the fictional joint Cancun in another
Glades
episode . . . Smile!”

Flash
.

“Back to the car! . . . Hey, you're running the wrong way again!”

Pat stopped and grabbed his wife by the arm.

“What's the matter?” asked Bar.

Pat nodded ahead. “That guy at the take-out pizza counter.”

“Looks like he's showing photos to the staff.”

“Isn't he the other guy who was shooting from the doorway of our motel room? . . .”

Serge watched as the couple sprinted past him and jumped in his car. He followed them at a more casual pace and climbed in.

Pat McDougall peeked out the Torino's rear window. “Hurry up and drive!”

“Man,” said Serge. “I thought
I
was exhausting to be around. But it means I picked the right stars for my show.”

Bar tugged her husband's sleeve and pointed. A black Jeep with fog lights. They bonked each other's head ducking again. “Just get out of here! I think we're being followed!”

“Relax, audition's over,” said Serge. “You already got the part.”

Chapter Thirty-two

T
he Gran Torino whipped back onto A1A. Coleman turned around in his seat. “Here's your weed.”

“What?”

“Your joint. Take it.”

“You mean pot?” said Pat. “We don't do drugs.”

“Then why'd you ask for some back at the bar?”

“We didn't,” said Bar. “You must have misunderstood.”

Coleman pointed with the unlit twistie. “Okay, but that's entrapment if you're The Man . . .”

“We're not.”

Coleman settled back into his seat. “Serge, I think they're narcs. Are you going to kill them?”

“No!” snapped Serge. “I never harm law enforcement.”

“What if they're just civilian informants trying to work off a beef? Then will you kill them?”

“What's gotten into you?”

Coleman fired up the joint. “It's trippy watching you waste dudes, like that guy you left in the mangroves.”

“Keep your voice down.” Serge jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I think they can hear you. See? They don't look like they're having a good time.”

“I offered them weed.”

Pat raised a hand.

“Yes?” said Serge, glancing in the rearview.

“We'd like to get out of the car now, please.”

“But you're in a bad area,” said Serge.

“Don't think we're not thankful,” said Pat.

“Yes,” said Bar. “We totally appreciate all you've done for us, especially the shooting.”

Serge held up a modest hand for them to stop. “Say no more. If you want to thank us, please tell your friends after you get home.”

“Tell them what?”

“That a trusty travel guide is essential for the total Florida experience. This is a word-of-mouth industry.”

Coleman grinned in the rearview and waved a joint. “Don't forget to mention our reality show.”

“What?”

Serge looked in the mirror again. “Can you have a marital spat? Just a fake one to boost our ratings. Maybe hold a knife to his dick, but don't cut if off because this is a family show.”

Coleman offered the joint again. “This will help with those ant bites. That's what Willem Dafoe told Charlie Sheen in
Platoon
.”

“I'm impressed,” said Serge. “How were you able to remember that?”

“Classic weed moment in cinema.” Coleman pointed at the couple. “But they're refusing to toke up. I think they're narcs.”

A hand raised in the backseat. “We would like to get out of the car.”

“You're fixating,” said Serge. “Sit back and enjoy your life.”

“Serge,” said Coleman, looking out the back window. “I think they were right about us being followed. I see a Jeep with fog lights and maybe a Durango.”

“Excellent,” said Serge. “Hang on.”

The Gran Torino swerved left and right through narrow streets, the McDougalls sliding side to side with each turn.

Serge reached U.S. 1 and sped north. “What about our tail?”

“Still back there,” said Coleman.

Serge hit the gas and wove through traffic. “Okay, everyone, timing is going to be tight. If the schedule in my head is correct, we'll only have a few precious seconds. Just hope Captain Loogie isn't running behind.”

“Loogie?” asked Pat.

“His real name's Chris Brennan, but it doesn't have that ring.”

Serge ran a yellow light and made another screeching turn between two honking trucks. The couple in back covered their eyes.

Serge glanced at his side mirror. “How's it looking?”

“Both got held up at the light,” said Coleman.

“Perfect. Just the time cushion we'll need.” He raced east on Seventeenth Street, past Pier 66 and the Yankee Clipper, then a final hard left before skidding up at the fire station.

“Everyone out!”

Serge tossed the cash-crammed suitcase in the trunk, then led everyone running down to the water. A boat was about to cast off. An odd-looking narrow vessel with a domed cover, like the offspring of an Italian gondola and the Beatles' Yellow Submarine.

“Captain Loogie!” yelled Serge. “Wait up! We got four more!”

The man held the last line as the engine idled. The out-of-breath quartet scrambled aboard.

“Thanks,” said Serge. “I owe you.”

“But I'll never get paid.” He undid the line's knot. “Dang it, you always do this. Why can't you just slow down and be prompt for once?”

“Hurry up,” said Serge, watching a Jeep and a Durango roll up next to the fire station. “We're being followed.”

“As usual.” The man went up front and pulled away from the dock.

Serge turned and smiled at the McDougalls. “Everything's fine now. We're in Captain Loogie's hands. Don't be thrown by his long-haired, friend-of-the-earth hippie appearance. In a pinch, he can knock out local history with the best. That's why I picked him to be our guide for this segment of the tour.”

“Guide?”

Serge took a seat next to them and swept an arm around the vessel's interior. “This is one of the world-famous Fort Lauderdale water taxis. But why do they even need water taxis? I'll tell you! Fort Lauderdale has more canals than Venice, so they call it the Venice of America, even though there's another city in Florida actually called Venice, which is known for prehistoric shark teeth on the beach and not Italians. Next question?”

“Is this the best way to escape?” asked Pat.

“No, the boat's going way too slow. They should easily be able to follow us from land . . .” Serge hummed merrily and gazed off the port side. “Check out those ridiculous mansions and their massive docks. Fort Lauderdale has forty-two thousand yachts. We're cruising the Intracoastal Waterway. They also got a bunch of Ferrari and other exotic car dealerships that followed the wealth up here during Anglo flight from Miami-Dade, which is now sixty-seven percent Latin. You might want to write some of this down . . .”

Pat and Bar clutched each other as they watched a Jeep and a Durango race along the shore.

“ . . . And now we're turning up the New River,” said Serge. “On the left is the historic 1902 Stranahan House, built by Fort Lauderdale founder Frank Stranahan. Dig how it's this little old joint dwarfed by all the surrounding downtown buildings. Carl Hiaasen grew up in this county, and it's where he got the name of protagonist Mick Stranahan in his bestseller
Skin Tight
. . .”

It sounded like an echo. Up on the bow, an annoyed Captain Loogie stood with a microphone, his own history lecture almost a verbatim, half-second delay of Serge's rant.

Serge wildly waved a hand in the air. “Ooooo! Ooooo! Captain Loogie! Do you take requests?”

Loogie slowly lowered his microphone in exasperation. “What?”

“Tell them about the Japanese fish!”

The captain unenthusiastically raised his mike and continued in a monotone. “A rich guy lived in that mansion on your left, and he threw a birthday party for his five-year-old daughter, who wanted their swimming pool filled with fish, so he bought fifteen thousand dollars' worth of Japanese koi, and in the middle of the party, a flock of brown pelicans dive-bombed the pool, eating all the fish and making the children cry.”

Serge turned and grinned at the McDougalls. “Always a heartwarmer . . . Everyone up!”

“What for?” asked Pat.

“The river runs along the popular Las Olas entertainment district with lots of people eating veal on sidewalks. And lots of bars, so there's plenty of taxis. Plus the streets are tricky around here with all the canals. We need to grab a cab fast before our adversaries can figure out their way back around to the landing . . .”

The boat pulled up to a larger dock. Serge jumped off before it came to a stop, running out from behind a waterfront pub and waving down a cab. He didn't have to tell the others to keep up.

Three people dove into the backseat, and Serge climbed in up front.

The driver was a laid-back immigrant from the Ivory Coast. “Where to?”

“Just take off,” said Serge, handing the man a hundred. “We're being followed. I'll give directions on the way. And there'll be another C-note at the end if we survive.”

The cabbie grinned and nodded.

A tap on Serge's shoulder from the backseat. “Where are we going?”

“Drimmer's. That's all I can say right now without spoiling the surprise. You're going to love this!”

The taxi headed north through bright city traffic. Following Serge's directions, the driver peeled off the main drag and wound through a dim residential neighborhood. “There's the house.” Serge fished another hundred from his wallet.

They all got out and Serge stuck his head back into the passenger window. “When you leave, drive crazy like we're still in the car.”

“What?”

Serge raised his shirt to display the pistol tucked in his pants. “For your own safety.”

The taxi drove off crazy.

Serge put his wallet away. “They're so cooperative down here.” He ran up to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. He darted around the back of the house with the others close behind. A man was hosing something off a dock.

“Dave!” yelled Serge. “I need your keys! Fast!”

The man peered into the darkness at the forms rushing across the lawn toward him. “Serge? Is that you?”

Serge clomped down the dock. “No time to explain.” He made an urgent gesture of rubbing a thumb and index finger together. “The keys!”

“Dammit, Serge!” The man fished in his pocket. “Do you ever think of calling?”

“We're being followed.”

“What a shock.” Dave slapped the keys in Serge's hand. “Just don't wreck it.”

Serge looked back and waved. “Everyone aboard.”

They followed Serge through an oval hatch on the side of a giant metal tube.

The McDougalls looked around the walls and ceiling. “Is this thing really a boat?”

“It is now.” Serge ran up front to the cockpit and climbed into a pilot's chair. He cranked the engine and pulled away from the pier. One mooring line had been forgotten, and it tore off a dock cleat and a couple of planks.

From back on the dark shore:
“Dammit, Serge! . . .”

The tube picked up speed and motored out of the canal.

“Pat!” Serge called over his shoulder. “Come up here and take the copilot's seat. You'll never get this chance again.”

Pat nervously eased himself down into the chair.

Serge turned and smiled like a kid on Christmas. “Go ahead and play with the antique levers. They don't work anymore anyway. See? I'm doing it. Loads of fun . . .”

“But, Serge, I don't think this is the right—”

“Play with the fucking levers!”

“Okay, okay.” Pat reached for the aircraft-style console. “I'm throwing levers . . . Now, what is this thing we're riding in?”

“Howard Hughes's private plane, Boeing B-307.” Serge slowly turned the yoke and cornered another canal. “After being retired, she was stripped down to just the fuselage, fitted with propellers, and converted into a houseboat. But here's the best part! Jimmy Buffett was hanging out down here and saw this peculiar craft tooling through the water and it became the inspiration for the
Cosmic Muffin
”—Serge pointed up toward blue lettering at the top of the cockpit —“in his
Joe Merchant
novel, and further immortalized with his song ‘Desdemona's Building a Rocket Ship' from the dynamite
Banana Wind
album. I wish I had my boom box . . .”

Pat looked out the side window of the cockpit. He sat back quickly with shallow breaths and glanced at Serge.

Serge smiled back. “I was hoping you wouldn't notice them following us again onshore.” He threw some useless overhead levers that he hadn't gotten to yet. “Don't worry: We're taking this baby out in the ocean where they can't keep up.”

“Is this boat seaworthy enough?”

“Not remotely.” More levers. “I hope you're having as good a time as I am.”

Ten minutes later. Pat and Bar held each other tight in the back of the
Cosmic Muffin.
Waves crashed the side of the fuselage, rolling it to forty-five degrees and back again. Serge played with an instrument dial. “Look at the stars! . . .”

Coleman worked his way up front. He had been drinking heavily and was staggering like he'd fall down any second. Between that and the rocking of the boat, he walked a straight line. “Serge, I don't think this baby's going to make it. We need to get it docked.”

“Working on it.” He increased the throttle, running parallel to land. “Been watching landmarks onshore. There's Bahia Mar and the Clipper, with Friday-evening mermaid shows.” Serge turned the wheel. “We'll beach there between the two, then run across the sand, and our car should be waiting right where we left it to catch the water taxi.” He brought her around ninety degrees.