The Riptide Ultra-Glide

by Tim Dorsey

  “Is that why everyone was waving for us to swim sideways?” asked Pat. “So we would clear the channel and then come in?”

  “That’s the picture,” said the lifeguard. “You’re a couple of the lucky ones.”

  “This is getting ridiculous,” said Bar. “First luggage, then the motel, and now this.”

  “But the lifeguard said we were lucky.” Pat grinned. “So it evens out.”

  “My math says three glitches.”

  “Exactly,” said Pat. “The odds must be astronomical. We’re now due for the best vacation ever.”

  Paddling continued. “Uh, Pat,” said Bar. “What’s that guy onshore doing?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one standing on our beach blanket holding your shoe.”

  Pat sighed. “At least it was just my backup wallet.”

  “Four glitches,” said Bar. “And don’t say it’s only going to get better from here.”

  Pat kept kicking. “But how can it not?”

  “Excuse me,” said the lifeguard. “Can you stop kicking?”

  “Why?”

  “And just let me move my board around behind yours . . .” The lifeguard slid over to their backside and pulled out a small baton that was clipped to his waist. He swung it down hard into the water, landing the end on a moist snout.

  There was an explosive thrash in the surf, before a dorsal fin quickly knifed away.

  Pat looked up dubiously at the lifeguard. “Was that a shark?”

  “The chamber of commerce would prefer you didn’t say anything.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  BROWARD COUNTY

  The boom box played the kind of optimistic Benny Goodman tune that made everyone want to go out and buy war bonds.

  Three rows of retired women lined up on cue.

  “Ladies, you look even more exquisite than last time! I am one lucky man. Let’s get started.” Wolfgang walked to the end of the first row. “Mildred, shall we?”

  They began swaying to the music.

  The front door opened. A bellowing voice. “I absolutely love ballroom dancing!”

  Wolfgang stopped swaying. “Sir, we just started a class. Please.”

  “Then I’m right on time,” said Serge. “Come on, Coleman.”

  Wolfgang forced a smile toward the rest of the group. “Excuse me a moment. Just continue.”

  He rushed over. “Please, this is a private class. Now, if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  Serge pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “Does this open it?”

  He’d found Wolfgang’s soft spot. “Two-fifty,” said the instructor.

  “Let’s make it an even three,” said Serge, peeling off hundreds.

  Wolfgang looked suspiciously over at Coleman, who grinned and raised a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in salute. “Dancing’s cool.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Serge. “He’ll be my partner.”

  Oh, they’re partners, thought Wolfgang. That explains it. He felt more at ease as he pocketed the cash. “Okay, take a spot in the back.” Then he walked to the front. “As we were . . .” He took Mildred’s hand.

  Everyone moved gracefully to the big-band music. Except Serge, who manically jitterbugged out of tempo with the melody, twirling Coleman around and around.

  Wolfgang rolled his eyes. After three minutes, he moved to his next partner.

  Suddenly, from the rear of the room: “Whoa! Dizzy! . . .” Coleman staggered sideways and crashed into a mirror.

  Everyone stopped and stared.

  Serge smiled back. “Sorry, must have twirled him too much . . . Coleman, straighten up. You’re attracting attention.” Coleman gripped the sides of a plastic wastebasket, his head all the way down inside, retching. Serge smiled again at the others. “It’s his first time. Stage nerves.”

  Coleman grabbed a stool on the side and took a time-out for the duration. Wolfgang worked his way along a series of partners in the front row, and Serge worked along the back. “Agnes, you’re a natural!”

  An hour later, they were done. The students thanked Wolfgang as usual and shuffled out the front door. Except those who decided to stay behind for additional, personal attention.

  Wolfgang stuck his head out his office door and looked at the chairs lined up against the wall. Gertrude, Rita, Phoebe . . . and Serge and Coleman.

  He took a deep breath and called the first woman in.

  The afternoon went by. None of the ladies were left. Wolfgang stepped out of his office and conspicuously jingled keys. “Sorry, guys, have to lock up for the day.”

  Serge jumped to his feet. “What? But we didn’t get to talk!”

  “I’ve got an important appointment.”

  Serge pulled out the roll of cash again. “And I’ve got a business proposition. It’ll just take a minute.”

  Wolfgang couldn’t take his eyes off the dough. “Okay, but just one minute.”

  They went back inside and took seats.

  Serge gestured with the hand that held the cash. “Let’s get money out of the way first.”

  “Fine by me,” said Wolfgang. “How much are we talking about?”

  “All of it.”

  “All of it?” said Wolfgang. Wow, it was a big roll. “What’s your proposition?”

  “I want you to give back all the money that you fleeced from these wonderful, trusting women. In exchange, you’ll never see me again. Believe me, it’s a bargain. Ask around.” He sat back and folded his arms with a big smile.

  Wolfgang reached for the phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  “And have them go through your financials again? You just got lucky last time when the woman stood up for you and they had to drop the charges. Only cowards prey on the most vulnerable.”

  Wolfgang withdrew his hand. “Who are you?”

  “Serge A. Storms. And I’m just crazy about reading newspapers, every word every day, starting with the funnies and ending with articles about scams so I can line up scores. Maybe you can answer this: How come Blondie’s eyes don’t have any pupils? It creeps me out.” Serge shook at the thought.

  “You’re nuts! Get out of my office!”

  “I see you’ve accepted my terms.” Serge stood and unfolded two pieces of paper on the desk. “Just sign on the dotted lines. And give back my three hundred and anything you’ve got in the safe . . .”

  “Out!”

  “ . . . This first form redistributes your profits. And the second is your revised will that leaves everything to your students. But that’s just a fail-safe, like a John Garfield clause, in the unlikely event that something unfortunate should happen to you before the first document can be executed.”

  “I’m not signing anything!”

  Serge reached under his shirt, and pressed a .44 between Wolfgang’s eyes.

  “Where’s my pen?”

  “That’s better,” said Serge.

  Moments later, Wolfgang was on his knees in front of an open office safe. “This is all of it.”

  Serge finished stuffing the contents into his pockets. “Now, that wasn’t so hard.” He pulled the gun again and motioned toward the door. “Let’s take a little ride.”

  “But I thought we had a deal.”

  “I never signed anything.” Serge turned. “Coleman, did I sign anything?”

  Coleman shook his head.

  Serge shrugged at Wolfgang. “You should always get everything in writing . . . Now, get up.”

  “Wait!” Wolfgang threw out his hands in a pleading gesture. “I know where you can get a lot more money. Thousands. Tens of thousands!”

  “That’s fear talking,” said Serge. “Fear’s a bullshit artist.”

  “This is real, I swear,” said Wolfgang. “The dance studio just got a new investor. Another guy in
this strip mall. He runs a pain clinic . . .”

  Serge scratched his chin with the end of the gun, then sat back down. “Tell me more.”

  “He’s got at least five offices now. They work with these Mexicans who are trying to corner the market as the local wholesaler.”

  And he laid out the whole pipeline plan, cradle to grave. Including the Kentucky customers.

  “Interesting,” said Serge. “And they always use the same motel?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “You’ve done great,” said Serge. “Now let’s go for that ride.”

  U.S. 1

  Patrick stood outside their room at the Casablanca. “My face is on fire.”

  “You’re severely sunburned.” Bar reached into a drugstore bag and removed an aerosol can. “You shouldn’t have fallen asleep on the beach while I was window-shopping.”

  “But I was tired from the riptide.”

  Bar uncapped the Solarcaine. “Close your eyes and hold still.”

  A hissing sound.

  “Why are we outside?” asked Pat.

  “Because this really musts up the air if you spray indoors.”

  “Can I open my eyes now?”

  Bar replaced the cap. “All done.”

  Pat felt his face. “This is definitely going to peel.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Bar. “Your face will just feel hot tonight.”

  A voice behind them from in front of the next room: “Can I borrow some of that?”

  “Sure.” She handed over the can.

  The man uncapped it again, spraying heavily into a brown paper bag, then placing the mouth of the bag over his face and inhaling deeply. His eyes rolled back in his head as he crashed back through the door of his room, the can of Solarcaine clanking across the parking lot.

  Bar quickly opened their own door, and the couple rushed inside.

  “What was the deal with that guy?” said Bar, grabbing dry clothes.

  Pat leaned with his face three inches from the mirror, staring and slowly running fingers over his eyebrows. “I fell asleep on the beach with my sunglasses on. I look like a raccoon.”

  “Just wear sunglasses whenever we go out until it fades.”

  Patrick climbed up on a chair. “It’s definitely going to peel.”

  “What do you want to do about dinner?”

  “Maybe the Mai-Kai?” said Pat. “My parents used to rave about it when I was a kid.” He pushed back a ceiling tile and felt around in the dust. “Where’s my wallet? Someone stole my wallet.”

  “Wonderful,” said Bar. “Did they also steal my purse?”

  “No, here it is.” Pat reached deep into the ceiling. “Whoever stole my wallet probably didn’t find it because it was pushed back farther.” As he retrieved the handbag, his fingers found something else.

  “What’s that?” asked his wife.

  Pat held the discovery in front of his face. “Looks like a joint from those drug-education slide shows at our school. Someone else must have been up here in the ceiling before me.” He replaced the tile and jumped down from the chair. “Told you it was a good place to hide stuff.”

  Bar slipped on denim shorts. “Is the whole state like this?”

  “You’re stereotyping based on a few random glitches.”

  “So we’ve lost a specific glitch count now?”

  “It’s just a weird run. There’s no way it can continue—”

  A knock at the door.

  Bar raised her eyebrows.

  “Odds on our side,” said Pat, walking past and opening the door. “Hello?”

  “I’m locked out of my room,” said a woman. “Can I use your phone?”

  “Pat,” Bar yelled from behind. “Is she the same one?”

  “No, another.” He faced the woman again. “I’ll bet I can help. You know that thing you just did with your knuckles on this door to get me to come and open it? Try that.”

  He closed the door.

  “Why are you smiling?” asked Bar.

  “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

  “I think we might consider going home early.”

  “But the airline will hammer us with charges for the flight change. I told you: It’s just been a quirky twenty-four hours. Nothing else can possibly—”

  A cell phone rang.

  “Nobody calls your phone,” said Bar. “We only have it for road emergencies.”

  “Then let’s answer it.” Pat dug it out of a pocket on his suitcase and flipped it open. “Hello? . . . Fraud unit? Who is this— . . . Our credit-card company? . . . Do we have our cards in our possession? . . . Uh, that’s hard to say . . . Because it’s a big ceiling with a lot of dust and I don’t want to jump to conclusions until I can get back up there with a flashlight . . . No, it was a travel tip . . .”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Bar.

  “They want to know if we have our credit cards.”

  Bar fished in her purse. “I found mine.”

  Pat got back on the phone. “Half accounted for . . . And I’ll bet if I had a flashlight— Are you sure someone’s running up charges? . . . I see. Well, they must have gotten our number off a receipt or something . . . What? They actually presented a card with a valid magnetic strip? But how is that possible? . . . Computers? I don’t mean to be critical, but this is very disconcerting . . . Sure, I can verify recent transactions . . . Could you repeat that? . . . All fifteen of those were for an even hundred dollars at a department store? To the penny? . . . Uh-huh, I see. The thieves often go on a spree and buy a bunch of gift cards before the account is turned off . . . That makes sense. I shop at that store all the time near our home in Wisconsin. Someone must have gotten it there . . . What do you mean ‘not Wisconsin’? . . . South Florida? What’s the address? . . .” Pat clicked open a pen and grabbed something to write on. “But that’s just a few blocks from our motel . . . What? There’s one last transaction? Forty-three dollars and sixty-two cents? The Oasis Inn? . . .” Pat walked to the window and peeked through the curtains. On the other side of U.S. 1, a lighted motel sign with camels and date palms. “That’s right across the street! Call the cops! . . . What do you mean your job is just to document fraudulent activity? They just made the charge on our account! And it’s a motel, not a store. They’re probably in there right now, maybe even sleeping! You can break the case! . . .” Pat listened some more to the phone, then quietly hung up.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Bar.

  “The good news is we’re not responsible for any charges.”

  “The bad news?”

  “They turned off our cards.”

  “What!” Bar stood up rod straight. “But we need them for our vacation. We’re practically stranded here without them.”

  “They said that they would immediately issue replacements.”

  Bar relaxed. “Okay, where do we pick them up?”

  “They can only mail them to our billing address.”

  “Wisconsin?”

  “For our security,” said Pat.

  “At least we still have our ATM cards. Or one card. Your shoe.”

  “Except there’s not enough money in the account.”

  “Don’t forget the two hundred in cash we brought with us,” said Bar. “It’ll just about cover . . .”

  “Except half of that was also in my shoe.”

  “This is getting old fast.”

  Ringgggg!

  It was the room’s old rotary phone.

  The couple stared at it in silence.

  Ringgggg!

  “Who do you think is calling us?” asked Bar.

  “Nobody knows we’re here,” said Pat.

  Ringgggg!

  “Are you going to answer it?”

  Pat tentatively picked up t
he receiver. “ . . . Hello? . . .”

  Bar watched intently.

  Pat finished listening. “No.” He hung up.

  “Who was that?” asked Bar.

  “Woman says she’s still locked out of her room and would like to use our phone.” Pat walked to the window and pulled the curtains open a foot. “This really pisses me off.”

  “Honey,” said Bar. “You never get mad. And you never say ‘pissed off.’ ”

  “I know.” Pat took a measured breath and squinted across the street at the blue neon strip under the overhang along the front of the Oasis Inn. “It’s just that there are some people staying in one of those rooms who are ruining our special vacation, and the credit-card company won’t even call the police about them . . . Maybe I should call.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “If they’re arrested, maybe the credit-card company will turn our cards back on.”

  “I don’t think it works that way,” said Bar.

  “I don’t care anymore,” said Pat. “My face feels hot again.”

  “Put on more Solarcaine.”

  “I’ve had it with what’s happening to the country. First those politicians and their layoffs, now these criminals.” Pat glared out the window. “I’m not going to stand idly this time.”

  Bar came up from behind. She put her arms around his waist and her head on the back of his shoulder. “Honey, don’t scare me. I’ve never seen you this upset. These people . . . we don’t know what they’re capable of. What if they retaliate?”

  “They can’t if we call the anonymous tip line.”

  “But we don’t know who they are,” said Bar. “Or even what room they’re staying in.”

  “Already thought of that,” said Pat. “And we actually do know their names.”

  He took a seat on the bed and grabbed a thick phone book from the bottom of the nightstand. Pages heavily curled at the top right. A big chunk missing in the middle. Dated six years ago. Pat flipped to Hotels and Motels and ran a finger down to the Os. “Got it!”

  “Pat . . .” Bar sat down on the bed next to him. “Please don’t do anything rash.”