by Tim Dorsey
“Patrick M. McDougall?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m afraid I can’t honor your request.”
“Why?” asked Pat.
“Your license has been suspended. So we can’t issue any travel waivers.”
“Suspended?”
“There’s a hold on your file pending the receipt of clarifying documents from South Florida.”
“Documents?”
“We received an alert from the education department that you were driving while smoking crack and PCP.”
“Because that’s all a big communication mistake,” said Pat. “It shouldn’t have said driving. And no PCP, just crack.”
“You were only smoking crack? I’ll make a note in your file.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Don’t touch anything.”
“I’m sorry, it’s already in the system. Can I help you with anything else today.”
Pat hung up.
The phone rang. Patrick answered it.
“I want my fucking cocaine—”
Pat hung up.
“Is something the matter?” asked the attendant. “You don’t look too well.”
Pat just stared.
The receptionist smiled again and looked down at her computer screen. “I do have some good news for you. Your luggage is now in Nashville.”
“Nashville?” said Bar.
The woman nodded. “It just landed.”
“How is that good news?”
“Because it’s moving closer,” said the attendant. “In fact, it should be here this afternoon.”
Chapter Twenty-five
JUST OUTSIDE THE AIRPORT
A Gran Torino cruised south on U.S. Highway 1.
“It’s just like Alec Baldwin said in Miami Blues: ‘The problem is I can be anything I want.’ ” Serge made a wild gesture out the driver’s window with his left arm. “I just can’t make up my mind.”
Coleman lit a joint. “Example?”
“Internationally acclaimed interior designer.” Another cavalier fling of his arm. “Here’s the key: Take all indoor furniture—sofas and loungers covered in white linen—and lug it outdoors. Then grab all the outdoor furniture—wicker, bamboo, postmodern aluminum tubing—and bring it indoors. Now I’m a fucking genius. All the Ian Schrager hotels want to hire me.”
“They do?”
“Unless the South Beach techno-dance clubs outbid them. They don’t have live bands, just DJs up in a booth. And the DJs are now celebrities like Mick Jagger, with their own dance-mix followers who make pilgrimages club to club to hear them turn on the music. When did a stereo become a musical instrument?” Serge leaned forward and clicked on the car radio. “There, I’m an artist. Thousands of women on ecstasy now want to have three-ways with me.”
“You get chick double action just for turning on the car radio?”
“Who could have seen this trend coming?”
“What about me?” Coleman exhaled a hit out the window. “What should I do?”
“Just be yourself,” said Serge, gesturing again out his window. “You’re like the guy in those Dos Equis beer ads: ‘He is the most interesting man in the world . . . Children’s tearless shampoo still makes him cry.’ ”
“It always has made me cry,” said Coleman. “What’s wrong with that shit?”
“I think it’s you, Coleman.” Serge checked his watch and sped up to make a yellow light. “Every time you take a shower, I hear this grief-stricken weeping from the bathroom like you’re having a breakdown or something. At first I thought it was the smorgasbord of psychedelics you were taking, and your unborn soul was being ripped from the abyss and forced traumatically into the material world like you were giving birth to yourself.”
“I was giving birth to myself, but shampoo makes it more intense.”
“Maybe you should stop taking LSD before showers.”
“No, it’s the shampoo,” said Coleman. “That’s how they plan it.”
Another arm flung out the driver’s window, this one dismissive. “Next subject.”
Coleman turned around in his seat. “Cars are scattering. Both sides of the road.”
“They have the worst drivers down here.”
“I think it’s because of the arm you keep waving out the window,” said Coleman. “It has the gun.”
“The gun’s under the seat,” said Serge.
“No, it isn’t. Look.”
“Okay, to humor you . . . Yow! When did that happen?”
“You got it out a few blocks back when you were screaming about instant replay ruining croquet. Just like you got it out the other day and didn’t know it. Keeps happening more and more. Sometimes you even shoot it.”
“I do? Who am I shooting at?”
“Not aiming at anyone, not on purpose.”
Serge tucked the gun back under his seat. “I’ll have to watch that . . . How’s traffic doing back there?”
Coleman turned around again. “Still parked in the middle of the road and on sidewalks.”
“They must have anxiety conditions. It’s this crazy pace of modern society.” Serge checked his wristwatch again.
“What time is it?”
“A couple minutes before three.” Serge looked out his window as they went through an intersection. “And there’s the Swashbuckler Motel.”
Coleman saw a two-story, whitewashed place with turquoise trim. “Some guys are heading up the stairs.”
“Right on time.” Serge hit his blinker and turned into a parking lot with a horse trailer. “Just like that ballroom scam artist told us . . .”
* * *
Across the street at the Swashbuckler Motel: three evenly spaced knocks on the door of room 213.
It opened.
Catfish and an associate entered with hands raised again, and turned around for the frisk.
“They’re both clean,” said one of the goons.
Gaspar set a cigar in the ashtray and rubbed his hands together. “You got the money?”
“Yeah, I got the money,” said Catfish. “You got the stuff?”
“Yeah, I got the stuff,” said Gaspar, picking up the cigar. “Where is the money?”
“Oh, it’s not with me,” said Catfish.
“No?”
Catfish shook his head. “But it’s nearby . . . What about the stuff?”
“I don’t have the stuff either.”
“You don’t?”
Gaspar shook his head. “No, but it’s also nearby . . .” He broke into a smile and pointed with the cigar. “The money’s in the car, isn’t it?”
Catfish shook his head again. “No, it’s not in the car.”
“So what part of Kentucky are you originally from—”
“Why don’t I come back in and we start all over again,” said Catfish.
“What’s the rush?” asked Gaspar. “I like to get to know people I do business with.”
“You’ll get to know me when you stop jerking off and start doing fucking business with me!”
Everyone tensed, itchy fingers on triggers.
The door suddenly opened. Everyone jumped. Gaspar’s outside detail marched three of Catfish’s men into the room.
Gaspar stood. “Did you find the Durango?”
One of the gunmen nodded. “No sign of the money.”
Catfish’s head snapped toward Gaspar. “So this is a rip-off! I should have known!”
“Rip-off?” said Gaspar. “You didn’t bring the money in the room! You’re the one who came to rip me off!”
The rest of the two gangs glanced side to side, shifting weight on their feet. Gaspar’s goons tightened the grip on their weapons. Catfish’s men moved their hands slightly to be closer to their hidden backup pieces tucked in the smalls
of their backs and strapped to their ankles.
“What about Gooch Spivey?” yelled Gaspar.
“How’d you know about Gooch?” Catfish shot back. “What about José Medina?”
Simultaneously: “You’re working with the feds!”
“Open your shirt!” Catfish yelled at Gaspar. “You’re wired up, aren’t you?”
“You’re a motherless dog for even saying that!” Gaspar turned. “Guys, check him out.”
Catfish backed up. “Get the fuck away from me. You’re not laying a hand . . .”
The goons grabbed him anyway. One ripped the buttons halfway down his shirt. Catfish twisted and pushed one, stumbling backward off balance. He grabbed the other by the arm and swung him into the wall. His Kentucky crew used the confusion to pull their backup pieces. The others swung their MAC-10s and aimed.
Gaspar saw the future: a mass suicide from the crisscrossed trajectories in the tight room. Just as everyone was about to start firing, he jumped into the middle. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
“Hold your fire!” yelled Catfish. “But keep those guns up and cocked.”
“Keep ’em aimed!” yelled Gaspar. He took a deep breath and wiped his forehead.
“How can I trust you?” asked Catfish. “You ambushed my men outside again.”
“They were lying in wait again. What the hell was that about?”
“I still don’t see any drugs!”
“I don’t see any money!”
“This is bullshit!”
“Easy,” said Gaspar, holding out open palms. “We’re just making it worse. Let’s everyone dial it down a notch. It’s not a sting, that’s for sure. And if we all kill each other, nobody makes any money.”
So they were left in a motionless circle of aimed, high-caliber firepower. Nobody wanting to give an inch or advantage.
“How do we defuse this?” asked Catfish.
“Have your boys put down their guns.”
“Not a chance. You toss yours.”
“Like hell.”
“So much for defusing,” said Catfish. “How about not escalating until we figure this out?”
“Fine,” said Gaspar. “What about this: Nobody fires on either side unless they get a specific order from either me or you. Deal?”
“I can live with that.”
They both looked around at their men and nodded for them to accept the terms.
Catfish faced Gaspar again.
“Now what?”
* * *
A Gran Torino sat pointed out of an alley.
Serge zoomed his camcorder on an upstairs motel room across the street. “I’d give anything to be a fly on the wall.”
“What do you think’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“I don’t know,” said Serge. “This footage sucks.”
“But you were able to film those Mexicans ambushing the hillbillies and marching them up into the room.”
“That was minutes ago,” said Serge. “The TV audience is increasingly restless. It’s all: What have you done for me lately?”
“I’m getting bored,” said Coleman.
“So is my audience.” Serge handed the video camera to Coleman. “By now they’ve gotten up to make popcorn or take a much-anticipated dump.”
“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.
Serge opened his door and popped the trunk. He came around to the passenger side, holding the handle of a heavy-gauge molded-plastic case that looked like it could hold a trombone.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
“Sometimes reality needs a catalyst to jump-start the action.” He began heading across the street. “Whatever you do, don’t stop filming!”
Coleman didn’t. The camera followed Serge as he tiptoed up the stairs and opened the case on the balcony. Then Serge grabbed a rubber handle attached to a rope and pulled. He pulled again, and again. Something wasn’t working. He pulled again . . .
Coleman pressed the viewfinder harder against his eye. “What in the living—”
Serge pulled a final time and was satisfied. He ran back down the stairs . . .
* * *
Inside room 213 of the Swashbuckler Motel, everyone suddenly turned toward the sound coming from outside on the balcony. Reminded them of a high-rpm lawn mower.
Gaspar motioned. “Benito, check it out.”
Benito opened the door. The two-stroke gas engine got louder. “Someone left this outside.” He walked back into the room with a still-running chain saw.
Everyone clenched up.
“What the fuck?” said Catfish.
“Turn it off!” yelled Gaspar.
“Where’s the switch?” asked Benito, unwittingly stepping farther into the room.
Someone backed up and bumped into a nightstand. A lamp crashed to the floor.
Benito started and turned with the chain saw, slicing a gash in the shoulder of a hillbilly.
Trigger fingers spasmed. A shot rang out. Nobody knew who fired, but the bullet went through the beach painting on the wall, taking out the mother.
Then everyone let loose in a deafening fusillade.
It was the second Mexican-American War. Except it wasn’t fought over Texas. It was waged between Mexico and Kentucky. In South Florida.
And it didn’t last nearly as long. All the shooting took less than ten seconds. Everyone toppled over like a bowling strike.
Quiet again. The room filled with a choking haze of smoke.
Then it was aftermath.
The number of dead wasn’t known. But nobody on either side was law-enforcement-trained in marksmanship. Which meant injuries. The moaning started. People tried to roll over and push themselves up. The less wounded looked around the floor for scattered weapons.
Finally, someone was able to crawl. He reached up from his knees and grabbed the doorknob. It opened.
Then a delayed gunshot. It hit the man in the back and he fell forward out the door, dead on the balcony.
Gaspar glanced around from behind the cover of the nightstand. He had gone down like the others; but decided to do it preemptively and not wait for the help of bullets.
Now he moved quickly on hands and knees, along the edge of the bed, peeking over the top. He got to the end. Catfish lay dead on the floor in front of the dresser. Gaspar scrambled past.
Something seized his ankle. Nope, Catfish was just playin’ possum. “You son of a bitch!”
Gaspar looked back and kicked him in the face, freeing his leg. He scurried the rest of the way to the door and got up. Luckily, he tripped over the body on the balcony and crashed into the railing, just as Catfish’s shot from behind sailed over his head.
“You’re a dead man!” shouted the Kentuckian. “I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do! . . .”
Gaspar sprinted to the landing and down the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-six
SOUTH FLORIDA
In the pool supply stores and Cuban restaurants and pain clinics and traffic up and down U.S. 1, everybody heard the gunfire. But the echoes from the canyon of concrete along the highway threw the sound all over the place. Nine-one-one operators were flooded with calls, placing the shoot-out everywhere along a ten-block stretch.
Serge had taken over the video camera again, filming through the windshield from his driver’s seat. He’d already gotten the first guy falling out the door, then Gaspar tumbling over his body and dashing down the steps, followed by Catfish, who looked both ways over the railing before sprinting for the opposite stairwell.
Now it was mop-up time. A triaged sequence of men spilled out of the room, starting with the flesh wounds, then the through-and-through shots still able to walk, and, bringing up the rear, the middle-luck souls who could only manage to flop out the door into a pile and wait for paramedics.
In a parking lot two blocks away, a ruddy man in a plaid shirt moved indecisively, a couple of panicked steps in one direction, then another, then back. He had been left to guard the suitcase of cash in the horse trailer, and he had heard the shots. What to do?
Moments before, he’d finished a lengthy daydream about the vast amount of money an arm’s length away. Temptation whipsawed. Proverbial devil and angel on his shoulders. Then he thought about the floating rumor concerning Catfish and Gooch, and poof!—his shoulders were lighter.
But now . . . There had been way too many gunshots. A lot of people weren’t coming back. And even if Catfish did make it, well, he was sure to understand that the responsible thing to do after everything went south was to get the horse trailer out of there before the police sealed everything off. At least that was the story he’d be sticking to.
His name was Skeeter.
Skeeter jumped in the cab of the pickup towing the trailer and high-tailed it north on U.S. 1.
Back up the street, Serge lowered the camera from its view of the motel balcony. “I think that’s the last of them.”
“Where to now?” asked Coleman.
“Let’s consult the Master Plan.” Serge gritted his teeth in thought, then slapped the dashboard like he was buzzing in on Jeopardy! “I got it! Follow the money!”
“But where do you think the payoff for the drugs is?”
“Odds against that room.” He pointed. “Because after that kind of shoot-out, one of the most able-bodied would be carrying a briefcase or duffel.”
“All their hands were empty,” said Coleman.
“So the money was stashed at a nearby location as a precaution against a rip-off.” Serge bit his lower lip. “But where?”
“I hear sirens.” Coleman took a big hit and talked without letting out any breath. “Good dope.”
“I hear them, too,” said Serge, changing tapes in his camera. “How’s my power charge on this thing holding up?”
Sirens grew louder.
The electric meter on his camera showed an icon of a half-full battery. He nodded. “That should last.”