The Riptide Ultra-Glide

by Tim Dorsey

  Coleman exhaled out the window as the first police cruiser raced by, overshooting to one of the inaccurate phoned-in locations.

  The pair sat relaxed and stared toward U.S. 1 at nothing in particular.

  Coleman rested his joint on the edge of the window and popped a beer. “This is the life.”

  “You said it, buddy.” Serge uncapped a bottle of water. “Florida, a full tank of gas, and no appointments.”

  Another siren went by.

  “Doesn’t get any better,” said Coleman.

  They shared a toast, tapping an aluminum can and a plastic water bottle. “To travel with friends.”

  The pair sat and idly watched traffic. “Watching traffic is soothing,” said Serge. “I used to think that those old codgers were weird.”

  “Which ones were weird?”

  “The guys in the lawn chairs on the side of the road, wearing World War Two vet baseball caps and watching cars go by like a basset hound staring forever at an empty food bowl. But now I get it.”

  “I got it a long time ago. But I had a head start because I smoke weed.”

  They sat and watched some more.

  “There’s a few sedans, and a city bus,” said Serge. “A restored Charger—I love those—an exterminator company’s car with fake whiskers and rat ears on the roof, another police car . . .”

  Coleman paused. “What were we talking about before?”

  “I don’t remember . . . a taxicab, a livery, UPS truck, a horse trailer . . .”

  “A horse trailer?” said Coleman.

  At the same time their faces snapped toward each other: “The money!”

  Serge threw the Gran Torino in gear. The car began speeding from the cover of the alley.

  Out of nowhere, a screech of tires and a factory-fresh Jeep Cherokee blasted from beneath the shade of a royal poinciana.

  Serge slammed on his brakes with both feet. The nose of the Torino lurched to a stop just out of the alley. The Jeep swerved with inches to spare.

  “Hey!” Coleman pointed at the tinted windows and Gaspar Arroyo. “That’s one of the guys who made it out of the room. Was he sitting under that tree this whole time?”

  “I don’t know,” said Serge. “We were drifting there a bit.”

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Skidding around the corner to chase the horse trailer.” Serge hit the gas and brakes, spinning tires in an eruption of smoke. He let off his left foot and slingshotted out of the alley like a dragster, skidding around the same corner as he tossed the camera to Coleman. “Maybe you should film because I probably need to concentrate on driving.”

  FORT LAUDERDALE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Patrick McDougall walked up to the airline counter again, as he had done every ten minutes for the last two hours. “When is our luggage supposed to arrive?”

  The baggage-service attendant looked from her computer screen and smiled patiently. “Still four o’clock.”

  “Are you sure?” said Pat. “Did it make it on the plane? What if it’s going somewhere else? Maybe we’re tracking the wrong suitcases? Is there anything I’m missing? Cleveland?”

  “Sir, everything’s fine,” the attendant said with another smile. “And as I already told you, we’d be more than happy to deliver the bags to your motel room when they arrive.”

  “No,” said Pat. “That’s just another chance for something to go wrong. Once they get here, I’m not letting them out of my sight.”

  “I understand,” she said, but didn’t.

  Pat pointed behind him. “I’m going to go sit over there.”

  She smiled and nodded and tapped computer keys.

  Pat returned to his wife.

  “What did she say?” asked Bar.

  “Still four o’clock.” Pat took a seat.

  “That’s forever,” said Bar, glancing around nervously.

  “It’s only a half hour,” said Pat. “And we couldn’t be in a safer place. Even if the guy who called my cell finds us, there are lots of people around and a ton of security. Nothing bad can happen as long as we stay here.”

  U.S. 1

  Seven different car chases were currently under way in the greater Fort Lauderdale area, which was below average for the afternoon. One involved the police and a stolen Mercedes; the rest were between private citizens for a variety of unresolved personal matters. A cheating spouse, a repo man, road rage, a street race, a drug rip-off over a small amount of marijuana and another concerning a suitcase with $150,000.

  The last was taking place on U.S. 1 north of Hallandale. It was a slow chase through stop-and-go traffic, but difficult to lose track of a horse trailer.

  “I lost him,” said Coleman, bringing his head back in through the passenger window.

  “Coleman, you’re my spotter,” said Serge. “How could you lose him?”

  “That big bus got in between.” He opened a Schlitz.

  Serge glanced over in disapproval. “Beer during a chase?”

  “Keeps me focused.”

  “How can it do that?”

  “Otherwise I’ll be thinking about beer.”

  A black Jeep with a fog-light rack crossed into the oncoming lanes and blew by Serge’s window.

  Coleman pointed with his can. “How’d the Jeep get behind us?”

  “That’s a different Jeep,” said Serge. “The first is still up there. My guess is he called in fresh troops.”

  Something else tried to pass the Torino, but had to pull back to avoid an oncoming delivery truck. Serge looked up in the mirror. “And there’s the Durango. Everyone’s at the party.”

  The motorcade crawled through maddening traffic lights at Hollywood, Sheridan, Sterling Road and Dania Beach Boulevard. A shot was fired from the Durango, past the Gran Torino, at one of the Jeeps.

  “I’m getting terrible gas mileage,” said Serge.

  After Griffin Road, the pursuit quickly picked up steam as the pavement curved east. The Durango blew by. A loud roar overhead.

  Coleman aimed the camcorder out the window. Another loud roar. “The horse trailer’s taking an exit.”

  “That’s what I’d do,” said Serge. “He going to try to lose them at Fort Lauderdale International. And there’s a ton of security around, so no violence. Hopefully.”

  Serge eased the wheel left around another broad bend, watching the first Jeep exit, then the second, and finally the Durango. He hit his blinker and took the ramp.

  Merging traffic. Signs for rental-car drop-off and long-term parking. Departures, United, American, Southwest, Lufthansa.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “He’s heading for arrivals. Is he picking someone up?”

  “Just keep filming.”

  They entered another ultra-slow zone. Cars along the curb. Drivers double-parked with flashers. Cops waving people through and knocking on windows. Luggage thrown in the trunks. Travelers urgently smoking after long flights.

  The horse trailer was already parked at the last skycap. The first Jeep pulled up, then the others. People jumped out and ran through various automatic doors. Serge stopped in the second lane and jumped out. “Coleman, slide over and take the wheel.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Just drive in circles and keep making passes by here until you see me come back out.”

  He ran inside the airport.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  BAGGAGE CLAIM

  Some chases are easy to follow because of all the running. Except at airports. Despite heightened security designed to detect suspicious behaviors, running is not one of them. People are late.

  Serge stood between a pair of rotating baggage carousels from Cleveland and Kansas City, looking both ways, trying to filter through all the galloping customers. A family from Little Rock ran by pushing an overloaded luggage cart
like a dogsled race. Serge’s eyes stopped at the west end of the terminal.

  Skeeter dashed hell-bent through the terminal, followed closely by four Mexicans. A single, non-automatic door flew open, and Skeeter ran back outside into the sun. The door closed. The Mexicans threw it open and ran out.

  Serge took off in a sprint, weaving through chauffeurs holding cardboard signs. Then he stopped. Because someone else had.

  Up ahead, Gaspar Arroyo stood watching one particular carousel as the crowd around it thinned out.

  Serge scratched the top of his head. “What’s he stopping for?” Then his brain went in rewind mode: The guy being chased out the door was empty-handed. Serge smiled and moved over to a wall of courtesy phones, folding his arms.

  Gaspar continued his vigil of the luggage carousel. Serge made a reflexive sweep of the surroundings. More families, baggage handlers, someone driving a beeping cart containing a passenger with two arm casts, flight attendants with smartly packed luggage, a guy carrying snow skis with misplaced confidence. Serge’s eyes backed up. The hall to the restrooms. A second smile slowly spread across his face.

  Standing around the corner, visible to Serge but out of sight from the other direction: the man Serge had first filmed trotting up the stairs at the Swashbuckler Motel.

  Catfish pretended to be resetting his wristwatch for the time zone, but he kept peeking around the corner at Gaspar.

  Another beeping cart cruised down the terminal. “Coming through . . .” In the rear seat were the McDougalls. Pat had become increasingly unhinged back in the luggage office, asking every five minutes, and the attendant decided he needed some personal service. A cart was called up and a grinning man in a visor gestured for Pat and Barb to get in. “I’ll take you to your luggage, and then load it in your rental. Sorry for all the inconvenience . . .”

  And now the cart beeped its way through people not paying attention, finally stopping at the carousel for a just-arrived flight from Nashville. “Just point out your bags,” said the driver.

  “There’s one,” said Pat. “I can’t believe it’s finally here.”

  “And there are the other two,” said Bar.

  “I got ’em,” said the driver, snatching suitcases off the belt and tossing them in the back of the cart. He drove off toward short-term parking.

  Serge remained in the shadows, keeping a close eye on Gaspar and Catfish. The score became clear: The man being chased through the terminal had needed to ditch the suitcase of money, and since there were no lockers anymore, options were limited. But his choice was clever. Hide it in plain sight. Set it on a baggage belt and return later to unclaimed luggage. It had almost worked, except Gaspar had apparently noticed the drop, and Catfish had noticed Gaspar.

  They all waited patiently in the background of the Nashville carousel for the process of elimination. More and more passengers wheeled away luggage until, finally, no more people were left. A lone bag made another lap and rotated again through the hanging rubber strips. Gaspar casually grabbed the handle as it went by. He headed for the automatic doors and back into the heat. Serge looked the other way. Catfish was on the move. He went toward a different set of doors, for surveillance separation on Gaspar, and strolled outside. Serge burst through door number three.

  At the curb, it was a banner day for the towing company. A pickup and horse trailer were already being driven off. Then one of the Jeeps. They started hooking up the Durango, but Catfish didn’t make a move to avoid alerting his adversary. Up the line, Gaspar had his wallet open, negotiating a bribe with a tow driver.

  Serge began to fidget. “Come on, Coleman, now’s the time. Pull on up . . .”

  Gaspar climbed in his Jeep and attempted to ease out, but the traffic was thick. Catfish ran the other way toward the taxi stand.

  Serge picked his nails. “Okay, Coleman, any day now . . .”

  A break opened up between cars, and Gaspar nosed the Jeep out of its parking space. Serge looked the other way. Catfish climbed into a tropical cab.

  “Coleman, dammit!” Serge stared intensely at the lanes leading into the arrival area, trying to use sheer will to make the Gran Torino appear. Instead, Catfish’s taxi drove by, tailing a Jeep out of the pickup zone.

  Serge continued staring. No Gran Torino. “God, please don’t do this to me—”

  Suddenly from the opposite direction, a symphony of blaring horns and profanity. Serge turned around. A Gran Torino was driving the wrong way, in through the exit of the arrival zone. Everything clogged to a stop. Serge ran onto the road and sprinted up between lanes of brake lights. He raced past Catfish’s taxi and then a Jeep with Gaspar hanging out the window: “What the fuck is going on up there? . . .”

  Parking cops began converging from other directions, but Serge reached the wayward car first. He yanked the driver’s door open. “Move over!”

  Coleman scooted. “Serge, everyone is driving the wrong way.”

  “Shut up and film!”

  The cops were almost to the car when Serge executed a swift three-point turn and sped out the exit. “At least you held up the people I was trying to follow.” A Jeep flew by on one side, and a Durango on the other. “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Coleman, twisting the end of a joint in his lips. “Are you saying that I was the one going in the wrong direction?”

  “No, Coleman, we’re in a mirror universe.” Serge shook his head. “But how is it even possible to come up that road in the other direction?”

  “Wasn’t even trying,” said Coleman. “I just got confused and it worked out.”

  Serge followed the other vehicles as they retraced their route south on U.S. 1. Just past Dania, the Jeep pulled into an empty motel with a sombrero on a sign that said they had color TV.

  The cab drove past the motel and dropped Catfish at the next intersection. He crossed the street and doubled back. Serge went an additional block and made a U-turn so he could follow Catfish on the way to Gaspar’s motel room.

  “Serge?” asked Coleman.

  “Yes, camera number one?”

  “I know you’re very busy, but I don’t have any idea what’s going on anymore.”

  “I think I can help,” said Serge. “We’re hurtling through space on a blue planet with a thick layer of nitrogen and oxygen, where single-cell life spawned from a primordial soup billions of years ago and continued to develop until we could text each other. Then we decay, releasing tiny amounts of radiation according to Einstein until we die. Following that, there’s either no afterlife, or I’ve got some serious explaining to do: ‘Sorry, I thought death was the end. This is really kind of embarrassing, especially if you could see me masturbating all those times.’ ”

  “No,” said Coleman. “I mean about this chase we’re on. I’ve lost track of the players.”

  “Oh,” said Serge, gradually slowing down. “I thought this was like the time you were tripping and asked me to help orient you, and I gave our location and the date, and you said ‘back up,’ so I recapped our steps over the last week, but you kept saying ‘back up,’ and I went further and further until I got to the hurtling planet we call Earth, but you still said ‘back up,’ so I kept going until we reached the big bang, and you said ‘back up,’ and I said, ‘Coleman, that’s it. That’s as far as it goes.’ You stared in my eyes a couple minutes and said, ‘Fuck me!’ Then you went in the shower and cried.”

  Serge drove slowly through a shopping-center parking lot so he wouldn’t overrun Catfish walking up the sidewalk.

  “Like that guy,” said Coleman. “Who’s he?”

  “I’m guessing one of the Kentucky gang, probably the leader . . .”

  Catfish sat down on a bus-stop bench across the street from the Acapulco Motel.

  “ . . . He’s staking out the room of the Mexican gang’s leader.”

  �
��That’s a pretty nice Jeep,” said Coleman. “Why is he staying in such a dump?”

  “I don’t think he is.” Serge grabbed the camera from Coleman. “Probably just picked a random motel for a few minutes of privacy with that suitcase.”

  “Suitcase?” asked Coleman.

  “Saw it back in the airport,” said Serge. “After the shooting started at that other motel, it became a rugby scrum for the buy money, and it appears our friend with the Jeep was the lucky winner.”

  “What now?”

  “Wait,” said Serge. “The hillbilly looks like he’s figuring out a way to ambush. Then when they get busy with each other, we might be able to turn the confusion to our advantage.”

  Coleman raised a beer can. “The door’s opening.”

  Serge swung the camera to room number five. “That’s strange. He’s getting back in his Jeep. But he doesn’t have the suitcase. He’s driving away.”

  “It must still be in the room,” said Coleman.

  The camera swung the other way. “That’s what our Kentucky friend thinks. He’s abandoning thoughts of ambush and running across the street for the motel . . . But why on earth would the other dude leave a suitcase full of cash in that kind of joint? It’s an awfully big risk.”

  “The second one’s jimmying the door,” said Coleman. “He’s going inside.”

  “Now I’m definitely curious,” said Serge. “And you know me when it comes to curious. I’ve got the perfect temperament to reassemble the debris of a downed jetliner to find which rivets came loose at thirty thousand and sucked the stockbroker out the lavatory roof. That really happened, but they turned me down for the reassembly team. I’m curious why.”

  “The motel door’s opening again,” said Coleman.

  “So fast?” said Serge.

  “He’s coming out,” said Coleman. “He doesn’t have the suitcase either. He’s leaving the parking lot . . . Why aren’t you following them?”

  “Change of plans,” said Serge.

  Serge started the Gran Torino and sped to the parking lot of the Acapulco Motel, skidding into a parking space previously occupied by the Jeep.