Torpedo Juice

by Tim Dorsey

The parasail began swinging side to side, only slightly at first, then more and more until Greely was whipping across the sky horizontally.

  “My turn to drive.” Serge pulled the steering wheel away from Coleman, hard to the left.

  “You just had a turn,” said Coleman, pulling back to the right.

  “But you had an extra long one. That counts as two.” Serge pulled back.

  “You’re making up rules.” Coleman pulled back. Serge pulled. Coleman. Serge.

  Greely was flying all over the place, then an upside-down loop.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!…”

  The TV people on the dock zoomed in. “I didn’t know he could do tricks.”

  Greely finally leveled off after Serge and Coleman struck a truce, each steering with one hand, snarling at each other.

  Another pass by the dock, the publicist checking her watch, growing puzzled.

  Serge checked his own watch. He released the wheel. “It’s all yours. Happy?”

  “My turn anyway.”

  Serge walked to the stern and picked up a megaphone. “Ready to come in?”

  All he heard was faint shouting. Serge grabbed the winch’s handle and began reeling. When Greely was halfway down, Serge could make out words. “…I’ll destroy you! You’re finished in this town!…”

  Serge stopped cranking and raised the megaphone again. “I’ll bring you in under one condition.”

  “Condition? Fuck you!”

  “Give back the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money you stole. Sell your house and give the money back.”

  “Take me down this instant!”

  “As soon as you give back the money.”

  “I’ll have you arrested! I’ll put you out of business! I’ll take your boat!”

  “This isn’t my boat,” said Serge.

  “It isn’t?”

  “No, it belongs to the two guys tied up down in the cabin.”

  Greely paused. “Who are you then?”

  “Shareholders.”

  “You had stock in my company?”

  “We have stock in America!”

  “You’re insane!”

  “Give back the money.”

  “Help! Help!”

  TV people back on the dock: “He’s yelling something.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “I think he’s just whooping it up.”

  Serge pointed the megaphone. “Give back the money.”

  “Not a chance!”

  “You stole. It’s wrong.”

  “I didn’t steal anything. They made bad investments. Nobody put a gun to their heads!”

  “Old people had to go back to work. It’s caused premature deaths.” Serge produced a scuba knife and placed the blade against the rope.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Disconnecting this call. All I’m getting is static.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  Serge started sawing through the rope. He yelled up front to Coleman. “Swing toward land.”

  The boat made a slow starboard arc until it was in line with the dock.

  “Stop!” yelled Greely. “I’m ordering you!”

  “You’re not the boss of me.” More sawing.

  Greely looked up at the dock, then down at Serge again. “What are you planning?”

  “These parasails are incredible. One guy accidentally broke loose and was dragged a mile over land. Nothing stopped him, concrete benches, cars, fences. They said nearly every bone in his body was broken.”

  “Okay, I’ll give back the money.”

  Serge stopped sawing. “You will?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “What about your Key West development project?”

  “Dead. I’ll kill it. Anything! Please!”

  “Promise?”

  Greely nodded urgently.

  Serge thought a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” Sawing resumed.

  Greely screamed all the way in to shore. Serge was three-quarters through the rope. The dock closed rapidly.

  “Oh, my God! Coleman! Look!”

  “What?”

  “Over there! Turn the boat around!”

  “I see it.” Coleman swung the wheel hard in a tight one-eighty. Greely whipping directly over the dock. “Help! Help! They’re crazy!”

  The cameramen pointed straight up. “I didn’t catch that.”

  “I think he said, ‘I’m wild and crazy.’”

  The cameras kept filming, gradually lowering trajectory as Greely neared the horizon. That’s when one of the cameramen saw it. “Holy mother! Look over there!”

  Greely saw it, too. He began crying. “Oh, please! Don’t! I’m begging you!”

  Serge went up front. “I’ll need to take the wheel from here. It’s going to require expert driving.”

  “You can have it,” said Coleman. “This is out of my league.”

  The boat raced across the Gulf Stream, a smile spreading over Serge’s face. “This is what I’m talking about, Coleman. Life’s a crapshoot. But just keep fighting the good fight and sooner or later it turns your way.”

  They were on a direct bearing for the Sand Key lighthouse, five miles southwest, but they wouldn’t need to go nearly that far.

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Coleman. “I mean, I’ve never heard of it being done before.”

  “Because it hasn’t.”

  Back at the dock, pandemonium. “Doesn’t he see it?” “Why isn’t he turning?”

  The wind picked up. Serge and Coleman’s hair flew around, needles of rain hit their cheeks.

  Serge had to squint to see. “Come on, baby, just a few more seconds…”

  “Pull back!” Coleman grabbed the port railing to keep from being thrown over the side. “We’re too close!”

  “Here we go…almost there…Now!”

  Serge cut the steering wheel all the way starboard, closing the angle around the vortex and going into a tight circle, drawing the parasail into the cone. A final scream from Greely and the rope snapped.

  Serge and Coleman looked back as they accelerated away—the parasail going up, up, up into the waterspout, the end of the rope whip-snapping as it was sucked in like a piece of spaghetti. Then nothing but colorful silk shreds jettisoned from varying heights.

  “What a horrible way to go,” said Coleman.

  “It’s the Gulf Stream,” said Serge. “Has a nasty way of creeping up on you.”

  The dock was silent. A leather organizer slipped from a hand and fell in the water. The boat disappeared over the horizon.

  40

  A SHERIFF’S CRUISER returned to the substation on Cudjoe Key.

  “What an insane day,” said Gus. “I’ve never seen an event like it.”

  “I don’t know. Fantasy Fest gets pretty out of hand.”

  They went inside. Walter found a film of burnt coffee bubbling in the bottom of the pot. “Did I leave that on?”

  The fax started up. Gus grabbed it. A mug shot. “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “I should have known! A serial killer right here under our noses!”

  They ran out the door and jumped in the cruiser.

  Walter radioed for backup. They told him the nearest unit was in Marathon.

  “That’s at least twenty minutes,” said Gus. “Can’t wait that long. We have to find Serge before we have another body on our hands.”

  “Where do you think he is?”

  A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA pulled into Coleman’s driveway. Serge stepped on the brakes, but nothing happened. The Buick hit the trailer at low speed, buckling the bedroom wall.

  “What the hell?” Serge got out and shimmied under the car.

  “What is it?” asked Coleman.

  Serge crawled back out and looked at a hand covered with hydraulic fluid. “The brake line’s leaking.”

  “Did we hit something?”

  “No, it looks like it was cut. That’s strang
e.”

  “Just great. I don’t have money for a repair.”

  “Don’t need any.” Serge opened the trunk and held up a gray roll. “Just wrap it in a lot of duct tape.” He crawled back under the car. “Of course you have to do it again every twenty miles, but this is about value.”

  Coleman headed for the front door. “I’m pooped.”

  Serge crawled out from under the car and followed him inside. “Boating does that.”

  AN EMPTY QUART bottle sat in the road. A tire rolled. Pop.

  The tire belonged to a brown Plymouth Duster. The door opened. Two black combat boots swung out and settled onto the ground. The driver wore gloves. One hand had a plastic bag of dynamite sticks and blasting caps. The other, copper wire and tools.

  The driver walked a short distance and went to work. The explosives were soon taped under a driver’s seat, the one where Serge often sat. Copper wire was routed out of sight and up to the back of the ignition switch, just behind where the key was inserted.

  A SHERIFF’S CRUISER raced into the parking lot of an old apartment building on Big Pine Key. Gus and Walter jumped out with guns drawn. They ran up the stairs and knocked on the door of unit 213. No answer.

  Walter tried kicking in the door but only hurt himself. Gus shot the lock. They ran through the apartment, swinging around blind corners with guns in outstretched arms. They shoved open closet doors. Gus started going through a dresser.

  “We don’t have a warrant,” said Walter.

  “Look what I found.”

  GLOVED HANDS FINISHED twisting copper wire to the ignition posts. Two black combat boots walked back to the Plymouth Duster and climbed in. The door closed. The Duster pulled away. Molly looked up in the rearview, making sure her hair was in place.

  THE SHERIFF’S CRUISER raced back down Key Deer Boulevard.

  Walter was driving faster than he had in years. Gus grabbed the radio again.

  “What about that Coleman guy he hangs out with?” said Walter. “The one we met at the community hall?”

  “What was his last name?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “I’ll have the dispatcher look up all utility records with that first name.”

  Walter hit the siren and swung onto U.S. 1. Gus radioed in his emergency request and started pulling on a bulletproof vest. Walter looked over at his partner. “This is your last shift. You sure you want to do this?”

  “The fax mentioned the car in the Everglades had been wired with explosives, and we found blasting caps in the dresser.” Gus pulled the strap tight on the side of his vest. “She may have already rigged his car.”

  The dispatcher came back. No records under Coleman.

  “Must be a nickname,” said Walter.

  “Wait. He had this cool car. An old Riviera,” said Gus. “Early to mid-seventies.” He got the dispatcher again and asked for a trace through Motor Vehicles.

  A METALLIC GREEN Trans Am raced over the Bogie Channel Bridge to No Name Key. Anna held her purse to her chest. She stopped near the end of the street and checked a scrap of paper with directions. She looked at her watch. Early. She turned onto a dirt road.

  Nothing but bumps and brush as she drove north until she ran out of island. The Trans Am entered a small clearing with an ad-hoc boat ramp, just a space in the mangroves and a dirt incline to the water. She got out and walked a few yards to the shore. No sign of anyone yet. Just something silver flashing through the branches. An aluminum hull.

  The quiet was freaking her out. That’s when she heard the other car. She didn’t recognize the dark sedan, but it was raising a major dust trail flying down the road.

  She ran for the Trans Am. The other car skidded to a stop. A man jumped out and sprinted toward her. Anna dove in the car and locked the doors. She stuck her key in the ignition.

  “Anna, stop!” The man slapped an open wallet against her window. She saw a gold badge against the glass.

  “Open the door, Anna. DEA, Agent Wilson.”

  The badge looked real. It looked fake. She didn’t know what to think anymore or why she opened the door.

  The man grabbed her arm. “We have to get you out of here!”

  Anna pulled away. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

  “Your life’s in danger.”

  “Now I recognize you! You’re that asshole from the pub, what’s-his-name….”

  “Gaskin Fussels.”

  “You’re supposed to be in jail, but…” She pointed at the badge in his hand. “What’s going on?”

  “Explain later. We can’t stay here.” He stepped forward to take her arm again. “I know about Scarface…Fernandez’s murder.”

  She jumped out of reach and started walking backward. “You’re lying.”

  “We don’t have any time,” said the agent. “He’ll be here any second.”

  Anna just kept backing up. She reached the water’s edge.

  Wilson could see she was on the brink. She’d bolt, even if it meant swimming. He decided to talk fast.

  “I’ve been watching Fernandez for a long time. I also know about the safety deposit box. I followed you from the bank.”

  Anna stopped backpedaling.

  “Listen to me. You were used. I can help with the judge, even if you pulled the trigger—”

  “I didn’t!”

  “We just want the head of the organization. I’ll need you to testify.”

  Anna gave him the weirdest look. “What do you mean? Fernandez is dead.”

  “Right.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?” said the agent.

  “Fernandez was the head of the organization. And now he’s dead. So why do you need me to testify?”

  “Oh, my God!” said the agent. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “The head guy is the one you’ve been having all those meetings with at the No Name. You spent the morning with him at your brother’s vacation place. I saw him go in. I was parked up the street.”

  “Jerry?”

  Agent Wilson nodded. “The bartender.”

  “But if he’s the top guy, what’s he doing bartending?”

  “That how he stays off-radar. It’s a historic stratagem. Since ancient times, generals have been known to dress as common foot soldiers to avoid assassination…. It’s also a great way to gather intelligence. If you want to know what’s going on in these parts, there’s no better place than behind the counter of the No Name.”

  Anna felt faint. Flashbacks streamed through her head. Jerry talking about how Scarface liked to move anonymously through his own organization, pretending to be other people, really talking about himself.

  “Then who was Fernandez?”

  “His first lieutenant. He was hiding money with your brother. Jerry wanted it. That’s why he let Fernandez continue living, even though he was on the indictment with the others.”

  “I’m so stupid!” said Anna.

  “Unfortunately, Jerry knew your name was also on that bank box. Then you phoned from the turnpike…we had his phone tapped, and just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“Fernandez’s death warrant was signed.”

  “But why involve me? Why didn’t he just shoot Fernandez himself?”

  “Leverage. He needed you to go to the bank. He’s going to kill you right after you give him the contents.”

  Anna’s world started to swirl. Wilson ran down to the water and grabbed her by the arm. “We have to go!”

  They ran for the agent’s sedan.

  Anna felt his hand come off her arm. She looked back.

  Wilson was down, a fatal head wound.

  Jerry stepped out of the woods with pistol and silencer.

  Anna took off for the water. Jerry tackled her in the muck and began punching her in the face. Birds took flight. Nobody to hear her screams.

  “Why!” Struggling under his weight.

  He hit her again and
began going through her pockets. He found the Polaroid. He started laughing. “I don’t believe it. Right in front of us the whole time!”

  He slugged Anna again, then pulled a pint of cheap vodka from his pants. He took the first swig before jamming the bottle into Anna’s mouth. Jerry was just too strong and heavy. Her gums bled from struggling against the glass lip of the bottle. A lot of the booze was going down her cheeks, but enough was getting in. When the bottle was empty, he whipped it aside into the bushes.

  “On your feet!”

  Anna stayed curled on the ground. Jerry stuck his gun in his pants and grabbed her around the waist. He took a few big steps and threw her out into the water. Anna stood back up, coughing and clearing hair from her eyes.

  Jerry pulled the gun again and sloshed out into the shallows. He shoved Anna. “Move!”

  She stumbled forward. He shoved her again. It went like that until she was a hundred yards from shore. But being the flats, the water was still only to her knees.

  “That’s far enough!”

  THE SHERIFF’S CRUISER flew down U.S. 1. The dispatcher came on the radio. She had a ’71 Buick Riviera registered to an address on Ramrod Key.

  Gus grabbed a cell phone and dialed. “It’s ringing.”

  Walter glanced down at the seat between them and the latest fax, the one that had finally put a mug shot with the unsolved murders down the west coast. “She looks so harmless.”

  “Pick up the phone!”

  “I can’t remember the last time we had a female serial killer.”

  “Aileen Wuornos.”

  “That’s right,” said Walter. “They got some kind of memorial garden to her at a bar in Daytona.”

  “It’s still ringing.”

  “Two islands to go.”

  “Answer the phone!”

  SERGE AND COLEMAN climbed back in the Buick for a chow run.

  “I’m telling you, Coleman, I think somebody’s trying to kill me.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “What about the cut brakes?” Serge stuck the key in the ignition. “And I could swear I’m being followed.”

  “Hold it,” said Coleman.

  Serge took his hand off the key. “What is it?”

  “I think I hear the phone ringing.”

  “I don’t hear anything.” Serge grabbed the key again.