by Tim Dorsey
“And that’s when you jumped him?”
“Almost there. When he saw he couldn’t rattle me, he went for my hot button, pointing back at all the giggling, running kids and . . .”—Serge momentarily closed his eyes— “. . . I can’t bear to repeat what he said, but certain threats were made. He yelled that because of me, he was now definitely going to do all these horrible things, just out of spite.”
“That isn’t nice.”
“Intimidate me all you want, but when you bring kids into it, a sequence of Serge’s pre-determined neighborhood-defense protocols are triggered. The only part I regret is that the families had to see it and fled again.”
“Because you were fighting?”
“No, because I stuffed him in my trunk. Even if someone clearly deserves to be locked in my trunk, the general public still gives off this vibe they’re a little uncomfortable.”
Serge unzipped a small duffel bag on the nightstand. The hostage tried screaming under the duct tape across his face.
Coleman found something on the floor, smelled it and put it in his mouth. “What are you going to do with him?”
Serge turned to the hostage. “Would you like to know, too?”
The Fugitive played on in the background.
Terrified eyes grew wider.
“. . . So, stranger, what brings you to these parts? . . .”
Serge dumped the duffel’s contents on the bed. “You know those frowned-upon CIA interrogation techniques, like waterboarding? Except I don’t have a board. But I have plenty of water! They say people start talking almost immediately . . .” He quickly ripped the tape off his captive’s mouth.
The man yelled briefly at the sting, then babbled nonstop. “I swear I won’t do anything I said! I was just messing with your mind! You have to believe me! I’ll change!”
Serge smiled. “I know you will.”
The tape went back, and Serge returned to work.
“Yuck,” said Coleman, removing the item from his mouth and throwing it in the wastebasket.
Serge ripped cellophane off a spooled package. “What was that?”
“I think a mothball.”
“When did you suspect?”
“When I saw it on the floor.”
Serge unrolled the package. “And you still put it in your mouth?”
Coleman shrugged. “I could be missing out.”
Serge clicked open a box cutter.
Coleman leaned closer. “What’s that?”
“Observe.” Serge held up a strip of airy gauze, oozing with mucoid slime. He stepped forward and placed the cool, moist ribbon on the captive’s forehead. “Very thin, soothing, quite flimsy. A child could tear it apart. No possible way to harm anyone, right? So how can I possibly teach you a lesson with this?”
“How can you?” asked Coleman.
“Know my passion for all things Home Depot?”
“Well established.”
Serge began unwinding the roll of wet gauze. “I recently learned something interesting about plumbing repair. Now grab those scissors to cut off his shirt while I fill my squirt pistol . . .”
. . . Outside the room, heavy traffic wasted gas as the car sprinted between red lights at every block. They were in Kissimmee, just below Orlando. Highway 192 to be exact, otherwise known as Irlo Bronson, the budget tourist strip on the east side of Interstate 4 from Disney World, where families who couldn’t plunk down three hundred a night at the Grand Floridian commuted to the Magic Kingdom from ten miles of economy motels, where cabaret signs flashed $39.95 and Free Hbo. In between: mini-golf, go-carts, swimsuit outlets, and all-you-can-eat buffet barns filled with people shaped like upside-down lightbulbs. As the road continued east—and the drive back to Disney lengthened—prices cascaded downhill where the highway took a gooseneck jog south toward Old Town. Bottom-barrel room rates drew an increasing clientele that wasn’t tourists, or at least not the species seeking chamber-of-commerce-approved fun: a high-mileage, tumbleweed crowd anchoring the short tail of the left-expectancy bell curve. Serge’s World. With their growing, undesirable number, motel deeds changed hands, and the highway began seeing stark buildings that were the recognizable shells of recognizable hospitality chains, which now had unrecognizable names on temporary banners. Parking lots filled with rusty shopping carts, and shirtless guests sat outside rooms on milk crates, drinking malt liquor with purposeful gazes that suggested this was still too much achievement.
Nearby:
No trace of the historic Big Bamboo Lounge, leveled and paved for retail space.
Near that:
A SWAT team monitored a lamp in a window. The parking lot was empty except for a sleek black car at the other end. With all the streetlights off, nobody had noticed it before, but someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.
“How long has he been there?” asked White.
“Who?”
The agent pointed. “Beemer.”
“Not sure,” said Lowe. “Car was already there when we arrived. I think.”
“Some surveillance work.”
Lowe raised his night goggles toward the vehicle. “Looks like he’s got some kind of camera with a long lens. Who can he be?”
Mahoney replaced his toothpick with a wooden matchstick. “Smart money’s a gumshoe.”
“What?”
“Dick, peeper, shamus, sleuth, whore hound, private eye.”
The man in the Beemer set his camera on the passenger seat and got out of the car. Tall, trim, brown leather jacket. He took a step toward the last motel room . . .
“Whoa.” Lowe lost his squat-balance and banged against a fender.
The Beemer’s driver noticed the SWAT team for the first time, then pretended not to. He leaned against his car, lighting a cigarette in a theatrical display of no intentions. Headlights hit his face.
A Cadillac Eldorado pulled into a parking slot five spaces down.
White shook his head. “Now who the hell’s that?”
Mahoney dabbed humidity off his forehead with a strip-club cocktail napkin. “The Mystery Man.”
“Mystery Man?” said White.
“There’s always a Mystery Man.”
“What’s he do?”
“Reveals himself later.”
Another car pulled into the lot, this one with headlights already off. It parked halfway between the other vehicles and the SWAT team. A woman behind the wheel of a turquoise T-Bird.
“Lowe,” said White. “What did you do, call a convention?”
Without turning her head, the T-Bird woman looked sideways toward the Mystery Man, whose eyes darted between the woman and the private eye, who watched them both and glanced at the SWAT team, which rotated surveillance among all three cars and the lamp in the window . . .
Serge sat at the motel room’s desk. Combed hair still wet from a shower. Lightweight tropical shirt with pineapples. Loaded .45 next to the lamp. Coffee mug. The desk had an ashtray under one of its legs to stop a wobble.
Clattering keyboard.
Coleman pulled up a chair. “Typing on your new laptop?”
“Well, not mine. But same difference.”
“What are you writing?”
“A rap song.”
“Why are you writing a rap song?”
“For my new website.” Tap, tap, tap. “If I want my specialty Florida tours to go global, I’ll need the hip-hop vote.”
“What kind of new website?”
“Remember the old one I launched after visiting that Lynyrd Skynyrd bar in Jacksonville?”
“Yeah, you had to start your own because the other sites didn’t like your reports telling tourists which hookers to trust . . .”
“. . . And how to take evasive, controlled-spin maneuvers during bump-and-jump carjackings.”
“The people need to know,” said Coleman, pointing a joint for emphasis.
Serge tapped keys rapidly. “That’s why I’m taking it to the next level.”
“But, Serge, how is t
hat even possible?”
“I’m adding theme vacations.”
“Like theme parks.”
“Except without the parks.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Florida is a theme park,” said Serge. “And the theme is weirdness.”
“So that’s what’s going on out there.”
“My first theme vacation: the ‘tourist fugitive.’ You come down here and pretend to be on the lam.”
“Where’d you get the idea?”
“Schwarzenegger’s movie Total Recall.” Serge uploaded a digital photo. “Science-fiction thriller in the next century, where Arnold takes a vacation to Mars, and the travel agency gives him the option of just a regular trip or a theme. And the theme he chooses is secret agent.”
Painful moans and panting from behind. Coleman turned around. “I think he’s unhappy.”
“I love chemical reactions.” More typing. “Especially counter-intuitive ones. Now pay attention.”
Coleman faced the screen again.
“Florida is Fugitive Central,” said Serge. “A single crackdown in 2008 called Operation Orange Crush netted two thousand five hundred outlaws, which conservatively extrapolates to at least a hundred thousand more left at large. That’s one for every three neighborhood blocks, and I like to drive around, trying to guess which one and question them.”
“What do they say?”
“Most just run off, which means I’m guessing right.”
“Why do so many fugitives come here?” asked Coleman.
“We’ve got everything a murderous desperado could want: great weather, cool drinks, a million trailer parks, plus pharmacies and bank branches on every corner. Those qualities also attract retirees, often to the same place, in a naturally occurring sitcom.”
The desk wobbled; Serge’s foot scooted the ashtray back under the leg.
“What are those pictures?”
Serge scrolled down the laptop screen. “A mug shot rogues’ gallery of Florida fugitives. Ma Barker, Bundy, Cunanan, Wuornos and so many lesser maniacs they don’t even make the fine print.”
“Why not?”
“Florida’s the perfect camouflage,” said Serge. “Up in Middle America, even one of our low-profile whack jobs would stick out like Pamela Anderson bronco-riding a UFO. A minimum of fifty calls to the cops. But down here we’re so over-saturated with hard-core street freaks that everyone energetically ignores them. We don’t want to notice and report each strangeness flare-up, or we’d totally cease to be able to run errands.”
“I saw a guy this morning eating ants,” said Coleman. “Big red ones, just squashing them with his thumb on the sidewalk.”
Serge coded up a Web link. “The public will never stop thanking me for this vacation.”
Coleman pointed. “What’s that?”
“Aerial view of the eastern Kissimmee strip. My first fugitive stop.”
“But why would regular people want to pretend to be on the run in the first place?”
“Because it’s the best way to experience the finest parts of our state, which is the underbelly. They’ll naturally resist at first, but once people are forced to taste our underbelly, they won’t be able to get enough.”
“Underbelly’s good?”
“The waiting lines are shorter,” said Serge. “Second, it forces you off the tourist-brochure grid and into the woodwork, where all the best shit is. Third, hiding out is a blast—think of all the chuckles we’ve had in seedy motel rooms.”
Coleman looked back at the moaning hostage. “I see what you mean.”
“Wish he’d pipe down.”
“I don’t think he can help it.”
“Because he’s one of those worrying types: Oooo, look at me. I’m all tied up. This crazy guy’s going to do something bad. They don’t realize how uneasy they make everybody around them with that kind of victim mentality.” Serge clicked open some text on his laptop. “On the other hand, he’s the perfect audience to test out my new rap song.”
“You finished it?”
“The chorus is two-part harmony, so I’ll need your help.” Serge pulled up lyrics on the computer screen. Coleman read the song. “Where are my lines?”
“After I sing each verse, we alternate. I marked our respective parts with an S and a C in parentheses.”
“Which am I?”
“C, for cogent.”
Serge found an audio file in the computer and killed the equalizer on the vocals, creating a karaoke version. The music started.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
“Flo-Rida.”
“Who?”
“Our homegrown favorite-son rap hero. Even has a map of the state tattooed like a beast on his back.”
The tempo picked up. Serge cranked the volume. He grinned at the gagged hostage. “I think you’ll love this, but give me the honest truth. Don’t be swayed by the ropes and duct tape.”
Coleman finished reading the lyrics. “I think I’m ready.”
Serge cleared his throat. “From the top . . .”
The music blared, and the pair began lunging toward the captive with gang-style hand gestures.
I’m Captain Florida, the state history pimp
Gatherin’ more data than a DEA blimp
West Palm, Tampa Bay, Miami-Dade
Cruisin’ the coasts till Johnny Vegas gets laid
Developer ho’s, and the politician bitches
Smackin’ ’em down, while I’m takin’ lots of pictures
Hurricanes, sinkholes, natural disaster
’Scuse me while I kick back, with my View-Master
(S:) I’m Captain Florida, obscure facts are all legit
(C:) I’m Coleman, the sidekick, with a big bong hit
(S:) I’m Captain Florida, staying literate
(C:) Coleman sees a book and says, “Fuck that shit”
Ain’t never been caught, slippin’ nooses down the Keys
Got more buoyancy than Elián González
Knockin’ off the parasites, and takin’ all their moola
Recruiting my apostles for the Church of Don Shula
I’m an old-school gangster with a psycho ex-wife Molly
Packin’ Glocks, a shotgun and my 7-Eleven coffee
Trippin’ the theme parks, the malls, the time-shares
Bustin’ my rhymes through all the red-tide scares
(S:) I’m the surge in the storms, don’t believe the hype
(C:) I’m his stoned number two, where’d I put my hash pipe?
(S:) Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas
(C:) Tequila, no employment and a bag of grass
Think you’ve seen it all? I beg to differ
Mosquitoes like bats and a peg-leg stripper
The scammers, the schemers, the real estate liars
Birthday-party clowns in a meth-lab fire
But dig us, don’t diss us, pay a visit, don’t be late
And statistics always lie, so ignore the murder rate
Beaches, palm trees and golfing is our curse
Our residents won’t bite, but a few will shoot first
Everglades, orange groves, alligators, Buffett
Scarface, Hemingway, an Andrew Jackson to suck it
Solarcaine, Rogaine, eight balls of cocaine
See the hall of fame for the criminally insane
Artifacts, folklore, roadside attractions
Crackers, Haitians, Cuban-exile factions
The early-bird specials, drivin’ like molasses
Condo-meeting fistfights in cataract glasses
(S:) I’m the native tourist, with the rants that can’t be beat
(C:) Serge, I think I put my shoes on the wrong feet
(S:) A stack of old postcards in another dingy room
(C:) A cold Bud forty and a magic mushroom
Can’t stop, turnpike, keep ridin’ like the wind
Gotta make a detour for a souvenir pin
But if you l
ike to litter, you’re just liable to get hurt
Do ya like the MAC-10 under my tropical shirt?
I just keep meeting jerks, I’m a human land-filler
But it’s totally unfair, this term “serial killer”
The police never rest, always breakin’ in my pad
But sunshine is my bling, and I’m hangin’ like a chad
(S:) Serge has got to roll and drop the mike on this rap . . .
(C:) Coleman’s climbin’ in the tub, to take a little nap . . .
(S:) . . . Disappearin’ in the swamp—and goin’ tangent, tangent, tangent . . .
(C:) He’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . .
(Fade-out)
(S:) I’m goin’ tangent, tangent . . .
(C:) Fuck goin’ platinum, he’s goin’ tangent, tangent . . .
(S:) . . . Wikipedia all up and down your ass . . .
(C:) Wikity-Wikity-Wikity . . .
In a dark motel parking lot, a T-Bird’s convertible roof began to retract. The SWAT team’s surveillance rotation stopped, all night goggles on the sports car.
“Good Jesus,” said one of the commandos. “I’m in love.”
The rag-top finished tucking itself behind the backseat, providing an unobstructed view of a smokin’-hot babe with curly, fiery red hair. She looked up in her mirror, sensually applying equally red lipstick.
“I could watch her do that all day,” said Lowe.
“Pardon me,” said White. “The room?”
“Right.” Lowe turned. “Hey look, the lamp just went out.”
“So we move now?”
“No.” Lowe tapped a page in the spiral-bound manual. “Have to wait for him to get drowsy.” He stowed the book in a black tote bag with countless pockets and clasps and snap rings.
“What’s that?” asked White.
“My SWAT team bag.”
“You’re not on the team.”
“Got it at a police supply store.”
“The ones that sell stuff to people who aren’t police?”
“Here’s where my Taser will go, and scrambled telephone, gas mask, parachute flares, bio-warfare antidote syringes, non-electrostatic knee pads for bomb defusing, flexible under-the-door fiber-optic video cam . . .”
“Why are you lugging it around if you don’t have that stuff yet?”
Lowe pulled out a sandwich. “Lunch.”