Electric Barracuda

by Tim Dorsey

The SWAT team signaled it was go-time. They choreographed a series of silent hand signals, raised black entry shields and moved out with invisible stealth.

  Suddenly a pounding noise from up the street. Growing louder.

  “What the hell’s that?” said White.

  “Sounds like Kiss.”

  A giant semi-tractor-trailer raced toward the motel, its roof fringed with blaring megaphones.

  “. . . I . . . want to rock-and-roll all night! . . .”

  The truck whipped into the parking lot, followed by an air-conditioned tour bus.

  White clenched his eyes and smacked his forehead. “Not him!”

  Spotlights along the semi’s side illuminated a mural of a gigantic, snarling canine above a list of network air times.

  The truck screeched to a halt in front of the last motel room. People from the motor coach jumped out with shoulder-mounted cameras, others flooded the parking lot with TV lights.

  In quick succession, rock-concert flash pots exploded from the semi’s roof, its rear doors flew open and a gleaming motorcycle sailed out the back, flying fifty feet with special tubes shooting fire from the mufflers. It landed with a jarring bounce, made a skidding U-turn and stopped. The bike was a massive chopper with extended chrome forks and a snarling logo on its teardrop gas tank that matched the semi’s mural. Lying far back in the saddle was a muscle-rippled, rawhide-faced man with long, peroxide blond hair that fell down across an open leather vest and hairy chest. From his shoulders flapped a giant, American-flag super-hero cape. Standing on each side were rows of buxom babes in star-spangled bikinis, combat boots and dog collars. The cycle remained stationary, its rider gunning the engine for the cameras.

  A SWAT member stood up in what was now practically daylight. “Look! It’s the Doberman!”

  Another stood. “I love his show!”

  A third pointed at the dog-collar women. “And he brought the Litter!”

  White leaned against the side of the Crown Vic and folded his arms. “Change of plans. Let’s see how the element of surprise works.”

  “. . . I . . . want to rock-and-roll all night! . . .”

  And with a salute into the cameras, the celebrity bounty hunter opened his throttle wide, popped a wheelie and squealed across the parking lot.

  “Now that’s a real man,” said Lowe.

  The Doberman raced even faster, still balanced on his back tire, preparing to crash through the motel door. Except he misjudged by a half foot and hit the wall. The bike flipped, catapulting him into the bushes. Cameras and lights raced toward thick shrubbery with nothing but cowboy boots sticking out the top.

  The dog-collar women pulled him from the hedge and steadied him on woozy legs.

  “Where am I?”

  A woman on each side raised his fists high in the air like a winning prizefighter. The rest of the Litter hopped up and down and clapped. “The Doberman lives! He was willing to lay down his life for American justice! . . .”

  Agent White lowered his head again and took another deep breath. Then he nonchalantly walked across the parking lot toward the last motel room.

  Coleman ran to the window. “What the hell is all that noise?”

  Serge continued typing. “See anything?”

  “Looks like they’re filming The Doberman,” said Coleman, firing up a joint. “That show rocks, especially the Litter!”

  “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s like a million people right outside . . .”

  Right Outside . . .

  Agent White stepped over a broken piece of motorcycle and knocked on the last motel room.

  The door opened. “Yes? . . .”

  The SWAT team pounced.

  Coleman slid the curtains wider. “Serge! Come quick! Across the street! They’re arresting our wino friend, Snapper-Head Willie!”

  Serge joined Coleman at the window. “I don’t see him.”

  “That big pile of SWAT guys,” said Coleman. “I’d hate to be on the bottom.”

  “I’m shocked,” said Serge. “A pile that big means Snapper-Head was into some serious shit. If I’d have known, I never would have let him stay in our other motel room. But I figured since we weren’t using it, why not give back to the community?”

  “Why do we have another motel room?” asked Coleman.

  “Just posted the reason on my new website,” said Serge. “Fugitive Rule Number One: Always have an ‘Out.’ ”

  “What’s an ‘Out’?”

  “What our government never has: exit strategy.” Serge watched the SWAT team begin to unpile. “A fugitive should never go anywhere unless he knows a back way out. And it doesn’t have to be literal, like a door. It can be a diversionary tactic, psychological ruse, political unrest, crowd-mystifying card tricks or big-tent sale extravaganza.”

  “What’s our ‘Out’ this time?”

  “I registered a decoy room across the street in my own name. Then I got this other room over here with false ID, so I’d have full view for advance warning in case heat’s on the way.”

  “You mean the people over there are actually after us?”

  “Not a chance,” said Serge. “I just got the decoy motel for authenticity in my website report. Otherwise this is all a bunch of fucking around. And I’m sure we’re not the real target because I’ve taken every precaution, covering my tracks by zigzagging across Florida on a variety of roads and mental states.”

  “Then what’s going on out there?”

  “A character flaw in Snapper-Head. Probably chopped someone up and distributed the pieces in trash cans around the Norway pavilion at Epcot.”

  They watched the SWAT team lift handcuffed Willie to his feet.

  Coleman shook with the heebie-jeebies. “It’s scary to think we were talking to someone so unstable.”

  “That’s the thing about Florida,” said Serge, standing in front of his whimpering hostage. “You never know when the guy next to you is a ticking bomb.”

  Agent White stuck a tiny key in the handcuffs and popped them open. “Sorry about that.”

  Snapper-Head rubbed his wrists. “Jesus, was it absolutely necessary for all of you to pile on top of me like that?”

  Lowe held up the spiral-bound manual.

  Behind them at a strip mall, Mahoney dialed an ever-dwindling number of pay phones.

  White opened his wallet and handed Willie a ten-spot. “Get something to eat.”

  “Beverage?”

  White gave him a lawsuit-conscious glance and pulled out another five.

  Mahoney returned. “Just mumbled on the blower. Our mark had a decoy room.”

  “Gee, you think?” said White.

  Mahoney opened a matchbook from a billiard hall that ran a crooked sports parlor. “Scored fresh digits on the flop twenty.”

  “What?”

  “Got the location and number of Serge’s real motel room.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Bet your pecker.”

  “Nicely put.” White turned to the SWAT team, milling and eating fast food in the parking lot. “Okay, everyone, listen up. We just got the address of the real motel room. Let’s roll.”

  Half-drunk milk shakes hit the ground. Sedans peeled out and raced east on Highway 192, followed by a tactical van, convertible T-Bird, yellow Cadillac Eldorado, black Beemer and a music-blaring semi-trailer.

  Across the street, two people watched the departing motorcade from a slit in motel curtains.

  “Look at all those people,” said Coleman.

  “They got a whole dime novel.” Serge loaded his pistol. “Coppers, bounty hunter, private eye, femme fatale and the Mystery Man.”

  “Who’s that other guy?” asked Coleman.

  “Which one?”

  “The dude yelling at the sky, swinging a Star Wars lightsaber and peeing on the sidewalk.”

  “Just a normal person. He’s not involved.”

  The Fugitive ended.

  Horrible sou
nds of anguish and thrashing from the hostage chair.

  “. . . A Quinn Martin Production . . .”

  Serge closed the laptop. “Our new friend’s going to be a distraction from here on out.” He stood and tucked the computer under his arm. “Plus, this is the point where he probably wants his privacy. We’ll continue our summit in the bar.”

  “Bar? Now you’re talking.”

  “Grab whatever you need because we’re not coming back.”

  “Why?” asked Coleman.

  “I just decided a second ago,” said Serge. “Fugitive Rule Number Two: Always suddenly depart when nobody expects it, especially yourself. To prevent establishing patterns for police to track, we must behave deliberately erratic and question the prevailing wisdom on planetary physics, papal infallibility and sleep-boners. Keeps the mind sharp.”

  It wasn’t a lengthy packing process. Serge had proclaimed that for this leg of the tour, luggage needed to be light and versatile since they’d be hopping modes of transportation. “Fugitive Tip Number Seven: Match your personality with the ideal backpack for outstanding warrants.”

  Serge’s bag was a high-capacity, K2 base-camp mountain-climbing combo with compression bands and slots for ice hammers. Coleman’s was much smaller with a teddy bear’s head on top.

  Once the bags were full, they slipped arms through padded straps and walked up the street to another motel.

  Serge strolled through the lobby.

  He pulled up short in the lounge entrance. Coleman crashed into him from behind.

  “Ow”—rubbing his nose—“why’d you do that?”

  “Dig!” said Serge.

  “I already dig. You had me at ‘bar.’ ”

  “No, I mean dig, it’s the Nu Bamboo! I have to stop and marvel each time I enter, because when history is lost, it’s usually forever. But not at the Nu Bamboo!”

  Serge marched to his regular stool at the bar, where a bottle of water appeared without asking.

  “Thanks, Patty.” He set his backpack on the floor and opened the laptop on the counter.

  Coleman hopped on the next stool and raised a finger: “Bourbon.” He glanced around with an odd feeling. “This joint looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it.”

  “Because it used to be across the street.”

  “They moved the building?”

  “Just the majesty. Remember the Big Bamboo Lounge, where we went after my grandfather’s funeral?”

  “Definitely.” Coleman’s drink arrived. “That tiny, dark place with all kinds of shit tacked up like a souvenir cave.”

  “Heaven on earth.” Serge took a long pull of water. “Back in the early days, the original Bamboo was the only place for miles, this little hut back in the weeds surrounded by cow pastures to the horizon in all directions. Disney wasn’t operating yet, just under construction, and after a day of drywalling Cinderella’s Castle, workers descended on the watering hole, beginning the tradition of plastering the place with name tags and other theme park keepsakes. Then the Magic Kingdom opened and the torch was passed to other employees who needed a stiff drink after wearing Pluto and Bashful costumes all day. Locals affectionately called her ‘The Boo.’ ”

  Coleman knocked back his whiskey. “Like if Disney World had a dive?”

  “I wish.” Serge opened a brimming computer file of previously taken photos. “The Bamboo’s founder died, and its future became a question mark. Then it closed—at least temporarily—while the faithful launched a campaign to save the landmark. But before they could, she was gutted by fire, which officials suspect was accidentally set by homeless squatters.”

  “That always sucks.” Coleman’s finger wiggled at the bartender.

  “Wasn’t a surprise to me. Shortly after closing, a friend mentioned he’d stopped by the place, hoping against hope. Looked abandoned, but he tried the door anyway and it opened. Totally dark inside, and these two guys popped up from behind the bar and asked if he wanted a drink, five dollars. He said he didn’t think so. They said, ‘Okay, two dollars.’ He said he was leaving and they asked him for a ride somewhere. Soon after, the fire.”

  Coleman looked around again. “So if it all went up in smoke, how’d the stuff get here?”

  “Farsighted patrons salvaged what they could beforehand and stored it. Then this place opened.” He looked toward the bartender. “Hey Patty, fill him in.”

  She strolled over and wiped the counter. “Just after we went in business, all these people came in, about fifteen of ’em, carrying boxes. The owner never heard of the Boo and was understandably skeptical, but they made such a passionate case.” She swept an arm around the memento-cluttered interior. “That cushy chair over there is from the office of Walt Disney himself. And the red vinyl stool at the end of the bar is Ralph Kent’s, located in the same position it occupied at the original Bamboo. His widow gave it to us.”

  “Ralph Kent?” asked Coleman.

  Serge got up and led Coleman across the room. “Legendary Disney artist and fixture at the old haunt.” He pointed at a framed drawing on the wall. “Original Mickey Mouse.” Then down at the historic stool. “To those in the know, there’s the trademark duct tape over a rip in the vinyl, which is how you know it’s Ralph’s . . .”

  Patrons came and went, including a short, bearded man with an aviator’s scarf, dark gloves and flying goggles propped on top of his head. He took a seat in the Walt Disney chair, remaining still and quiet. Staring at the back of Serge’s head.

  Agent White stood in a parking lot with negative amusement. “Wrong guy again. I think you can get off him now.”

  The tactical unit unpiled.

  A TV crew uprighted a crashed motorcycle.

  White pulled out his handcuff key as another bum got up with skinned palms.

  The SWAT team headed back to their van in a bitter haze of frustration.

  Lowe raised a hand in the air and called over: “Great job, fellas. An honor working with you.”

  One of them kicked Lowe’s SWAT bag into the road, and a bus ran over it.

  Lowe raised his hand again. “Thank you.”

  White opened his wallet and began counting out cash for the whiskered man. “Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  Lowe came over with a shredded black bag. “That doesn’t look like Serge.”

  White glared.

  “You think it’s another decoy room?”

  “Don’t talk to me for a while.”

  Mahoney ran over from a pay phone with another scribbled-on matchbook. “New address.”

  The convoy raced back up the strip, toward the Nu Bamboo.

  Coleman squinted at a drawing on the wall. “Mickey Mouse is shooting a bird at Iran.”

  “From 1980,” said Serge. “During the hostage crisis. I believe that one’s unauthorized.”

  Coleman pointed in another direction. “Check out the sign: This Is A Bar, Not A Rest Area, Now Get The Fuck Out! That’s classy.”

  “The spirit of the Boo lives.” Serge looked down at Coleman’s drink in a mason jar, then back at the bartender. “No toilet-paper coasters?”

  “Some of the newer customers aren’t ready.”

  Another bourbon arrived in front of Coleman. “But, Serge, how’d you find this place? I never would have thought there was a bar way back here.”

  “Me neither.” Serge kept typing on his laptop. “It’s virtually impossible to locate without word of mouth. The only hint is that tiny, easily missed sign by the highway, ‘Nu Bamboo Lounge,’ actually written in bamboo, but half the letters have fallen off. Then it’s a treasure hunt, wandering around until you find it stashed behind the lobby of this inn.”

  “So why aren’t we staying at this motel instead of our dump?”

  “Because this isn’t a dump. The Fugitive Tour must have integrity.” More typing. “And I needed a place closer to the original Boo’s site for spiritual closure.”

  Patty brought over another water. “You wouldn’t know where we could find th
e old ambulance?”

  Serge shook his head. “Been looking.”

  “Ambulance?” said Coleman.

  “Broken-down M*A*S*H-style thing by the highway. The original Bamboo was pretty hidden, too, back in tall brush, and that landmark ambulance is how people spotted it.” Serge turned his head and noticed the bearded man in the pilot’s scarf. The bearded man noticed him. They both looked away.

  A crowd of fans gathered on the sidewalk of a sub-economy motel. Disposable cameras flashed. Autograph requests. A TV crew collected mangled motorcycle parts. A roadie yelled inside the semi: “Get the backup chopper.”

  White paid off another Sterno bum and turned to Mahoney. “Thought you said you finally had the right motel.”

  Mahoney spit out a matchstick and nodded with reluctant admiration. “Serge has his game back.”

  “It’s not a game to me.”

  Lowe walked over and whistled. “Another decoy.”

  White looked down at the destroyed SWAT bag in Lowe’s hand. “Aren’t you going to throw that away?”

  The agent shook his head. “It’s seen battle.”

  White sighed again and stared off. “How many motels can Serge be registered in?”

  “Five,” said Serge, tapping a keyboard.

  “Five motels?” said Coleman. “Why so many?”

  “A question of ethics.” Tap, tap, tap. “I can’t just phone this in or I’m a fraud to the blogosphere. So I’m Method-acting, personally experiencing all the things I post to my website.”

  “But isn’t it costing a lot?”

  “Actually it’s free. Our surprise guest from the playground had a lot of cash on him.”

  The evening wore on. Customers ran out the front door of the Nu Bamboo and back in. Then back out again. A pounding, heavy-metal bass thundered by on the street, rattling mason jars along the bar. The noise trailed off and the glasses became still.

  Patty poured a beer for one of the regulars who’d just dashed back in. “What the heck’s happening?”

  “Don’t know. All these unmarked cars keep speeding back and forth past this place. And the Doberman’s truck is with them.”

  “The Doberman?” said a man in a Bucs baseball cap. “I love that show, especially the one where he tried climbing down from a roof, but the rain gutter broke off the building.”