by Tim Dorsey
“What’s that all about?” asked Coleman.
“Home-field advantage,” said Serge, waving at someone else who spat in their direction. “Just keep that sign up so everyone can see it.”
Coleman raised the cardboard: Parking $20.
Serge raised his: Tampa Bay Hospitality Special: Anyone Wearing Visiting Team Hat Or Shirt, $5 Off.
Cars continued pouring into their lot. Even more shunned it and jeered. Zippered waist pouches became fat.
“Serge, look at all this money. I hope they’re paying us better than that last place.”
“They are.”
More bills went in Coleman’s pouch. “I like jobs where you get to touch lots of cash.”
“Me, too,” said Serge. “Except we’ll only have this gig one day.”
“How do you know they’re going to get rid of us?”
“They’re not. We’re quitting.” Serge tore off a ticket. “Enjoy the game! . . .”
Another carload of people in pinstripes and New York caps parked in their lot and headed toward the stadium.
“Go Yankees!” said Serge.
“But you’re a Rays fan,” said Coleman.
“The biggest. That’s why I took this job.”
“Yet we’re quitting?”
“Promptly.” Serge motioned for the next car. “We need venture capital for the next phase of my life.”
“Which is?”
“Relaunching our travel website, under new management.”
“But it isn’t under new management.”
“That’s right. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss . . . I always get a kick when I see an UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT sign. Translation: This place used to blow, but we got rid of those assholes.” He dispensed a ticket. “Enjoy the game! . . . My revolutionary new twist will turn all other websites into weeping piles of Twittering mush.”
“The Fugitive Tour?”
“Got to thinking: How have I found so many cool Florida destinations? I knew a bunch of them before, but the lion’s share came after I was on the run, police sirens blaring, crashing barricades, hails of gunfire, knife fights, pistol whippings, hand-to-hand combat with angel-dust fiends trying to bite your ears off. Why should I have all the fun?”
Coleman exchanged another ticket for money. “I don’t think they’ll get a kick out of that as much as you do.”
“Not the brushes with death,” said Serge. “They’ll just pretend those parts. The real payoff is all the most remote, offbeat locations I’ve personally vetted. That’s the key to my business model: I’ve spent years crisscrossing Florida on the lam, and now I’ll pass the savings on to them.”
“You’re always thinking of others.”
“Because my company runs on love. And at the same time I get to work on my Secret Master Plan.”
“What’s the Secret Master Plan?”
“A secret.”
Coleman stood with a ticket in his hand. “There must be a hundred cars in the lot.”
“At least.”
“But why aren’t they coming in as fast as before?”
“Because the game’s about to start.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Get the folding chairs out of our car and sit in the shade doing nothing.”
“And you want to quit a job like that?”
“There’s a catch.”
Meanwhile . . .
Mahoney stood in his flophouse and stared at a black rotary phone.
Fifth ring.
Mahoney liked to let phones ring. Once he picked them up, mundaneness. But until then, hope. Wide-open horizons of intrigue: the boozy broad in a tight sweater with a sob story and trouble uptown . . . a caller with a handkerchief over his mouth who says to check out some freshly poured cement in the bowery . . . the grudgingly respectful police captain telling him to stay away from their latest case or he can’t help him this time . . . some Joe spilling his guts over a body in the lake but stops mid-sentence because of the knife in his back . . . His mother who thinks the neighbors are deliberately blowing leaves into her yard . . . Mahoney dared to let himself dream: The Maltese Falcon? . . .
Ninth ring.
He snatched the receiver.
“Mahoney. Start yapping.”
“Mahoney? This is Agent Lowe.”
“To what do I owe the inconvenience?”
“I’ve just been put on a task force.”
“Goody gumdrops.”
“We’re after Serge.”
Silence.
“You still there?”
“All ears.”
“We’ve been going through old files and your name came up. Quite a few times, in fact.”
Mahoney thinking: Serge is mine, you diaper jockey. “How can I jibe?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’d like to pick your brain about the way this guy operates. Any ideas where we should start looking?”
“Spit your digits,” said Mahoney.
Lowe gave him his phone number. “When I can I expect to hear back from you?”
“I’ll yank my flogger and spread cabbage in the clip joints.”
“What?”
Mahoney hung up.
He scooped his badge and gun and ran downstairs for the Cutlass. Gravel flew as it fishtailed onto the street. He was forced to do something he couldn’t have dreaded more: go to the library and get on a computer.
Serge stood at the edge of a parking lot in a yellow vest. He checked his watch. “First pitch should be any minute.”
“I’ll get the lawn chairs,” said Coleman.
A few more late-arriving Yankee fans and then nothing. Coleman sat under a tree, fanning himself with his sign and pressing an ice-cold beer can to his forehead. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t.”
“I know. Your website.”
“But first we have to call Mooch.”
“Mooch?”
“Our boss.” Serge opened his cell phone. “Told you I had connections.”
Fifteen minutes later, Serge pointed up the street. “Here he comes.”
Coleman stood and unzipped his cash pouch with a sulk. “Guess I have to give him all my money now.”
“No, we get to keep that.”
“Serge, you’re babbling.”
A vehicle pulled up.
“Mooch!”
“Serge!” He looked around the lot. “Looks like you did a tidy bit of commerce today.”
“Bumper business, excuse the pun.”
Mooch opened his wallet and handed Serge a thousand dollars.
“Ahem! . . . I got overhead. Cardboard ain’t free.”
“Alllllllll right,” said Mooch. “Here’s another five hundred. Let me know when you want to work together again.”
Several trucks arrived and idled just outside the lot. Serge walked over to a signpost where he’d hung a parking poster.
Mooch stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled at the drivers. “Let’s go, boys! We got a lot of work to do.”
Serge pulled down the poster, revealing the permanent sign underneath: No Parking. Tow-Away Zone.
Six tow trucks pulled into the lot, and Serge pulled out.
“Now I get it,” said Coleman. “I was wondering why you had to use bolt cutters on the chain at the entrance.”
“But the essential ingredient to the scam is the yellow vests. They possess mystical powers.”
“Like your clipboard?”
Serge nodded. “People see your vests and automatically bow to authority as if there’s no way I could have bought them at Home Depot. But occasionally you get a safety-vest skeptic, so . . .”—he pointed in the backseat—“. . . the orange cones crush all doubt . . . Ready?”
“The Fugitive Tour?”
“Let’s rock!”
The Gran Torino sped away.
“. . . Recalculating . . .”
Chapter Three
Fort Lauderdale
The hospital room was somber and smel
led funky.
Unfortunately, an attorney had to be there, but that couldn’t be helped. Who knew how much longer, and documents needed to be signed and witnessed.
Luckily, no shortage of witnesses.
The patient in the bed was one of the last of the old gang.
And what a gang it was. Not like today. Old school, discipline, living by a code. It was the roaring sixties in Miami Beach, just before the Beatles came ashore, and the gang ruled the strip, making rounds in straw hats and guayaberas. If you were staying at one of the swank hotels back then, you could get a wager down on anything as fast as you could find a doorman or the concierge, who passed it along to the gang. It wasn’t even really a crime. At least that’s how everyone thought back then, including the police who took their cut. They were just giving the people what they wanted, like providing a public service. It was mainly bookmaking, but they nibbled a variety of other vices with mixed results. The call girls became more of a nuisance than anything, but they kept the hookers on for appearances. The gang didn’t have a name, until much later when they were called the No Name Gang. There was Greek Tommy, Chi-Chi, Moondog, Coltrane, Mort from the delicatessen, Roy the Pawn King and, of course, Sergio.
Sergio was the craziest, and thought dead for a number of years, until he showed back up in time to die. He was the first to go, when the march of time began thinning the herd. Then Greek Tommy passed, and Mort, and Moondog. Now it looked like Chi-Chi’s turn.
Chairs were pulled from the walls and surrounded the hospital bed. There was good ol’ Coltrane and Roy the Pawn King, getting up there themselves; and the next generations, Greek Tommy Junior, with his ne’er-do-well biker sons, Skid Marks and Bacon Strips. They scooted chairs closer.
Chi-Chi rested comfortably on three pillows.
A cough.
“Just take it easy,” said Roy. “You’re going to outlive us all.”
An effort to smile. “Roy, you’re a douche bag.”
“See, everyone? He’s getting better.”
Another cough.
They did their best to conceal true thoughts.
“Excuse me . . .”
Coltrane turned. “Can’t it wait?”
“I’m sorry,” said the lawyer, “but it’s my advice that we get these signed while, well . . . I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“It’s okay,” said Chi-Chi. “He’s got a job to do. Earn that pound of flesh . . . Where do I put my Hancock?”
“By the little taped arrows.”
“Jesus, he can’t even hold a pen,” said Roy.
“If you could help, we’ll get it over with as quickly as possible,” said the attorney.
Roy held the pen in Chi-Chi’s hand while the lawyer slid the paper, making a straight line of ink.
“Is that really a signature?” asked Tommy Junior.
The attorney stood back up with the documents. “Good enough as long as it’s witnessed. If you could just sign on the last page.”
“Now?”
“It’s okay, Pops,” said Skid Marks. “Me and Bacon Strips will sign.”
“Tommy?” said Chi-Chi.
“I’m right here.”
A smile. “Remember our old runs on the Loop Road? And the Gator Hook?”
“You must be thinking of my father.”
Chi-Chi stared toward the foot of the bed, then nodded. “That’s right. How is he?”
Tommy Junior looked with concern at the others.
“Chi-Chi,” said Roy the Pawn King. “Greek Tommy passed away last year.”
Another nod. “That’s right,” said Chi-Chi. “But what a driver. Never could match him on the old Loop Road, even though I did my best. That’s why I was better driving the blocking car.”
“You more than held your own,” said Tommy Junior. “Dad was always saying that.”
“But your granddad,” said Chi-Chi, barely managing a faint whistle. “Now, he was a driver. And one crazy bastard.”
The attorney slid next to Roy the Pawn King. “What are they talking about?”
“Glory days,” said Roy. “Running moonshine. Tommy’s grandfather actually worked for Capone.”
“Chicago?”
“No, Florida,” said Roy. “Most people don’t realize it, but Al had an operation in the Everglades. Poachers fed him from a network of stills.”
“Seriously? . . .” The lawyer neared the bed and stuck an ear in the conversation.
“Those were the best times of our lives,” said Chi-Chi.
“The high-water mark,” said Tommy Junior.
“Your dad and I were so young,” said Chi-Chi. “The world ahead of us . . . Whatever happened to that map?”
“Think he gave it to Sergio,” said Tommy. “He was always interested in that history stuff.”
“What map?” asked Roy.
“Supposedly my grandfather handed it down to my dad. I never actually saw it, so it might not even exist,” said Tommy. “I just heard him and Sergio talking about it one night in the Gator Hook.” A chuckle. “Crazy meets crazy.”
“Again, what map?”
“You know my granddad was nuttier than hell—always claimed there was something buried out behind the old Capone place in the glades.”
“Bodies?”
“No doubt,” said Tommy. “But Granddad was talking about something else. Legend has it that just before the Valentine’s massacre, Scarface cleared out his Chicago vault . . .”
“The empty one Geraldo opened on live TV?”
Tommy nodded. “After Rivera only found cobwebs, the rumors really took off. As the story goes, Al knew there’d be heat from his hit on the Moran gang, so in advance he divided up the safe’s contents and stashed it at various places around the country, including the Everglades. Dad drew a map from memory. But like I said, ‘as the story goes.’ ”
“How’d he even know to draw a map.”
“Claims one night he was at the wrong place at the wrong time—saw something he shouldn’t have.”
Chi-Chi grinned. “As soon as I get out of this joint, let’s go dig it up!”
Tommy smiled back. “Deal.”
A white coat and stethoscope appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me?” The doctor looked at Roy. “Can we talk?”
Roy stepped into the hallway, bracing for the worst.
The attending physician opened a patient file. “He can go home.”
“What?” Roy’s head jerked back. “He’s getting better?”
“No.” The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s got a month, maybe two. But he’s stable, and we feel they often do better at home, surrounded by family . . .”
Back inside the room, Chi-Chi had nodded off, and everyone headed for the door. The attorney slid the witnessed documents into a large envelope and tried to be nonchalant. “So, Tommy, you think your granddad’s map was for real?”
“He swore it was.” Tommy stopped and turned around in the hall. “Except you’d have to know him. Personally, I think Geraldo found more on his show.”
Somewhere in Cyberspace
Serge’s Blog. Star Date 584.948.
Hey gang! Welcome to the first installment of Serge’s Florida (Fugitive) Experience!
Nowhere else will you find the best way to enjoy my fine state! That’s right, as a fugitive!
I know what you’re thinking: “But, Serge, I’m not a fugitive.”
Who says? Society brainwashes us into thinking you have to be chased in order to flee. But anyone can just make a break for it whenever they want. So here’s what you do: After work on Friday, screech out of the parking lot and race around the state in a paranoid stupor, glancing over your shoulders, peeking through blinds of dicey motels, darting down alleys and diving in Dumpsters whenever you spot a patrol car, tipping bartenders extra and whispering: “You never saw me.” But how many law-abiding citizens have the imagination to experience the magic?
I already hear your next question: “What if the
cops get suspicious and stop me?”
Proudly declare you’re a fugitive on the run! Then they radio it in, and dispatch comes back with a clean record. And the cop says, “Are you actually wanted for anything?” And you say, “Not even a parking ticket,” and he says, “Then how are you a fugitive?” You say, “It’s a lifestyle choice. We have an image awards dinner coming up.”
First, you’ll be staying in a lot of motels. Stick with the most sketchy. I recently tried mixing my routine with a reservation at an upscale chain. You know, the one with those ads where that woman is swinging around the room on red curtains? I’m here to tell you, those things rip right the fuck down. And the rods take chunks out of the wall. Then you go to the front desk to complain, and they look at all the plaster dust and bundle of torn fabric in your arms and say, “What the hell were you doing swinging from the curtains?” I say, “Isn’t that how all business people relax?”
Second, disguises. It’s your call. I prefer a professional disguise kit; Coleman gets drunk and cuts his own hair.
Third, getaway driving. You know how you sometimes need to change lanes to make a turn? And you hit your blinker, but in the Sunshine State that’s the official signal for the jack-off behind you in the next lane to speed up and close the gap so you can’t get over? Not actually a fugitive tip. Just burns my ass.
P.S. Next week, “Al Capone: The Florida Connection!”
P.P.S. Next fugitive stop . . .
Miami Beach
Restored Art Deco treasures lined Collins Avenue. Restaurants, apartments, shops. And hotels.
In a $300-a-night suite on the fourteenth floor, with a sweeping view of the Atlantic, an unconscious man on the bed regained consciousness.
“Where am I?”
Blood and bruises.
He sat up and grabbed his pounding head. “What the heck happened?”
Memory seeped back. The woman. Like him, a rough-sex freak. She had indeed kept her promise to blow his mind with a night to top all others.
Across the room, sitting at a desk with her back to him, were those curves and fabulous head of fiery red hair that had first caught his attention in the techno-dance club.
The man jumped from the bed and into his pants. “You’re fucking crazy!” He ran out the door without his shirt.