by Tim Dorsey
“Where is it now? Setting fire to the carpet?”
“I don’t know—that’s the weirdest thing,” said Coleman. “If there’s one area I’m dependable, it’s hanging on to a joint.”
“So what happened?”
“A sudden gust of wind. Like out of nowhere.”
“You’re roasted to the eyeballs.”
“No, seriously.”
Serge’s dashboard notepad began fluttering and flew over his shoulder. “What the—?”
“Told you.”
He checked the rearview. “Where’s Mikey?”
Coleman turned around. “One of the back doors is open!”
Serge became unhinged. “My only son!”
Coleman knelt backward in his seat and reached down. “I got him.” The child came back in, and the door slammed. Coleman sat back straight. “It’s cool. He was just trying to pick something up off the road.”
An hour later: Fort Myers.
The Barracuda sat in front of a Motel 3. Room 11.
Some kind of creaking, rhythmic sound from the other side of the door.
“Higher!” said Serge. “Go higher!”
Father and son jumped up and down on one of the beds. Coleman had been jumping on the other, but was thrown clear and knocked the cover off the air conditioner.
“Higher!” yelled Serge.
Coleman sat up and rubbed a knot on his forehead. “I thought we weren’t supposed to jump on beds.”
“That’s what motel rooms are for.” Serge sprang up again. “Everything you’re not allowed to do at home.”
“Don’t the motel people mind?”
Boing, boing, boing . . .
“It’s Motel 3. Everything in the room is manufactured to prison standards.” Serge bounced up again, hair brushing the ceiling. “It’s impossible to break anything.”
Coleman tried fitting the a/c cover back on. “I think I just broke this.”
Serge hopped down to the floor. “That’s enough jumping pleasure . . . Mikey! Here! I’ll catch you!”
The boy leaped into Serge’s arms and they spun in the middle of the room. “Weeeeeeeeee! I’m a dad! . . . Mikey, let’s do something else!”
Coleman was looking for another in a lifelong series of misplaced joints. “Wait, what’s this? A bag of pills? I don’t remember these. The last person in the room must have left them. Or maybe they’re Serge’s. He gets the best prescriptions from his psychiatrists.” Coleman opened the sack and grabbed a bright orange capsule. “But he always refuses to take them, so it’s not really stealing.” His eyes shifted suspiciously to Serge on the other side of the room, playing with his son. Nope, they hadn’t spotted him getting into the medicine. He turned the other way, popped the capsule in his mouth and chased it with beer. “Now, let’s see what that bad boy does.”
“I know!” said Serge. “We’ll wrestle! Fathers are always supposed to wrestle with their kids!”
“Great memories,” said Coleman, grabbing a chair and a bottle of whiskey. “I used to wrestle with my uncle. We’d roll on the floor and he’d act like I was stronger and let me crawl all over him and win every time.”
“Please,” said Serge. “That’s amateur hour. If Mikey’s going to succeed in life, I’ll need to teach him the Pile Driver, Atomic Knee Drop, foreign objects, folding metal chairs and, of course, from the critically acclaimed movie The Wrestler, the one and only Ram-Jam! . . . Mikey, climb up on the dresser . . . Not high enough. Can you balance on top of the TV?”
The child nodded.
“Okay,” said Serge, lying on the floor. “I’m the evil Ayatollah, and you’ve just knocked me into next week against the turnbuckle . . . The crowd’s cheering you on! Ram-Jam! Ram-Jam! Ram-Jam! . . . Now raise your fists next to your ears and get ready for the headfirst dive to finish me off! . . . Ram-Jam! Ram Jam! . . . On three! . . . Ready? . . . One . . . two . . .”
Part IV
THE LAST FRONTIER
Chapter Twenty-five
Warm Mineral Springs
A Crown Vic raced south on the Tamiami Trail.
“Motel secure?” asked White.
“Undercovers at all possible escape points,” said Lowe. “Discreet like you said.”
“Manager?”
“Held back maid service on the room. Sir, do we know if he’s even still there?”
White shook his head. “But we have to assume so for the safety of civilians. That’s why the undercovers.”
“How exactly did we get the call?”
“Just like the state park. Retired couple with rheumatoid was down in the healing pool and recognized them from that TV show we did. Suspects were swimming with some bikers, acting weird.”
“Weird?”
“One was doing cannonballs, and the other congratulated them on not being in a coffin.”
Lowe pointed up the road. “There’s the motel.”
“Remember, we’re going in ultra-quiet. Until we know his status—”
A motor coach passed them, blaring Ted Nugent.
White sighed and pulled up to the office.
The manager made another positive ID on the mug shots. He gave them the key.
“How many staying on that side of the motel?” asked White.
“Just three couples. Your guys slipped them away a half hour ago.”
White led Lowe and Mahoney along the corridor, staying as close to the building as possible until they reached the door.
The trio braced against the outside wall, took deep breaths, then burst inside.
And froze.
Three sets of eyes processed the scene: burned curtains, flooded bathroom, marijuana, Frosted Flakes, Elvis condoms.
Mahoney wiggled a toothpick in his teeth. “Isn’t it always the case?”
Meanwhile . . .
“Serge, Serge, Serge . . . Are you okay, okay, okay . . .”
Serge sat up. “Where am I?”
“Motel 3,” said Coleman
“What happened?”
“Mikey knocked you out.”
“He did?”
“You’ve been gone for twenty minutes.”
“Was it the Ram-Jam?”
“I don’t know. He just jumped from the TV.”
Serge beamed. “My son! . . .” He looked around. “Where is he?”
“Under the bed,” said Coleman. “He grabbed a bunch of candy bars. I tried to get him out but he keeps biting.”
Serge crouched down and pulled up the skirt of the bedspread. “Mikey, excellent Ram-Jam! I know what we can do next! Let’s go to the playground, and I’ll show you all the unapproved, alternate equipment usage. I saw a really cool one up the street.”
Mikey crawled out.
Serge grabbed his keys. “This will be great! I can finally return to the playground without everyone staring because now I have a kid with me!”
Fifteen minutes later.
Everyone stared.
Mikey stood on the very top of the jungle gym, beating his chest.
Serge was at the bottom: “Now make roaring sounds and yell, ‘I’m a silver-back gorilla, king of all I survey!’ . . .”
They made the rounds of the rest of the equipment.
“No,” said Serge. “Walk on top of the monkey bars.”
Thanks to his new diet, Mikey was now even too hyper for Serge, and the tired new father let his son go free-range across the grounds.
Serge walked over and took a seat next to Coleman on a park bench. “I must be getting old.” He leaned back and crossed his legs.
“Look at him go,” said Coleman. “He’s heading the wrong way up the slide.”
“To the untrained eye.” Serge grinned big. “This is a dream come true. I never thought it would happen, but it’s like life is starting all over again . . . You know what I’m going to do?”
“What?” asked Coleman.
“I’m going to change. No more illegal stuff. Not even murder.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.�
�
“I have a child to think of now,” said Serge. “Just watch. A whole new me.”
Coleman put a hand over his stomach and made a queasy face.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t feel so good.”
“Probably something you ate.”
Probably that pill, thought Coleman. On the other hand, some of the best drugs make you nauseous at first—then, watch out! Coleman grimaced through the debut round of cramps and smiled about his future.
A young mom pushed over a baby carriage and sat at the end of their bench. She lifted the infant out. “Nice day.”
“Fabulous!” said Serge.
She smiled. “Is that your son over there?”
Serge looked. “You mean the one beating the empty teeter-totter with a stick?”
The woman adjusted the baby on a blanket in her lap. “I think it’s great what you’re doing.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. Two men can raise a child just as well as anyone.” She gave the infant a bottle. “There are so many children growing up with single parents or none at all . . . I don’t understand all the hatred out there.”
“Hate is bad,” said Serge.
“Just wanted you to know that not everyone in this country is against you.”
Coleman leaned. “Serge, what’s she talking about?”
Serge shrugged and twirled a finger next to his head in the official “crazy” signal.
After a spell, the woman got up to leave. “Remember, there are a lot of us out there who are pulling for you.”
“I’ll make a note,” said Serge.
“Who was that?” asked Coleman.
“Probably someone following my website.”
The sun reached the hottest part of the day. The playground emptied, except for Mikey, who scampered impervious to the temperature.
Coleman shielded his eyes from the light and scanned the area. “Where’d he go?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t see Mikey . . . Wait, there he is on the swing set.”
“Jesus!” Serge grabbed his heart. “Don’t do that to me.”
“Who’s the man sitting on the swing next to him?”
“Who is he?” said Serge.
“He’s handing something to Mikey.”
“It’s . . . candy.”
Serge and Coleman’s heads simultaneously snapped toward each other. “Stranger danger! Stranger danger! . . .”
They jumped up and sprinted across the playground.
“Hey, you!” Serge said to the man. “What’s the deal?”
Mikey smiled and held up his hand. “Look, Daddy. A lollipop!”
Serge smiled back. “And what do we say when a stranger wants to give us something?”
“Thank you?”
“No.” Serge turned toward the man. “You’re fucked.”
“Now wait just a minute.” The man began standing up from the swing. “I was only trying to be friendly.”
Serge pushed him back down. “I like to be friendly, too. I’m going to teach you a friendly lesson so you’ll think twice.”
The man was bigger and younger than Serge. Bronzed, bushy hair, tank top from a local gym. “I’ll do you a favor and forget about this misunderstanding. I haven’t done anything. I’m going to stand up, and if you touch me again, I’ll have you for assault. Right after I wipe the whole playground with your ass.”
The stranger stood, sneering down four inches at Serge. He grinned lasciviously. “Besides, your wimpy son’s a little too scrawny for my taste.”
Coleman’s eyes opened wide. “Uh-oh.” He began slowly backing up.
The man looked over at Coleman. “What the hell’s gotten into him?”
Even if the stranger hadn’t been distracted, he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the head butt in the mouth, then the nose, then Serge taking him to the ground, bashing away with fists that became skinned and bloody.
Coleman leaped on Serge’s back. “Not here! We’ll get caught!”
“Cool,” said Mikey. “Can I play, too?”
Serge got up. “You weren’t supposed to see that, at least not for a few more years.”
“We have to get out of here,” said Coleman.
“Not without our new friend.” Serge reached in his pocket. “I’ll back the car up. You distract Mikey.”
Coleman was by the front bumper, sticking a hand under his shirt; Serge shoved his groggy guest into the trunk.
Mikey giggled. “Daddy, Coleman’s making his armpits fart.”
“Must have learned that at the job fair.” Serge returned his gaze to the captive.
The man wiped blood from his eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s go for a ride,” said Serge. “I’m sure you’re familiar with offering rides.”
The trunk slammed shut.
Chapter Twenty-six
Motel 3
Coleman sat on the toilet. He smiled at the guest from the playground, tied up and lying in the bathtub next to him.
Serge knocked on the door. “How much longer are you going to be in there?”
“I don’t know.” He grunted. “Think this is a big one.”
“Save the elegant details. Just how long?”
Another grunt. “You’ll be the first to know.”
Serge resumed pacing and mumbling to himself. He had put the hostage in the bathroom to spare Mikey, and he now had the double challenge of concocting signature punishment while keeping it from the boy. He reached the end of the room, turned and paced the other way. “What can I possibly do with that guy. Think! . . . Ow!”
Serge grabbed the side of his head, then turned to the bed, where Mikey sat with a cheap supermarket toy, removing the suction-cup tips from a plastic dart gun in order to put eyes out.
“That’s my boy.”
“Daddy, can we wrestle again?”
“Okay.”
They rolled on the floor. Serge taught him the Spitting Cobra Strike, then writhed on his back as Mikey applied the Bangkok Claw of Death to his solar plexus.
The bathroom door flew open. Coleman ran out in excitement. “Serge! Come quick! You have to see this!”
“Mikey,” said Serge. “Wait here and I’ll show you the dreaded Nuclear Jellyfish.” He got up and strolled to the bathroom door.
Coleman stared down into the toilet. “Check this out!”
“I am not looking again,” said Serge. “Once will carry me for a lifetime.”
“But this is different,” said Coleman, getting on his knees for closer inspection. “It’s something I’ve never seen before.”
Serge cringed. “This is a sickening new low.”
Coleman waved over his buddy without looking up. “You have to help me figure this out.”
“Just flush already!”
“Not until you identify it. I think it’s a miracle.”
“You mean like how people look at a cinnamon roll and see the pope or Michael Jackson?”
“Just look.”
“Then will you flush it?”
“I promise.”
Serge threw up his arms. “I give and I give and . . .”—he caught a glimpse in the ceramic bowl—“. . . Holy blessed Trinity!”
Now they were both kneeling side by side in front of the bowl. “How the hell did that get there?” asked Serge.
“That’s why I wanted to show you. I think it’s a sign from God.”
Serge turned toward his pal. “Did you by any chance happen to eat a pill?”
“What? Me?” Coleman turned red with guilt. “Absolutely not! I wouldn’t do that . . . Yeah, I did.”
Serge jumped to his feet. “Coleman! You’re a genius!”
“Every time you say that, I have no idea what’s going on.”
Serge glanced toward their guest in the tub. “I’d been rattling my brain for hours, but you just gave me the perfect idea! If they didn’t think I was an artist yet.”
“You’r
e an artist?”
“My medium is irony.” Serge knelt down and socked their guest in the jaw.
“What kind of idea did I give you?”
“I’ll explain as we go.” Serge reached into the tub. “Now help me prep the patient . . .”
The Next Day
Motel 3.
Police swarmed room 11.
A forensics team photographed every inch of the bathroom, swabbed the drains, peeled tape strips of latent prints.
Agent White ducked under the crime tape across the open door to the parking lot. “Who’s in charge here?”
“I am,” said Lieutenant Major. “You from the task force?”
White nodded. “How’d you find this?”
“Manager called after the guest in the next room reported that the alarm clock went off at three A.M. and didn’t stop ringing.” He reached out and knocked. “Thin walls.”
Lowe and Mahoney joined them. “Think it’s Serge?”
The lieutenant shrugged and looked back in the direction of the bathroom. “Good chance according to the all-points you sent out.” He opened a file and checked a handwritten report, still in progress. “Victim had a rap sheet of inappropriate contact with children, recent probation issues of proximity to schools and playgrounds, but nothing proven.” He closed the file. “Killed by some kind of elaborate and extreme method . . . we think.”
“That’s Serge,” said Mahoney.
“What do you mean, you think?” asked White.
The lieutenant looked back again, where sealed evidence bags steadily flowed out of the bathroom and into cardboard boxes on the bed. “Haven’t determined cause of death yet. Nobody’s seen anything remotely like it.”
“Wounds?”
The lieutenant shook his head. “Just a distended belly like he was about to give birth to quintuplets. Medical examiner’s in there right now.”
An evidence tech emerged with more sealed bags of rope and duct tape. White brushed past him on his way into the bathroom.
“I’m Agent White from the task force.”
“Just give me a minute,” said the examiner, kneeling over the tub with his back to the door. He wore blue latex gloves and shined a slender flashlight into the mouth cavity.