Electric Barracuda

by Tim Dorsey

  “Free for a run?” asked Serge.

  “For you? Anytime.”

  “Let’s do it . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Everglades 1929

  Jazz piano drifted across the swamp.

  Chandeliers twinkled through cypress and palmettos.

  Another Friday night at Al’s.

  More and more cars arrived as word spread about the speakeasy in the middle of the Everglades that police couldn’t touch.

  Two pressure fronts had met earlier that afternoon over the gulf and moved inland, dropping a thick blanket of fog across the glades that made people think of Sherlock Holmes.

  A string of headlamps approached, the only thing visible in the mist until the vintage cars took shape the last few yards.

  Bartenders could barely keep up, and a roadster custom-fit with copper tubing in the doors had to make a high-risk, second run of the night. Crazy Murphy skidded around back. Capone’s gang was already waiting with wooden-slat cases of thirsty, empty glass bottles.

  Another group stood off to the side—way off, behind the cover of pines. Only four of them, making a final visual sweep for witnesses. When the quartet was satisfied, they formed a rectangle and began carrying something heavy across the swamp like pallbearers.

  And faded into the mist . . .

  . . . As one unnoticed bystander watched.

  Crazy Murphy glanced back at the gang draining moonshine from his car. They wouldn’t be done anytime soon.

  He yelled back to them: “I’m going to take a leak.”

  “Why are you telling us?”

  And Murphy slunk into the swamp.

  Brush thickened, ground soggy. Murph was guided at first by the crinkling footsteps and faint voice up ahead—then by a lantern that came on in the distance. It usually provided just enough illumination for the work at hand, but now with the fog, there was a broader glow in the glades, sending eerie shafts that slowly swirled as they filtered through buttonwood and gumbo-limbo.

  The curiosity was too much. Anyone with sense would have advised against continuing on, but Murphy was crazy.

  Present

  Behind the Tarpon Lodge, four people climbed aboard a center-console whaler. Serge fastened a life preserver onto Mikey that practically swallowed the child. Then he cast off davit lines.

  Captain Ron pushed the throttle forward. The boat idled away from the dock as gulls and pelicans took flight from the tops of pylons streaked with white poop. The whaler picked up speed through a tight channel of orange-and-green markers. Then open water. Ron gave it the fuel, bringing the boat up on the plane. Salt wind filled lungs and whipped hair.

  A tiny arm poked out from under a puffy life vest. “Daddy, look!”

  On both sides of the boat, dolphins leaped high in the air, over and over. They seemed to be looking right at them.

  “Smile.” Serge raised his camera. Click, click, click.

  The captain banked the vessel to port. All around them in Pine Island Sound: uninhabited mangrove islands. Cove Key, Black Key, Rat Key, Bird Key. And a couple inhabited ones . . .

  “I see some buildings,” said Coleman. “What is that island?”

  “Useppa, once a secret CIA training ground for Brigade 2506.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Anti-Castro exiles recruited in Miami for the ill-fated Bay of Pigs invasion.” Mikey’s little feet left the deck, his upper body tipping over the gunwales. Serge jerked the leash, pulling him back on board. “Now a private club of luxury homes accessible only by boat.”

  Another hard bank starboard, and they skirted the southern shore. “That other island that just appeared ahead is our destination, Cabbage Key.”

  “The next fugitive stop?”

  Serge nodded. “We’ve crossed enough bodies of water. Nobody could possibly find us there.”

  The dolphins jumped a final time and broke off to join a pod for a mullet run on the low tide. Captain Ron brought the boat around for dead reckoning on a shoal-guarded inlet that led to the freshly painted dock.

  “Why does the island look so tall?” asked Coleman.

  “Because it’s got a thirty-eight-foot Indian shell mound. No cars or paved roads, just a nature trail, an old wooden water tower like you’d find at a whistle-stop in Flagstaff, and a rustic home atop the mound built in the 1930s by novelist and playwright Mary Roberts Rinehart, which is now a small inn with a breezy restaurant.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “Nothing,” said Serge. “That’s the whole point. That’s why I love Cabbage Key.”

  Coleman began to shake. “Nothing?”

  “We can always hang out in the bar.”

  The shaking stopped. “Bar?”

  “One of Florida’s finest.”

  They eased to the dock, and Serge secured the lines. Then just as quickly, the passengers were all on the pier. Lines were off again. Ron gave a big wave. “Until next time . . .”

  Serge watched the boat motor away into turquoise water. An impatient tug on his arm.

  “Serge, can we go to the bar?” said Coleman. “Please?”

  “Normally, I’d veto, but in this case, definitely.”

  Mikey pulled them along, climbing the mound and up the front steps.

  Coleman stopped just inside the entrance and grabbed his chest. “This is heaven with stools.” He ran and hopped on one. “Whiskey!”

  Serge strolled over and grabbed his own seat. “Bottled water. And something with a lot of sugar for my son.”

  Coleman’s eyes wandered around the deep-hued paneling and stuffed tarpon on the walls, competing with hundreds of patron-autographed dollar bills. Jimmy Buffett’s dollar had its own frame.

  Coleman killed his drink and raised a finger for a refill. “This reminds me of someplace.”

  “The No Name Pub in the Keys?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Makes sense, same vintage and values.”

  From behind: “Serge!”

  He turned around.

  “Rob! How’ve you been?”

  “Can’t complain. Wondering if you were dead.”

  “I know. It’s been too long, but . . .” He waved around the interior. “. . . You’ve kept the flame burning.”

  “Who’s this little guy?”

  “My son, Mikey. Surprise.”

  Rob bent down to a small child chugging a can of soda with both hands. “Well, hello there . . .”

  “He kicks,” said Serge.

  “Ow!”

  “Coleman, I’d like you to meet Rob, the owner . . . Rob, my untrusty sidekick, Coleman.”

  “Pleasure,” said Rob. They shook hands and he turned back to Serge. “So what brings you out?”

  “I’m on the run.”

  “Who’s after you this time?”

  “Nobody,” said Serge. “I’m fleeing unilaterally. You should try it.”

  Rob gave a laugh like the boat captain. Then he looked down. “What’s Mikey doing now?”

  “Trying to chew through his leash. Listen, we could use a room.”

  “Jeez, inn’s full.”

  “Cottage?”

  “Worth a shot. Check with the desk.” Rob headed off. “I need to see the dockmaster about something, but we’ll talk later. Great to see you again . . .”

  It was an off-hour in the heat of the afternoon. Serge and Coleman had the bar to themselves. Almost. A single soul sat by himself on the last stool at the opposite end. Could be mistaken for a wrestler. Burly and muscular, shaved head like Mr. Clean. Hiking shorts, green-and-red Cartagena baseball jersey. Nursing a draft in a sweating mug.

  People eventually began trickling in as the day cooled toward evening. A few occasionally approached the man with books to sign.

  “Who’s that guy?” asked Coleman.

  “Randy Wayne White, the famous author,” said Serge. “This is his turf, so don’t do anything to embarrass me.”

  “Yo! Randy!” yelled Coleman. “You
r books suck!” Giggles.

  “Thanks for sticking with the script,” said Serge, then turned the other way. “Sorry about that, Mr. White. He ate paint chips as a child. And last week.”

  Randy just nodded and grinned, and returned to his beer.

  Serge swung back to Coleman. “You’re lucky he’s a cool guy or he’d snap you in two.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Being macho.”

  “But he’s just sitting there.”

  “In his resting state, he’s macho.”

  “What about sleeping?”

  “Macho then, too.” Serge gave a subconscious, parental tug on the leash. No resistance. “What the—?” He reeled it in until he came to the frayed end.

  “Mikey chewed through?” said Coleman.

  Serge dashed out the front door. “Mikey! . . . Mikey, where are you?”

  Coleman tumbled down the steps and got up. “Mikey! . . .”

  “Daddy! . . .”

  “Did you hear that?” said Serge.

  “Yeah, but where’s it coming from?”

  They frantically scanned the grounds. “Mikey!”

  “Daddy! Look at me!”

  They found the direction of the voice and gazed up. “He’s on top of the water tower!”

  “How’d he get up there?” said Coleman.

  “It’s got an observation deck and wooden staircase winding up inside the supports.”

  “Daddy! I can hang upside down!”

  “Holy Jesus.” Serge scrambled up the stairs and grabbed his son. He wagged a finger again in the child’s face. “No tall structures.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Everglades 1929

  Crazy Murphy crept forward in the night.

  He tried to stay as silent as possible, except that was impossible with all the branches and unseen stuff below that crunched as he walked. But whatever noise he did make was drowned out by all the frogs and owls and insects and bursts of intoxication from back at the lodge.

  As Murphy drew near, voices became louder. Just a step at a time, he told himself. Plant your foot first, then ease on the weight and carefully lift the previous leg. Soon he saw the first one. And a shovel. Then the other three, all silhouette, backlit by the kerosene lantern, laboring in shadow animation amid the fog.

  What were they doing? He had to get closer.

  Murphy slithered a few more yards and crouched. Practically under their noses. Normally, they would have spotted him except for the heavy, ground-level cloud seeping across the swamp. But that worked two ways: Murphy still couldn’t see clearly. And he couldn’t risk getting any closer.

  Then he noticed a large cypress with a thick trunk for cover. Definitely near enough to the action. Only one problem: The tree stood across a brief open stretch of bright mist. It would only take a few seconds, but he’d be completely exposed.

  Murphy got ready to spring five times. And pulled back five times. Heart pounding.

  He closed his eyes, summoning will. When he opened them, all four men had their backs toward him.

  He went for it.

  A shovel stopped. “What was that?”

  A second shovel stilled. “What?”

  “I just heard something.”

  “There’s all kinds of stuff out here.” The shovel went back into the ground. “Probably a toad.”

  “No, it definitely wasn’t a toad. Someone’s out there.”

  “Your imagination’s getting the best of you. Now get back to work. You want to be out here all night?”

  Murphy was on his knees, peeking around the trunk. There was the lantern and jackets neatly hung from a tree, and shoulder holsters across perspiration-drenched shirts. His eyes went down to the ground.

  “Oh my God!” He covered his mouth.

  Murphy wasn’t that crazy. He immediately realized what he saw carried a death sentence: I have to get out of here.

  His brain raced: Just stay calm and reverse the process, and you’ll be safe back at the car in no time. The first careful move was to turn around into a branch that broke off with a crack like a rifle shot.

  All shovels stopped. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that.”

  “Shit,” said Murphy. He took off with abandon.

  A fog-encased figure ran across the clearing.

  “There he is!”

  “Get him!”

  Shovels fell. Pistols flew from holsters.

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  Back at the lodge, the crew filling bottles from Murphy’s car stopped and looked toward the swamp. Funny they hadn’t noticed any double-crossers being marched off to the gator holes.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang . . .

  Capone came out the back door. “What’s all that shooting?” He grabbed a moth and ate it.

  Murphy crashed through palmettos and thickets, mindless of noise, bullets whistling by his ears and slamming into trees. He could see the lodge. If he could only . . .

  A bullet grazed his shoulder. He grabbed it on the run and looked at his hand. Blood.

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  Another slug zipped through the fog without hitting anything in the woods. It shattered a bottle of hooch held by one of the guys at the car. They all hit the ground.

  Murphy exploded out of the brush and dove onto the dirt near them.

  “What’s going on out there?” said the one still holding the neck of the broken bottle.

  “I don’t know,” said Murphy. “I was just taking a whiz when suddenly all this shooting started.”

  “Your arm’s bleeding.”

  “The gunfire made me jump. I scraped it on a tree.”

  Four men burst into the clearing behind the lodge. They looked toward the bottle-filling detail flat on the ground.

  “See anyone come out of the woods?”

  “Nobody . . . Just Murphy. He was taking a leak.”

  They turned toward the back steps, where Capone was now surrounded by bodyguards and two lieutenants.

  “Someone’s out there,” said one of the foursome in soaked shirts. “I think they saw us.”

  A lieutenant stepped forward. “Did you finish?”

  “No, we ran after him.”

  “Get back out there and finish!”

  The other lieutenant opened the screen door and yelled orders into the lodge. More men came pouring down the steps. These had machine guns. They fanned out into the swamp.

  Murphy got up. “Done unloading?”

  The bottle guys nodded.

  “Then I better be getting back.”

  He jumped in his car, and took off down the Loop Road.

  Present

  Serge and Mikey climbed down the water tower.

  “That was close,” said Coleman.

  Serge examined the short length of chewed-through strap attached to Mikey’s back. He handed it to Coleman. “Hold this tight and don’t let go for anything.” Serge trotted off.

  “Ow.” Coleman rubbed his shin and called down from the shell mound: “What are you doing?”

  “Checking with the dockmaster.” Serge reached the pier. “Need some supplies.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were all down by the water. Serge screwed a steel clamp shut. “That should do it.”

  They headed back to the bar, Mikey leading the way again, this time on the end of a chain composed of thick, welded links with anti-corrosion coating used in marinas.

  Coleman huffed up the shell mound. “Looks like one of the leashes people use to walk giant pit bulls.”

  “Except those don’t have to be as strong.”

  They reclaimed their original stools. A new guest sat just to their left, wearing an ensemble of the most expensive yachting attire. Plowing through his third Johnnie Walker Black.

  Serge nodded politely as he climbed back on his seat. “Evening.”

  An untanned, manicured hand extended his way. “Name’s Hunter. Hunter Bleadoph.”

  They shook. “Serge. Serge Storms.” Thi
nking: Where have I heard that name before?

  “Great joint,” said Hunter, snapping his fingers at the bartender and pointing down to an empty glass.

  “So, Hunter,” said Serge. “What brings you to these parts?”

  “I’m hiding out.”

  Serge smiled at Coleman.

  Hunter’s refill came. “No bullshit. Who’s going to find us here?”

  “That’s what I said.” Serge ordered another bottle of water. “Trouble with the law?”

  “You could put it that way.”

  “Who are you hiding from? Feds? State? Local heat?”

  “Reporters.” Hunter took a belt of scotch.

  “Reporters?” said Serge.

  “My company flew down from New York for a training seminar.”

  “What are you training for?”

  “We’re not.” Hunter laughed. “That’s just on paper for the government. I’m really here for a kick-ass vacation!”

  “Bleadoph,” said Serge. “Now I remember: You’re the head of that troubled financial group, GUE. Got like seventy billion in bailout money.”

  “Eighty.” Hunter smiled. “That’s why we have to hide out and keep a low profile. The last couple of junkets, reporters swarmed all over the place, running stories on TV about our presidential suites, five-hundred-dollar-a-day room service, Dom Pérignon and ice-packed lobsters we had FedEx’d up from the Keys.”

  “You were persecuted,” said Serge.

  “Tell me about it.” Hunter swirled his drink. “They all falsely reported that the taxpayers were springing for our luxury getaways, when nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “What is the truth?”

  “The bailout money was kept completely separate, not a penny spent on lavish perks,” said Hunter. “We made absolutely sure of that and scrupulously accounted for where every last tax dollar went.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “Executive bonuses. And then the press had a problem with that.”

  “Don’t they know anything?” said Serge.

  “Exactly,” said Hunter. “They’re journalists, but we’re the businessmen. And we know how to run a business.”

  “How do you run your business?”

  “Move money from point A to point B.”