Electric Barracuda

by Tim Dorsey

  “That’s it?”

  “Then move it back. You should see our homes.”

  “But how does that produce anything of value?”

  “It doesn’t.” Hunter crunched a scotch-covered ice cube. “That’s the whole idea. We finally perfected a business model that’s pure profit.”

  “Amazing.” Serge whistled. “How’d you come up with that?”

  “Here’s a crash course in the economy,” said Hunter. “Americans get up each morning and go to factories and farms and fire stations and work their whole lives, creating actual products you can hold in your hands. Or some service that benefits. I mean, what the fuck’s that about?”

  “Work isn’t good?”

  “It’s the damn workers who crashed the economy.”

  “I thought it was you,” said Serge.

  “Don’t be a comedian.” Hunter started counting off on his fingers. “They lost their retirement accounts, their mortgages, their homes, even their jobs. Can’t these assholes do anything right?”

  “You on the other hand?”

  “We ended up with all the cash. And then the people turned to the government and went, ‘Holy shit! What happened to all our goddamn money? Do something!’ So the government takes even more money from the workers and—this part is absolutely priceless—they give it all to us again! Now you tell me who’s the success story.”

  “But what’s so hard about accepting free money?”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking when half the country screamed, ‘I’ll kick your fucking ass if you give me health care!’ ”

  “Sounds too good for words,” said Serge.

  “It’s good enough for one word,” said Hunter. “Socialism.”

  Serge pounded the bar with his fist. “Fuck socialism.”

  “Don’t say that!” Hunter took a swig. “I love socialism.”

  “You do?”

  Hunter nodded hard. “Finest word in the English language. Just mention socialism, and everyone gets blinded by rage, takes their eyes off us and prints up T-shirts that insult the president.” Bleadoph raised his hands toward the ceiling in exultation. “Thank God he was elected!”

  “Forgive my ignorance,” said Serge, “but weren’t the bailouts socialism?”

  Hunter shook his head. “It’s only socialism if the money goes down, not up.”

  “A toast,” said Serge. “To socialism!”

  “To socialism!”

  A glass of scotch tapped a plastic bottle.

  “Enough about me,” said Hunter. “What do you do?”

  “Well, I work—”

  “Hold a sec. Work?”

  “Not to fear,” said Serge. “I don’t actually produce any goods or services.”

  “Whew! You had me worried.”

  “I just . . . move other people’s money around.”

  “So we’re kind of in the same line.”

  Coleman tapped Serge’s shoulder. “Mikey’s trying to get through the leash again.”

  “He’ll stop when his teeth hurt.”

  “He found a hammer.”

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Serge looked around the bar, then back at Hunter. “You mentioned a company retreat. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Oh, we’re not staying here.” He tilted his head south. “Booked this cushy place on Sanibel called – – – –” He looked down at his top-shelf drink. “I just came out here to put the taxpayers’ money to work on a stimulus package.”

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “I think he’s about to break through.”

  Serge hopped down and grabbed the hammer.

  Hunter stood up and drained his glass. “Have to catch the boat back to the mainland, but maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”

  Serge shook his hand again and smiled. “I have a funny feeling that’s definitely going to happen.”

  Fort Myers

  Three state agents sat around a table in a downtown diner. Outside, a gentle evening rain glistened under crime lights.

  Plates with egg yolk had been pushed aside for a pair of maps. Lee County. One street, one nautical. Mahoney slowly slid his palms across them like a Ouija board. He stopped and tapped a spot.

  Agent White slipped on reading glasses. “Sanibel? You mean the seashell place?”

  “Boxcars.” Mahoney’s palms went back to the road map. He closed his eyes. Hands hovered ominously. He opened his eyes and tapped another spot. “Plus this flush.”

  “The Edison Museum?”

  “Top-weight black pearl fix for the heritage fiend. We shadow-jockey for the deuce bank-shot.”

  “Who exactly cleared you for duty?” asked White.

  “He likes to be around old stuff,” said Mahoney. “We stake out the Edison in case he shows up. If he doesn’t, it’s on the way to Sanibel.”

  “How are you so sure you can predict his movements like this?” asked White.

  “Loose chin?”

  “Whatever. Any other places that look promising?”

  Mahoney began sliding hands across the maps again. Fathom readings. Boat channels.

  The hands began trembling and stopped on the nautical map over a small island with an Indian shell mound.

  “Cabbage Key?” said Agent White. “Never heard of it.”

  Mahoney took his hands off the map and smugly flipped his Zippo.

  Outside the diner, rain let up. A cast of people quietly watched the agents through the front windows. They sat in the parking lot in a variety of vehicles, including a black Beemer.

  A hard knock on the driver’s window. The man inside jumped.

  Another knock.

  An attorney named Brad Meltzer rolled down his electric window. “Oh, it’s you.” A hand over his forehead. “Gave me a start.”

  “Said I’d find you. We still have a deal?”

  “I’m working on it now.”

  “It doesn’t look that way. You’re not thinking of running off with my grand?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Brad. “I know Serge’s ultimate destination.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “It’s a big place he’s going. Got a couple clients who keep feeding me tips where he’ll be next, because they want me to deliver a letter.”

  “You going to give him a letter?”

  “No, he can’t ever see the letter. It will ruin everything.” Brad tried lighting a cigarette. “So I was hoping the detectives in there could help me narrow it a little.”

  “Your hands are shaking . . . Here, let me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll contact you again in a day or so.”

  “I really am going to find Serge. I swear. You’ll be the first to know.”

  “I believe you. Because you’re too smart to even dream of fucking with me.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The Next Day

  Serge grabbed his backpack. “Thanks for the ride to Cabbage Key.”

  “Don’t be a stranger,” said Captain Ron, dropping the gang back on shore at the Tarpon Lodge.

  The ’69 Barracuda reached the mainland and parked at a strip mall in downtown Cape Coral.

  “Why are we stopping here?” asked Coleman.

  “Need to put together a gift basket.”

  Serge got out and went in the nearest door. Coleman followed him down an aisle. “What kind of gift basket do you get from a hardware store?”

  Serge grabbed a bottle off a shelf. “Not the kind with sausages and biscotti.”

  A couple more aisles and they were done. Serge dumped his purchases at the cash register.

  “They’re all chemicals,” said Coleman.

  “That’s right. Industrial cleansers, pest control, drain opener.”

  “Why do you need that stuff?”

  “I don’t,” said Serge. “At least not for their intended purpose. But they won’t sell me what I really need. So I’m forced to concoct my own recipe . . . Oh, and I’ll also
need one of these.” He grabbed a construction worker’s protective face mask with dual carbon breathing filters.

  Next, a drugstore. Not as quick this time. Up and down aisles, squinting at shelves. A sprite young woman in an apron noticed. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Actually, yes,” said Serge. “Bath salts. They’re alien to us.”

  She smiled. “For your wife?”

  “No, socialists.”

  “Socialists?”

  “They’re so hard to buy for,” said Serge. “They tend to re-gift.”

  She eyed him a moment, then: “You’re almost there. Follow me.” They went up the adjoining aisle, and the clerk pointed at the top row. “Anything in particular?”

  “Something with almonds.”

  “I prefer jasmine myself.”

  “Almonds, trust me.”

  “Here’s something. You think it’s what you want?”

  “Definitely. I’m sure it’ll go over very big.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Mixing bowls for baking. Gloves for cleaning toilets. Hair dryer for hair drying.”

  Once they were out of the store, Serge found the nearest garbage can and dumped out the salts.

  “Now I’m really confused,” said Coleman.

  “Just needed the container.” Serge headed for the car. “The key to gift giving is proper presentation.”

  They checked into a flophouse on 41. Serge grabbed a towel and scrubbed the sink and fixtures, then hit them with the hair dryer until they were bone dry.

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “Because there can be absolutely no moisture.”

  Various hardware-store purchases and mixing bowls lined the counter behind the sink. Serge slipped into thick gloves, then adjusted rubber straps behind his ears and rested the face mask atop his forehead.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “Are you sure it’s safe to work in this room with all that stuff?”

  “Definitely.” He pulled the face mask into place, muffling his voice. “These are meth lab motels. Against that, I’m Betty Crocker.”

  He dumped one container into the bowl, then flicked open a pocketknife and sliced through a half-dozen rodent bait traps.

  Coleman bent toward the bowl. “What are you making? . . .” He stumbled backward. “Hey, what’s the deal shoving me like that?”

  “Are you crazy? You don’t have a face mask.”

  “You said it was safe.”

  “I said the room was, not you.”

  Coleman walked to the far bed and clicked on the TV. “It’s Nancy Grace.”

  “America’s screech owl.”

  “Someone’s missing again in Florida . . .”

  Serge tuned him out. “. . . And another dash of this and some more of that, stir as needed, and that should just about do it!”

  He uncapped the empty bath salts container and ever so carefully tapped the contents of the largest mixing bowl through its mouth.

  Coleman clicked the remote to another cable show. “Florida again. Police are carrying out a garbage bag. They think the live-in boyfriend did it . . .”

  Serge tossed his face mask on the bed. “Ready?”

  Coleman looked up from the TV. “For what?”

  Serge held out the decorative plastic container. “To deliver our gift.”

  “Thought it was supposed to be a basket?”

  “Just remembered I hate gift baskets. You get one and go, holy fuck, look at all this great stuff! Then you rip it open in a glee-frenzy and go: What the hell? It’s mostly cellophane and straw and a lousy cheese ball.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Mini-jar of bullshit gooseberry jam. But this . . .” He held up the bathing product again. “You see the whole container and there’s no false advertising.”

  “But it’s still false advertising,” said Coleman. “There are no salts inside.”

  “Oh, there are salts all right,” said Serge. “Alkaline earth metal salts.”

  “You use them for bathing?”

  “I personally wouldn’t, but for the right gift recipient . . .”

  The ’69 Barracuda cruised south through Fort Myers on McGregor Boulevard—both sides of the street lined with old-growth palms that soared to the sky. Serge held a hand next to his face, preventing a view to the left.

  “What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

  Serge gritted his teeth. “The Thomas Edison Museum is coming up in a mile or so. Tell me when we’ve passed it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t have time to stop, but it won’t be up to me if I get the slightest peek . . .”

  A mile ahead: Three state agents left the Edison Museum and stood on the sidewalk by the entrance. Picture-taking tourists in shorts and sandals came across the street from the parking lot on the other side.

  “No sign of Serge,” said Agent White. He laced his fingers behind his head and stretched to get a kink out of his back. “Mahoney, where now? Cabbage Key?”

  Mahoney shook his head. “Vibe cooled.” He gazed in frustration back at the museum.

  White patted him on the back. “Not all your hunches can be correct.”

  “Could have bet the farm.” Mahoney fished a matchstick from his jacket. “The force is strong here.”

  “Let’s just get going to Sanibel.” White started across the street for the parking lot, but needed to wait for one last car to pass.

  A ’69 Barracuda went by, the driver holding a hand next to his head that blocked the view of his face.

  Coleman looked out the back window of the Barricuda. “We just passed the museum.”

  Serge took his hand down from the side of his face. “That was close. Now we can make Sanibel before sunset.”

  Farther south, staying near the coast, they approached a tall new bridge. Serge stopped at the tollbooth.

  “Jesus Christmas!” said Coleman. “Six bucks? That what it costs to pay for this bridge?”

  “No, that’s what it costs to keep riffraff like us out. Nice try.”

  “Keep us out of where?” Coleman lit a joint.

  “The twin resort islands of Sanibel and Captiva.”

  He took a hit and giggled. “I know how to remember that: Cannabis sativa.”

  “You mnemonic rebel.”

  A pot cloud exhaled out the window. “Why do they want to keep us away?”

  “So the people who tie sweaters around their waists can stroll unmolested along exquisite beaches in the seashell capital of America.”

  “Screw seashells.”

  “Shut yo mouth!”

  “Just talkin’ ’bout Shaft.”

  They faced each other, laughed and high-fived. “We still got it,” said Coleman.

  “Remember how to make the scream like that little fucker in Kool and the Gang?”

  “Yowwwwww!”

  Serge rocked in his seat. “Again!”

  “Yowwwwww!”

  From behind them: “Yowwwww!”

  Serge and Coleman looked toward each other, then the backseat.

  “It’s Mikey!” said Coleman. “He’s a natural.”

  “That’s my boy,” said Serge. “And not a single lesson.”

  “Yowwwwww! . . .”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Sanibel

  A white Crown Vic sat in front of a packed resort. White slapped a mug shot onto the bar in at outdoor tiki hut.

  “Seen this guy?” asked White.

  “Nope.”

  A ’69 Barracuda drove by.

  People riding bikes, power-walking, looking healthy.

  “Look at all the seashell shops,” said Coleman. “They’re everywhere.”

  “For the vicarious,” said Serge. “True Floridians comb the beach on hands and knees.”

  “You’re really not kidding about seashells.”

  “Once you get into them, they’ll rock your world! You got whelks, cockles, scallops, tellins, murex, conchs, tritons, nautilus, and don’t f
orget the chestnut turbans.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Shells even decided wars in Florida.”

  “I am way too high,” said Coleman. “I though you just said—”

  “You heard me right.” Serge began checking the side of the road for a particular resort. “Back in the nineteenth century, when federal troops battled the Indians across the Everglades and Florida Bay, it was almost impossible not to get lost among the countless, identical-looking mangrove islands. The military advantage fell to whoever knew the geography. And guess how the Indians did it?”

  “Computers?”

  “Fifty-nine varieties of the Liguus Tree Snail, each with its own distinctive color bands—and each hue exclusive to specific clusters of south Florida islands. The Indians knew them all, and that’s how they navigated and won . . . Here’s our stop.” The Barracuda whipped into a parking lot with stone pavers for drainage.

  The trio went inside and approached a front desk subtly framed by watercolors and potted island flowers. Behind them, the mandatory saltwater aquarium. A woman in a tropical shirt gave the greeting smile. “How are you doing today?”

  “Seashells won the war,” said Serge.

  “The six dollars didn’t work,” said Coleman.

  The greeting began to crack. “You have reservations?”

  “No.” Serge glanced around, leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. “We’re not staying here. We’re on the run and hiding out.”

  Her smile began a straight line. Call security or not?

  Serge’s eyes darted around again. “We’re looking for someone else laying low. I’m a close personal friend of Hunter Bleadoph.”

  “Ohhhh, friends of Hunter.” Back to good times. “You confused me at first about hiding out, but management briefed us on the media thing. Don’t worry: We’re on top of that.”

  “Could you ring his room?”

  “My pleasure.” She dialed and listened.

  “Daddy!” yelled Mikey, holding up an arm. “Look! I caught a fish!”

  “Mikey, put that back in the aquarium right now!”

  Coleman pointed at the white bamboo floor. “It squirted out of his hand. I’ll get it.”

  The woman behind the desk hung up. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t seem to be answering.”

  Coleman hit the floor. “I got it! . . . Nope got away . . . Hold it. I got it . . . Too slippery. Wait, let me try again . . . Got it . . . No . . . Ahhhhh! Mikey jumped on my back! He’s choking— . . .” (Cough). Coleman reared up; a joint went flying from his pocket.