Hurricane Punch

by Tim Dorsey

  McSwirley looked out the window. Whap, whap, whap. “They’re still there. Even closer.”

  Serge didn’t answer. He was in the zone. All the patrol cars even farther back now, hopelessly out of the running. Just the helicopters. But they were glue.

  McSwirley got an idea. “Serge. If you give up peacefully, I’ll put in a good word. I’ll write a sympathetic article explaining your point of view.”

  “You will?”

  “Definitely. The readers will rally—”

  “Excellent,” said Serge. “Trying psychology. I hate people who just accept their fate, even when they have to. You’ll be a lot happier if you started accepting yours.”

  Whap, whap, whap.

  “Serge, trust me. This will work. I’ll write a whole series. All the hardships in your life that led up to this.”

  “I’ve had a great life,” said Serge. “What about you, Coleman?”

  “No stems, no seeds, I’m a pig in slop.”

  McSwirley tried the slightly different strategy of abject panic. “You’ll never get away with this! You’ll get the death penalty!…” He hyperventilated and pointed up. “…The helicopters!”

  “What helicopters?” said Serge.

  “The ones—” McSwirley stopped. The whapping was gone. He spun and looked out the rear window. Five tiny helicopters hovering in a stationary line a mile back. “What just happened?”

  “All those idiots in TV highway chases,” said Serge. “Some drive for hours across multiple counties, when the answer’s obvious.” The H2 passed under a green information sign for rental-car drop-off. “Wherever I go, I always make sure I’m aware of the nearest federal airspace.” Serge stopped at a crossing gate. A machine spit out a ticket. Serge grabbed it, and the gate arm raised. They entered long-term parking at Tampa International Airport. “Even police helicopters in hot pursuit can’t penetrate federal airspace without permission. Losing a suspect is nothing compared to endangering a commercial flight on final approach. They’re required to hang back and radio for FAA clearance, which only takes a few minutes to coordinate with the tower, but it’s all the time you need to duck into the overhead concealment of a parking deck…. You getting this down? You need me to stop and spell anything?”

  “You plan for helicopter pursuits?” asked McSwirley.

  “All the time. Learned it from a secret agent, standard spycraft, except it’s usually used prophylactically to sterilize your trail before a chase has a chance to start. I’ve got to work on that.”

  “You know a secret agent?”

  “No, I watch secret-agent movies. Except it wasn’t in the movie; it was in a deleted scene. And it wasn’t in the deleted scene; it was in the director’s commentary about it not being in the deleted scene, which explained why it made no sense, and that’s the reason they wanted us to think they cut it out of the movie. But they couldn’t fool Serge!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t even think of selling me a DVD and expect to sneak covert messages by in the bonus material.”

  “But, Serge, I don’t think they were—”

  “And here’s a convenient parking space! It must be our lucky day.”

  Serge skidded into a spot on the fourth level of the Lindbergh deck. “Everyone out!”

  “What are you doing?” asked McSwirley.

  “Switching cars,” said Serge. “It’s the obvious next move. Come on, Jeff, get into this story. Hey, did you know that in the parking diagram on Tampa International’s website, they misspelled Lindbergh’s name? Instills that confidence in flying.” Serge reached a nearby vehicle of similar color and appearance. “We’re in luck! A Hummer!”

  “It’s just like our other car,” said Coleman. “Only bigger.”

  “One of the advantages of frequent travel.” Serge slid a thin strip of metal inside the rubber seal of the driver’s window. “All kinds of free upgrades.” The door popped, and the burglar alarm whooped; Serge silenced it with a yank on a twenty-amp fuse and secret wire deep under the steering console.

  Coleman climbed in. “I didn’t realize you liked Hummers so much.”

  “It’s one of those love/hates,” said Serge. “As a guy, I can’t resist; as a student of cultural collapse, I can’t resist. Born a death machine in the First Gulf War, became a soccer-mom car, and now we have Hummer stretch limos.”

  “I’ve seen those,” said Coleman. “They’re everywhere.”

  “As a society, you just have to plead no contest. The introduction of the Hummer limo is an airtight case that your civilization has finally become bullshit on stilts…. Where’s Jeff?”

  McSwirley was halfway across the deck, sprinting as fast as he could for the exit.

  “Jeff!”

  “What’s he doing?” asked Coleman.

  “Probably has to use the bathroom. Get in.”

  A half minute later, the SUV’s wheels squealed down the corkscrew exit ramp connecting the garage’s various decks. They reached level two. Coleman pointed. “There’s Jeff.”

  McSwirley was about to pass out but still running as hard as he could down the spiral ramp. Serge pulled up alongside and rolled down his window. “Need a lift?”

  The black Hummer eased into a toll-booth lane. Serge grabbed the three-day-old parking ticket off the dash and tossed it on the floor, then substituted the fresh stub he’d taken from the machine upon arriving a few minutes earlier. “Neat trick, eh?” said Serge. “I’m about to save this car’s own er a lot of money.”

  “Let me go,” said Jeff. “I’ll yell. The woman in the toll booth will hear me.”

  “Yeah, but then we’ll have to take her with us. On the other hand, she’s pretty hot. Maybe I’ll yell.” Serge pulled up to the window.

  McSwirley grabbed his shoulder from the backseat. “Don’t! No other innocent people! I’ll go with you.”

  Serge paid and accepted his receipt. “You sure?” he asked Jeff. “I’m a sucker for toll-booth uniforms.”

  “I’m sure,” said Jeff.

  “All right, then…”

  A voice from the booth: “Is everything okay?”

  “Why?” said Serge.

  “You got your change, but you’re not moving.”

  “Just having a discussion,” said Serge. “We’re kidnapping people for this road trip. Want to be abducted? It’s lots of fun.”

  She noticed Serge’s ice-blue eyes. A slight blush and smile. “You guys in some kind of fraternity?”

  “No, they wouldn’t have us. We weren’t enrolled, and Coleman drank all their beer…. Last chance. That parking-attendant outfit has it going on.”

  “Look, I got people backed up.” She wrote something and handed him a second receipt. “Here’s my number.”

  The Hummer sped south on Interstate 75. “Jeff, we’ve got quite a drive ahead. Why don’t you start that exclusive interview with me?”

  Jeff’s arms were folded in protest. “My stuff’s back at the office.”

  Serge hit a blinker for the next exit. “We can get Jeff some stuff, right, Coleman?”

  “Look for a liquor store.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  GLADSTONE TOWER

  The newsroom mob around McSwirley was bigger than ever.

  “She really gave Serge her number?”

  “He’s not bad-looking,” said Jeff. “But mainly there’s this charisma. It’s amazing. Women just…You’d have to see it.”

  “Did he ever call her?”

  “Actually—”

  The maximum editor suddenly noticed the size of the audience. “Doesn’t anyone have anything to do around here? Get back to work!”

  The audience grumbled as it dispersed.

  “Enough storytelling,” said Max. “First deadline’s in three hours. We need to start getting this into the system.”

  Tom and Jeff headed over to the metro desk. McSwirley took a seat and began typing…

  WALGREENS

  Jeff had his pens and notebo
ok in a shopping bag, and Serge had Jeff by the arm. “Will you please stop trying to signal people? I know you’re just showing initiative, but it’s getting old.”

  They reached the parking lot.

  “It’s only a matter of time before you’re caught,” said Jeff. “This may be a different car, but it looks too similar.”

  “I won’t get caught.” Serge reached into his own shopping bag for a can of shaving cream.

  A black Hummer raced south across the Manatee River Bridge. Shaving cream down the door panels: JUST MARRIED.

  Serge glanced sideways at Jeff, now sitting up front in the passenger seat for prime-time interview access. “Ready when you are…”

  Jeff just gazed out the window at the raised span of a railroad bridge.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Serge. “Did I forget something?” He looked at the plastic drugstore bag near McSwirley’s feet. “Spiral notebook, pens, microcassette recorder, extra tapes, disposable camera for my updated mug shot. The shadows in the ones the police took make me look like I don’t groom on schedule.”

  McSwirley watched a plea sure craft motor back to the Bradenton marina.

  “Don’t be like this,” said Serge. “You’re a great reporter. How can you resist this exclusive? I mean, everyone wants to talk to me. Detectives, mainly. That’s why I’ve cultivated my recluse mystique.”

  “I’m too nervous.” Jeff held out a palm. “See? I’m shaking. I don’t know what you’re going to do with me.”

  Serge was taken aback. “You think I’m going to kill you?”

  “I honestly don’t know. All those others…”

  “They were jerks,” said Serge. “You go through life throwing elbows, you take your chances.”

  “You’re saying that now,” said Jeff. “But you’re clearly insane.”

  Serge faced the road ahead. “That stings.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’ve been doing some soul-searching lately. And I’ve come to admit it’s true. But you have to understand, mental illness is like cholesterol. There’s the good kind and the bad. Without the good kind, less flavor to life. Van Gogh, Beethoven, Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath, Pink Floyd—the early Piper at the Gates of Dawn lineup—scientific breakthroughs, spiritual revelation, utopian visions, zany nationalism that kills millions. Wait, that’s the bad kind.”

  Jeff ’s bottom lip began to quiver.

  “Hey…” Serge gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “I’m not going to let anything happen to my buddy. What can I do to earn your trust?”

  “Let me go.”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  Jeff wiped his eyes. “Then tell me where you’re taking me. What are your intentions?”

  “You know the category-three hurricane off Belize that’s hooking this way?”

  McSwirley nodded.

  “Figured we’d hit historic high points down the coast—Snook Haven, Spanish Point, the Edison Estate, Cabbage Key—and still have plenty of time.”

  “For what?”

  “To pick up the hurricane. If the track holds, we’ll grab it just below Naples and ride her straight across the Everglades on the Tamiami Trail.”

  “You’re going to drive in a hurricane?”

  “Perfectly safe. We’ll stay in the eye.”

  Wind suddenly gusted into the side of Serge’s face. He turned and lunged toward the open passenger door, grabbing Jeff from behind by his belt. He yanked him back inside. “Jesus, you call me crazy? We’re going seventy!”

  McSwirley lost it again. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  The door marked MARRIED flapped on the downside of the bridge. “Coleman, would you mind getting that?”

  “What?”

  “The door!”

  “Oh. That’s wind I’m feeling. I thought it was peyote kicking in again. The early rushes sometimes cause confusion.” Coleman reached for the handle and pulled it closed. He offered a red drink over the seat. “Jeff, want some of my Hurricane Punch?”

  Serge: “Just say no.”

  “Yikes!” Coleman dove onto the backseat floor and covered his head. “Tell me when the dragon people are gone. Especially the one with the pincers.”

  “What’s he talking about?” asked Jeff.

  “Who knows?” said Serge, throwing a disapproving glance Coleman’s way. “I hope you’re not into drugs.”

  “I smoked a little pot in college.”

  “How are your chromosomes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hopefully we caught it in time,” said Serge. “Just don’t accept any left-handed cigarettes at those wild newspaper parties I keep hearing about. If your kids come out with heads like jack-o’-lanterns, you’ll never be able to forgive yourself…. Now, how about that interview?”

  “I’m not really in the mood.”

  “Come on. It’ll occupy your mind.”

  Jeff listlessly reached into the bag and opened a notebook in his lap. He stared at the page. He closed the notebook. “I can’t get over my nervousness.”

  “You just need to warm up properly,” said Serge. “Like people in the Kinsey study who had to fuck in front of all those researchers aiming lab instruments at them. Instead of a ruthless killer, pretend I’m some non-threatening feature subject and open with softball questions: ‘What inspired your new fragrance, Serge?’ Then, after getting your feet wet, we slide into the shallow graves.”

  Jeff opened his notebook again. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Maybe not.”

  McSwirley clicked his pen and hunched over. “If you could trade places with anyone else in the world, who would it be?”

  “Good question! Let’s see….” Serge tapped his chin. “Okay, I got it. I remember in Easy Rider where someone asks Peter Fonda the same question, and he says, ‘I never wanted to be anyone else.’ So I guess my answer would be Peter Fonda….”

  Jeff finished writing. “Question number two…”

  Miles and hours flew by. The interview continued. “…Childhood memories?” said Serge. “Let’s see. The Captain Jack fishing show from the Blue Heron Pier, Sunrise Semester, Miller beer ads in Spanish—they were only on before seven A.M. The Spanish we had back then got up early. Jai alai of course, the civil-defense siren every Saturday at noon, Fourth of July parades on Flagler Boulevard, the fortune-telling scale at Riviera Beach Drugs. When I was four, my parents wouldn’t let me have a dog, so I caught one of those lizards that were everywhere, tied a piece of kite string around his neck and took him for walks. Called him Rex….” Serge reached over and shook Jeff ’s shoulder. “…Wake up. We had all kinds of classic TV ads back then. You’re too young, but there was Radio Free Europe and the lazy eye. Guess they cured that. And the one where a drug pusher brings a briefcase to the playground: ‘Gather ’round, kiddies, the man with the goodies is here.’ Televisions had tubes back then that you tested at Western Auto. Planes were hijacked to Cuba all the time—that’s a cheerful one. Hurricane Betsy washed the freighter Amaryllis aground on Singer Island, and it became a popular surfing spot because of the wave break…” He shook Jeff again. “…Got a cap gun and cowboy hat at my birthday party. Then my next-door nemesis made a false move during pin the tail on the donkey. We began pushing, and he stuck the donkey-tail pin in my arm. His mistake. You don’t bring a donkey-tail pin to a gunfight. I slapped that pointy little birthday hat off his head and pistol-whipped him good. Then I remember parents arguing and a bunch of cars screeched away from our house. The next year, I turned six….”

  The sun drew down in the western sky. They entered swamp country, and development dwindled. Then a break in the trees that seemed to go on forever. Hundreds of single-wide trailers packed tightly together in a bright, white-gravel lot. “That’s Camp FEMA,” said Serge. “Where all the people displaced by Hurricane Charley went to live.” They crossed the Caloosahatchee River. Soon another break in the trees. “And there’s the arena where the Flo
rida Everblades play. Isn’t that far out? A minor-league hockey team in the Everglades! Someone was either a visionary or a fool. It’s a fine line, like Herzog pushing that ship up a steep mountain in Fitzcarraldo, which is also the perfect metaphor for marriage. I used to be married. Technically still am. Separated. Her name was Molly. So it goes. She had this thing about guest towels. You got a girl? My advice: Choose carefully. You’re still young, but I know all about women. I have total insight into their nature. Go ahead, ask me about women.”

  “Uh, what about women?”

  “They’re absolutely impossible to figure out, so don’t even try. Everything you need to know about them is in that Carly Simon tune.”

  “Which one?”

  “‘You’re So Vain.’ She sings an entire song obsessing about this dude. Then, during the chorus, he’s suddenly getting shit for thinking the song’s about him. But it is, every word. Now the poor guy’s confused, probably just wants to eat his dinner in peace. But no, she starts yapping about him again, and then he’s wrong again for thinking she’s yapping about him….” Serge’s knuckles became white on the steering wheel. “If you ever get in a relationship, the key to fighting is, never respond. Don’t take the bait. You’ll still get shit for not answering, but it’s a smaller pile. Just let them win, because they always win anyway. That’s the big secret to women: They’re genetically built to win. We’re built to watch TV. Better to forfeit at the beginning instead of letting it fester into a three-day thing. Just thought of something else I loved to do as a kid. Remember when you drank a lot of fluid without eating breakfast and ran outside to play? And you could hear it sloshing around in your stomach? The first time it happened, I stopped and thought, What’s this? Maybe I can make it happen on purpose. So I ran real fast in a circle. And it worked! Slosh, slosh, slosh…. Coleman, remember making stuff slosh in your stomach as a kid?”

  “Fondly.”

  Serge looked to his right. “Jeff, what about you?”

  “Nope.”