by Tim Dorsey
“Huh?” said Clint.
Serge hung up.
Brook reached him from behind. “What’s going on?”
Serge’s eyes scanned upper-floor windows. “He kidnapped Reevis.”
“Who’s Reevis? Who kidnapped him?”
“The reporter who figured out the money laundering for us. He was grabbed by the guy who shot Bones and Shelby . . .” Serge ran to the edge of the motel and found an alley. A quick nod to himself. “I’d run out the back.”
“You’d run where?” asked Brook.
“Can’t explain now. I need you to cover the front: Just stay at the end of this alley and keep your eye on the main entrance. If you see the guy who killed Bones come out with a young kid, yell to me at the other end of the alley.”
Brook cupped her hands around her mouth as Serge took off. “But how do you know they’ll come out? . . .”
Serge ducked inside a service door.
Brook strained to see on her tiptoes as a herd of topless unicorns passed between her and the alley. “Where the hell did he go?” More floats and screaming inebriates. Then people screaming for real, furiously trying to escape out the front entrance of the motel, which was blocked by the mob. Others poured from the service door into the alley. Somewhere in the middle of the alcohol cacophony, Brook heard the faint ringing of the building’s fire alarm.
At the motel’s front entrance: “Fire! Let us out!”
The mob thought it was some kind of game. “Fire! Back in you go!”
Eventually enough panicked guests had piled up in the doorway that they were able to ram through the sidewalk revelers. The evacuation dribbled off until it seemed everyone was in the clear. Then two last calm people strolled out as if everything was normal.
“Serge!” Brook yelled into the alley, pointing down Duval.
He sprinted back to the street. “Where are they?”
“In that crowd at the end of the block!”
“They’re disappearing!”
Serge abandoned all civility as he crashed headlong into the crowd, swimming through a sea of shoulders. Brook stuck close in his wake. A mild breeze suddenly became a stout onshore wind as breezes are known to do without warning in the Keys. Serge looked up at clouds swiftly crossing the moon.
Clint had Reevis by the collar with a gun in his back. That fire alarm was too convenient. He kept checking behind and finally recognized Serge’s head bobbing taller than the rest of the mob. Now it was Clint’s turn to start crashing through people. He jabbed the gun barrel hard. “Move it or I’ll drop you right here!”
Reevis flailed ahead of Clint, and they actually began to pull away from Serge. Only one problem. They were running out of Duval Street, which meant running out of island. The foot traffic thinned near the base of the road, and the wind whipped violently into a gale. Thunder. They made a hard right and ran toward an isolated gathering of people lit up by perpetual camera flashes. Visitors took turns rotating for photos at the seawall next to the massive red, yellow and black concrete thimble marking the southernmost point of the continental United States.
Clint didn’t know Key West, or he would have known that the other side of the tourist touchstone was fenced off by a military intelligence station listening in on Cuba. Clint was cornering himself.
Serge knew Key West, and he approached in a wide arc to Clint’s north, making sure the corner stayed sealed. Lightning laced the blackness.
The ocean responded to the violence in the air, smashing the seawall behind the marker and shooting a salty wave over the crowd and their soon-to-be-repaired cameras. Clint had picked up Serge again and tracked his steady advance. He desperately looked left and right, backing up with Reevis in front of him as a shield until he had cut into the photo line.
“Hey, buddy, what’s the freakin’ deal?”
“Shut up!”
A wave of the gun spoke even louder, and the shutterbugs vanished with alarming efficiency.
It was now down to today’s finalists. They were all alone, just Reevis and Clint against the concrete landmark, and Serge and Brook out in the open in the middle of Whitehead Street, blocking escape.
Clint wrapped a forearm around Reevis’s neck and pressed the gun to his temple. “Get out of here or he’s a dead man!”
Serge aimed his own pistol that he had pulled from his Scarface jacket. “Just let him go, and I’ll let you go.”
“Not a chance.”
“Look around you,” said Serge. “You’re cornered.”
“You’re the one who’s cornered.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We may both have guns, but you have two people here you care about,” said Clint. “If we decide to wrap this up here, Reevis is dead for sure . . .”
“Then I shoot you,” said Serge.
“Maybe, but before I go down, it’s better than fifty-fifty that I can take Brook out first, even if she’s standing behind you,” said Clint. “This baby in my hand is a forty-four, well known for its through-and-through capacity.”
“You’re dreaming,” bluffed Serge. He knew Clint was right. Knight to bishop-four, check.
Reevis’s head began tilting from the pressure of the barrel. “Start backing away now!”
Under Serge’s breath: “Please, God, do something. If You’re up there listening, this is a peachy time to make Your presence known.”
Brook tugged the back of his shirt. “What are you doing?”
“Praying.”
“Do you pray?”
“Not usually, because God’s too busy helping people find lost wallets . . . Dear God, I know my record isn’t spotless, but just this one time if You could—”
Splat.
Serge looked down at his feet and a large fish. “God, I didn’t say I was hungry.”
Splat, splat, splat.
“Serge,” said Brook, “fish are falling all around us.”
Splat, splat, splat, splat, splat.
They began flopping all over the street.
“What the hell?” Serge looked directly up into a giant full moon and saw hundreds of fish high above them on their way down from the heavens. A mackerel smacked his shoulder. “Take cover!”
He grabbed Brook by the hand and ran for shelter under a nest of coconut palms. Fish continued crashing around them as they peeked out from behind one of the tree trunks.
Clint wasn’t doing so good, trying to flee the exposed point while controlling a hostage. They were both getting clobbered by seafood until a well-placed grouper knocked the gun from Clint’s hand.
Reevis saw the pistol skitter away and made a break for it.
“Over here!” yelled Serge, waving him toward the palms.
The reporter veered in their direction as Clint reached his gun and took aim at Reevis’s back. Serge jumped out from the tree’s cover and aimed his own pistol. They were both simultaneously hit by mullet.
Serge pulled Reevis back behind the palm, and Clint found his own tree on the opposite corner.
Standoff.
“What do we do?” asked Brook.
Serge ducked as a bullet whizzed by. “Wait for God again.”
Splat, splat, splat.
“What’s with all those fish?” asked Reevis. “It’s like that movie Magnolia with the frogs.”
“Except that was surreal symbolism from the book of Exodus,” said Serge. “This is actually happening.”
“But where did they come from?”
“Probably sucked up by those.” Serge pointed past the southernmost point, where the moon revealed vague shadows from a pair of sinewy waterspouts dancing just off the coast.
“Oh,” said Reevis. “Like Sharknado.”
Clang.
A crab trap bounced in the street.
Clang.
&n
bsp; A Rhode Island license plate.
Clang.
A prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker.
“What the hell?” said Reevis.
More bullets flew by.
“It’s just Key West.” Serge reached around the tree to return fire. “Dear God, one more favor . . .”
Crash.
A giant green block fell from the sky and exploded in the intersection halfway between Clint and Serge.
One street over, someone sounded the traditional island alarm. “Marijuana bale!”
The stampede was impressive and undaunted by gunfire.
“The road’s completely blocked!” said Brook.
“Run!”
Chapter FORTY-THREE
DUVAL STREET
Giant dung beetles rolled their brown ball into a parking lot and popped beers.
Serge raced around the corner with Brook and Reevis.
“Where do we go now?” asked the cheerleader.
“Not back to your room at the Southern Cross,” said Serge. “That’s the first place he’ll check.”
“Maybe it’s the second place,” said Reevis.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t look back now.”
Serge looked. “Cripes! He’s only a block away behind that giant float about penises. Or penii?”
Brook tugged his arm. “This might be a good time to get out your gun.”
“Don’t have it,” said Serge, weaving between disco dinosaurs.
“Where is it?”
“Same old story: Potheads crashed into me. Feel like some more running?”
Didn’t have to ask twice. They executed an up-the-middle, heads-down football offense from 1958. Elbows and lowered shoulders, not worrying about forward vision. Then, abruptly, no resistance. An expanse of street had unexpectedly opened up. They had been charging so hard against the tide that their momentum carried them into the middle of the clearing.
They looked up at the reason for the extra space.
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” asked the Woman in Red.
“Molly, put down the gun and I promise we’ll talk about it over lunch tomorrow.”
“No.” She stomped her right heel. “This time my needs come first!”
“Baby, I’m kind of busy with something right now. We’re being chased by a hired killer.”
“That’s just like you.” Mascara streaked down her cheeks. “Always putting your career ahead of our marriage.”
Instantly, a second clearing opened up on the other side.
Clint Racine raised his gun.
Serge, Brook and Reevis were in the center of it all. They turned around in a full circle in the middle of the street, nowhere to run, alone in no-man’s-land except for a few drunks who wandered through the triangulated lines of fire. Others on the sidewalk cheered at what they thought was a stage show for their entertainment.
Molly waved her pistol offhandedly. “Who’s that guy?”
“Oh, him,” said Serge. “Just wants to murder me is all.”
“What!” Molly saw Clint aiming his gun and swung her own pistol. “Don’t you fucking point that gun at my husband!”
“Thanks,” said Serge.
The pistol swung back toward him. “Don’t you try to sweet-talk me!”
From the sidewalks: “Shoot him! Shoot him!”
“Ahem.” Serge looked at Molly and angled his head. “The guy with the gun?”
Her pistol swung again. “Stop aiming that at my man!”
“Shoot him! . . .”
Serge slapped his forehead. “This could go on forever.”
More drunks wandered into the line of fire. Coleman and Ziggy strolled up.
“Yo, Serge,” said Ziggy. “. . . Oh, I see you’ve got your hands full. We’ll be going.”
“No, stay here,” said Serge. “Perfect timing.”
“Molly,” said Coleman. “Sorry about the guest towels.”
Her gun swung his way.
“Shoot him! . . .”
“It’s that guy from The Hangover! . . .”
“Man, she never forgets,” said Coleman.
“Just shut up and give me back my tote bag.”
“I was tired of carrying it anyway.”
Molly returned her pistol’s aim to Serge. “You even complained about how expensive the guest towels were. You said you could get blown for that much.”
“But only in certain countries.” Serge reached into the bag.
A red-faced Clint Racine stiffened his shooting arm. “I’m sick of this bullshit. To hell with all of you.”
“Shoot him! . . .”
A few stumbling Hemingways staggered across the street, momentarily preventing clear shots. It was all the time Serge needed.
He reached in the tote bag and pulled out a giant weapon that matched his Scarface costume.
“Say hello to my little friend!”
The crowd gasped as Serge crouched and fired the T-shirt gun.
The already unstable mob lost any remaining sanity: charging, screaming, clawing, gouging eyes. “Over here!” “We want one!”
Serge fired again and again.
Sidewalk people crammed back into the road, fingers wiggling over their heads as T-shirts arced across the sky. The frenzy increased, clothes ripped, splashed drinks smearing body paint. Someone leaped from a balcony—“I got one!”—and took out three butterflies. The Hemingways began running.
“Give me the fucking T-shirt!” yelled Edith.
“Let go of my hair!” screamed Ethel. “I just got a permanent.”
Serge caught the draft behind the Ernest look-alikes, still pulling pre-wrapped T-shirts from his tote bag and firing behind him on the go. The celebration pulsed forward with him, faster and faster, until it took on a life of its own, gaining mass and momentum. Almost a stampede, but not quite.
Molly fled for the safety of the doorway to Margaritaville. And Clint . . . Where was Clint?
Footprints on his arms and legs. “Get off me, you bastards!” Lying on his back, he managed to free an arm and raise his gun straight up.
Bang, bang, bang, bang . . .
Okay, now it was a stampede. All wings and tits and crazy hats. Clint pulled away but lost his gun, watching it get kicked down the street. A sleeve tore off his arm, and he decided to retreat.
Serge and his posse broke off from the Hemingways and found shelter in the entrance of the La Concha.
“What are you looking for?” asked Brook.
“Clint. He’s out there,” said Serge. “We have to go after him.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to run in the opposite direction?”
Serge shook his head. “He’s no threat to me and Coleman because of our mobility. But you and Reevis will be easy targets when you go back to your regular lives.”
“You really think he’d come after us?”
“I know the type.” Serge raised his chin and scanned the street. “If he gets away, he’ll go dark into deep hiding until he can ambush. So this is our best shot . . .”
Reevis pointed at a head that had just popped up on the opposite sidewalk. “There he is!”
“Let’s rock!”
Clint ducked down a side road and sprinted for Simonton Street. He reached the corner and glanced back to see Serge peeling off Duval. A quiet motorized whine came up the street. A human moth on a moped. Clint suddenly jumped off the curb and threw out a stiff arm, clotheslining the rider in the neck and flipping him backward onto the ground. The empty scooter wove erratically another twenty yards before plowing through a row of trash cans.
Serge quickly made up ground, rounding the corner and barreling down on Clint, who looked back frantically as he arrived at the garbage bins. He righted the
moped, jumped on and turned the key.
Serge was right on top of him. He reached out to snag Clint’s collar, but the scooter zipped away.
Brook and the rest of the gang soon arrived to find Serge standing forlorn in the street, watching the moped become smaller and smaller in the darkness.
“What happened?” asked Reevis.
“He got away.”
In the distance, a barely audible pop.
“Look!” said Ziggy.
The tiny moped began wobbling until it drove directly into the bumper of a parked car, sending Clint over the handlebars and onto the vehicle’s hood. Clint pushed himself up from the cracked windshield and fell to the ground with a thud. He woozily sat up in the road, eyes moving from a punctured moped tire to the crushed shell of a giant African land snail. “Mmmmm, got to get up . . .”
With significant drive, Clint made it to his feet and began limping away like Frankenstein toward Truman Avenue.
“Where’s he going?” asked Reevis.
“I know where.” Serge turned around with a smile. “You can all go back to the motel now.”
“But you said it wasn’t safe,” said Brook. “It’s the first place he’ll look.”
“I’ve got it from here.” Serge sprinted across the street and vanished into an anonymous alley.
Chapter FORTY-FOUR
TRUMAN AVENUE
A shoe scraped the pavement as Clint Racine dragged a bum leg up the street.
He signaled for a cab, but it was full of painted people heading back to the franchise motels on the far end of Key West.
U.S. Highway 1 starts in Fort Kent, Maine, and 2,377 miles later reaches its southernmost stretch on Truman Avenue. It is the most popular tourist gateway to Old Town, and the obvious emergency egress for anyone not intimately familiar with the island. Clint’s hand waved at the street. Another cab full of costumes breezed by.
Clint was experiencing twin waves of relief and pain the farther he got from the festival madness. He limped along an ancient stone wall of coquina running right up against the sidewalk. He was home free. He saw two more pink taxis and held out his hand.
On the other side of the stone wall stood a magnificent fire-red royal poinciana whose broad, flattened old-growth canopy created a massive umbrella over the grounds of the Basilica of St. Mary’s Star of the Sea.