Insane City

by Dave Barry

  “I know, but it wasn’t a robbery. And anyway”—she glanced back at Laurette—“this is going to sound pathetic, but this is the first time in my life where I felt like I was doing something that actually matters. OK, maybe not doing it. Maybe actually screwing everything up. But at least I’m trying to do something that actually matters. You know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Seth.

  Ahead, Meghan whooped the siren and shot through yet another red light. Seth kept the Escalade right behind.

  “Do you have your phone?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “OK, we need to call the hotel, let Marty and those guys know we’re coming so they can let us into their room. I don’t know the hotel number.”

  “I’ll Google it,” said Cyndi, tapping her phone.

  “Of course,” said Seth, “I’m assuming we’re going to even make it to the hotel.” He glanced at the rearview.

  The Navigator was gaining.

  55

  Big Steve had been on the hotel phone for twenty minutes, slowly driving the Ritz-Carlton room service order taker insane.

  “So if I order two eggs any style,” Big Steve was saying, “I get toast, potatoes and a choice of bacon or sausage, is that right?” (Pause) “What if instead of the potatoes, I wanted bacon and sausage?” (Pause) “How much of an extra charge?” (Pause) “OK, what if I had bacon and sausage, but didn’t have either toast or potatoes?” (Pause) “How much?” (Pause) “So it’s the same amount extra even if I’m giving up the potatoes and the toast?”

  “Will you place the fucking order?” said Kevin, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. “I’m starving.”

  Big Steve held up a Shush finger. “OK,” he said, consulting the room service menu, “I have some questions about the three-egg omelet. I get a choice of three omelet ingredients, plus toast and potatoes, right?” (Pause) “OK, now what if I want four ingredients, but I don’t want the potatoes?”

  “Steve,” said Kevin. He was staring at the TV screen.

  “Just a minute!” said Big Steve, annoyed. “OK, so you’re saying there’s an extra charge for the fourth omelet ingredient regardless of whether—”

  “Steve!” said Kevin, “Hang up the phone.”

  “Will you please just—” Big Steve stopped, staring at the TV. “Holy shit,” he said. He hung up the phone. “Is that Seth?”

  “It sure looks like him,” said Kevin.

  On the screen was a freeze-frame from the Chuckletrousers parking lot surveillance video. In the foreground were Trevor and the three downed bouncers. In the background were two shadowy figures next to a car. A white circle was superimposed around the face of one of the figures. As Kevin and Big Steve watched, the face was expanded so it filled most of the screen.

  Seth’s face.

  “Holy shit,” said Big Steve.

  Seth’s face was replaced by Action 5 News anchorperson Lisbeth Renaldo. Superimposed in the upper right corner of the screen was a logo featuring a cartoonish picture of a King Kong–like beast, snarling, fangs bared. Next to it were the words APE GANG CITYWIDE RAMPAGE.

  “So to recap the latest development in this bizarre story,” Renaldo was saying, “the so-called Ape Robbers have apparently struck again, this time in the parking lot of a North Miami Beach drugstore, where they were involved in some kind of shooting incident that left a police officer injured and his police cruiser stolen. Police are telling Action 5 News that the alleged robbers are still at large, and one of them may be driving the police cruiser.”

  The phone rang. Big Steve picked it up. “Hello? Seth? Seth!”

  Kevin hit the mute. Seth’s picture was back on the screen, along with an APE GANG logo and the words CALL CRIMESTOPPERS.

  “Jesus, Seth,” said Big Steve, “what the hell have you done? Yes! You’re on the TV news right now with a picture of a gorilla . . . OK, whatever. It says the police are after you. How the hell did you end up with a . . . OK. OK, give me the number.” He snapped his fingers at Kevin, made a writing gesture. Kevin got him a hotel pad and pen. “All right,” said Big Steve, writing. “OK.” He hung up.

  “What’d he say?” said Kevin.

  “He said it’s complicated.”

  “I bet. What is he doing with a fucking gorilla?”

  “He says it’s an orangutan.”

  “What’s he doing with a fucking orangutan?”

  “He says it’s complicated.”

  “Well, that clears that up.”

  “He’s coming here now.”

  “What? Here? Now?”

  “Yes. He wants us to be here in the room, because he has to hide some people here.”

  “What? What people?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Hide them from what?”

  “He didn’t say that, either.”

  “Is that his phone number?”

  “No, it’s that woman from the bar. Cyndi. She’s with him.”

  “She’s with him and the ape? What the fuck is he doing?”

  The phone rang again. Warily, Big Steve picked it up. “Hello? Oh hi, Tina.” Big Steve shot an Oh shit look at Kevin. “Seth? He’s . . . ah . . . he’s . . .”

  Kevin snatched the phone away from Big Steve. “Hey, Tina,” he said. “How’s the beautiful bride doing on the big day? Right. Right. No, he’s not in his room, that is correct. And the reason for that is simply because he is . . . out. I mean, he’s outside. He’s walking. He’s taking a walk out—No, because he didn’t take his cell phone on his walk. He just wanted a quiet walk. But he’s on his way back . . . No, I just . . . OK, I’m just assuming that he’s on his way back, because he went for a walk, and then he would walk back to here, where he started. No, I’m completely sober. For the big day. You must be very excite—Meghan? No. Not a clue. Right. Definitely. I’ll have him call you. Right. Immediately. Right. Bye.”

  Kevin hung up. “Lawyers,” he said.

  “Did she believe you?” said Big Steve. “About the walk?”

  “I dunno. But Seth better get here soon. Where’s Marty?”

  “He went down to the rich guy’s room. Corliss.”

  “I’m thinking maybe we might need him.”

  Big Steve stared at Kevin. “Need him? Need Marty?”

  “Desperate times,” said Kevin. “Desperate measures.”

  56

  Where are they taking us? asked Stephane.

  I don’t know, said Laurette. But we will be safe.

  Will those men shoot at us?

  No.

  Will the monkey bite us?

  No. We are safe now.

  How do you know?

  Just be quiet. We are safe now.

  Laurette wondered if they would ever be safe again. She had been terrified back in the parking lot when the policeman was attacked by the animal, and one of the big men started shooting. She was glad to be away from the big men, and glad to be in the car with the man who had rescued her from the sea and the woman who had helped take care of her and her children at the hotel. She knew they were trying to help her. But she didn’t know where they were taking her, driving so fast. She didn’t understand what was going on. And she was beginning to wonder if all Americans were crazy.

  57

  Meghan was starting to think they were going to make it. They were in downtown Miami now, still slicing through traffic and stoplights thanks to the police cruiser’s siren. The Escalade was still right behind her. She’d caught a few glimpses of the Navigator in the rearview mirror, but none for the last few minutes. She wasn’t sure exactly where the bridge to Key Biscayne was, but she was pretty sure that if she stayed on Biscayne, she’d come to it.

  She glanced into the back of the cruiser. Trevor hadn’t moved; he was lying on his side. There was blood on the seat. His eyes were still open; his gaze met hers.

  “Hang in there,” she said.

  She saw a red light up ahead, a major intersection, four lanes of cars crossi
ng. She reached for the SIREN and LIGHTBAR switches, flipped them up, heard the now familiar whoop-whoop-whoop.

  Then she saw the Miami Police cruiser. It was to her right, on the cross street, four cars back in the line of cars that had stopped to allow Meghan to lead her two-car motorcade through the intersection. She caught the barest glimpse of the officer at the wheel, a female, staring at the speeding cruiser.

  “Oh shit,” said Meghan. She shut the lights and siren off, glanced in the rearview. The Escalade was still right behind her. She accelerated, glancing every few seconds into the rearview, holding her breath.

  “Oh shit,” she said again.

  In the distance behind her, the police car was turning south on Biscayne Boulevard. It was following her.

  Meghan stomped on the gas.

  58

  It was a busy Sunday morning at Bayside Marketplace, a flamboyantly tacky, tourist-infested waterfront shopping-dining complex on the bay in downtown Miami. Five huge cruise ships were in the nearby Port of Miami, and many cruise passengers, both arriving and departing, had made their way to Bayside to kill some hours before their ships or planes were due to depart. They were eating at outdoor restaurants serving cuisines ranging from Cuban to Hooters. They were wandering among the stores and stalls selling souvenirs of the Caribbean manufactured in Asia. Some were boarding sightseeing boats or listening to the salsa band on the outdoor stage. Others were prolonging or getting a head start on their vacations by getting hammered on rum drinks. A few were paying to have their pictures taken with exotic birds or, if they were feeling adventurous, an eleven-foot albino Burmese python.

  That python was Blossom, beloved pet and business partner of Duane, who liked to work at Bayside on mornings when the cruise ships were in port. It was a tricky gig because Duane and Blossom—especially Blossom—were not welcome at Bayside. This was the result of an incident several years earlier when four very large and very intoxicated Ohio State football players on spring break decided it would be fun to shoot a video of themselves forming Blossom sequentially into the letters O-H-I-O. They had gotten as far as the H when Blossom wrapped herself several times around the neck of one of the players, an offensive tackle, apparently intending to asphyxiate and then consume him. It was several minutes before the other players were able to pry her free from their now-unconscious teammate. The consensus of eyewitnesses was that Duane had done little to help. This was true: Duane, a loyal University of Miami fan, detested the Buckeyes.

  Since that incident, Duane and Blossom had been officially banned from Bayside, though this did not stop Duane from going there. His strategy was to position himself at the end of the gangplank for the Barco Loco. This was a charter boat built to look, vaguely, like a pirate ship. It had a black hull with four cannons sticking out of gunports; it flew the Jolly Roger atop its mainmast, from which were suspended purely decorative sails. The Barco Loco was chartered for parties—occasionally corporate events but mainly children’s birthdays. The crew dressed in pirate costumes and motored the boat around Biscayne Bay, shouting “Arrr!” a lot while serving the kids mass quantities of microwaved chicken nuggets and occasionally firing the Barco’s propane cannons, which emitted loud BOOM!s.

  When it wasn’t being chartered, which was most of the time, the Barco Loco was docked at Bayside and manned only by its live-aboard captain, the nautically named Bobby Stern, who happened to be a longtime drinking buddy of Duane’s. So when Duane was working the Bayside crowd and he spotted a security guard heading his way, he would grab Blossom and hustle across the gangplank and into the Barco, where he would hang out and sip tequila until Bobby told him the coast was clear.

  On this particular day, no security guards had appeared. That was the good news for Duane. The bad news was that business was bad. For whatever reason—this always was a mystery to Duane—some people just didn’t see the fun in coming into close physical contact with ninety pounds of cold-blooded, constricting reptilian muscle. Duane—who was tired anyway, having been up late dealing with the slot-machine python—was thinking of knocking off early. Some days were like this: nothing going on.

  59

  Derek Tritt, governor of Florida and rising political star, hadn’t wanted to go to Tina Clark’s wedding. He didn’t know Tina Clark at all, and his relationship with her father, Mike, consisted entirely of pretending to like him in exchange for campaign contributions. So Tritt had initially responded to the wedding invitation by having his people inform Mike Clark’s people that, unfortunately, on the big day the governor was scheduled to meet with a trade mission from Belgium. This was actually true, provided that the words “meet with a trade mission from Belgium” were defined as “play golf.”

  But then Clark’s people had informed the governor’s people that among the guests at the Tina Clark wedding would be Wendell Corliss. That changed things. Corliss was a whole different level of billionaire from Clark. Corliss wasn’t just ridiculously wealthy; he was also hugely influential. He was a man who could determine which states would be granted huge federal contracts and who would be on the short list for the vice presidential nomination and—above all—who got Masters tickets.

  Derek Tritt did not become a rising political star by passing up opportunities to kiss the asses of men like Wendell Corliss. So Tritt had his people get back to Clark’s people to let them know that, somehow, the governor was going to find a way to reschedule the Belgians, because he would not miss Tina’s big day for the world, provided that he was seated next to Corliss at the wedding dinner.

  Thus a deal was struck. And thus it was that the limo carrying Gov. Tritt and his administrative assistant was now arriving at the Ritz-Carlton, followed by the Chevrolet Tahoe carrying the governor’s Florida Department of Law Enforcement security detail. Waiting to greet the governor on behalf of the Ritz were the hotel manager and a squadron of hotel bellmen. Also in the welcoming party were Wendell Corliss, Marty (still in his orange swim trunks) and a six-foot-tall flamingo.

  The governor, thrilled to see Wendell—Wendell Corliss!—waiting for him in person, opened the limo door himself and stepped out, beaming.

  “Governor Tritt,” said the hotel manager, stepping forward, “on behalf of the Ritz-Carlton, I want to wel—”

  “Thank you, great, thanks,” said Tritt, shaking the manager’s hand and making sincere eye contact for approximately seven nanoseconds before withdrawing his hand and thrusting it at Wendell. “This is an honor, Mr. Corliss,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Definitely not,” said Wendell, shaking Tritt’s hand. “This is my associate Marty . . .” He turned to Marty. “What’s your last name, anyway?”

  “Kempfelmeyer,” said Marty.

  “. . . my associate Marty something,” said Wendell.

  Gov. Tritt shook Marty’s hand. “Good to meet you, Marty.”

  “Please,” said Marty, “call me Marty.”

  “And this,” said Wendell, turning to the flamingo, “is our host, Mike Clark.”

  “What?” said Tritt.

  “Great of you to come, Governor,” said the flamingo, sticking out a pink-sheathed arm.

  “Mike?” said Tritt.

  The flamingo lifted its beak, and Tritt saw that the man inside the costume was in fact Mike Clark.

  “I can explain,” said Mike.

  “No you can’t,” said Wendell.

  “No I can’t,” said Mike. “But there is an explanation.”

  “Great to be here,” said Tritt, who, being governor of Florida, was not unaccustomed to weirdness. He shook the flamingo’s hand.

  “I’ll be out of this costume soon,” said Mike.

  “Maybe,” said Wendell.

  “Maybe,” amended Mike.

  “So, Governor,” said Wendell, “we have some time. Why don’t we go inside, maybe have a drink before the wedding?”

  “Sounds great,” said Tritt, who all of a sudden really wanted a drink.

  “Do you like brownies?” sa
id Marty.

  “I do like brownies,” said Gov. Tritt.

  60

  Meghan was now looking in the rearview more than she was looking ahead. Seth was still behind her in the Escalade, and behind him, a few blocks back, was the Miami Police cruiser. The officer was clearly following them; she was going through red lights to keep up. But so far she was keeping her distance and hadn’t activated her lights or siren. Meghan wondered why that was.

  She checked the cross street as she went through an intersection: Fifteenth. Ahead was the I-395 overpass. She was entering downtown Miami, which meant she was getting close to Brickell Avenue, at the end of which lay the bridge back to Key Biscayne. She made up her mind: Even if the officer tried to stop her, she would keep going, try to make it to the hotel. Or, if it came to that, she’d try to stop the police car, run interference, so Seth could go ahead with the Haitians. She was already in deep shit, she figured; a little deeper wouldn’t make much difference.

  She shot between the two big swoopy buildings that made up the downtown performing-arts center. Biscayne Boulevard split apart here, the southbound and northbound lanes separated by a wide median. She zoomed under I-395; a few seconds later the American Airlines Arena loomed on her left. She glanced in the rearview; Seth was still right with her, the Miami Police cruiser well back. She looked forward.

  “Oh shit,” she said.

  About a hundred yards ahead, south of the Third Street intersection, were four Miami Police cars, lights flashing, completely blocking the southbound lanes of Biscayne Boulevard. Now Meghan knew why the cruiser following her hadn’t tried to stop her. She took her foot off the gas, looking around frantically. Her first thought was to hang a right on Third Street, but as she got closer she saw it was blocked by a long double line of cars waiting for a light. This left one option.