by Tim Dorsey
Chapter Twenty-Nine
PERRY, FLORIDA
Blastoff.
Guillermo had the gang packed and loading the car in record time. Peaceful in the parking lot-silence so complete that when it was broken by the occasional car, the vehicle could be heard coming and going a half mile in both directions. Then stillness. Nothing but a lone pedestrian with a bag of pennies and a spatula, who suddenly disappeared into bushes as a career move.
The last door slammed, and the Oldsmobile Delta 88 sped away from the Thunderbird Motel.
“How did Madre find out?” asked Miguel.
“One of our informants. Been following the APB in state police computers. He pawned his class ring.”
“Never been to Daytona,” said Raul. “Hear you can drive on the beach. That’s fucked up.”
“We’re not on vacation.” The AC had been leaking freon since the Panhandle. Guillermo rolled down his window and held a flapping map against the steering wheel. No direct shot across the peninsula for where they were heading. Country roads, a spur at Bucell Junction, up through Foley and Fenholloway. Water towers, boarded-up feed stores, ancient granite courthouses from when there was population. Then across a wide, rolling expanse of Florida where the economy is state prisons and renting inner tubes out the backs of trucks to people rafting the Ichetucknee.
A couple hours later, they reached the Daytona coast and cruised down A1A. Guillermo found a parking space in front of the old Stamie’s Swimwear shop with a vintage fiberglass bathing beauty diving off the porch roof.
“Bathing suits?” said Pedro.
Guillermo ignored him, looking one block up at a logo with three dangling balls from the crest of Italy’s Medici family.
LUCKY’S P AWN.
They got out and trotted up the sidewalk.
Bells jingled.
The short-sleeved owner leaned with hands atop a glass case. “Afternoon.”
Guillermo sported another warm smile. “You must be Lucky.”
“No, he got killed. Lookin’ for anything particular?”
“Actually I am. Class rings.”
The owner laughed. “You look a bit old for regret.”
“Why do you say that?”
The owner pulled a display tray from under the counter. “Wouldn’t believe how many of these I sell back to the same kids after they return to their senses and wrangle some cash.”
“I kinda do the same thing. Except there’s more money contacting the parents-once the yelling stops after they find out what their children did.”
Another laugh. “Have to remember that.”
Bells jingled. Hungover students entered with a set of hubcaps and a car jack. The owner shook his head. They left.
Then back to Guillermo. “Where were we?”
“Rings. My best harvests are spring break destinations.” Guillermo bent over the tray. “Let’s see what you got here…” He pulled one out of its velvet slot.
“You’re looking at a real corker there.”
Bells again. A student walked up with something cupped in his hands.
“Don’t need hash pipes,” said the owner. “Try High Seas up the block.”
Guillermo turned the ring around. UNH on one side, 2012 on the other. “Guy still doesn’t graduate for a couple years. This must have just come in.”
“It did,” said the owner.
“Remember him?”
“Sure. Nice boy. But the reason it stuck with me was the rest of his gang, especially this older, drunk guy. Nearly broke the display case.”
“Got a loupe?”
The owner handed him a round magnifier. Guillermo brought the ring to his eye and checked the engraving inside the band. A. MCK ENNA.
Bells again. A student in a full leg cast hobbled inside.
“What am I going to do with crutches?” said the owner. “I can sell you some…” pointing at a pile in the corner.
Guillermo handed the magnifier back but kept the ring. “I’ll take it.” The owner rang him up.
“Hear them talking about anything?” Guillermo said with feigned idleness.
“They never stopped talking. Like what?”
“Coincidentally, I went to the same school.” He stuck the ring in his pocket. “That’s how it caught my eye. Be kind of nostalgic to catch up with the new class.”
“Dang. What was it?”
“What was what?”
“One of them mentioned where they were staying. I remember ’cause they wanted more for their rings since they were paying top dollar without reservations. And I know the place well, know them all. Easy name, too…” He stared off at a shelf of clarinets. “What the heck was it?…”
The kids with hubcaps returned. “Sir, can’t you give us anything at all for these? They’re about to kick us out of the Dunes.”
“The Dunes!” said the owner. “That’s it. I’m positive.”
THE DUNES
A day in full swing. Blender going, Led Zeppelin. Coleman continued slicing up limes with bandages on three fingers.
“… I’m gonna send you… back to schoolin’!…”
Serge staggered into the room. “Coffee…”
“Hey, Serge. How do you feel?”
No answer until he’d drained the dregs of an old pot. “That shit’s insane. No wonder you don’t have any ambition… What are the kids doing over there?”
Coleman looked up at a crowd around the television. “News from Panama City. Think they found some bodies.”
Serge walked up behind the students. “What’s going on?”
“Shhhhhh!”
On TV, a female correspondent stood in a parking lot, intentionally framed with the Alligator Arms sign over her shoulder. “… Police are releasing few details about the massacre in this unassuming motel. All we currently know is that authorities removed five bodies from room 543, the apparent victims of multiple gunshots…”
Behind her, students waved and held up beer cans. “Woooooo!” “Party hearty!” “I see dead people!”
“… One source who spoke on the condition of anonymity said the entire room had been sprayed heavily with automatic weapon fire. We’ll report more as soon as we know it. But for now, it looks like a real spring break buzz-kill…”
The report ended, and the students came alive with chatter.
“That was our room!”
“Happened just after we left!”
“Can you imagine if they hadn’t kicked us out?”
“What kind of madman would do such a thing?”
“Not a madman,” said Serge. “Professional job.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Standard protocol for a Miami hit.”
“If it’s Miami, then why up there?”
“Probably some connection to a smuggling operation,” said Serge. “The whole state’s one big northern pipeline.”
“All those kids were in on it?”
Serge shook his head and walked back to the coffeemaker. “That’s why I said standard protocol. Most likely after just one target. They like to be thorough.”
“But it was all students. How could any of them be involved in something that major?”
“Guessing they weren’t.” Serge dumped scoops of Folgers in the filter. “Smells like a case of mistaken identity. Shooters were probably after someone else who was supposed to be staying in that room.”
The students were practically dizzy, running the fatal near miss through their heads. They changed channels to a special Daytona Beach edition of Ocean Cops.
Serge came back with a fresh cup. Something wasn’t right. He looked around. “What happened to your class rings?”
“We pawned them.”
“You what!”
“Pawned them… Hey, Coleman, come quick! You’re on again!”
“When did you do this silliness?” demanded Serge.
“Recently.”
Coleman arrived with a triple-strength pifla colada. “Where am I?”
Spooge high-fived Coleman. “You take no prisoners!”
“You can’t pawn your class rings!” said Serge. “That’s heritage, some of the best souvenirs of all!”
“I know,” said Andy. “But what’s done is done.”
“Not as long as I’m alive,” said Serge.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t let you do this.” Serge checked the contents of his wallet. “We’re going to get them back right now. I’ll spot you, though I doubt I’ll see any of it again. But that’s how I roll.”
They went downstairs and drove out of the parking lot.
A Delta 88 pulled in.
Chapter Thirty
LUCKY’S PAWNSHOP
T ing-a-ling.
A pack of students entered.
The owner looked up from his racing form. “Back so soon?”
“I want to buy their class rings,” said Serge.
“No problem.” The owner hoisted a metal pail onto the counter. “They should be somewhere near the top. But you understand there’ll have to be a modest surcharge. I got rent.”
“Of course.” Serge turned to the students. “Go get ’em.”
The kids dug through rings from all years and states. The owner set two velvet display trays beside the bucket. “Some also might be here.”
“I found mine!” A ring slipped on a finger.
“Me, too…”
“There it is…”
Soon, all hands had jewelry again. Except one.
Andy McKenna scanned velvet slots.
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge.
“Can’t find mine.”
“Oh, just remembered,” said the owner. “What school do you go to?”
“New Hampshire.”
“That’s right. Guy bought it.”
“When?” asked Serge.
“Just before you came in.”
Serge placed a consoling hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Very sorry.”
“I’ll live.”
“You might still get it back,” said the owner. “How’s that?” asked Serge.
The owner turned to Andy. “Your name was engraved inside the band, right?”
Andy nodded.
“Man said he was an investor. Selling rings back to parents of kids who, well, spring break happens.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Serge.
“Who knows?” said the owner. “Guy went to the same college.”
“UNH?” asked Andy.
“Real nice gent.” The owner put a pail back against the wall. “Told him where you were staying.”
“Why?”
“He asked.”
“That’s weird,” said Serge.
“Got the feeling it was a school pride thing,” said the owner. “Told me he wanted to catch up with the new class, maybe even give it back to you for free.”
“But how’d you know where we were staying?”
“You told me, remember? No reservations.” The owner slid velvet trays under the counter. “Man, these rings sure are getting popular.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Serge.
“A second guy was in here. Showed me a badge.”
“Cop?”
“Latin name, Ramirez or something.”
“What did he want?”
“Same as the other guy. I told him you kids were staying at the Algiers.”
“We’re at the Dunes,” said Andy.
“Whoops,” said the owner. “Well, I guess he’ll be coming back. At least I told the first guy the right place.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Another family meeting.
Prospect reports covered the cedar table in a stucco house south of Miami.
Guillermo thought-but didn’t say out loud-“Has it really been six months already?”
“This one,” said Luis. “Likes to sample product… Everything in Bimini on track?”
“Like glass,” said Hector. “Wiring explosives into the fake shipment as we speak.”
Sixty miles away, Sarah Sheets puttered around the house. Her husband checked the mailbox. More medical bills. So what? He sat at the kitchen table and made out checks.
Sarah packed sandwiches. “Can’t believe the insurance company just reversed their decision.”
“Guess when I mentioned suing…” Randall licked a postage stamp. “Lawyers must cost more than doctors these days.”
She gave him a lunch box and a kiss at the front door. “When do you think you’ll be home?”
“Late. Got a full schedule of students today.”
“Again?”
“Told you not to worry. Everything eventually works out.”
Randall drove across southern Palm Beach County, out past the turnpike and through the gate of an empty airfield. He pulled a tarp off his Cessna. Preflight checklist. Everything in order. He looked up at a clear sky and a deflated wind sock. Perfect day to fly.
Randall climbed inside, put on his headset and radioed the flight plan to Bimini.
A propeller churned to life. The plane taxied a short distance and rotated in place at the end of the strip. One last survey of instruments. He pushed a lever forward. The prop increased to a high whine. The Cessna started down the runway. It quickly gathered speed, approaching takeoff velocity.
Randall was monitoring an oil pressure gauge and didn’t notice the tight formation of sedans race through the gate. He looked up at a dust trail speeding toward the runway at a ninety-degree angle.
“God!”
The first cars screeched to a stop, blocking takeoff. Randall jerked the throttle back, almost breaking the lever. “Please, please, please…”
The Cessna began to skid, bleeding off speed. But not fast enough. Cars filled his vision.
“Come on! Come on!…”
Fifty miles an hour, forty-five, forty… The plane fishtailed. Agents scattered.
Thirty, twenty-five, twenty… The aircraft spun sideways and slammed into a pair of Crown Vics. A prop blade snapped and landed a hundred yards away in a field.
Grogginess. Randall pushed himself up from the controls and removed a headset that had shifted around and covered his eyes. He looked out to see the plane surrounded, dark sunglasses, guns drawn. The next sequence happened in a blink from academy training.
His pilot door flew open. No fewer than six hands grabbed Randall and threw him facedown on the tarmac. Arms twisted behind his back. Cuffs. Then he was yanked roughly to his feet before another hand pushed his head down, shoving him into the back of an undamaged car. What was left of the convoy sped off.
THE PRESENT
A Delta 88 sat below one of the strip’s many half-burnt-out neon signs. A camel on a sand dune. When it came on at night, the camel winked.
Guillermo winked at the plump receptionist in a hairnet. “Hoping you can help me.”
“Sorry, we’re sold out.”
Like many mom-and-pops, the Dunes hadn’t been updated since the fifties. Original wooden mail slots behind the desk and real metal keys on numbered plastic fobs.
“I don’t need a room,” said Guillermo.
“Then how can I help you?”
He reached in his pocket. “Found this ring in the parking lot. You have an ‘A. McKenna’ staying here?”