Electric Barracuda (11 page)

“Fucker always was having us sign stuff.”

“Back in the day, nobody would dare push the gang around like this,” said Coltrane. “They knew we’d square things, legal or not.”

“But we’re old now.”

“I know someone who isn’t.” He began opening the sliding-glass door. “Seven o’clock, the Miami River place.”

Cyberspace

Serge’s Blog. Star Date 374.938.

Florida Fugitive Tip Number 38: When the net really tightens, take disguise to the next level! Hide in plain sight! You know those quasi-employees who stand on the side of the road in costumes, waving signs for businesses in strip malls? Even if there’s a full-scale manhunt, cops never check them. Plus, many of those people have dubious routines and chemical hobbies. Which means a bargain for you! This morning Coleman and I bought costumes dirt cheap outside a tax preparation office from two cats who took off for the nearest drug hole. Then we walked all over the place totally concealed in our secret identities. Except I learned you can’t just walk all over the place. You sort of need to stay close to the store because the owner will notice and send someone out in a car to get their costumes back, and then Coleman and I were
running
all over the place, which kind of defeated the purpose of keeping a low profile, because regular foot chases are so common in Florida that people pay more attention to the mailman, but apparently they get nosy when Uncle Sam and the Statues of Liberty leap over hoods of cars in heavy traffic.

And I could have easily outrun the guy, except for the flowing green dress and foam crown that kept slipping over my eyes, which is why I crashed into that sidewalk café table, and that’s how the guy cornered me, forcing a counter-strike. The unfair thing is I made a deliberate effort to be inconspicuous and not disturb the lunch crowd, using only quick, short jabs with the liberty torch, and then
they’re
the ones who made a scene.

Florida Criminal History Lesson Number 61: Chicago’s impact on the Sunshine State.

The Lexington Hotel opened in 1892 on the corner of Twenty-second Street and Michigan Avenue. In July of 1928, a man named George Phillips moved into a suite on the fifth floor. His business card said he was a furniture dealer. George also had a winter home, a fourteen-room waterfront mansion at 93 Palm Avenue in Miami.

George was also known as Al Capone, also known as Scarface.

In the winter of 1929, Chicago was not exactly warm. Al stood in his suite at the Lexington, packing for a trip. Capone also kept a vault in the basement. Only the most trusted members of his crew had access. At some point he gave instructions to crate the contents for shipment. Where it went, nobody knows. Or they took it to the grave.

Later that week, Al woke up in Florida. That evening came the news: Back in Chicago, seven members of the rival Bugs Moran gang had been machine-gunned in a garage on Clark Street. The killers wore police uniforms.

It was Valentine’s Day.

Al had an alibi. He was meeting with a Miami prosecutor.

In those days, Miami was gangster vacation land. The big bosses left their criminal habits up north, and obeyed the law in the sun. Don’t shit where you eat. They became local celebrities, socializing openly at Joe’s Stone Crab or Tobacco Road, often with politicians and top police officials at neighboring tables. Everyone was happy. Until Al arrived.

Prohibition-era Miami was not exactly an above-the-table town. Rum coming in at night from Cuba, prostitution, bookmaking. But even by these standards, Al was too high-profile. They tried to run him off. But Capone hadn’t done anything wrong, at least nothing in their jurisdiction, and his attorneys successfully fought all comers.

But Al was Al. Just couldn’t leave well enough alone. He opened his wallet wide, and construction began on an unusual project in a most unusual Florida location . . .

Next week: foreclosed homes. One person’s misfortune is your hiding place!

S
erge finished typing his blog entry. He looked up from his laptop at an arm stretched in front of him. The arm was attached to Coleman. Its hand gripped a wheel.

Coleman smiled from the passenger seat. “How’s my driving?”

“Excellent,” said Serge, stowing the portable computer. “Your faithful service allowed me to make my Web deadline for my tidbit-famished followers. I’ll take it from here . . .”

“What are you doing now?”

“Making a note on my clipboard for the next blog,” said Serge. “Natural enemy of the fugitive: accidental discovery on the highway. So make sure those tags are up-to-date, blinkers working and definitely no speeding.”

“What made you think of that now?”

“See the nose of the black-and-beige sedan sticking out from behind those trees?”

“Not really.”

“Way up there, just outside radar range.” Serge steered with his knees and jotted on the clipboard. “I pride myself on being able to spot highway patrol before they can ping me.”

“Now that you mention it, that’s the third cop I’ve seen along here.”

“They’re running a wolf pack.”

“. . . (Recalculating. Make a U-turn) . . .”

Coleman pointed with a joint at the center of the dashboard. “It’s that Garmin chick again.”

“. . . (Recalculating. Make a left) . . .”

Serge glanced at Coleman. “I don’t understand a word she’s saying. Did you mess with the language setting?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I would never . . . Yes, I did.”

“. . . (Recalculating. Make a U-turn) . . .”

“Coleman, show me what you hit.”

“I think this . . . or this.”

Serge leaned toward the Garmin. “Why’d you pick that language?”

“I don’t know.”

“. . . (Recalculating. Turn right) . . .”

“So change it back.”

“I’m trying to. It won’t let me.”

“You locked the screen.”

“How do I unlock it?”

“I don’t know. I just bought the thing.”

Coleman kept trying buttons. “What about the manual?”

“I always throw manuals out. Life’s too short.”

“. . . (Recalculating. Drive point-seven) . . .”

“I can’t fix it,” said Coleman.

“Son of a bitch.” Serge smacked the steering wheel. “All the women in my life, and now I’m taking shit from some chick in Mandarin.”

“. . . (Recalculating) . . .”

“Shut up! Shut up!”

“. . . (Recalculating) . . .”

Serge snatched the GPS out of its cradle and began smashing it to bits on the dashboard.

“Serge, are you okay?”

He threw the last quiet piece on the floor. “Couldn’t be better. I finally won an argument with a woman.”

“Serge?”

“What?”

“How fast are you going?”

“Only seventy—” He glimpsed the speedometer. “Eighty-five!”

Coleman pointed with his joint again. “There’s another cop.”

“Fuck! And we’re in pinging range. I always knew a woman would bring me down.”

“What’ll we do?” asked Coleman.

“I wanted to save this for later, but I’m forced to burn one of my ‘Outs.’ ”

“What kind of ‘Out’ can help us now?”

“Observe the master.”

Serge went into the zone of absolute focus. Eyes swept mirrors. Other traffic, lanes, distance vectors.

Coleman trembled in terror. “The trooper’s pulling forward! He’s going to chase us!”

Serge remained on task. At the precise moment, he reached beside the steering column and threw a lever.

Vehicles behind saw a turn signal come on.

The Corvette in the next lane suddenly accelerated to cut off Serge’s lane change and whipped by on the left.

Flashing blue lights. The trooper took off after the sports car.

Orlando

The waiting line wound up and down the aisles and backed into the coffee shop.

Agent Lowe stood at the end, peeking around other heads.

At the front was a book-signing table. Stacks of a ghost-written autobiography of a fake life story.

“I’m your biggest fan! Make it out to Ralph.”

The Doberman smiled and scribbled, then accepted a book from the next customer.

“I’m your biggest fan! We met six years ago at another signing in Atlanta. Remember me?”

Another book. Another autograph.

“I’m your biggest fan! I’m a writer, too, and I wanted to ask you a question. I’m working on a book right now. I haven’t actually started. It’s a western. I don’t know anything about the West, so I might need to do research. But I hate research, so I was thinking of setting it in the future because who knows what the West will be like, right? And I’ve never written anything, but everyone always says I should write a book, so I should probably take some kind of class except I don’t have the time.”

The Doberman smiled and handed the book back. “What’s your question?”

“How do I get a publisher?”

The line inched along.

The autobiography’s release had been pushed up a month at the insistence of his cable-syndicated TV show.

“We’re tanking,” said his producer.

“I thought we just added six new markets.”

“And lost nine. Nielsen’s dropped every week since March.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“What you’re best at. Headlines. Has to be something absolutely huge.”

“Like what?”

“Like that time you went to Mexico to abduct that rapist who fled from Texas, and you got intestinal parasites and had explosive diarrhea in the airport.”

“I’d rather do something else.”

“But people love that human element, especially the part where you didn’t make it to the restroom in time.”

“Any other ideas?”

“What would your wife think about having a shitload of kids, which you raise on camera in touching yet nerve-racking everyday circumstance, and then you start banging the nanny?”

“She’d probably shoot me.”

“I’ll run that by the affiliates . . .” He walked away.

So here the bounty hunter sat in a suburban mall, painfully smiling through compliments. Not because he was ungrateful. Because of his neck brace. He popped a Vicodin.

The afternoon wore on, the line dwindling until only one person was left.

“I’m your biggest fan!” said Agent Lowe, dressed in the SWAT uniform he yearned to officially wear someday. “I’ve seen every episode. You give us . . .
hope
.”

The bounty hunter cordially signed the book. Wheels grinding in his head. Cop fans were the best, the more starry-eyed the better, because they tended to talk out of school. Some of highest-rated episodes came from information he’d mined about classified ongoing investigations,
just between you and me
.

The Doberman handed the book back to Lowe and smiled warmly. “You in a tactical unit?”

“Almost,” said the agent. “But I did just get named to this really important task force.”

The bounty hunter offered a plastic bottle. “Vicodin?”

“I’m good.”

The Doberman shrugged and popped another. “So what’s this task force do?”

“It’s incredible,” said Lowe. “We’re after this one-man crime wave who’s left bodies all over the state for nearly two decades. His name’s Serge A. Storms.”

“Never heard of him.”

“You kidding?” said Lowe. “Almost every cop in the state has. Nobody can believe he’s eluded capture all these years, especially considering how brazenly he disposes of victims. Rewards up to something like two hundred thousand . . . And whoever does capture him will become an instant legend.”

The Doberman leaned forward on his elbows. “Please, continue.”

“He’s totally insane,” said Lowe. “Yet crazy like a fox.”

“How many people did you say he’s killed?”

“We’re still finding out,” said Lowe. “Like this one time he sucked all the water out of these two guys and laid them out to cure like human jerky.”

“Sounds gross,” said the Doberman. “I like it. What else?”

Lowe stopped. “I think I may have already said too much.”

“Just between you and me.”

“Okay,” Lowe said enthusiastically. “This other time he set up a motion trigger near Cape Canaveral . . .”

“Why don’t we go back to my tour bus for some drinks.” The Doberman stood and put an arm around Lowe’s shoulders.

“You’d really let me hang out with you?”

“Be my honor,” said the hunter, walking him out of the store. “I’m just a TV superstar, but the real heroes are law enforcement like you who hang it all on the line every day.”

“We do kind of take risks.” He rolled up his right sleeve. “That’s where a pencil went in—”