Electric Barracuda (25 page)

“Greek Tommy would tell me all these insane stories passed down from his dad.”

“Like what?”

“Like sometimes he’d be making a drop for Capone and see things he shouldn’t. That old spot in the Everglades wasn’t just the perfect speakeasy location. If Capone needed to get rid of anyone, well, body disposal almost takes care of itself out there with all the gator holes.”

“Except Crazy Murphy actually saw what I heard, right?”

“They didn’t call him crazy for nothing. Who knows what he witnessed, the way stories change from generation. But in the versions my granddad tells, at least a couple times he saw guys led off into the swamp at night while Capone stood on the back porch, swatting the air . . .”

“Swatting?”

“He’d catch imaginary flying things and stick them in his pockets. Everyone pretended not to notice. They didn’t know it at the time, but his mind was slipping from untreated VD.”

“What about the guys who were taken into the swamp?”

“Never seen again, or at least that’s what my granddad said. Murphy thought he heard gunfire, but ignored it and kept unloading moonshine.”

“Sure sounds true,” said Serge. “But you don’t believe it?”

Skid Marks shrugged. “There are so many stories, some have to be true, but which ones? Like when Geraldo opened that empty safe at the Lexington on live TV.”

“That guy’s a toad.”

“My granddad said it was empty because Al knew the cops would go ape after that Valentine’s Day business. So ahead of time, he had it all crated up and part of the stash made its way to Florida. Supposedly hidden down the Loop Road, somewhere in the swamp behind the old place.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Granddad also told me Jimmy Hoffa’s back there.”

“He is?”

“No, he’s not,” said Skid. “That’s the point. The more years go by, the thicker the bullshit.”

“I hadn’t heard about Hoffa.”

“One of the three big stories going around,” said the biker. “Giants Stadium, a New Jersey incinerator, the Loop Road. Except it’s not true.”

“But it
is
true that it’s a rumor,” said Serge. “Excellent!”

“Why?”

“People are talking about Florida,” said Serge. “Makes me proud.”

A
half hour later.

A turquoise T-Bird drove a short distance back to the Tamiami Trail, slowly circling past two parked motorcycles and up an alley behind the Warm Mineral Springs Motel.

R
oom 21.

Coleman returned from the cooler and tossed frosty cans of beer to the bikers.

“Thanks,” said Skid Marks, reclining on a motel sofa under the air conditioner. “That pool was a little too warm for me.”

“I wanted to stay longer,” said Serge, turning with a glare, “but someone had to do cannonballs.”

“Sorry,” said Coleman.

Bacon Strips popped his Coors. “So, Serge, where to next?”

“Points south. Got a few options, but the selection has to be absolutely perfect for the Fugitive Tour.”

“It’s a sacred ride,” said Skid Marks. “All my two-wheel brothers have been following it on the Web and raving.”

“It’s not really a fugitive tour,” said Serge. “It’s a back-roads tour. I’m trying to get people off the interstates and out of the theme parks to places less traveled.”

“Then why are you calling it the Fugitive Tour?” asked Bacon Strips.

“Marketing,” said Serge. “You need to make people feel good about themselves.”

“What are you doing?” asked Skid Marks.

Serge had the curtains and sliding-glass door open in the back of the room.
Click, click, click.
“Photo documentation of this time capsule.”

“The motel?”

“See those angled concrete overhangs? One of the finest surviving examples of 1950s parasol architecture.”
Click, click, click.
“And that original neon sign, Warm Mineral Springs Motel? Notice how none of the lights are burned out. You rarely see that.”
Click, click.
“It’s because of those old people from the pool. They still pump enough money into this place to keep her maintained. And we’re far enough between population centers on the Tamiami so there are no eyesores like Old Navy and Linens ’n’ Fuck.”
Click, click, click.

“Serge,” said Skid Marks, getting off the couch. “Could I have a word?”

They stepped out on the porch and closed the sliding-glass door.

“I saw Brad’s Beemer on the way to Snook Haven,” said the biker. “I think the plan’s working.”

“Of course it’s working,” said Serge. “Just keep phoning him tips where I’m heading, like Kissimmee and Cedar Key. When I first got your message, I was ready to strangle someone. Every time I lower the bar of human expectations, some asshole like Brad comes along and exploits people on their deathbeds.”

“Here are copies of the two letters,” said Skid. “What have you got in mind?”

“Better you not know.”

“But the money’s offshore.”

“The Secret Master Plan is prepared for all contingencies.”

Skid Marks looked back in the room. “What about Coleman?”

“Keeping him in the dark,” said Serge, opening the sliding glass. “His lifestyle is the one variable that Master Plans have yet to conquer.”

They went back inside.

A loud knock on the door across the room.

Serge jumped and grabbed his gun. “Who can that be?”

Skid Marks looked at his watch. “Relax, it’s one of ours. Supposed to meet at two.” He answered the door.

“Wingnut!”

“Skid Marks!”

The new biker walked into the room. “Serge! Catch!”

A set of keys flew through the air.

“That’s the car you ordered,” said Wingnut. “Papers in the glove compartment. Clean title, new plate, registration up-to-date.”

Serge opened his wallet. “How much I owe you?”

“I owe
you
,” said the biker. “Just get it back to me when you’re done, and try to go easy on the paint job.”

“Thanks, Wingnut.”

Coleman opened the cooler again. “You can just order a car? How many people in this state owe you favors?”

“Favors are a new hybrid energy source of the Fugitive Tour,” said Serge.

“Ready?” Wingnut said to the other bikers.

“Thanks for the brews.” Bacon Strips stood.

“Take care of yourself,” said Skid Marks. Both bikers gave Serge and Coleman another round of bear hugs.

“Thanks for the car,” said Serge.

“It’s the least,” said Skid Marks. “For everything you’ve done—and what you’re going to do.”

Serge walked them out the door. Then froze at the sight in the parking lot. “Holy cow! An electric blue ’69 Barracuda!”

Wingnut climbed on the back of Skid Marks’ hog and grinned. “Thought you’d like it.”

Serge and Coleman waved as two Harleys sped off down the Tamiami Trail.

They went back inside and closed the door.

A minute later:

Knock, knock, knock . . .

“Back so soon?” said Coleman.

Knock, knock, knock, knock . . .

“Probably forgot something,” said Serge.
“Coming! . . .”

He opened the door.

A drop-dead redhead in a black leather jacket and matching leather pants.

“Uh . . . Molly!” said Serge. “What a surprise! Great to see you!” He looked down. A pistol.

She poked it in his stomach. “Back up.”

He did.

She waved the gun toward a wall. “Now get over there with your stupid slob friend!”

They lined up as told.

“Molly,” said Serge. “What’s the need for the pistol? Don’t you remember all the good times?”

“Good times?” said Molly. “A husband doesn’t hose out the trunk of the family car at midnight every two weeks, saying you ‘hit another animal.’ ”

“But I did! I swear!”

“Shut up!” Molly widened her shooting stance in the doorway and aimed the Colt .45. “This is payback!”

“Wait!” Serge raised his hands in the air. “I can explain.”

Coleman raised his own hands. “I didn’t know they were guest towels.”

“Serge,” said Molly.

“What?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Then who were you talking to?” asked Serge.

From outside, a small boy peeked around the edge of the doorframe.

Serge’s eyes narrowed. “His name’s Serge, too?”

Molly lowered the gun. “You do the math.”

“Hold it . . . you’re not saying—”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Buy why didn’t you tell me in Miami after the hurricane?”

“That’s why I came there,” said Molly. “But before I could break the news, you clubbed me in the head with an electric guitar and knocked me unconscious.”

“Only because you pulled that gun on me.”

“You always twist everything the way you want to see it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Serge. “You’re right.”

“And don’t try your forfeit strategy on me. I’m onto that shit: falsely agreeing just to get out of a fight because you think there’s no way to win an argument with a woman.”

“Okay, you’re wrong.”

“Can’t you at least once agree with me?”

“You’re half right?”

“Go to hell,” said Molly. “You and your fucking insane genes.” She turned toward the child who was repeatedly kicking a wall. “Kid’s like a tornado. I’m at the end of my rope.”

“Can’t be that bad,” said Serge.

“You’re about to find out.” Molly looked down. “Go over there and say hi to your dad.”

“Whoa!” said Serge. “Don’t leave. I’ve never taken care of a child.”

“Told you this was payback.”

Molly walked out and slammed the door.

Chapter Twenty-two

Everglades 1929

A
pril 25.

The first anniversary of the Tamiami Trail.

Fanfare.

Heralded as an modern engineering marvel, but the bulk of the traffic remained in the future.

Crossing the trail was still a novelty. The bold, the curious. Some just wanted to see alligators. Northerners.

And at night, especially without a moon, it couldn’t have been more dark.

That changed toward the end of the year. Happened on weekends. Started around nine or ten each Friday and Saturday. Flowing inland from both coasts, the Everglades night flickered with the headlamps of Studebakers and Model Ts, a strand of glowing beads stretching through the swamp. The lights occasionally caught herons and vultures taking flight.

Those heading west out of Miami made a left turn about forty miles in. Eastbound Fort Myers traffic looked for gas pumps at a two-story clapboard called Monroe Station. They turned right.

The visitors met somewhere in the middle of the Loop Road. Piano music, laughter. They parked where they could outside a building with bright chandeliers, people dancing in the windows. Others staggered off the porch and fell in a decorative, circular fishpond of limestone blocks.

Precisely four hundred yards behind the lodge, a kerosene lantern hung from a branch. The music and revelry were but faint sounds if the wind was blowing right. Distant flickers from the chandeliers.

Two men not dressed for the task jammed shovels into the ground. Frenchy and the Swede. Dress pants and shirts and suspenders. Jackets hung from other branches near the lantern. They would need to buy new shoes.

Another spadeful of dirt flew.

“How big do we have to dig this thing?” asked Frenchy.

“Told me ten by six,” said the Swede.

Frenchy took a break, leaning against the handle of his shovel and wiping his forehead. “That’s awfully big for a grave.”

“It’s not a grave.” The Swede flung another load of dirt. “Out here, you don’t need one.”

“Why not?”

“Nature handles the details.” He looked up at his resting partner. “I’m not going to dig this thing by myself.”

Frenchy huffed and put his shoulder back into it, constantly glancing around as he had from the start. “Are there really alligators out here?”

“Yes.” The Swede hit some roots.

“Where are they?”

“All around. Now dig.”

Frenchy put a foot on top of the shovel’s blade. “So what is this we’re digging anyway?”

The Swede was neck-deep down in the hole. “I don’t think we’re supposed to know.”