Electric Barracuda (26 page)

A rustling in the swamp. Growing closer. The pair stopped and looked up.

“Think it’s an alligator?”

“Frenchy? Swede?”

“Over here by the lantern.”

“You’re needed.”

“What about the hole?”

“It’ll still be there.”

They began hacking their way back through tangled brush and cabbage palms. “We’re definitely not in Chicago anymore.”

Back at the lodge, more cars arrived. This time with a commotion.

Rumors shot through the building; people ran to the windows with glasses of bathtub gin. “Is it him?”

A deluxe Packard roadster pulled into a reserved space in front of the lodge. Armored doors, bulletproof glass, goons on running boards.

Someone rushed to open one of its back doors. Someone else threw a coat on the ground.

Out stepped an impeccably dressed man with a round face, the ends of a white scarf hanging over each lapel. And an unmistakable scar that nobody made the mistake of mentioning.

A movie star might as well have arrived. Partiers rushed to the porch, and the bodyguards cleared a path. Everyone excited, shaking his hand, heaping adoration.

Behind him, associates held the Packard’s doors for two special guests from Illinois. The Santini brothers. Gino and Salvatore. They ran a dry cleaners on the south side, but they really ran whiskey down from Canada. Been doing so for years since the Eighteenth Amendment. They’d made Capone a nice bit of change. Now he was rewarding them with the finest time in his new Florida. All the best Miami restaurants. Gave them his Everglades Suite at the Biltmore in Coral Gables. But he’d saved the best for last: time to show off the crown jewel of the swamp.

Al put his arms around the brothers and led them to the bar, where a bald man in a tux filled a martini shaker. “Dominic, take care of my friends.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Capone.”

Then Al called over the girls.

Another pair of headlamps appeared up the Loop Road, but these approached much faster because the engine had been retooled with larger cylinders and a massive carb. The roadster arrived without slowing, racing around back and stopping with a controlled spin in the mud. Its doors and fenders had been specially fitted with a maze of concealed copper tubing.

Someone behind the lodge: “Crazy Murphy’s here!”

Murphy was their best driver, Florida’s predecessor to the Carolina’s Junior Johnson. Ten drivers had the nickname “Crazy.” Murphy defined it.

A platoon of men poured out the back screen door and filled jugs from a spigot concealed under the bumper.

White lightning from one of the largest stills deep in the glades.

Present

The silence of shock filled room 21 at the Warm Mineral Springs Motel.

Serge slowly looked at Coleman, then at the boy. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

The boy was small and skinny for his age, untied sneakers, runny nose, both knees skinned, brown hair that Molly had been cutting with a bowl, dirty face like he’d been playing in a chimney. Ice blue eyes.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “Are you okay?”

“I’m actually . . . a father?”

“Is that good?”

“Good?” said Serge. “It’s great!”

“You sure he’s yours?” said Coleman. “Molly’s a piece of work.”

The boy ran across the room and kicked Serge in the shin.

“Ow!” He hopped and rubbed his leg.

Coleman laughed. “He got you good . . . Ow!”

They both hopped and watched the boy sprinting as fast as he could in circles in the middle of the room. He made a sound with his mouth that jiggled as he ran.

“. . . A-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-ya . . .”

Serge stopped hopping. “I’d say he’s probably mine.”

“What’s he doing now?” asked Coleman.

“Sticking a fork in that electrical outlet.” Serge bolted over and pulled a tiny arm back. The child punched him in the nuts. Serge doubled over.

Coleman giggled again. “He’s pretty funny . . . Ow! Serge, he just stuck the fork in my arm!”

Serge got up and held his throbbing crotch. “He’s definitely mine.”

Coleman pulled the fork out. “I need Band-Aids.”

“In my suitcase.”

Coleman turned. “He’s got a gun!”

Serge dove and snatched it away. He grabbed the tyke under the armpits and set him on the edge of a bed. Then he knelt in front of the child and held the weapon sideways in front of his face.

“That was very, very bad,” said Serge. “You never point a gun at anyone unless you intend to shoot them. And always remember to check the chamber.”

Serge ejected the clip and racked the slide to pop out the live round. “There.” He handed the pistol back to the tot. “She’s all yours.”

“I’m impressed,” said Coleman. “You have natural parenting skills.”

“Sometimes I surprise myself.”

The boy aimed the gun at the two men. “
Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! . . .
You’re dead. You’re supposed to fall down.”

Serge glanced at Coleman. “Fall down.”

The pair hit the ground.

They faced each other, cheeks to the carpet, hearing little footsteps.

“What’s he doing now?” asked Coleman.

In sequence, they each felt the gun barrel behind their left ear.
“Pow! Pow! . . . Pow! Pow!”

“Those are double taps to the back of the head for certainty,” said Serge. “Standard assassination procedure.”

“Wonder where he learned that?”

“Probably in school. They grow up so much faster these days.”

“Now he’s going through our wallets.”

Serge hopped to his feet. “All right, playtime’s over.” He reached for his billfold.

The boy pulled something from the back compartment. “A balloon.”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “He’s got one of your condoms.”

Serge took it away. The child extended his arm. “Balloon!”

“Okay,” said Serge. “Since we just met, I’ll give you a present to remember this day.” He held up the small plastic package. “This is a special magic balloon. My gift to you. But don’t open it now. You’ll know when the time is right.”

“Wow, thanks!” He stuffed it in his pocket.

Serge sat on the bed and hoisted the child onto his knee. “How old are you?”

He held up fingers. “Five and a half.”

Serge smiled and looked over at Coleman. “Remember when you used to add halves to your age?”

“You don’t anymore?”

Serge faced the boy again. “Your name really Serge?”

The child shook his head. “Mikey. But my mommy calls me Serge when she’s mad at me . . . Is your first name Fucking?”

Serge’s eyes popped. “What!”

“Mommy always calls you Fucking Serge.”

Serge looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Okay, Mikey. I’m going to have to explain something to you. It’s very complicated and you probably won’t completely comprehend it until you’re much older, but sometimes Mommy and Daddy can’t live together anymore. They still love each other, but they have to get separate houses. Are you following me so far?”

Mikey nodded.

“Good,” said Serge. “And this is the most important part: After Mommy and Daddy move away from each other, she is wrong about everything. Do you understand?”

Another nod.

“Great.”

Mikey jumped down and went over to the cooler.

“Serge, he has a beer.”

Serge took it away and wagged a finger. “Not for you. This is Stupid Juice.”

“Serge,” said Coleman, going through his backpack. “Have you seen my bag of weed?”

“Yes.” He grabbed it from the child. “Here you go, Coleman. Try to be more careful.”

“No problem. I’ll just cram it way down the bottom and stick my lighter there, too— . . . Where’s my lighter?” Coleman sniffed. “Do you smell something burning?”

“The curtains!”

Serge grabbed the bedspread and smothered the flames against the sliding-glass door. Coleman shook a can of beer and sprayed.

The fire was finally out. Coleman drank the rest of the can. “That was close.”

Serge faced the child and placed stern hands on his hips. “That was naughty. Now give me the lighter. And the knife.”

Mikey surrendered them. Then he ran in the bathroom and slammed the door.

“What’s he up to now?” asked Coleman.

“Think he has to go potty.”

Serge walked to the bathroom and tried the knob. He knocked. “Mikey, unlock the door.”

Coleman came over. “Barricaded himself?”

More banging. “Come on, Mikey, open up!”

“I wouldn’t worry.” Coleman fired a joint. “Probably can’t come to the door right now because he’s pinching a loaf.”

“Coleman! That’s my son you’re talking about!”

“Okay, pinching peanuts.”

Their feet felt something. Serge looked down and saw water sheeting from under the door.

Coleman stepped out of the puddle. “I think he’s bored.”

“I got an idea.” He banged again. “Mikey, come out and I promise we’ll go to the toy store.”

The door instantly opened.

“Can I get anything I want?”

“Within reason,” said Serge. “Now lie facedown in the corner with your hands behind your back until we mop this up . . .”

Chapter Twenty-three

Everglades 1929

T
he swamp night grew louder as people with rare access to spirits went a little overboard. Or a lot. That was the Santinis. The brothers staggered and slurred. Already made three trips each upstairs with the ladies—and won a bundle on roulette, because Al had told the operator of the rigged wheel to let them.

Then it was getting seriously late. But no slowing down for the Roaring Twenties. Piano tempo picked up. The Charleston.

Arms with meaty hands went around the brothers’ shoulders again. “Having a good time?”

“Mr. Capone, this is the greatest,” said Gino.

“Can’t thank you enough,” added Salvatore.

“I’m glad,” said Scarface. “Nothing’s too good for my best partners.”

Capone turned the brothers around and walked them to the back of the lodge. “There’s something extra special I’d like you to see.”

“What is it?”

They stepped outside into dark desolation. Two other men emerged from the shadows.

Al removed his arms. “I’d like you to meet Frenchy and the Swede . . . Boys, show the Santinis our surprise.”

“This way,” said Frenchy, carrying an unlit lantern.

Gino, the older Santini, looked back. “Mr. Capone, aren’t you coming with us?”

“I’ll catch up. Just have to say good-bye to some people.”

The swamp was rough going for the city boys. “What is this surprise?”

“You’ll love it.”

The trek became more impenetrable, branches tearing sleeves and cutting arms. Unaccustomed humidity stuck shirts to their backs. The brothers glanced around and wiped foreheads. “I can’t even see the lodge anymore,” said Salvatore. “How much farther?”

“Not too long.”

Then they saw the freshly dug hole. Panic sliced through the gin, and they froze with big white eyes.

The Swede laughed. “It’s not for you.”

“Besides,” said Frenchy, “you’re Mr. Capone’s favorites.”

“Just a little farther,” said the Swede.

It was more than “just a little,” but they finally broke into a small clearing and stopped.

The brothers looked around. Salvatore slapped a mosquito on his neck. “So where’s this surprise?”

Frenchy lit the kerosene lantern. “Mr. Capone said no trip down here is complete without seeing the real Florida.” He held the light in front of them. “See that patch of water?”

“Mama mia! Are those real alligators?”

“The genuine article,” said the Swede.

“That patch of water is what’s known as a gator hole,” said Frenchy.

“What’s a gator hole?” asked Gino.

“Where the families live. Many more below, highly protective.”

“That’s the thing about the Everglades,” said the Swede. “You can be walking along in ankle-deep water and without warning it drops off ten feet and you go down in one of these holes.”

Gino was entranced. “Are we safe?”

“As long as we have guns.”

The Swede and Frenchy produced pistols and aimed them toward the reptiles. “If they make a move, they won’t make another. Go ahead, take a closer look.”

The brothers inched forward. “They’re amazing . . .”

“. . . Look at the size.”