Electric Barracuda (41 page)

“I have to pee,” said Coleman.

“There’s the outhouse,” said Lucky. “Don’t forget to sign the guest book.”

Serge watched Coleman waddle off, then turned. “Listen, Lucky . . .”

“Here we go, another favor. What this time?”

“Why do you always think I’m going to ask a favor?”

“Because you always do.”

“I do not.”

Lucky folded his arms. “So what is it?”

“I need a favor.”

“Fire away.”

“I’ve got this Master Plan unfolding . . .” And Serge laid it out.

Lucky whistled. “That’s a pretty big favor.”

“Will you do it?”

“How can I ever say no to you?”

“Because I’ll keep bugging you night and day?”

“Exactly,” said Lucky. “But it sounds like we’ll need help to pull it off.”

“Know anyone? . . .”

Coleman finished his business and ran back to Serge. “You should see that outhouse!”

“I have, full of antiques.”

“No, I mean more pictures of chicks all over the walls.”

The photographer laughed again. “My passion.”

Coleman stood in reverence. “You are the luckiest man alive.”

“That’s how I feel.”

“It’s like all my favorite magazines—”

“Coleman,” said Serge. “It’s
not
like your magazines. Those are skanky. You have to respect Lucky’s art. He tastefully captures the female form in this exquisite natural setting, like Everglades versions of Lady Godiva . . .”

They heard a fast-approaching motorized whapping sound.

“Helicopter,” said Lucky. “We should go back on the porch.”

They climbed steps. Lucky took the stool in the corner. Pointy leather boots, black pants, black tropical shirt with palm trees, trademark black cowboy hat, trimmed white beard and clear blue eyes. Lucky always enjoyed the porch’s effect on Serge, and now in daylight, he had the full dose, slowly walking around in the zone. Old cast-iron potbelly stove, old railroad safe, rack of antique rifles and shotguns, vintage Coca-Cola icebox, carved totem pole, female mannequin in sunglasses, kerosene lamps and on and on. And of course the photos, which is why Mikey’s eyes were covered. The ones on the porch were somewhat clothed. Scant, but clothed.

“The mannequin’s a redhead,” said Lucky.

“I picked up on that,” said Serge. He reached another wall, pulled up short and looked over at his host. “Molly?”

“She’s quite a dish when she takes that librarian’s bun down.” Another smile. “What can I say?”

Serge returned to the wall. “This one’s Molly, too. And this one. And this— . . . The whole row’s Molly.”

“One of my regulars who comes back every year, same time. You can set your calendar by her.”

“They’re getting younger,” said Serge, moving along the wall. “This one’s how she looked when we got married. And these are earlier.” He turned around again. “How long have you known her?”

“Count the pictures.”

“Fifteen years?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Whew!” Serge stopped and rubbed his forehead. “Life’s full of surprises.”

“You have no idea.”

“What’s
that
mean?”

“Just idle chatter,” said Lucky.

Serge reached the front of the porch. “You put up a menu board?”

“Sometimes I open the gate on weekends, set a sign by the street and open the ‘store.’ You should see the scared looks on faces as they slowly drive in.”

“But who comes down the Loop Road?”

“Mainly bird-watchers who haven’t heard the warnings. They shoot photos back up at Sweetwater Strand.”

“I missed that in the dark.”

“It’s the Everglades. I’ve got the only trading post for miles in both directions.”

Serge read the board: cigars, beer, ice, soda, hot showers ($7.50), motor oil, gas, aviation fuel . . .

“Get over here,” said Lucky. He handed out three plastic spoons and unscrewed a mason jar that filtered a pure amber light. “Latest batch. Tell me what you think . . .”

They licked honey off spoons like lollipops. “Delish!” said Serge. “Your best yet! Flirtatious woody bouquet, daring balance, uncomplicated yet bellicose.”

Coleman took the spoon out of his mouth. “Good.”

Serge turned toward the front gate. “Do you think maybe . . .”

“Was wondering when you’d ask. The old places, right?”

Serge nodded.

“Then let’s get in the truck.”

Tamiami Trail

Monroe Station.

A half-dozen sheriff’s cruisers and a Crown Vic sat in the gravel lot. Their occupants stood by fenders, comparing notes. Another map on the hood.

“Anything?” asked White.

A sergeant shook his head. “We covered all the back roads. I’m sending some boys again, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“Think he got away?”

“Not a chance with the roadblocks.”

“Then where could he be?” asked White.

“I’ve seen this before,” said the sergeant. “There are all kinds of trails and hermit camps. Someone could hold out for months, especially if he has local help.”

“What do you suggest?”

The sergeant leaned over the hood and ran a finger along the map. “If I were you, I’d put all my chips between here and Forty Mile. Apply the pressure until he pops out. Airboats, infrared, search parties on foot checking even the smallest shack.”

“Thanks,” said White, turning. “Mahoney?”

Mahoney was staring at the narrow passage through the trees.

White looked with him. “That expression tells me you think he’s still out there on the Loop Road.”

A matchstick wiggled in teeth. “Bones.”

“I’m not ready to go back in there.” White arched his spine. “Back still hurts from last night. Why don’t you take the Vic and I’ll ride with the sheriffs.”

“You’re jake.”

“Get out of here.”

Mahoney jumped in the Ford . . .

Chapter Forty-one

The Loop Road

L
ucky’s truck headed west, bouncing through standing water. He was on his cell.

“Who are you calling?” asked Serge.

“Neighbors. Anyone will tell you not to stop on the Loop and poke around.”

“But you live here.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I know this place. Don’t want to be mistaken for a trespasser.”

“Folks ask questions later?”

“That’s the Loop.”

The pickup continued vibrating down the uneven road.

“You do realize it’s gone,” said Lucky. “Just an over-grown foundation left.”

“I’m all about over-grown foundations.”

They drove another mile and stopped where there was nothing.

“Let’s do it,” said Lucky.

“I hear a car coming the other way,” said Serge.

“Better pull a little bit more off the shoulder.”

They got out and crashed through thick vegetation, disappearing from the side of the road.

A Crown Vic drove by.

It was tough going on foot. No path, not even breaks in the trees, just dense swamp growth that had to be attacked and high-stepped. Something unseen splashed into nearby water.

“What was that?” asked Coleman.

“Better you not know.”

Coleman stopped and unpocketed a flask with a shaking hand.

They hit a clearing. “Come on,” Serge called back. “The foundation’s waiting! . . . See? Mikey’s not scared.”

The chain leash was slack; Mikey walked up ahead holding Uncle Lucky’s hand.

“There it is,” said the big man.

“Cool!” Serge ran up and down the front steps, over and over, then walked to the approximate area of the dance floor that was now weeds. “Was the Gator Hook as rough as they said?”

“Rougher. First time I came here as a teenager, this real nasty dude was drinking by the door . . .” Lucky walked to a spot of dirt in front of Serge and looked down. “. . . He stops me and says, ‘Son, you got a knife or gun on you?’ And I’m shaking and say, ‘No, sir,’ and he says, ‘Better get one.’ I flew out of there. Took me a while to work up the nerve to come back, but once you got familiar with the place, it was like home. I remember the contests shooting dynamite.”

“Dynamite?” said Coleman.

“Famous Saturday-night tradition,” said Serge. “They’d stick dynamite up in a tree and shoot at it from the back porch. I was there once with my granddad—”

A loud sound above.

They looked up at the heavy covering of cypress and heard a helicopter swoop overhead.

“Are they going to do that all day?” said Serge.

“Must want you pretty bad.”

“Some people can’t let things go.” Up and down the steps . . .

A few miles east, a Crown Vic sat still, just past Lucky’s place up at an old gas station. Signs said it was established in 1920 and was currently closed because the owner had gone fishing, probably since 1975. Thick grass around twin rusty pumps said nobody had pulled up in a spell. Mahoney knew the turf, one of Florida’s authentic ghost towns—still said
Pinecrest
on the maps, but might as well have been a misprint. It was a big logging community back in the twenties, before the Depression—and the hurricane of ’47. Now just a handful of privacy types dug deep into the backcountry, and those tombstone gas pumps to mark the demise. Next door were a few limestone blocks in a circle where a fishpond had been.

Mahoney shook his head. Something not right. He started the car again and turned around . . .

Serge marched up and down the steps. “You knew Ervin Rouse?”

“Too well,” said Lucky. “Lived just up the road from here. Even forty years later, he was still getting decent royalties for ‘The Orange Blossom Special,’ especially after Johnny Cash recorded it. Big check every three months, and Ervin would buy a new Cadillac, which of course he tore to pieces in no time on the Loop, and he blew the rest at the Gator Hook, where he’d drive each weekend to play, and by the end of the three months, he was walking to the Hook and running a tab. Then another check arrived.”

“I heard he wrote it after watching the pride of the Pennsylvania Railroad pull into Jacksonville one night on its New York–Miami run,” said Serge. “Finest bluegrass song of the twentieth century.”

“That’s the story,” said Lucky. “A cantankerous son of a gun. If you annoyed him in the Gator Hook, he’d smack you in the head with his fiddle . . .”

They heard a car approach back at the road. As it was about to go by, the sound stopped. A door slammed. Then a crashing noise in the brush.

“Damn.” Serge began retreating into the swamp. “How did they find me?”

The bustle in the hedgerow came closer until it was just about to break through the clearing. Serge stood ankle-deep in water, ready to bolt and take his chances with the wildlife. “Lucky, can you watch Mikey for me until I get back?”

“You’re a scream,” said Lucky. “No need to go anywhere.”

“But someone’s coming!”

“I brought a special guest.”

The last branches parted and a younger man stepped into the clearing.

“Charles?”

“Serge!”

“I don’t believe what I’m seeing.”

Another big, backslapping hug.

“Man, Serge, when you want to make yourself scarce.” Charles looked around at the steps and a few other broken pieces of foundation. “When Lucky called, I couldn’t miss the chance to see you again.”

“And the old place?”

“Bittersweet.”

“Coleman! Mikey! I’d like you to meet Charles Knight. His father, Jack, owned the Gator Hook.”

“He had to make a rule because of Serge,” said Charles. “No children allowed to shoot at dynamite.”

“Too dangerous?” asked Coleman.

Charles shook his head. “Winning all the beer.”

Serge grinned. “I gave it away to the gang.”

Charles turned to Lucky. “So what’s this mysterious business you mentioned.”

“Didn’t want to say over the phone,” said Lucky. “Serge and I need your help with a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

They filled him in.

Charles whistled. “That’s some problem.”

Lucky began walking back to the road. “Let’s go scope out the place . . .”

A
pickup pulled to the side of the road.

“The old gas pumps.” Serge clicked a picture.

Lucky opened his door. “Welcome to Pinecrest.”

They walked along the street, then turned through some weeds until they were standing before a circle of limestone blocks.