Electric Barracuda (43 page)

Serge leaned even closer. “Boo!”

“Ahhhh!” The attorney jumped up and took off running.

“Wrong way,” Serge told Coleman. “See what I mean?”

“He just bounced off another tree.”

Brad spun around. “Where are you? I’ll make a deal. Someone bribed me to help them find you. I’ll tell you who it is if you get me out of here!”

“Who?” said Serge.

“It was— . . . Ahhhhh!” Brad took off running again.

“Some of the bees didn’t leave,” said Coleman.

Serge leaned against a tree for viewing pleasure. “If I was a betting man, I’d say he’ll soon become more familiar with the Everglades than most of us will ever get the chance.”

“I was hoping for something with a lot of sharp, rotating blades.”

“Because you just watched that
Saw
movie,” said Serge. “This is the thinking man’s contraption.”

“I like blades.”

Screaming trailed off to the south.

“Brad sure is a nervous type,” said Serge. “That isn’t good for his blood pressure.”

“I can barely hear his yelling anymore.”

The attorney disappeared into a thrashing of cattails.

“Show’s over.”

They left.

Behind them, Brad continued plunging forward toward what he thought was the way back. He used his fingers to keep his eyelids pried open. “Yeah, my car should be right up here . . .”

Onward: wildlife hooting and cawing. Snapping sounds, plunks in the water. Brad’s head swiveled around, getting jumpy and feverish, tripping and hitting more trees as vision continued to diminish. Another step . . .

Down he went, water over his head.

Bubbles.

Brad broke the surface with a gasp for breath. “Gator hole!”

He went under again, just his hands flapping above the water.

Then up again. “Help!”

Before going down the third time, Brad found a grip on something hard and pulled himself up. He stood shin-deep next to where he had just been splashing.

Thinking: That’s weird. Maybe it’s not a gator hole after all.

He got on his knees and felt under the water. Rows of old, rotten wood planks. His hands probed farther and discovered the hole in the boards where his legs had broken through. He easily pulled up one of the snapped pieces with bent nails on the end. When he did, something floated to the surface. He grabbed it with his left hand and propped an eye open with his right. “Holy shit!” He frantically ripped up more planks and splashed with both arms. More and more hundred-dollar bills floated up. He couldn’t see it, but none were dated later than 1929.

Then, reckless exuberance. Brad broke off the rest of the wood, removed his shoes and slipped down inside, legs first, feeling around with his feet.

Toes detected something. Brad’s head went under the water, and he came back up with a small gold bar in his fist.

“Yes! I found it! I actually found it!”

L
ucky’s pickup returned to the compound off the Loop Road.

“God loves me!” said Coleman. “Check the ass on that naked chick in the road!”

A killer redhead in a six-shooter belt. Lucky on the other side with his camera.

“That’s Cynthia,” said Serge. He stopped the pickup at the end of the driveway and got out. “Hey Cynthia!”

She turned around.

Serge jumped back. “Molly!”

Molly drew the revolvers and aimed them at Serge.

Serge raise his arms. “I— . . . We— . . . What are you doing out here?”

Lucky smiled from behind. “Molly had an appointment next week, so I bumped it up. Thought it would be a nice surprise getting you two back together.” He raised the camera and resumed shooting. “I’m a hopeless romantic. I’m sure you guys can work something out . . .”

Molly cocked the hammers on both pistols. “You bastard!”

Lucky slid sideways.
Click, click, click
. . . “Molly, excellent action shots. Keep it up . . . Serge, could you step left. You’re in the frame.”

Serge kept his arms up. “I don’t think she wants me to move.”

Another rugged laugh from the photographer. “She’s playing around. Those are just prop guns. They’re not loaded.”

Molly pointed guns at the sky and began firing away like the Frito Bandito.

Lucky lowered his camera. “Molly, where’d you get the bullets?”

She didn’t answer. Just leveled the pistols again.

Serge took a slow step forward. “But baby . . .”

“Don’t ‘but baby’ me. And don’t come any closer!”

Serge froze. “I thought everything was mellow. I’m taking care of Mikey for us. We’re having loads of fun!”

“I’ll bet! I knew what dropping him on you would do to your life.” She cocked the hammers again. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t forgotten everything you did to me. It’s payback time!”

“But that’s what you told me back at the motel,” said Serge. “I thought the payback was Mikey.”

“Just an appetizer.” She stretched out both arms. “This is the main course.”

Serge looked over her shoulder. “Thanks, Lucky.”

“I thought this would go a little better . . . Uh, Molly?”

“Shut up!”

“Sweetie,” said Serge. “How about we get away? I’ll take you to this nice secluded place, very special, like a second honeymoon.”

“So I can watch Coleman throw up all weekend?”

“Coleman can’t come with us?”

Her arms stiffened. “You’ll never change.”

“Okay, no Coleman,” said Serge. “How’s that for change? A place on the ocean, just us—what do you say?”

“Then you’ll ditch me in the room and run all over God knows where taking a million pictures, collecting brochures and bursting in at midnight to stash stuff in the toilet tank and tell me that if the police ask, you were with me all day.”

“That’s not good either?”

She stepped forward with dead aim. “This is farewell.”

Serge winced and poised like a soccer goalie before a penalty shot—ready to anticipate the trigger pull. But which way should he jump?

Molly put her thumbs on the hammers and carefully set them back in the safe position.

Serge’s muscles uncoiled. He slowly lowered his arms. “You’re not going to kill me?”

“Just wanted you to go through that. Not much fun, eh?” She expertly twirled both guns on her fingers and re-holstered them. “Now you know how I felt while we were living together and I was trying to keep a clean house.”

“Staring down gun barrels? Using guest towels? Call me insensitive, but I think there’s a slight difference.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! Your needs were always more important!”

Serge tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?” asked Molly.

He raised his other. A dreamy gaze with those piercing ice-blue eyes.

“Stop that!”

“Stop what?” said Serge, smiling warmly.

“You know precisely what you’re doing!”

“I do?”

“Oh, Serge!” She clomped up the road in cowboy boots and slammed into him. “Take me! Now!”

She ripped open his pants, and they fell entangled to the ground. Serge pulled his shorts to his knees and began thrusting like a Roman centurion.

“Oh yes!”
shrieked Molly.
“Oh yes!”

Serge closed his eyes and thrust harder.
“. . . Nu Bamboo, Cedar Key, Myakka River, Snook Haven . . .”

“Don’t stop! Oh, my God! Don’t stop!”

“. . . Sanibel, seashells, Smallwood Store, Gator Hook Lodge, the Loop . . .”

“Jesus!” said Coleman, glancing up and down the street for cars, then looking at Lucky. “They’re doing it right in the middle of the road!”

“Come on.” Lucky slapped Coleman on the shoulder. “Let’s go back inside the gate. I think they want their privacy.”

Coleman drank Lucky’s beer on the porch and looked at photos. “How’d you get her to pose like
that
?”

“She wanted to.”

“And this one with the boa?”

“Paid me.”

“You’re my hero.”

An exhausted, sweaty couple walked up the dirt driveway.

Lucky got off his stool and leaned against a porch post. “Well, if it isn’t the two lovebirds. Didn’t I say you could work things out?”

“Let’s not rush,” said Molly, taking off the gun belt. She found her cutoff denim shorts and a biker tank top in the corner of the porch.

“Coleman!” said Serge. “Don’t look at my wife while she’s getting dressed.”

Molly zipped up her tight, high-riding shorts and accepted a cold one from Lucky. They all melted into chairs in the sticky, late-afternoon heat.

Back on the Loop Road, a car quietly pulled up and stopped, hidden behind the stockade fence . . .

Molly took a long pull on the chilly Budweiser. “Where’s Mikey?”

“Still asleep in the trailer,” said Lucky.

Serge jumped up. “Can’t tell you how much fun we’ve had! Okay, I’ll tell you! We went to the supermarket—”

“Serge, you’re not the father.”

“And then the hamster ball— . . . What do you mean?”

“You’re not his dad.”

“Of course I’m his dad.”

Molly shook her head. “Needed a break.” She took another big sip. “You have no idea what’s it’s like being a single parent these days.”

“But he’s just like me,” said Serge. “Are you sure there isn’t some mistake?”

“Positive.” Molly drained the rest of her longneck and stood. “Now I need to leave him with his real father.”

“But we were bonding so well,” said Serge. “He was almost ready to go without the chain.”

“It’s not fair to you,” said Molly.

Lucky got off his stool. “I’ll go wake him.”

“No, let him sleep.” Molly set her empty bottle on the edge of the potbelly stove.

Lucky stopped at the trailer’s door. “But you just said you were going to take him to his real father.”

“No, I said
leave
him.”

“I don’t understand.”

Molly looked at Serge and Lucky. Serge looked at Lucky and Molly. Lucky looked at both.

Coleman opened another beer. “I never know what’s going on.”

Serge walked over and put an arm around Lucky’s shoulders. “I think what’s going on is we have a new winner.”

“But . . .” said Lucky. “How is that possible?”

Molly pointed at the middle of a row of framed photos. “Remember that one? It was taken right after I split with Serge and needed to book out of the Keys because those cops had some funny ideas.”

Lucky put a hand over his eyes. “But it was just one time.”

“You’re a marksman.” Molly trotted down the porch steps.

“Wait!” yelled Lucky.

Molly hopped in her turquoise T-Bird—“I’ll call”—and she sped off.

Chapter Forty-four

S
erge helped an unsteady Lucky sit back down. “You know, I’ve seen a lot in my life, but this has been quite a full day.”

Lucky was still shaken. “I don’t know how to be a father. What do I do?”

“My advice?” said Serge. “Put on a helmet and get in the game.”

From behind: “Freeze! Don’t move!”

Serge twirled around. “Mahoney? What are you doing here?”

The agent slowly climbed the porch steps with a drawn .38 Police Special. “You’re under arrest.”

“Wow!” said Serge. “What a day!”

Mahoney pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and tossed them to Serge. “You know the drill. Make with the bracelets.”

“Let’s make a deal instead,” said Serge.

“No dice,” said the agent. “You’re cognizant of our rules. I bagged you fair and square.”

Serge shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He opened the first cuff.

Mahoney felt something hard and cold in the middle of his back. And a high-pitched voice.

“Freeze! Drop the gun!”

Mahoney seized up, then did as he was told.

The voice again. “Crockett, Miami Vice.”

Serge jumped up. “Mikey! Excellent student!” He grabbed the agent’s gun off the porch and motioned for Mahoney to take a seat.

“How’d Mikey get out?” asked Coleman.

“Must have popped a screen like I taught him,” said Serge. “Lucky, I’d like you to meet my longtime nemesis, Agent Mahoney . . . Mahoney, Lucky . . .”

“You won’t get away with this,” said the agent. “Before the drop, I rattled teeth at a pair of badges I’ve been tooling with.” He looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. “Should be crashing this party in a dime.”