Electric Barracuda (44 page)

“I don’t think so.” Serge took his own seat and rested the gun hand on his knee. “You forget how well we know each other. You’d never radio the other cops until I was in your sole custody, or else some backup officer might nab me in the confusion of the takedown and get your collar—”

A screech of brakes from the Loop Road; another car came flying through the gate, slinging dirt.

Serge stood and prepared to dive over a porch railing. “Or maybe I’m wrong.”

“No,” said Mahoney. “That’s not my boys.”

A yellow Cadillac stopped in front of the porch. A diminutive man in a badly fitting suit got out.

“Who
is
that guy?” said Coleman.

“The Mystery Man,” said Serge. “I’ve seen him all down the coast. But who does he work for?”

Mahoney used the opportunity to dive and grab the gun back. “You’re under arrest!”

“No fair,” said Serge. “The clock wasn’t running. We were in a time-out.”

“There are no time-outs in our rules. I’m taking you downtown.”

Serge rolled his eyes. “Whatever . . .”

The man slowly approached the porch. “Any dogs around?”

Lucky shook his head.

“May I?”

“Join the club.”

The man climbed the steps and handed out business cards. “Mort Wrigley, Sunshine Detective Agency.”

Lucky looked at the card and tossed it in a cigar box. “What’s your business?”

Mort turned. “Serge? Mahoney?”

The pair glanced at each other, then at the detective.

“Yeah?” said Serge.

“Yap,” said Mahoney.

Wrigley removed an envelope from his pocket. “I have something for you.”

“Why here?” said Serge. “I’ve seen you all over the state. You could have handed it to me a hundred times.”

The agent shook his head. “I’m under strict instructions from my employer only to deliver this when both of you were together.”

“Together?” said Mahoney.

“Who’s your employer?” said Serge.

“Roy.”

“Roy?”

“The Pawn King.”

“How do you know Roy the Pawn King?” asked Serge. “Wait, why does your name sound so familiar?”

“They also call me the Undertaker.”

“Mort . . .
the Undertaker
?” said Serge. “From my granddad’s old gang? But you’re too young.”

“Junior.”

Mahoney leaned. “Is he really an undertaker?”

“No, his dad ran a delicatessen. Inside joke.”

“I can’t divulge certain client information,” said Mort, unfolding a page from the envelope. “But Roy was very specific. And emphatic.”

Serge snatched the letter. “Let me see that thing.” He began reading. Halfway down the page, he looked up. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“Couldn’t be more serious.”

Serge resumed and neared the end of the letter. Hands began to shake.

“Cripes,” said Lucky. “You’re white as a ghost.”

Serge was lost somewhere between shock and awe. “It’s . . . true? . . .” He listlessly passed the letter to Mahoney.

The agent read it and looked at Serge, then at the private eye. “This on the level?”

“Totally.”

Serge grabbed the letter back. “So you’re saying we’re . . .”

“Brothers,” said Mort.

“But how can that be so?” asked Serge.

“Both from Riviera Beach, right? Born at the same hospital?”

They nodded.

“And your ages are a couple of years apart?”

They nodded again.

“I did a lot of digging to confirm it for Roy and the gang. Didn’t want to come out here and be wrong.”

“I’m still not convinced,” said Serge. “How did Roy find out?”

Lucky offered a bottle. “Cold one?”

“Thanks.” Mort took a seat. “They were all visiting Chi-Chi when Mabel Mahoney—”

“My mother?” said the agent.

“Adoptive mother.”

“I was adopted?”

“What a day!” said Serge.

Mahoney got the jitters. He pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket . . .

“Mahoney! No!” said Serge.

The agent gobbled a few tablets and flagged Lucky for one of those tall boys.

“Serge,” said Mort. “You probably know that your mother had . . . mental issues.”

“You can go ahead and say it.” Serge snatched a bottle of water from the antique Coca-Cola chest. “In my book that’s a positive thing. Probably got it from Sergio and passed it to me.”

“And your father the jai alai player was quite intense, too,” said Mort. “But he could read the writing. Come home from practice at the fronton, and Mahoney would be outside in his diapers, trying to start the lawn mower. He made a hard choice for what was best.”

Serge looked at Mahoney. “I don’t remember a brother. This must have been early.”

“It was,” said the private eye. “He’s two years older . . . And your granddad Sergio didn’t know about the adoption until it was too late. He hit the roof, but confidentiality laws prevented the state from telling him where Mahoney went.”

“Unbelievable,” said Serge. “And me?”

“Your dad didn’t know it at the time, but your mom was already pregnant again, and Sergio made him swear not to do anything without talking to him first.” Mort sipped the longneck. “Then your dad had that
accident
in the jai alai game . . .”

“Right, he died,” said Serge. “I’m over it.”

“Your granddad figured where you’d end up once the state got the picture about your mother, so he stepped in and got you.”

“I know that part,” said Serge. “But how did his adoptive mother—?”

“Confidentiality wasn’t as strict back then the other way around,” said Mort. “Your family didn’t know her, but she knew them. In fact, you two lived only five streets apart.”

“That would put him on Twenty-seventh,” said Serge.

“From what I understand, Mabel struggled with the decision to say something for years. She was finally going to tell your granddad, but found out he’d already passed. After that, she tried like crazy to track you down . . .”

“Good luck,” said Serge.

“. . . Earlier this month, she figured the rest of your granddad’s old gang was getting up in years, and it might be her last hope for contact. She talked to Roy. And he talked to me, but they didn’t have any money because some slimy lawyer—”

Serge smiled. “Brad.”

“You know him?” asked Mort.

“Used to.”

Mahoney stuck another pill between his lips. “But what’s with all the cloak-and-dagger? Just like Serge, I’ve seen you all over the place. Why did we have to be together for you to break the news?”

Mort laughed. “Roy told me all about you two. Not the brothers part. The whole
Mad
magazine ‘Spy vs. Spy’ routine you guys have. He figured if I approached either one of you ex parte . . .”

“That means alone,” Serge told Mahoney.

“I know what it means.”

“. . . That you’d think it was a trick the other was playing.”

Serge and Mahoney in unison: “We would.”

“Roy knew that, and here I am.”

“This is too weird,” said Serge. “It sounds right, but . . .”

“Genetics don’t lie,” said Mort. “Let me ask you this: Over the years of knowing each other, have you noticed any minor similarities of personality or habit? The least little thing?”

Serge looked at Mahoney. “What about great big similarities?”

“Royal flush,” said Mahoney. “We’re bro-hams.”

“Tell us more,” Serge asked Mort. “What else did Mabel say to Roy?”

“As I mentioned, you only lived streets apart. She’d often drive by your house on Thirty-second . . . Oh, and there was a playground at the end of your street.”

“I remember,” said Serge. “Playgrounds rock!”

“Sometimes she’d see you there and let Mahoney out.”

“We
played
together as kids?” said Serge.

“While she sat with your mom and chatted,” said the private eye. “She was dying to tell, but with your mom’s condition, she didn’t know how it might go. People are always contesting adoptions later. She didn’t want to lose her son.”

“I remember you now,” said Mahoney. “When I was up in the air on the teeter-totter, you jumped off and made me crash.”

“That’s what teeter-totters are for,” said Serge. “But what’s with hitting me with that mud ball coming down the slide?”

“Slides are for ambush. Everyone knows that.”

“What a day!” said Serge.

“Guys.” Lucky grabbed his camera and aimed. “What are you waiting for? Give each other a hug.”

The pair stood and awkwardly appraised their counterpart. Then all defenses crumbled at once and they grabbed each other in a sentimental embrace.

“I have a brother!”

“Me, too!”

Click, click, click.
Lucky set his camera down. “I love a happy ending.”

“It’s quite a story,” said the detective. “Separated after birth, flip sides of the same coin. One brother a cop, the other an outlaw. Moral decision whether to arrest.”

“I feel like I’m in a Bruce Springsteen song,” said Serge.

“Oh my God!” said Mahoney.

“What is it?”

The agent jumped up. “I wasn’t bluffing. We have to hurry. Follow me.”

Serge and Coleman ran down the steps after him.

“Mahoney,” yelled Serge. “What weren’t you bluffing about?”

“Calling the other agents on the radio.” Mahoney reached his Crown Vic. “They could be here any minute.” He stuck a key in the rear hood. “I’m surprised they aren’t already.”

Serge stared. “You don’t seriously think I’m getting in that trunk. I know what that leads to. Trust me.”

“Trust
me
,” said Mahoney. “I’m your brother. The only trunks they’re not checking at the roadblocks are cops’. There’s no other way I can get you out of here.”

“Then what if I just
stay
?”

Mahoney shook his head. “You’ll be trapped. As we speak, they’re forming swamp search parties with airboats and infrared. They think you’re still, well, roughly where you are.”

A roar.

Serge looked toward the road and the high-rpm sound of cars racing up behind the stockade fence.

Split-second call.

Serge threw Coleman in the trunk and dove behind him. Mahoney slammed the lid as five sheriff’s cruisers whipped up the drive.

Two state agents jumped out, accompanied by a full detail of deputy backups. Hands on holsters.

“Where is he?” said White.

“Sorry I wasted your time,” said Mahoney. “Could have sworn, but it was a false lead.”

“You sure? What was it?”

Coleman began bumping around. Serge: “Shhhhhh!” Mahoney coughed and hit himself in the chest.

“You okay?” asked White.

“Just swallowed some saliva.” Mahoney noticed the back end of an electric blue Barracuda sticking out from some trees—the one he and the others had glimpsed hightailing it out of Everglades City. He began coughing and pounding his chest again.

“You sure you’re all right?”

He nodded. “Let’s go on the porch and I’ll explain . . .”

The other agents wandered around the deck, entranced by photos. The desired reaction.

“. . . And that’s about it,” said Mahoney. “I was canvassing the neighbors from Pinecrest back to here, and Lucky thought he remembered seeing some people matching the description, but they turned out to be bird-watchers.”

“Uh, yeah, right . . .” Agents moved to another wall of photos.

The sky darkened. Wind began to blow.

Mahoney pointed back at the car. “So I guess I’ll be going.”

“Hold up,” said White. “We’ll all take the Crown Vic.”

“No!” Mahoney’s arms flew out. “I mean, no, I need it. Couple other long-shot leads. Probably won’t pan out, and I don’t want to drag you around and waste any more of your time than I already have. You should ride back with the sheriff.”

“Positive?” said White. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m very impressed by all the hours you’ve been putting in. Let me lateral those leads to a couple of the deputies.”

“Absolutely not.” Mahoney shook his head. “I just need to be thorough and eliminate some things.”

“Good man,” said White. “You— . . . wait, what’s different?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not talking goofy.”

“I . . . took some medicine.”

“Glad to hear it.” White trotted down the steps toward the deputies. “False alarm. Let’s roll.”