Electric Barracuda (9 page)

“But the essential ingredient to the scam is the yellow vests. They possess mystical powers.”

“Like your clipboard?”

Serge nodded. “People see your vests and automatically bow to authority as if there’s no way I could have bought them at Home Depot. But occasionally you get a safety-vest skeptic, so . . .”—he pointed in the backseat—“. . . the orange cones crush all doubt . . . Ready?”

“The Fugitive Tour?”

“Let’s rock!”

The Gran Torino sped away.

“. . . Recalculating . . .”

Chapter Three

Fort Lauderdale

T
he hospital room was somber and smelled funky.

Unfortunately, an attorney had to be there, but that couldn’t be helped. Who knew how much longer, and documents needed to be signed and witnessed.

Luckily, no shortage of witnesses.

The patient in the bed was one of the last of the old gang.

And what a gang it was. Not like today. Old school, discipline, living by a code. It was the roaring sixties in Miami Beach, just before the Beatles came ashore, and the gang ruled the strip, making rounds in straw hats and guayaberas. If you were staying at one of the swank hotels back then, you could get a wager down on anything as fast as you could find a doorman or the concierge, who passed it along to the gang. It wasn’t even really a crime. At least that’s how everyone thought back then, including the police who took their cut. They were just giving the people what they wanted, like providing a public service. It was mainly bookmaking, but they nibbled a variety of other vices with mixed results. The call girls became more of a nuisance than anything, but they kept the hookers on for appearances. The gang didn’t have a name, until much later when they were called the No Name Gang. There was Greek Tommy, Chi-Chi, Moondog, Coltrane, Mort from the delicatessen, Roy the Pawn King and, of course, Sergio.

Sergio was the craziest, and thought dead for a number of years, until he showed back up in time to die. He was the first to go, when the march of time began thinning the herd. Then Greek Tommy passed, and Mort, and Moondog. Now it looked like Chi-Chi’s turn.

Chairs were pulled from the walls and surrounded the hospital bed. There was good ol’ Coltrane and Roy the Pawn King, getting up there themselves; and the next generations, Greek Tommy
Junior
, with his ne’er-do-well biker sons, Skid Marks and Bacon Strips. They scooted chairs closer.

Chi-Chi rested comfortably on three pillows.

A cough.

“Just take it easy,” said Roy. “You’re going to outlive us all.”

An effort to smile. “Roy, you’re a douche bag.”

“See, everyone? He’s getting better.”

Another cough.

They did their best to conceal true thoughts.

“Excuse me . . .”

Coltrane turned. “Can’t it wait?”

“I’m sorry,” said the lawyer, “but it’s my advice that we get these signed while, well . . . I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“It’s okay,” said Chi-Chi. “He’s got a job to do. Earn that pound of flesh . . . Where do I put my Hancock?”

“By the little taped arrows.”

“Jesus, he can’t even hold a pen,” said Roy.

“If you could help, we’ll get it over with as quickly as possible,” said the attorney.

Roy held the pen in Chi-Chi’s hand while the lawyer slid the paper, making a straight line of ink.

“Is that really a signature?” asked Tommy Junior.

The attorney stood back up with the documents. “Good enough as long as it’s witnessed. If you could just sign on the last page.”

“Now?”

“It’s okay, Pops,” said Skid Marks. “Me and Bacon Strips will sign.”

“Tommy?” said Chi-Chi.

“I’m right here.”

A smile. “Remember our old runs on the Loop Road? And the Gator Hook?”

“You must be thinking of my father.”

Chi-Chi stared toward the foot of the bed, then nodded. “That’s right. How is he?”

Tommy Junior looked with concern at the others.

“Chi-Chi,” said Roy the Pawn King. “Greek Tommy passed away last year.”

Another nod. “That’s right,” said Chi-Chi. “But what a driver. Never could match him on the old Loop Road, even though I did my best. That’s why I was better driving the blocking car.”

“You more than held your own,” said Tommy Junior. “Dad was always saying that.”

“But your
grand
dad,” said Chi-Chi, barely managing a faint whistle. “Now,
he
was a driver. And one crazy bastard.”

The attorney slid next to Roy the Pawn King. “What are they talking about?”

“Glory days,” said Roy. “Running moonshine. Tommy’s grandfather actually worked for Capone.”

“Chicago?”

“No, Florida,” said Roy. “Most people don’t realize it, but Al had an operation in the Everglades. Poachers fed him from a network of stills.”

“Seriously? . . .” The lawyer neared the bed and stuck an ear in the conversation.

“Those were the best times of our lives,” said Chi-Chi.

“The high-water mark,” said Tommy Junior.

“Your dad and I were so young,” said Chi-Chi. “The world ahead of us . . . Whatever happened to that map?”

“Think he gave it to Sergio,” said Tommy. “He was always interested in that history stuff.”

“What map?” asked Roy.

“Supposedly my grandfather handed it down to my dad. I never actually saw it, so it might not even exist,” said Tommy. “I just heard him and Sergio talking about it one night in the Gator Hook.” A chuckle. “Crazy meets crazy.”

“Again, what map?”

“You know my granddad was nuttier than hell—always claimed there was something buried out behind the old Capone place in the glades.”

“Bodies?”

“No doubt,” said Tommy. “But Granddad was talking about something else. Legend has it that just before the Valentine’s massacre, Scarface cleared out his Chicago vault . . .”

“The empty one Geraldo opened on live TV?”

Tommy nodded. “After Rivera only found cobwebs, the rumors really took off. As the story goes, Al knew there’d be heat from his hit on the Moran gang, so in advance he divided up the safe’s contents and stashed it at various places around the country, including the Everglades. Dad drew a map from memory. But like I said, ‘as the story goes.’ ”

“How’d he even know to draw a map.”

“Claims one night he was at the wrong place at the wrong time—saw something he shouldn’t have.”

Chi-Chi grinned. “As soon as I get out of this joint, let’s go dig it up!”

Tommy smiled back. “Deal.”

A white coat and stethoscope appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me?” The doctor looked at Roy. “Can we talk?”

Roy stepped into the hallway, bracing for the worst.

The attending physician opened a patient file. “He can go home.”

“What?” Roy’s head jerked back. “He’s getting better?”

“No.” The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s got a month, maybe two. But he’s stable, and we feel they often do better at home, surrounded by family . . .”

Back inside the room, Chi-Chi had nodded off, and everyone headed for the door. The attorney slid the witnessed documents into a large envelope and tried to be nonchalant. “So, Tommy, you think your granddad’s map was for real?”

“
He
swore it was.” Tommy stopped and turned around in the hall. “Except you’d have to know him. Personally, I think Geraldo found more on his show.”

Somewhere in Cyberspace

Serge’s Blog. Star Date 584.948.

Hey gang! Welcome to the first installment of Serge’s Florida (Fugitive) Experience!

Nowhere else will you find the best way to enjoy my fine state! That’s right, as a fugitive!

I know what you’re thinking: “But, Serge, I’m not a fugitive.”

Who says? Society brainwashes us into thinking you have to be chased in order to flee. But anyone can just make a break for it whenever they want. So here’s what you do: After work on Friday, screech out of the parking lot and race around the state in a paranoid stupor, glancing over your shoulders, peeking through blinds of dicey motels, darting down alleys and diving in Dumpsters whenever you spot a patrol car, tipping bartenders extra and whispering: “You never saw me.” But how many law-abiding citizens have the imagination to experience the magic?

I already hear your next question: “What if the cops get suspicious and stop me?”

Proudly declare you’re a fugitive on the run! Then they radio it in, and dispatch comes back with a clean record. And the cop says, “Are you actually wanted for anything?” And you say, “Not even a parking ticket,” and he says, “Then how are you a fugitive?” You say, “It’s a lifestyle choice. We have an image awards dinner coming up.”

First, you’ll be staying in a lot of motels. Stick with the most sketchy. I recently tried mixing my routine with a reservation at an upscale chain. You know, the one with those ads where that woman is swinging around the room on red curtains? I’m here to tell you, those things rip right the fuck down. And the rods take chunks out of the wall. Then you go to the front desk to complain, and they look at all the plaster dust and bundle of torn fabric in your arms and say, “What the hell were you doing swinging from the curtains?” I say, “Isn’t that how all business people relax?”

Second, disguises. It’s your call. I prefer a professional disguise kit; Coleman gets drunk and cuts his own hair.

Third, getaway driving. You know how you sometimes need to change lanes to make a turn? And you hit your blinker, but in the Sunshine State that’s the official signal for the jack-off behind you in the next lane to speed up and close the gap so you can’t get over? Not actually a fugitive tip. Just burns my ass.

P.S. Next week, “Al Capone: The Florida Connection!”

P.P.S. Next fugitive stop . . .

Miami Beach

Restored Art Deco treasures lined Collins Avenue. Restaurants, apartments, shops. And hotels.

In a $300-a-night suite on the fourteenth floor, with a sweeping view of the Atlantic, an unconscious man on the bed regained consciousness.

“Where am I?”

Blood and bruises.

He sat up and grabbed his pounding head. “What the heck happened?”

Memory seeped back. The
woman
. Like him, a rough-sex freak. She had indeed kept her promise to blow his mind with a night to top all others.

Across the room, sitting at a desk with her back to him, were those curves and fabulous head of fiery red hair that had first caught his attention in the techno-dance club.

The man jumped from the bed and into his pants. “You’re fucking crazy!” He ran out the door without his shirt.

No reaction from the woman. She was on her laptop, faithfully monitoring the same website for any updates. It was proverbial feast or famine. A nonstop flood of images and text for weeks. Then nothing for six months.

The faucet had just come back on.

Serge’s Florida (Fugitive) Experience.

“Bingo.”

At the bottom of the computer screen:
P.P.S. Next fugitive stop: Kissimmee!

She scribbled something on a hotel notepad, then went to wake the person in the suite’s other bedroom.

A half hour later, guests rubber-necked all through the hotel lobby as a jaw-dropping redhead in dark, movie-star sunglasses rolled a single Samsonite out to the curb. She didn’t even need her valet ticket. Who could forget?

A turquoise T-Bird rolled up. The valet got a ten for his trouble, and she took off.

Chapter Four

South of Orlando

A
Crown Vic rolled east on Highway 192. Two occupants checked addresses.

Agent White looked over from the driver’s seat at his passenger. “I hate to pull rank, but could you wear a shirt and tie?”

Agent Lowe glanced down at his black jumpsuit. “But it’s regulation SWAT.”

“You’re not on the SWAT team.”

“I’m projecting.”

“Shirt and tie tomorrow?”

“Will you put in a word?”

“If we catch Serge.” White returned to checking address numbers on car washes and nail salons. Then a strip mall, where Uncle Sam and the Statue of Liberty stood at the curb, waving signs for speedy tax preparation. “I thought the Orange Bowl was in Miami.”

“So did I,” said Lowe. “But it’s where his e-mail told us to meet.”

They continued through Kissimmee, farther from Disney, closer to the old part of town that had grown out of livestock farms and steamboat docks in the late nineteenth century. The main drag slipped from tourist glitter to neighborhood business.