The Riptide Ultra-Glide (19 page)

Pat peeled open a power bar. “Maybe just leave it in the bags. We only got the two smallest suitcases.”

“Thanks to the airline.” She opened her cell phone. “Which reminds me.”

Pat got back up on the chair.

“What are you doing?” asked Bar.

“Making sure I remember where my wallet is.”

Someone came on the line. Bar pulled the cell close to her ear. “Yes . . . I'm calling to check on some lost luggage . . .” She gave the baggage specialist all the particulars, then became silent.

Pat replaced a ceiling tile. “What's going on?”

Bar covered the phone. “She's checking her computer.” Bar uncovered the phone. “Yes, I'm still here . . . Cincinnati?”

Pat jumped down from the chair. “What's Cincinnati got to do with anything?”

Bar held up a hand so she could hear the person on the phone. “What are our bags doing in Cincinnati? . . . I see . . . But you're sure they're going to be on the very next flight down here? . . . Four o'clock? . . . Okay, thank you.” She hung up. “Unbelievable. It's one thing if they lose your bags on the flight home, and you've got all your other stuff in the house, but it really affects a short vacation.”

“Honey,” said Pat. “They told you they were on the next flight. That's just until this afternoon. We'll be at the beach until then.”

“But I won't feel comfortable until they're in hand.”

“You're the one who always talks about not worrying,” said Pat. “Besides, think of it another way: Every vacation has a glitch, and we've just gotten ours out of the way.”

“I thought this motel was the glitch.”

“Okay, two glitches,” said Pat. “What are the chances? That means it can only get better from here.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Just look out the window. It's an absolutely beautiful day.” Pat grabbed a tiny cooler of generic soda they'd bought at Publix. Then he took her in his arms and gave her a kiss. “This is our special time. We'll only be here so long, and there are only so many hours of great weather to catch. Our luggage will be sitting here or in the motel office when we get back.”

“I guess you're right.” She grabbed sunglasses off the top of the TV. “But what about my purse?”

Pat climbed up on a chair and raised a ceiling tile. “Hand it to me . . .”

Soon a rented Impala turned east off U.S. 1 and headed down a desolate road of wild marsh vegetation. Except for one unusually large building with an athlete painted on the side, swinging a curved basket.

“What's that?” asked Bar.

“The fronton,” said Pat. “I remember it from when I was kid. Let's go watch jai alai tonight.”

“What do they do?”

“It's like racquetball, except faster and Spanish.”

Their car finally reached the Atlantic Ocean and turned south.

“Now,
this
is A1A,” said Pat. “Welcome to Dania Beach.”

“It's beautiful,” said Bar. “Was it like this when you were young?”

“No, we used to be able to find a place to park.”

A half hour later, the Impala drove under a low-hanging yellow iron bar and angled up a ramp.

“A parking garage on the beach?” asked Bar.

“Not what I remember.” Pat reached the fourth level before he could find a slot.

Voices and footsteps echoed through the deck as Pat fed money into a machine that spit out a windshield ticket giving them until 5:41
P.M.
Eastern Time. It was a half block to the beach. Snack counters, burger shacks, a shaded seating area with a giant plastic ice-cream cone, a beach bar with someone playing three-chord Chicago blues in French. Bicycle rentals, scooter rentals, cabana rentals, no refunds, no parking, no dogs allowed on beach, no wet suits inside, bathrooms for customers only.

“Don't feed the birds!”
someone yelled from a pizza window.

Bar quickly jumped out of the way as an oiled-up man zipped by on Rollerblades, checking a cardio monitor strapped to his arm. Someone else furiously pedaled a recumbent bicycle.

Bar turned as they went by. “I thought the beach was for relaxation.”

“I was only six.”

The couple strolled hand in hand across a vast expanse of shore, covered with bright umbrellas in primary colors and a hundred shoes with wallets. They spread out a Green Bay Packers blanket on the sand and just dropped everything. The water awaited. Off they ran. Pat had oversize trunks with football helmets; Bar's one-piece suit was sexier than most bikinis. They splashed in together, still holding hands. Perfect temperature. They waded out until they were neck-deep and fifty yards from the nearest kid screaming on a raft. Bar climbed on Pat's back and wrapped her arms around his neck. A kiss on the side of the head. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“I've never seen water this color. Look how it changes with the depth.”

“It ain't Lake Erie.”

“The motel threw me at first,” Bar confessed. “But you were right. This vacation is just what we needed.”

“W-what are you doing?”

“What?” A coy smile.

“Bar!” Pat glanced around quickly to see if anyone was watching. Then he looked down in the water at her purposeful hands. “What's gotten into you?”

“What are you talking about?” The smile widened.

They sank to chin level and slowly began a pirouette without speaking. Just a gaze into each other's eyes that they'd never lost.

Another slow romantic turn in the water. The water was at the top of their necks. Bar raised her chin above a wave. “Are you crouching down?”

“No,” said Pat. “The water's getting deeper.”

Bar smiled at a playful angle. “Are you fooling around?”

Pat shook his head. “I'm on my tiptoes . . . Now I'm not on my tiptoes. I can't feel the bottom.”

“You're treading water?”

“I think it's the tide or something. We should swim in to shallower water.”

“Okay.”

They released each other and began dog-paddling. Two minutes went by.

“I still can't feel the bottom,” said Bar. “Are we getting closer to shore?”

“No,” said Pat, paddling harder. “In fact, we're farther.”

“How can you tell?”

“Those buoys marking the end of the swimming area used to be behind us, and now they're in front . . . We better swim faster.”

They both broke into an all-out freestyle stroke. Five minutes later, Bar stopped and came up sputtering and gasping. “I'm all out of breath . . . Wait . . . Have to rest . . . How much farther . . . do we have to go? . . .”

“Hold on . . . Give me a second . . .” Patrick did his own hyperventilating and came up coughing as a wave crashed over them. “Looks like we're even farther . . .”

“But how is that possible? . . . We've exhausted ourselves . . . swimming . . . for five minutes.”

“I don't know . . . but the buoys . . . are now . . . way back there.”

“Pat,” said Bar. “On the beach . . . A guy's waving at us.”

“It's the lifeguard . . . He's got a megaphone . . .”

“I can't make out what he's saying . . . Sounds like ‘riptide.' ”

They timed the next wave and held their breaths so they wouldn't choke. Their heads popped back up. “What's a riptide?”

“Beats me,” said Bar. “But now a whole bunch of other people are standing at the edge of the water and waving.”

“They're all motioning to the left,” said Pat. “And the lifeguard is saying something else in his megaphone.”

“I think he's telling us to swim parallel to the beach.”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“I don't know,” said Bar. “But he's got a megaphone, so he must know what he's talking about.”

“Okay, ready when you are,” said Pat, taking a few last deep breaths. “Just stay ahead of me so if you're tiring out again, I'll know . . .”

They took off splashing again.

Three minutes later, Bar stopped and grabbed Pat's arm. “Need to rest again . . . Do we keep swimming this way?”

“I don't think so,” said Pat. “The people on the beach are waving us toward them . . . And there's a lifeguard on a paddleboard coming out. He's pulling a spare board.”

The couple headed toward shore at a much slower rate, but making progress this time. Halfway back, they met the lifeguard. “Grab this paddleboard side by side and kick with your feet.”

The couple stretched their arms over the top of the waxed board and began splashing toward shore. “What just happened?” asked Bar.

“You got caught in a riptide,” said the lifeguard.

“A what?”

“Lots of tourists don't know, but sometimes underwater channels form in the sand, and when waves go back out, their speed is greatly increased because of the depth and added volume the channel can accommodate.”

“We were over one of those channels?” asked Pat.

“Must have been,” said the lifeguard. “The suction is deceptively strong, and a lot of people drown because they follow natural instinct and try to fight it by swimming straight for shore, but that only takes them farther out and exhausts them.”

“Is that why everyone was waving for us to swim sideways?” asked Pat. “So we would clear the channel and then come in?”

“That's the picture,” said the lifeguard. “You're a couple of the lucky ones.”

“This is getting ridiculous,” said Bar. “First luggage, then the motel, and now this.”

“But the lifeguard said we were lucky.” Pat grinned. “So it evens out.”

“My math says three glitches.”

“Exactly,” said Pat. “The odds must be astronomical. We're now due for the best vacation ever.”

Paddling continued. “Uh, Pat,” said Bar. “What's that guy onshore doing?”

“Which one?”

“The one standing on our beach blanket holding your shoe.”

Pat sighed. “At least it was just my backup wallet.”

“Four glitches,” said Bar. “And don't say it's only going to get better from here.”

Pat kept kicking. “But how can it not?”

“Excuse me,” said the lifeguard. “Can you stop kicking?”

“Why?”

“And just let me move my board around behind yours . . .” The lifeguard slid over to their backside and pulled out a small baton that was clipped to his waist. He swung it down hard into the water, landing the end on a moist snout.

There was an explosive thrash in the surf, before a dorsal fin quickly knifed away.

Pat looked up dubiously at the lifeguard. “Was that a shark?”

“The chamber of commerce would prefer you didn't say anything.”

Chapter Nineteen

BROWARD COUNTY

T
he boom box played the kind of optimistic Benny Goodman tune that made everyone want to go out and buy war bonds.

Three rows of retired women lined up on cue.

“Ladies, you look even more exquisite than last time! I am one lucky man. Let's get started.” Wolfgang walked to the end of the first row. “Mildred, shall we?”

They began swaying to the music.

The front door opened. A bellowing voice. “I absolutely
love
ballroom dancing!”

Wolfgang stopped swaying. “Sir, we just started a class. Please.”

“Then I'm right on time,” said Serge. “Come on, Coleman.”

Wolfgang forced a smile toward the rest of the group. “Excuse me a moment. Just continue.”

He rushed over. “Please, this is a private class. Now, if you wouldn't mind . . .”

Serge pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. “Does this open it?”

He'd found Wolfgang's soft spot. “Two-fifty,” said the instructor.

“Let's make it an even three,” said Serge, peeling off hundreds.

Wolfgang looked suspiciously over at Coleman, who grinned and raised a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in salute. “Dancing's cool.”

“Don't worry about him,” said Serge. “He'll be my partner.”

Oh, they're partners,
thought Wolfgang.
That explains it.
He felt more at ease as he pocketed the cash. “Okay, take a spot in the back.” Then he walked to the front. “As we were . . .” He took Mildred's hand.

Everyone moved gracefully to the big-band music. Except Serge, who manically jitterbugged out of tempo with the melody, twirling Coleman around and around.

Wolfgang rolled his eyes. After three minutes, he moved to his next partner.

Suddenly, from the rear of the room: “Whoa! Dizzy! . . .” Coleman staggered sideways and crashed into a mirror.

Everyone stopped and stared.

Serge smiled back. “Sorry, must have twirled him too much . . . Coleman, straighten up. You're attracting attention.” Coleman gripped the sides of a plastic wastebasket, his head all the way down inside, retching. Serge smiled again at the others. “It's his first time. Stage nerves.”

Coleman grabbed a stool on the side and took a time-out for the duration. Wolfgang worked his way along a series of partners in the front row, and Serge worked along the back. “Agnes, you're a natural!”

An hour later, they were done. The students thanked Wolfgang as usual and shuffled out the front door. Except those who decided to stay behind for additional, personal attention.

Wolfgang stuck his head out his office door and looked at the chairs lined up against the wall. Gertrude, Rita, Phoebe . . . and Serge and Coleman.

He took a deep breath and called the first woman in.

The afternoon went by. None of the ladies were left. Wolfgang stepped out of his office and conspicuously jingled keys. “Sorry, guys, have to lock up for the day.”

Serge jumped to his feet. “What? But we didn't get to talk!”

“I've got an important appointment.”

Serge pulled out the roll of cash again. “And I've got a business proposition. It'll just take a minute.”

Wolfgang couldn't take his eyes off the dough. “Okay, but just one minute.”

They went back inside and took seats.

Serge gestured with the hand that held the cash. “Let's get money out of the way first.”

“Fine by me,” said Wolfgang. “How much are we talking about?”

“All of it.”

“All of it?” said Wolfgang. Wow, it was a big roll. “What's your proposition?”

“I want you to give back all the money that you fleeced from these wonderful, trusting women. In exchange, you'll never see me again. Believe me, it's a bargain. Ask around.” He sat back and folded his arms with a big smile.

Wolfgang reached for the phone. “I'm calling the police.”

“And have them go through your financials again? You just got lucky last time when the woman stood up for you and they had to drop the charges. Only cowards prey on the most vulnerable.”

Wolfgang withdrew his hand. “Who
are
you?”

“Serge A. Storms. And I'm just crazy about reading newspapers, every word every day, starting with the funnies and ending with articles about scams so I can line up scores. Maybe you can answer this: How come Blondie's eyes don't have any pupils? It creeps me out.” Serge shook at the thought.

“You're nuts! Get out of my office!”

“I see you've accepted my terms.” Serge stood and unfolded two pieces of paper on the desk. “Just sign on the dotted lines. And give back my three hundred and anything you've got in the safe . . .”

“Out!”

“ . . . This first form redistributes your profits. And the second is your revised will that leaves everything to your students. But that's just a fail-safe, like a John Garfield clause, in the unlikely event that something unfortunate should happen to you before the first document can be executed.”

“I'm not signing anything!”

Serge reached under his shirt, and pressed a .44 between Wolfgang's eyes.

“Where's my pen?”

“That's better,” said Serge.

Moments later, Wolfgang was on his knees in front of an open office safe. “This is all of it.”

Serge finished stuffing the contents into his pockets. “Now, that wasn't so hard.” He pulled the gun again and motioned toward the door. “Let's take a little ride.”

“But I thought we had a deal.”

“I never signed anything.” Serge turned. “Coleman, did I sign anything?”

Coleman shook his head.

Serge shrugged at Wolfgang. “You should always get everything in writing . . . Now, get up.”

“Wait!” Wolfgang threw out his hands in a pleading gesture. “I know where you can get a lot more money. Thousands.
Tens
of thousands!”

“That's fear talking,” said Serge. “Fear's a bullshit artist.”

“This is real, I swear,” said Wolfgang. “The dance studio just got a new investor. Another guy in this strip mall. He runs a pain clinic . . .”

Serge scratched his chin with the end of the gun, then sat back down. “Tell me more.”

“He's got at least five offices now. They work with these Mexicans who are trying to corner the market as the local wholesaler.”

And he laid out the whole pipeline plan, cradle to grave. Including the Kentucky customers.

“Interesting,” said Serge. “And they always use the same motel?”

“I don't know. I think so.”

“You've done great,” said Serge. “Now let's go for that ride.”

U.S. 1

P
atrick stood outside their room at the Casablanca. “My face is on fire.”

“You're severely sunburned.” Bar reached into a drugstore bag and removed an aerosol can. “You shouldn't have fallen asleep on the beach while I was window-shopping.”

“But I was tired from the riptide.”

Bar uncapped the Solarcaine. “Close your eyes and hold still.”

A hissing sound.

“Why are we outside?” asked Pat.

“Because this really musts up the air if you spray indoors.”

“Can I open my eyes now?”

Bar replaced the cap. “All done.”

Pat felt his face. “This is definitely going to peel.”

“No, it's not,” said Bar. “Your face will just feel hot tonight.”

A voice behind them from in front of the next room: “Can I borrow some of that?”

“Sure.” She handed over the can.

The man uncapped it again, spraying heavily into a brown paper bag, then placing the mouth of the bag over his face and inhaling deeply. His eyes rolled back in his head as he crashed back through the door of his room, the can of Solarcaine clanking across the parking lot.

Bar quickly opened their own door, and the couple rushed inside.

“What was the deal with that guy?” said Bar, grabbing dry clothes.

Pat leaned with his face three inches from the mirror, staring and slowly running fingers over his eyebrows. “I fell asleep on the beach with my sunglasses on. I look like a raccoon.”

“Just wear sunglasses whenever we go out until it fades.”

Patrick climbed up on a chair. “It's definitely going to peel.”

“What do you want to do about dinner?”

“Maybe the Mai-Kai?” said Pat. “My parents used to rave about it when I was a kid.” He pushed back a ceiling tile and felt around in the dust. “Where's my wallet? Someone stole my wallet.”

“Wonderful,” said Bar. “Did they also steal my purse?”

“No, here it is.” Pat reached deep into the ceiling. “Whoever stole my wallet probably didn't find it because it was pushed back farther.” As he retrieved the handbag, his fingers found something else.

“What's that?” asked his wife.

Pat held the discovery in front of his face. “Looks like a joint from those drug-education slide shows at our school. Someone else must have been up here in the ceiling before me.” He replaced the tile and jumped down from the chair. “Told you it was a good place to hide stuff.”

Bar slipped on denim shorts. “Is the whole state like this?”

“You're stereotyping based on a few random glitches.”

“So we've lost a specific glitch count now?”

“It's just a weird run. There's no way it can continue—”

A knock at the door.

Bar raised her eyebrows.

“Odds on our side,” said Pat, walking past and opening the door. “Hello?”

“I'm locked out of my room,”
said a woman.
“Can I use your phone?”

“Pat,” Bar yelled from behind. “Is she the same one?”

“No, another.” He faced the woman again. “I'll bet I can help. You know that thing you just did with your knuckles on this door to get me to come and open it? Try that.”

He closed the door.

“Why are you smiling?” asked Bar.

“I think I'm getting the hang of this.”

“I think we might consider going home early.”

“But the airline will hammer us with charges for the flight change. I told you: It's just been a quirky twenty-four hours. Nothing else can possibly—”

A cell phone rang.

“Nobody calls your phone,” said Bar. “We only have it for road emergencies.”

“Then let's answer it.” Pat dug it out of a pocket on his suitcase and flipped it open. “Hello? . . . Fraud unit? Who is this— . . . Our credit-card company? . . . Do we have our cards in our possession? . . . Uh, that's hard to say . . . Because it's a big ceiling with a lot of dust and I don't want to jump to conclusions until I can get back up there with a flashlight . . . No, it was a travel tip . . .”

“What's the matter?” asked Bar.

“They want to know if we have our credit cards.”

Bar fished in her purse. “I found mine.”

Pat got back on the phone. “Half accounted for . . . And I'll bet if I had a flashlight— Are you sure someone's running up charges? . . . I see. Well, they must have gotten our number off a receipt or something . . . What? They actually presented a card with a valid magnetic strip? But how is that possible? . . . Computers? I don't mean to be critical, but this is very disconcerting . . . Sure, I can verify recent transactions . . . Could you repeat that? . . . All fifteen of those were for an even hundred dollars at a department store? To the penny? . . . Uh-huh, I see. The thieves often go on a spree and buy a bunch of gift cards before the account is turned off . . . That makes sense. I shop at that store all the time near our home in Wisconsin. Someone must have gotten it there . . . What do you mean ‘not Wisconsin'? . . . South Florida? What's the address? . . .” Pat clicked open a pen and grabbed something to write on. “But that's just a few blocks from our motel . . . What? There's one last transaction? Forty-three dollars and sixty-two cents? The Oasis Inn? . . .” Pat walked to the window and peeked through the curtains. On the other side of U.S. 1, a lighted motel sign with camels and date palms. “That's right across the street! Call the cops! . . . What do you mean your job is just to document fraudulent activity? They just made the charge on our account! And it's a motel, not a store. They're probably in there right now, maybe even sleeping! You can break the case! . . .” Pat listened some more to the phone, then quietly hung up.

“What's the matter?” asked Bar.

“The good news is we're not responsible for any charges.”

“The bad news?”

“They turned off our cards.”

“What!” Bar stood up rod straight. “But we need them for our vacation. We're practically stranded here without them.”