The Riptide Ultra-Glide (30 page)

The new direction toward land created a new challenge; the moonlit waves caught the back of the boat, then rolled up underneath and raised the cockpit to a sharp angle before crashing it down again.

Onshore, a few curious night strollers began pointing at the strange ship emerging from the Atlantic. They cautiously approached. As it grew larger, word spread through the bars and restaurants. More and more onlookers worked their way onto the beach until it became a mob. With the courage of their numbers, the audience slowly moved forward until they reached the edge of the surf.

“Hey!”
someone yelled.
“It's the
Cosmic Muffin
! . . .”

“Desdemona's Rocket Ship! . . .”

“Buffett for president! . . .”

With a helpful push of the waves, Serge nosed the boat a last fifty yards and landed it. A hatch opened. “Everyone out!” He jumped down in a foot of water and trudged ashore like MacArthur.

“I know that guy!”
came another voice from the crowd.
“He's famous!”

“Thank you,” Serge said with humility.

A few others in the crowd were wearing custom T-shirts with a fleshy face on the front, over the quote: “Use sunscreen; don't do heroin.”

They charged past Serge.
“It's Coleman! . . .”

“I should have known he rolls in the
Cosmic Muffin
! . . .”

“Coleman, are you going to make the
Muffin
a bong? . . .”

Coleman came ashore signing autographs.

The crowd swarmed around them as they crossed the sand toward A1A.

“Coleman, stop with the Paris Hilton shit,” said Serge. “We got company.”

Coleman handed back a pen. “Where?”

“That way,” said Serge, looking to his right, where Gaspar was getting out of a black Jeep. Serge turned in the other direction toward a Durango. “And over there.”

Coleman grabbed Serge by the arm. “What do we do? There's no place to go.”

“Is something the matter, Coleman?”

“Yes, those guys are after us.”

“Who?”
asked someone else in the crowd.

“Those two,” said Coleman. “The Mexican in the dark shirt and that second one in the jeans.”

“Are they out to steal your record?”

“Exactly,” said Serge. “And they cheat. They want to break Coleman's kneecap like Nancy Kerrigan.”

“Son of a bitch! . . .”

“We won't let you down, Coleman! . . .”

The two assailants approached the crowd from opposite directions.

Then the crowd turned and approached
them
.

The pair were so preoccupied trying to spot their prey that they didn't notice a shift in the mass of people. The going got rougher until they couldn't proceed at all.

“Out of the way!” yelled Gaspar.

“Move it!” said Catfish.

“Fuck you!”

Gaspar raised a pistol in the air and fired. That usually scattered crowds. This time they just plucked the gun away. Then the mob collapsed inward around the two, like the natives seizing Captain Willard in
Apocalypse Now
.

“Get your hands off me!” shouted Catfish.

They were both quickly pinned. A skateboard punk looked up. “Coleman, what do you want us to do with them?”

Serge smiled at his pal. “Tell them to bring 'em to our car. I'll go on ahead and open the trunk . . .”

THE CASABLANCA INN, ROOM 17

S
ix people crowded inside.

Patrick McDougall paced. “I don't like this.”

Serge sat on the edge of one bed, aiming a pistol at two men sitting on the other, wrists bound behind their backs with plastic ties. “What? I should let them kill you?”

“But this isn't right,” said Pat.

“You're saying that because you're a good man.” Serge shifted his weight and got a better grip on the gun. “That's why this is my business. My hands are already dirty . . . Why don't you take your wife and go in the bathroom until this is over.”

Bar gently grabbed his arm. “Let's do like he says.”

“No!” asserted Pat. “I'm not going to let him murder them in cold blood.”

“You have my word,” said Serge. “Nothing will happen to them as long as we're in this room.”

Bar tugged his arm. “Come on, honey.”

Pat relented, and they went in the bathroom.

“Now, where were we?” asked Serge.

“You better kill me,” said Catfish. “Otherwise you're a dead man.”

Gaspar spit on the floor.
“Mierda!”

Serge crossed his legs and leaned casually. “Tell me a little about yourselves, as long as we're going to be sitting here. You like sports? Indie films?”

“Kiss my ass!”

Serge cracked Catfish on the side of his head with the barrel of his gun, then smashed Gaspar in the nose with its butt. “I just want some conversation partners. Is that too much to ask?” He raised the gun again. “Why don't you tell me a funny story from when you were growing up? . . .”

TWO HOURS LATER

S
mall waves from an incoming tide lapped a seawall. The moon had gone down, leaving Serge to work in the privacy of near-total darkness.

“Serge, you don't have to do this,” said Pat.

“What? You mean borrow another boat?”

Coleman threw the end of a joint in the water with a sizzle. “Borrow? Didn't you steal it?”

“This is no time to parse words.” Serge tied a final knot in clear, thin monofilament. “There, done.” He brushed his palms together.

“It's not too late,” said Pat.

“It's
real
late.” Serge climbed back up on the landing. “Almost dawn.”

“You don't have to kill them!”

“I'm not going to kill them, although I can't prevent every accident.”

“Serge, I'm begging—”

“Don't you want to know what I've rigged up here?”

“No!”

Serge looked down into the aluminum dinghy. “I'll bet
they
want to know. Their mouths are taped shut, but I can always tell by the eyes.” He took a seat on the edge of the concrete wall and let his legs dangle over the side. “Catfish, that was quite a childhood story you told me back at the motel about how you got that nickname. So in your honor, I shopped for a brand-new frog-darter lure, but I couldn't find one because apparently they're super-rare. It's the thought that counts. So instead I went with live bait. I put a good-size fish on the hook because there's no point in this unless you're going for large game! . . . See that line moving around in the water? That's your bait swimming around right now. As you can tell, the line is attached to that fishing pole in the rod holder, and whenever you leave a pole unattended, you need a bell or some other alarm system to let you know when you got a bite. Because you wouldn't want your first big one getting away, right? The bait is big enough so that it's making the tip of the pole twitch slightly. Don't worry: not enough to set off the alarm . . . But I know your next question: What kind of alarm has ol' Serge rigged to my pole? Believe me, you won't miss it.” He pointed at the running camcorder in his other hand. “To share the memories . . . Well, off you go! . . .”

Serge reached down with a foot and pushed the dinghy out into the middle of the water. “We probably need to stand back. Way back.”

He led the gang along the seawall to the edge of some grass.

“What's going to happen?” asked Pat.

“Hopefully they'll catch a fish.”

“Then what?”

“The alarm system.” Serge clicked on a flashlight and aimed the beam. “I put some drag on the line so when the big one hits, it'll start running out a few yards. Unless it's a really big hit, then the line will just fly. And when it does, I've got a piece of string running from the reel to the alarm.”

“I can't make it out,” said Pat.

Serge moved the flashlight's beam. “Hard to see in this light, but it's that tiny condiment packet. I'm sure you've tried Tabasco sauce. Great stuff. It's balanced at the top of the cut-open heating pouch for an in-the-field military meal.”

“I remember,” said Coleman. “Like that guy from West Point started a fire during survival training. But you left it on the gas tank.”

“What tank?” asked Serge.

“That one.” Coleman pointed at the spot illuminated by the flashlight. “The big red metal thing with a rag coming out the mouth where the cap should be.”

“Did I do that?” Serge whistled. “A clear safety violation. But I loved the part of Catfish's tale where he tied the owl to the gas tank because, if nothing else, I want to be relevant.”

Coleman looked around. “How'd you find this place?”

“We're in the backyard of one of those ridiculous waterfront mansions on the New River,” said Serge. “Captain Loogie tipped me off which ones were unoccupied. This guy was indicted for emptying retirement accounts.
Another
one. Get out your scorecard.”

“But don't mansions like this have outrageous security systems?” asked Coleman.

“The best,” said Serge. “But they're mainly designed to prevent burglars breaking into the house, not someone minding his own business and seeking backyard access to the water.”

Coleman squinted toward a circular ripple in the water where the fishing line went in. “That bait really is swimming.”

“Should catch something in no time.” Serge pressed an eye to the viewfinder.

“Please!” Pat pleaded. “There's still time to stop!”

“And let the big one get away?” said Serge. “Not a chance. This is for Santiago, from
The Old Man and the Sea
.”

“Uh, Serge,” said Coleman. “I think there's a problem. I don't know how they're going to catch anything where they are.”

“What do you mean?” asked Serge.

Coleman pointed in another direction away from the backyard. “Shouldn't they be in that other body of water?”

“You mean the New River on the opposite side of the seawall? No, I specifically meant to place them exactly where they are.” Serge slapped himself on the forehead. “But I left out a critical step. Follow me . . .”

They walked to the back of the mansion, where Serge found an electrical switch near the gazebo.

He threw it.

Tranquil, muted waves of light danced up the back wall of the house, as the entire backyard lit up in the emerald glow of a palatial swimming pool. With a dinghy floating in the middle. And lots of aquatic movement under the surface.

“There,” said Serge. “Now they can see it.”

“Who can see it?” asked Coleman.

The first one splashed into the water like a cannonball. Then another, and another, drawn to the bright rectangle that was a beacon in the otherwise dark night.

The pelicans kept dive-bombing the pool, feasting on dozens of Japanese koi fish that swam around a hillbilly and a Mexican.

Coleman took a big toke on his joint. “This is some far-out shit.”

“I didn't invent nature,” said Serge. “I just like to rearrange it.”

The splashing became continuous until the pool was a froth.

“Look!” Coleman dramatically stretched out an arm. “One of them ate the bait fish! He's flying away! The line's in the air!”

“So it is,” said Serge.

“The Tabasco tipped,” said Coleman. “There's a little flicker in the heating pouch. And now the rag is starting to—”

Boom
.

The light and heat forced everyone back a step. A fireball went up, and flaming pieces of fishing equipment splashed down in the water.

“But what about the pelican?” asked Coleman.

“I used an environmentally friendly hook that will dissolve in a few days, so no animals would be harmed in this production, with obvious exceptions . . . Better turn this off.” Serge stepped back to the gazebo and flicked the switch.

The backyard went dark, and the flames in the boat faded until there was just the burning outline of two human forms.

Coleman scratched his head. “Didn't we leave a guy burning in a boat at night last year?”

“Yes,” said Serge. “That oil asshole in the Gulf of Mexico. But it never gets old.”

Epilogue

S
erge turned off the video camera. “Okay, show's over, back to the car . . .”

They walked to the side of the mansion, where the Gran Torino sat far up a long brick driveway, out of view from the street.

Bar cried inconsolably.

“What's eating her?” said Serge.

Pat just gave him a stare.

“Oh, I get it,” said Serge. “A marriage fight.”

“Can you give me a couple minutes alone with her?” asked Pat. “We'll be right along.”

“No problem,” said Serge. “Except those are police sirens we're hearing. It's coming from the other bank, but still a good idea not to dawdle . . . Come on, Coleman.”

They walked back to the Gran Torino and leaned against the driver's side.

“Serge, maybe you shouldn't have let them see that.” Coleman fired up his predawn jay. “She's a wreck.”

“You live, you learn.”

A cell phone rang.

Serge looked at his sidekick.

“What?” said Coleman. “Aren't you going to get that?”

“It's not my ring tone.”

Coleman looked in the back window. “Where's it coming from?”

“I don't know.” He opened a door.

“There,” said Coleman. “The wife's purse in the backseat.”

Serge reached inside the handbag and pulled it out. The ringing got louder. He flipped it open.

“Hello? . . . Uh, the McDougalls? Yes, they're right here, but I don't think they can come to the phone. They're indisposed, so I'll just discreetly leave it at that because they're having a marriage fight about sexual role-playing, probably costumes . . . What? Could you repeat that last part? But it's not possible! . . .”

Coleman tapped his arm. “What is it?”

Serge swatted the air for him to keep quiet. “But how can
you
be the McDougalls when they're here with me? . . . Listen, I gotta run.” He clapped the phone shut. “Pat, Bar, where'd you get those guns?”

“Hands up and move away from the car.”

“What's going on?”

“You just helped us eliminate the competition,” said the woman.

“I . . . but . . .” Serge held up the phone. “These people said
they
were the McDougalls.”

“They are,” said the man. “We grabbed them from the side of the motel just before they were about to return to the room. We'd been following them since the shoot-out until we could take their place.”

Serge smacked himself on the forehead. “Of course, I only previously saw you at long distance, so I wouldn't have noticed.” Then his eyes narrowed. “What have you done with them?”

“Relax, they're completely safe.” The man stepped forward and relieved Serge of the gun under his shirt and the keys in his pocket. “We put them up in a suite at the Ambassador and told them to stay put until a special agent came by to escort them.”

“Is an agent coming by?” asked Serge.

“No. They'll just wait in the room until they get bored and realize nobody's going to show up. It's bad business to hurt civilians. Only attracts attention.”

“But all this . . .” Serge gestured back at the canal. “Why?”

“We were working with Gaspar Arroyo to eliminate a pesky rival.”

“So that whole business at the Casablanca was a trap for Catfish?” asked Serge. “It was a mock execution?”

The man nodded. “But we didn't count on you being in the bathroom. Which actually turned out to be a big break in our favor.”

“But then why did you let me kill Gaspar in that boat back there?”

“Because Gaspar
thought
we were working together.” The woman motioned with her gun for Serge and Coleman to start walking. “We were just using him to get to Catfish, then take care of Gaspar as well because the real objective was to eliminate both of them. That's where you fit in very nicely.”

“I get it.” Serge whistled. “Man, have I been a dupe. You're working for a third party that's muscling in.”

“Let's just say that certain more sophisticated executive elements back in Kentucky saw how lucrative Catfish's operation had become.”

Serge smiled. “And the big boys are clearing a space at the trough?”

“Something like that.” The man removed a suitcase of cash from the trunk of the Gran Torino.

Headlights approached from the end of the residential street. The lights went out, and a Mercedes swung up the brick driveway in the dark.

The man turned around. “That's our ride.”

“So now you shoot us?” asked Serge.

“Don't be ridiculous. You're worth far more to us alive than dead. As long as you're out there roaming around doing whatever the hell it is you call this, the police will be chasing your trail and leaving us alone. And, of course, we'll be calling in some tips about the boat fire.”

“And what if
I
call the police on you? Huh?” said Serge. “Did you think about that?”

“Who's going to believe you? You're insane.”

“Touché.”

“Been nice working with you.”

They climbed in the sedan. Door slammed. The Mercedes backed away without headlights.

THE NEXT MORNING

K
nock, knock, knock!

“Honey, someone's at the door.”

“I got it.”

Three more hard knocks on room 1151 of the Ambassador Hotel.

“Coming! . . .” Pat McDougall checked the peephole, then opened the door on the chain. “Yes?”

A gold badge came through the crack.

Pat undid the door and opened up the rest of the way. “Thought you'd never arrive.”

From the other side of the room: “Who is it, honey?”

Pat looked back at his wife. “It's the special agent who's going to escort us.”

The visitor pocketed his badge. “We don't have much time. Please gather your belongings.”

“Thank God,” said Pat. “This has been the craziest vacation. So the nightmare is finally over?”

“Yes,” Serge said with an effervescent smile. “Now let's get in the car!”