Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

“Some story,” said Coleman.

“Sucks,” said Country, expertly rolling a joint on the table. “Jesus!” Serge glanced around. “Trying to get us pinched?”

“Fuck it.”

“Cool,” said Coleman.

Country lit the number and passed it under the table to City.

She passed it back. “On three…”

They did shots.

The Hawkeyes were turned around on their stools with backs against the bar.

In love.

So was Country; her altered blood chemistry drooped eyelids and formed a coy smile at memories of old times with Serge. She got up, whiskey hips swaying, and, without intention, couldn’t have caused more drooling on her way to the jukebox.

Her right hand braced against the domed glass; her left pressed buttons, mechanically flipping miniature album covers. Flipping stopped.

B-19.

The bar echoed with the slow, immediately recognizable forty-year-old cadence of a cowbell. Charlie Watts joined on drums. A single guitar chord.

Country sauntered to the middle of the floor, giving Serge a bedroom smile and making a naughty “come hither” motion with an index finger.

Serge could dance, but it wasn’t a smooth prospect. He had only one speed: open throttle. Duck-walking, backflips, jumping jacks, sliding across the floor for imaginary home plates. Country told him to just stand still.

“ … I met a gin-soaked barroom queen… ”

She did all the work. Her back to him, slithering up and down against his chest, running hands through her wild, curling hair.

Over in the corner booth, Coleman raised his eyebrows toward City and nodded toward the dance floor.

“Are you retarded?”

Coleman strained to think.

She hit her joint.

He reached for it.

“No.”

Back on the dance floor, Country continued grinding into Serge, shifting tempo perfectly with the music. The chorus came around again and she flung her head side to side, that blond mane whipping back and forth in front of her face.

“ Honnnnnnnnky-tonk women… ”

At the bar, six Hawkeyes with outstretched arms pointed cell phone cameras.

NEW HAMPSHIRE

Snow fluttered.

Big, thick flakes clumped before they hit ground. Accumulation reached three inches on the steps of the Dimond Library. Inside, toasty and empty.

Only four students. Three on the main floor and another in archives.

Andy McKenna sat at a microfilm machine, researching an article for the student paper on plans to attach a full-scale plastic replica of the Old Man of the Mountain at the top of Franconia Notch.

His iPod earphones: “ More than a feeling… ”

He didn’t hear the door open behind him.

Several pairs of feet moved quietly across the carpet. Andy’s eyes stayed on the screen as he advanced the reel.

Feet moved closer. Fifteen yards, ten, five… the back of Andy’s head growing larger… four, three…

At the last second, Andy caught a reflection in the microfilm’s screen, but it was too late.

A thick forearm wrapped around his neck. Andy grabbed it with his hands, thrashing left and right, earbuds flying, feet kicking the ground.

No use.

A voice from over his shoulder: “Just accept it and this will go a lot easier.”

“Let go of me!”

The arm released.

Laughter. The three amigos: Joey, Doogie and Spooge.

Andy jumped up and grabbed his chest. “That wasn’t funny. You nearly scared me to death!”

More laughing.

“What’s this about?” asked Andy.

“A kidnapping. It’s futile to resist.”

“Leave me alone.” He sat again. “Got work to do.”

A hand reached down to the wall and unplugged the microfilm viewer. Andy’s head fell back with a deep sigh.

“Come on,” said Joey. “We have to get going before the snow’s too deep.”

“Going? I’m not going anywhere.”

Joey was the one with big forearms, thanks to the rowing team. “Guys?”

They snatched Andy under his arms.

“Okay, okay!” He jerked free. “Where are we going? If, that is, I agree.”

“Agreeing’s not part of it,” said Spooge. “Florida,” said Doogie. “Florida? I can’t go to Florida!”

“You don’t have a choice…”

“… Andy, it’s spring break!”

“… It’ll be wicked excellent!”

“Send me a postcard.” Andy reached for the electrical plug. He was blocked. Another sigh. “Besides, you have to go.”

“Why?”

“We used your credit card to reserve the room. You have to show picture ID at check-in.”

“Dang it!”

“Relax, we’ll pay it all back. You were the only one with a card, at least not over the limit.”

“This already sounds like a disaster.”

“We’re looking out for you. All this work isn’t healthy.”

“I can’t just leave. I’ve got too much to do.”

“That’s why this is a kidnapping. We knew you’d never come on your own.”

“But I’ll have to pack. It’ll make you late.”

A smiling face. Joey raised a gym bag and backpack. “All taken care of.”

“You broke into my room?”

“You’ll thank us someday.”

“But I don’t have my cell phone.”

“It’s spring break.”

“What about my fish?”

“We’ll call Jason from the road.”

“My dad will be worried.”

“We’ll call him, too.”

“I don’t know…”

“Andy, be spontaneous for once.”

Outside, three sedans parked in a fire zone. Agents bounded up library steps.

“This is crazy,” said Andy. “I should have my head examined.”

“Now you’re talking!”

An elevator opened on the ground floor. Agents rushed inside. The doors closed as the next elevator opened and four students got out.

“This is going to be wicked excellent!”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Coleman was down for the count, leaving Serge on solo night patrol. He reached a bend in the sidewalk and focused his camcorder on three cheerful youths waving homemade posters.

“Oooooooh,” Serge said with delight, lowering his camera. “Free pancakes!”

He walked over.

“Howdy! I’m Serge!”

“Hi, Serge. Want a free pancake breakfast?”

“But it’s night.”

“That’s when all the kids eat breakfast. Soaks up alcohol.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch.”

“There’s always a catch.”

“Why don’t you come inside with us?”

Serge followed and was soon seated in a church activities room. On the table in front of him: the largest pile of pancakes the volunteer group had ever seen anyone assemble.

Three sparkling kids pulled out chairs and joined him. They didn’t have pancakes.

Serge, chewing: “Great breakfast. Deeeeeeeeelicious! ”

“It’s Serge, right?”

He nodded and stuck a fork in his mouth.

“Serge, have you ever heard of the one true living God?”

“Of course,” said Serge. “He’s like a household name.”

“Are you saved?”

“That’s a long story.”

They handed him inspirational pamphlets.

Serge smiled. “Knew there was a catch.”

“No catch. It’s the path to redemption.”

“Fair enough,” said Serge, setting his fork on the plate. He leaned back and folded his arms. “You gave me a great meal, I can at least listen. But if this turns into a time-share thing, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“It’s not.”

“Then give me your best shot.”

The trio took turns effervescently sharing the marvelous change in their lives. A pastor circulated through the room, hands clasped behind his back. He smiled at the youths around Serge’s table doing the Lord’s work. The kids finished their pitch.