Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

The watchman had the disadvantage of not seeing which balcony Coleman came from. “What room are you in?”

“Uh, five forty-three.”

“You’re in big trouble!”

Serge watched it unfolding from the balcony and filled in the coming attractions. “Damn it, Coleman!” He raced for the front door. Country came out of the bedroom. “What’s going on?”

“Just stay here.”

He sailed down flights of stairs and onto the pool deck. The unamused guard led Coleman by the arm.

Serge went for the respect approach. “Is there a problem, officer? ”

“You know this man?”

“We’ve met.”

“Better get some bail together.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s a misdemeanor. I’m calling the police.”

“Is that really necessary?” said Serge. “I’ll take him into my personal custody. You have my word it won’t happen again.”

“And you’re out of the room, too!”

“Wait. Stop walking,” said Serge. “We can discuss this. How much for your trouble?” He opened his wallet. “I have three hundred.”

“You trying to bribe me?”

“It’s only a bribe if you’re a real cop,” said Serge. “You just got eagle patches… Four hundred?”

“That’s it. Conversation over.” The guard stepped forward. Serge blocked his path. “Get out of my way.”

“Let go of my friend.”

“Just wait till the police get here.” He tried to push by. Mistake. Serge seized the guard’s wrist and yanked it off Coleman’s arm. “You need to calm down. My very strong advice is to forget any of this ever happened.”

The guard was in his mid-twenties, average weight and height. Not much to bring to a fight, but he’d gotten cocky handling confrontation at the hotel since all the kids were hammered. Now he felt the latent energy in Serge’s sobering grip, and self-preservation made the correct decision to keep his powder dry.

He pulled away from Serge and backed across the patio, snatching the walkie-talkie off his belt.

“Crap.” It was Serge’s turn to grab Coleman’s arm. “Time to leave.”

ATLANTA

Muzak tinkled through a hollow terminal at Hartsfield. Just the janitors. Mop buckets and ropes across restrooms. CLOSED.

The last flight from Boston taxied to the terminal, hours late. Bleary travelers stumbled through the echoing airside. Unusually alert was a team of federal agents who were met at baggage claim by a local counterpart with a company car.

They watched hanging rubber flaps for luggage to appear.

Next to them at the belt, a man in a pulled-down baseball cap checked the name tag on a suitcase, pretended it wasn’t his and set it on the conveyor. It traveled thirty feet until Guillermo grabbed the handle and headed for a rental counter.

PANAMA CITY BEACH

The gals were wide awake when Serge hit the door.

“We saw you guys from the balcony,” said Country.

“What the hell did that idiot do now?” said City.

“No time.” Serge threw his suitcase on the sofa bed. “Collect your shit. We have to get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said City. “Except back to bed.”

Serge looked in her eyes. Didn’t have to raise his voice. “The cops are coming.”

“Shit.”

He’d never seen women move so fast. In under two minutes, they’d packed essentials. Everything else would be memory. Serge opened the door.

The first patrol car was already in the parking lot as a backup arrived. The sound of elevator doors opening. Serge saw officers step out fifteen rooms down. He jumped back, crashing into the women.

“What’s going on?” asked Country.

“They’re already here,” said Serge. “Not fair. Four-minute response time is the minimum.”

The usually cool women looked at each other in panic, then at Serge. “What do we do?”

“Say good-bye to your luggage. There’s only one exit strategy.” He looked across the room.

“Jump off the balcony?” said City. “Fuck that!”

“They’re going to be banging on the door any second,” said Serge. “If Coleman can make it… Coleman, you think you can make it again?”

“Eyes closed.”

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! “Police! Open up! ”

The gang looked oddly at one another.

More door banging.

Except it wasn’t their door.

Thuds and voices muted by distance.

“ Don’t make us knock it in! ”

Serge slowly turned the knob and peeked outside. Two cops continued beating on the door nine rooms up, the security guard and hotel manager behind them in the wings.

City was right over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Unbelievable. They got the wrong room.”

“How’s that possible?” asked Coleman. “I told the guard where I was staying.”

“What’d you say?”

“Five forty-three.”

“Coleman, we’re in five thirty-four.” Serge wiped his forehead with relief. “Sometimes it’s better to be stupid than good.” He peeked again. The cops had gone inside the other room. “This is our break. Now!”

Three people ran onto the landing with suitcases.

“Where’s Coleman?”

Serge looked back inside just as fleshy feet left the balcony railing again. “ Wheeeeeeeeee!… ”

He groaned in agony. “Why is God doing this to me?”

“What happened to Coleman?” asked Country.

Serge raced for the elevators. “Didn’t get the memo on the updated exit strategy.”

Meanwhile, in room five forty-three:

The guard scratched his head.

An officer repeated the question: “You absolutely sure none of them is the guy you pulled from the pool?”

“This guy I’d definitely remember.”

“We weren’t even awake,” said Andy McKenna, pointing at the sleeping-bag-covered floor. “We haven’t done anything.”

“Jesus,” said the manager. “How many people are staying in this room?”

“Uh, six or seven. I think.”

“They might be telling the truth,” said the guard. “I didn’t see which balcony.”

“Bullshit,” said the manager. “They’re hiding him like the others… All you guys: You’re out of my hotel!”

“Don’t want any trouble,” said Andy. “We’ll be gone first thing in the morning.”

“No! Now!”

One of the officers radioed their status to dispatch. He clipped the microphone back on his shoulder and turned to the manager: “Without a positive ID from your guard, we really can’t do anything.”

“That’s okay,” said the manager. “I got it from here. Appreciate your assistance.”

The officers tipped their caps and left.

Down at ground level, four pairs of eyes peered from bushes. Three dry people, one not. Fishing Coleman out of the pool had critically delayed their escape. By the time they reached the parking lot, officers were getting off the elevators. The eyes followed blue uniforms across the pavement.

Patrol car doors slammed. One cruiser drove off; a dome light came on in the other.

“Why isn’t he leaving?” asked Coleman.

“Crap.” Serge swatted a mosquito. “He’s filling out the report.”

They all gazed at the Challenger, tantalizingly close, next to the police car.

A light rumbling sound.

“Get down!” said Serge. “Someone’s coming!”

A half dozen deflated students rolled luggage from elevators, the manager right behind to make sure. “I’ve got all your names and license numbers! Don’t ever come back!” He returned to his office.

The light went off in the patrol car. It drove away.

Students surrounded a pair of vehicles in the dark lot and loaded suitcases. “What are we going to do now?”

Four nonstudents broke from the bushes and rushed for the Challenger.