Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

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That's right: Serge and Coleman do spring break!
It's been a long time coming, but they're at the party now – and you'll never look at a Frisbee the same way again.
One spring break location obviously isn't enough for Serge, so he must hit them all, traveling through various historic locales, spewing nuggets of history at anyone who won't run away and dispensing his own signature brand of Sunshine State justice.
Along the way he and his sidekick, Coleman, attract a growing following of the nation's top college students… and a mysterious gang that leaves a trail of young bodies in their wake.
Are the kids safer under Serge's protection? Or does being with him put them in more peril? The classroom and the pot brownies never prepared them for this.
Which raises more questions: Who's the guy studying satellite photos? Where did the protected witness go? When did Coleman get all those trophies? Why are the Feds hot on everyone's trail? How did the burnt corpse end up by the pool? What's the best way to keep beer cool on the beach?
Then there are the coke smugglers gone legit and a pair of the most dangerously sexy bartenders to ever mix a rum runner. Throw in some dirty dancing contests, illicit drugs, rockin' tunes, screamin' sports cars, bungee rides, pawned class rings, and church breakfasts, and you've got a potent concoction that keeps the hotel's concierge up all night stopping people from falling off the balconies.
Want even more? Serge says, "You got it!"
After years of quiet, a legendary Miami kingpin from the anything-goes eighties is suddenly back in the news… along with one of the state's most psychotic homicidal monsters, every bit as criminally insane as Serge – except without the morals.
The mysteries continue to mount: How did Coleman end up with even more disciples than Serge? Can kids successfully climb fences while carrying pizzas? Will Serge survive the carnage, armed with a GPS and a kiddie pool?
All will soon be answered – and of course every last moment is caught on tape as Serge creates his most excellent documentary ever, the making of Gator A-Go-Go.
Pack the cooler, load the car, and head to where the water is warm for a spring vacation you won't soon forget – no matter how much you might try!

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The occupants of the various vehicles had been redistributed, at Serge’s insistence, “to resurrect the lost art of conversation.”

Serge sat behind the wheel of the Challenger. Melvin and Country had the backseat. Andy rode shotgun.

In the middle car, half the New Hampshire students and Coleman: “Brownies are the best!”

“I think smoking works better.”

“Much academic debate,” said Coleman. “But for my money, ingesting ensures a more complete absorption of the tetrahydrocan-nabinol psychoactive component. Only trade-off is a forty-five-minute delay to kick in. I’ll show you when we get to Daytona.”

Melvin’s roommate, Cody, drove the trailing pickup, with City and Joey filling out the rest of the tight front seat. Joey yawned and stretched out his arm in a furtive gambit to put it around City’s shoulders.

“I’ll break it.”

The arm came back.

Serge reached over and playfully punched Andy in the shoulder. “Ain’t this the bee’s knees? You could have been stuck in the Panhandle, but now we get to travel back through spring break history! Look at that magnificent sky! This calls for coffee!” He grabbed a bottom-weighted travel mug off the dash. His other hand reached for his walkie-talkie. “Breaker, breaker. We got the big twenty-four lookin’ green all the way on the flip side.”

What?

“It’s a great fucking day!” He stretched an arm to Andy. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good, ’cause I want it all!” He sucked the mug dry, then turned his camcorder on and held it out the window. “There’s just something magical about setting out on the road at night and watching the sky gradually lighten until the sun arrives. Reminds me of childhood. We’d take trips to Cypress Gardens, Busch Gardens, Miami Seaquarium. For some reason, my folks found it essential to make good time and leave in pitch blackness. Our car was loaded the previous night, except for the cheap Styrofoam cooler. They started making ice days ahead and hoarded it in the freezer. Money wasn’t flying around like it is today, and people couldn’t justify buying bags of the stuff at 7-Eleven, which actually opened at seven and closed at eleven. Do we have any more coffee in here? Fuck it, I’ll just go: Mom made piles of bologna sandwiches ahead of time and stored them in Tupperware. America forgets its heritage, but back then Tupperware parties were hugely important tribal events, like Bar Mitzvahs for Gentiles. I want that on my tombstone: ‘There’s nothing’s more goy than Tupperware.’ Did I already ask about coffee? We owned an old Rambler, and I had the backseat to myself. Nobody thought about seat belts then, let alone child safety seats, and I sat on the floor behind Dad with my GI Joes and Tinkertoys. I once made a gallows from Tinkertoys and hung a GI Joe deserter, and my parents took me to a doctor. And on the other side of the drive-train hump, behind my mom’s seat, was the Styrofoam cooler of Total Joy. The back of the Rambler seemed so big then, and I was constantly moving around, as you probably guessed from my personality. Down on the floor, up on the seats doing somersaults. After a few trips, Dad wasn’t even distracted anymore by everything going on in the rearview mirror: little legs whipping by, flying GI Joes who’d stepped on land mines. But best of all-climbing up and lying on the ledge by the back window! Melvin? You can lie up on the ledge if you want. I can’t understate the experience.”

“Don’t think I should.”

“Why not? Coleman does it all the time.”

“No, thanks.”

“Anyway, childhood’s over.” Serge reached under his seat. “Now vacation means a whole new adult routine.” He popped the ammo clip from a chrome.45 and checked the chamber.

“What’s the gun for?” asked Andy.

“What do you think?” Serge replaced the magazine. “Florida.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Another stop-and-go morning on the strip. Agent Ramirez slapped the steering wheel of a Crown Vic, caught between overloaded Jeeps of hollering, mug-hoisting students. Holiday Isles was in sight, but who knew how long?

The government sedan crept past the Alligator Arms, where a Hertz Town Car pulled into a parking space. Four men headed toward the elevator.

Ramirez’s Crown Vic only rolled another hundred yards in the next ten minutes.

“Hell with this.” He put two wheels up on the curb and honked kids out of the way. The sedan sped up the valet lane at Holiday Isles. Agents jumped out and ran for the entrance.

Hotel employees in blazers: “Hey! You can’t park there!”

Badges.

“Please park there.”

They raced to a room on the ninth floor. Three local uniforms on the balcony guarded the door. Even more crowded inside. Ten agents compared notes.

A real estate broker fidgeted in a chair. “How much longer is this going to take? I’m paying a fortune for this room!”

Ramirez entered. “You Kyle Jones?”

“Yeah. And I demand to know-”

“You don’t demand anything.”

Jones muttered under his breath.

“I didn’t catch that,” said Ramirez.

“Nothing. But I’ve already answered a million questions. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Shut it.” He turned. “Baxter?”

“You must be Ramirez.”

Shook hands.

“Thanks for sitting on this for me.”

“Gets stranger the more we look at it.” He gave Ramirez a printout. “That’s the background check you requested. Spotless, except for mortgage-fraud lawsuits.”

“So he isn’t working with them after all?”

“That’s how it smells.”

“It stinks,” said Ramirez. “He showed up on someone’s radar.”

“Can’t figure the connection except the one phone call. And that’s a dead end.”

Ramirez stared toward the balcony. “There’s got to be something.”

INTERSTATE 95

The southbound ’73 Challenger blew past all three St. Augustine exits. Signs for five-hundred-year-old stuff and adult video stores.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “how’s it going back there?”

“Fine.”

Serge checked his mirror and smiled. Melvin bashfully looked at Country, who returned a confident gaze. She’d been working on a bottle of vodka and poured generously through the open tab of a half-empty can of Sprite. Then she covered the hole with a thumb and shook. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

Country shrugged and drank it herself.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “what do you think of your traveling companion back there?”

“She’s okay.”

“Come on,” Serge chided. “I’ve seen the way you been looking at her.”

He blushed so brightly you could almost read a map by it.

“Serge,” said Country, “I think your friend’s kind of cute.”

“Hear that, Melvin? She thinks you’re cute.”

More blushing.

“Have a girlfriend?” asked Country.

“No.”

Ever had one?”

“Well, in grade school.”

“Serge,” said Country. “He’s adorable.”

“Why don’t you ask her out?” said Serge.

“Who?” said Melvin. “Me?”

“Anyone else back there named Melvin?”

“I couldn’t. I mean she, I… What if she says no?”

“You’ll never find out unless you ask.”

Melvin couldn’t get his mouth to work. Country poured more vodka.

Finally: “Would you consider, you know, maybe-”

“Sure.” She handed him a soda can. “You need to drink that.” This time Melvin accepted. “How’d you get the name Country?”

“ ’Cause I’m from Alabama.”

“So tell me something about yourself.” He took a sip.

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