Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

Back in the nineties, Juanita was always taking in strays.

Young street boys looking for trouble.

She waited in a Mercedes outside the county jail.

Her extended family was growing in both size and loyalty. She should have been a psychiatrist.

Guillermo was barely eighteen when he finished a three-month stretch for petty larceny. He walked out the back of the jail with two plastic bags of personal junk and no direction.

Juanita rolled down her window. “You need a place to stay?”

“What do I have to do?”

“Whatever I tell you.”

He got in.

To the cast of surrogate sons, she was the mother they never had. To Juanita, it was business.

Guillermo quickly became her most valuable asset. Grooming time.

One Saturday afternoon, he sat alone watching TV in a Spanish stucco house south of Miami. The Mercedes returned from jail.

Juanita came through the front door. “Guillermo, this is Ricky.”

“Hey.”

She set her purse on the table and removed a blood-pressure gauge. “Ricky, come here.”

“What’s that for?”

“Just put out your arm.”

Juanita fastened Velcro and pumped a rubber bulb. She reached in her purse again and handed Ricky a nine-millimeter automatic with a full clip and an empty chamber.

“Guillermo, stand up.”

He did.

She turned to Ricky. “Shoot him.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Shoot him.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Shoot him.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“A test.”

Ricky aimed the gun with a trembling arm. Juanita checked the pressure gauge, needle spiking.

He dropped his arm. “I can’t do it.”

Juanita ripped the Velcro off. “Guillermo, come here.” She refastened the inflatable sleeve around his left arm, then turned her back to them, removing and replacing the clip. “Ricky might have just saved your life.”

Guillermo was confused.

She handed him the pistol. “Shoot him.”

“A test?”

She nodded.

Ricky got it now and smiled. No way the gun was loaded.

Guillermo took aim. The gauge’s needle hung steady at the low end. “One question, Madre.”

“What is it?”

“Did he pass the test?”

“He didn’t do what I asked.”

Bang.

The smile disappeared. Ricky looked down incredulously at the broadening stain in the middle of his chest.

A crash to the floor.

Juanita checked the gauge again. No movement. “Interesting. You can take that off now.”

Guillermo ripped it from his arm.

She stuck the gun back in her purse. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry.”

“Good boy. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

THE PRESENT

Luxury suite number 1563.

Near panic.

Students pounding beers as usual. Except this time it was self-medicating.

“You don’t know who this Serge character is?” said Spooge.

“Thought he was with you.”

“He’s not with us. I thought he was with you.”

“Holy God. Maybe everything he’s said is bullshit. Maybe he’s the killer.”

“But he left Panama City with us before that mess in our old room.”

“That just means he’s working with someone else. Remember, he’s the one who started all this talk about assassination.”

“Spooge is right. We never saw anyone in our room at the Dunes. He could have closed those curtains himself.”

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

They all jumped up at once, stuffing what was left of their luggage. Melvin walked out of the bathroom. “What’s going on?”

“We just realized nobody knows who Serge is.”

“I know Serge.”

They stopped and stared at Melvin.

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“So you trust him?”

“It’s really my father who knows Serge.”

“But your dad will vouch for him, right?”

“My dad’s scared shitless of him.”

“Screw this. We’re out of here!”

“Why?” asked Melvin.

Joey said, “We think he might be the killer.”

“Serge?” said Melvin. “No way.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Serge may be a lot of things, but I guarantee he’s not the killer,” said Melvin. “Bet my life on it.”

The students half relaxed.

“Still feel better if we moved. I’m getting nervous staying in one spot so long.”

“I’m with Joey,” said Spooge. “Even if Serge is legit, those bodies in Panama City were for real.”

The other students picked up bags and headed for the door.

It flew open.

“Hey, everyone! I’m home!”

Serge strolled in with Coleman, City and Country. He headed for the coffee machine. “What’s with all the packed bags? You going somewhere?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Spooge. “I mean, we know you said to stay put, but we hadn’t heard anything from you in so long…”

“… That’s right,” continued Doogie. “Figured we’d use the time to pack and be ready when you said to split.”

“Excellent thinking,” said Serge. “In fact, we do need to roll.”

“When?”

“Immediately. I’ve made contact with the assassins and baited them, so they could be kicking in the door any second and spraying the place with bullets. We leave right after my coffee’s ready.”

They began to unravel again.

“Look on the bright side.” Serge poured water in the back of the machine. “We’re going to a most righteous place. It’ll be a blast!”

“Where?”

“Come on, use your brains. You can figure this out. Guillermo probably has.”

“Who’s Guillermo?”

“That will only upset you. Maybe you’ll meet him, maybe you won’t. But if you do, what good is it to die a thousand deaths in the meantime?”

“I feel faint.” Cody grabbed a chair.

“Remember I told you it’s all about history?” Serge switched the machine on. “We started in Panama City. Now we’re in Daytona. What’s the next logical progression? Anyone?”

They stared.

“The birthplace of spring break in America!” said Serge. “Guaranteed to be a killer!”

TAMPA BAY

The single-floor Rod and Reel Motel hangs on as one of the great old Florida holdouts, resting on the shore of Anna Maria Island, just inside the southern lip of the bay. A small seawall and narrow ribbon of white-sand beach…”

Agent Mahoney didn’t realize he was talking to himself, which meant off the meds.

“… Behind the motel stands a short, weathered fishing pier- also called the Rod and Reel-and at the end sits a small, boxlike, two-story wooden building. Run-down, in the good way. Its top floor houses a casual seafood restaurant. The bottom sells live shrimp from large, aerated tanks giving off that unmistakably salty bait-shop funk. Inside is a cozy, rustic bar. The doors stay open. And through the great tidal surges at the mouth of Tampa Bay come some of the largest fish in the world. Without this knowledge, it seems improbable that from the tiny pier, just a few swimming yards from shore, on June 28, 1975, a then-record 1,386-pound hammerhead shark was landed. The jaws used to hang on a plaque in the bar, but now they’re at a museum up the street…”

Mahoney sat on the wraparound deck behind the bar, the only person in a tweed coat and rumpled fedora.

He wasn’t shark fishing.

Wasn’t fishing at all, even though he had a pole and a line in the water. It was therapy. He was dangling for the natural approach because, like Serge, he found medication to be a thick glass wall between him and Florida. Mahoney removed his hat and relaxed on a splintered bench, casting his line again without design. “… And pelicans floated down by the pilings, hoping for toss-aways, as I absentmindedly bobbed my pole and scanned the wide, soothing view over water. Sunshine Skyway bridge in the distance, and Egmont Key in the middle of the mouth. The 1858 lighthouse still stood, but defensive fortifications from the Spanish-American War lay in ruins…”