Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

Mahoney let a smile escape. Heart rate at a six-month low. His decade-long clinical obsession tracking Serge appeared to have gone latent. The detective was on indefinite sabbatical, with an open-ended reservation for room 3 of the Rod and Reel Motel.

DO NOT DISTURB.

“… The sun tacked high at the hottest part of the day, and I retired to the bar. A trough of iced-down longnecks had my name. Nautical maps, oscillating fan, TV on a Weather Channel tornado report with overturned cars. Lacquered into the countertop were yellowed newspaper photos of anglers posing with catches…”

Mahoney chewed his toothpick and thumbed a morning paper. He reached the State section and read a lengthy wire report of the since-dubbed Spring Break Massacre in Panama City Beach. The toothpick went in the trash.

“So they threw the midget off the balcony,” he said ruefully. “Isn’t that how it always starts?”

A cell phone rang.

“Mahoney. Speak to me.”

“Mahoney? This is Agent Ramirez with the bureau.”

“To what do I owe the federal pleasure?”

“Just read your psychology article on profiling. Good stuff.”

“You must have a very old pile of magazines.”

“Found it on a computer search.”

“Search for what?”

“Serge.”

Mahoney winced.

“Hear what happened in Panama City?” asked Ramirez.

“Nasty business. Must have your hands full.”

“Interviewed all the guests and staff-almost everyone came up clean.”

“Almost?”

“One guy whose name wasn’t in the registration book turned up on a number of surveillance tapes around the same time. Our database got a six-point facial recognition match.”

“You’re not looking for Serge,” said Mahoney. “This isn’t his signature. Innocent kids, and he likes to get complex.”

“He was staying on the same floor at the same time. Then I saw his file…”-Ramirez whistled-“… subject of interest in at least two dozen homicides.”

“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong tree to bark at.”

“Still a coincidence we can’t ignore.”

“Anything from your credit card check?”

“What credit card check?”

“On the son of your protected witness.”

Silence.

“Hello?” said Mahoney. “You still there?”

“How’d you know?”

“Did the math. Pro hit, spring break, your job specialty. Adds up to trouble.”

“Card dead-ends at the Panama City motel. Hasn’t been used since, but he did pawn his class ring in Daytona. Tracked down his motel there-another uncanny coincidence.”

“Serge on security cameras?”

“And two more bodies.”

“Kids?”

“No, pros. Weird murders.”

“That’s more like Serge.”

“I need your help,” said Ramirez. “Anything you got on him.”

“You don’t have that much storage space.”

“Then just the latest. Here’s my e-mail…”

Mahoney jotted it down.

“One more thing,” said Ramirez. “Nobody else can know we talked or what you send me.”

“Informant?”

“You’re as good as I’d heard,” said Ramirez. “Someone else was asking around at the pawnshop before I got there.”

“Serge?”

“Don’t know. But the APB that turned up the sale of the class ring was for law enforcement eyes only.”

“That’s a rodent smell, all right.”

“Can I count on you?”

“Like blackjack.”

Agent Mahoney strolled off the pier and returned to his room. A vintage alligator briefcase sat on the dresser. Mahoney considered it for the longest time. Doubt. But he’d given Ramirez his word.

“I know I’m going to regret this…”

He flipped brass latches. Out came a laptop. He opened it and located a dedicated folder for Serge. The first item was a scanned Christmas message. The next two were digitized videos of commencement addresses-one at least a decade old from the University of South Florida, the other more recent. Mahoney involuntarily chuckled at the thought of the second. He’d practically fallen out of his chair when it first came in. Of all things, Serge delivering the graduation address at a kindergarten.

The agent attached them, plus lengthy data files, and sent the whole batch to Ramirez’s e-mail.

Then another long look at the gator-skin case. He reached in a back pocket and removed the original copy of the Christmas message: a greeting card with a barefoot Santa lying against a palm tree on the beach. Inside was a folded sheet of paper with single-spaced typing. Mahoney sat on the edge of the bed, slipped on bifocals and began reading…

December 25

Dear friends and enemies,

Season’s greetings! It’s me, Serge! Don’t you just hate these form letters people stuff in Christmas cards? Nothing screams “you’re close to my heart” like a once-a-year Xerox. Plus, all the lame jazz that’s going on in their lives. “Had a great time in Memphis.” “Bobby lost his retainer down a storm drain.” “I think the neighbors are dealing drugs.” But this letter is different. You are special to me. I’m just forced to use a copy machine and gloves because of advancements in forensics. I love those TV shows!

Has a whole year already flown by? Much to report! Let’s get to it!

Number one: I ended a war.

You guessed correct, the War on Christmas! When I first heard about it, I said to Coleman, “That’s just not right! We must enlist!” I rushed to the front lines, running downtown yelling “Merry Christmas” at everyone I saw. And they’re all saying “Merry Christmas” back. Hmmm. That’s odd: Nobody’s stopping us from saying “Merry Christmas.” Then I did some research, and it turns out the real war is against people saying “Happy holidays.” The nerve: trying to be inclusive. So, everyone…

Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Good times! Soul Train! Purple mountain majesties! The Pompatus of Love!

There. War over. And just before it became a quagmire.

Next: Decline of Florida Roundup.

– They tore down the Big Bamboo Lounge near Orlando. Where was everybody on that one?

– Remember the old “Big Daddy’s” lounges around Florida with the logo of that bearded guy? They’re now Flannery’s or something.

– They closed 20,000 Leagues. And opened Buzz Lightyear. I offered to bring my own submarine. Okay, actually threatened, but they only wanted to discuss it in the security office. I’ve been doing a lot of running lately at theme parks.

– Here’s a warm-and-fuzzy. Anyone who grew up down here knows this one, and everyone else won’t have any idea what I’m talking about: that schoolyard rumor of the girl bitten by a rattlesnake on the Steeplechase at Pirate’s World (now condos). I’ve started dropping it into all conversations with mixed results.

– In John Mellencamp’s megahit “Pink Houses,” the guy compliments his wife’s beauty by saying her face could “stop a clock.” Doesn’t that mean she was butt ugly? Nothing to do with Florida. Just been bugging me.

Good news alert! I’ve decided to become a children’s author! Instilling state pride in the youngest residents may be the only way to save the future. The book’s almost finished. I’ve only completed the first page, but the rest just flows after that. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title meant, and I said life is like sailing on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading and asked if a children’s book should have the word “motherfucker” eight times on the first page. I say, absolutely. They’re little kids, after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition… In advance: Happy New Year! (Unlike 2008-ouch!)