Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

They left Boynton and crossed the Broward line.

“I still think we should call the authorities,” said Andy.

“Told you: There’s a mole.”

“But what can one guy do? If I call, they’ll send a whole team like they did before…”

“And take you to a safe house?”

“Right.”

“That’s why I can’t let you,” said Serge. “I know this game. When there’s a mole, the precise moment you’re in greatest danger is during the hand-off. It’s the last open shot they’ll have. Besides, I got something better than a regular safe house.”

“Which is?”

“Serge’s Safe Fun House!”

Somewhere along the Atlantic coast, a cell phone rang.

“Agent Ramirez here.”

“Received a hit on that credit card.”

“Finally! Where?…”

The ’73 Challenger continued down A1A, speeding past giant new condos and boutiques where history had been demolished.

“Serge,” said Andy. “Why are you waving a gun out the window at those buildings and making shooting sounds with your mouth?”

“Does that bother you?”

They crossed Sunrise Boulevard. Recent construction gave way to the old Lauderdale strip. Andy looked out the window at a postcard view: endless sea, bent coconut palms, lifeguard shacks and the famous whitewashed balustrade along the sidewalk. “Where are we?”

“The cradle.” He pulled into a convenience store parking lot, and students from the other vehicles gathered ’round.

“Supply run,” said Serge. “Stock up heavy. Gets expensive fast if you run out down where we’re staying.”

Coleman and the kids went for beer coolers. Serge spun racks of souvenirs. Melvin grabbed bags of chips.

Andy glanced around. “Pssst, Melvin. Can I ask you a favor?”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Don’t want Serge to hear.” Andy handed him his credit card and a disposable cell phone in a plastic blister pack. “Buy this for me.”

“Why don’t you buy it?”

“Serge doesn’t want me making any calls.”

“I don’t think he wants anyone making calls.”

“You’re not worried?”

Melvin laughed. “You don’t know Serge like I do. This is all just fake drama. That’s what I was finally able to explain to the other guys. He’s hilariously eccentric. I convinced them to sit back and go along with his imagination. Trust me, it’ll be a riot.”

“I don’t think this is fake.”

“Of course it is. Why? You know something we don’t?”

Andy opened his mouth, thinking of all the things he wanted to say-canceling each one before it came out. “Can you buy the phone?”

“It’s not my credit card.”

“These people never check.”

“I don’t think Serge is going to let me.”

“He likes you. Tell him it’s about a girl.”

Serge was at the checkout.

“Sorry,” said the cashier. “We just have those magnets and key chains.”

Serge leaned far over the counter and looked down. “Sure you don’t have anything else back there? Bet you do if you look. Tequesta artifacts; Stranahan family mementos; Las Olas bricks; wood splinters from coastal forts, whence this city got its name.”

“We have little thimbles.”

“You should have bricks. I can get some if you want. Hot seller.” He grabbed an item from a cardboard counter display. “Better than this cigarette lighter that looks like a penis. I can have you up to your neck in bricks by sundown. Just say the word.”

“Sir,” said the cashier. “Someone wants to buy something.”

“Oh, sorry.” He stepped aside. “Melvin, what are you doing with that phone? You know what we talked about.”

Melvin looked at his shoes. “It’s… a girl.”

Serge slapped him on the back. “You are a sly dog.”

A luxury motor coach blocked traffic in both directions on A1A as the driver negotiated a challenging turn radius.

Car honked. Not from annoyance. They recognized the company name and paint job. Girls Gone Haywire had come to town!

The driver finally cleared the road and pulled into the parking lot of a towering resort.

Rood and staff climbed down.

His chief assistant assessed the new shooting locale. “Sir, I don’t think kids come to Fort Lauderdale for spring break anymore.”

“Some still do,” said Rood. “We’ll just have to be patient.”

“But what if those hags show up again with their signs?”

“Nobody can follow us forever.”

The assistant looked up the strip. “I still haven’t seen a single babe.”

“Like I said, be patient.”

The gang regrouped outside the convenience store.

“Where’s Andy?” said Serge.

“Think he’s in the bathroom.”

Andy was torn. He sat on the toilet, staring forever at his new cell phone.

He’d started to dial and hung up three times already. Serge was clearly insane. But so had been his own life ever since that day in kindergarten. And Serge was smart. Andy figured it a 50-50 proposition he was right about a mole and the danger of going in.

Decision time.

He dialed again and let it ring through. Answering service.

“Dad, it’s me, Andy. I think some people discovered our witness identities. I wanted to call the special number they gave us, but there might be an informant. Except the guy who told me that is-… I’m so confused. I don’t know who to trust…”

Banging on the door. “Andy, it’s me, Serge. You okay in there?”

“Fine. Just be a minute.” He set the phone’s ringer on vibrate and returned it to his head. “What am I supposed to do? I’m in Fort Lauderdale; call when you get this message…”

THE CRADLE

Students assembled on the sidewalk in front of Serge, getting wasted but remembering his advice to keep drinks concealed because they were now “behind enemy lines.”

He looked across sunburnt faces. “Anyone?”

A hand went up. “Didn’t it start with the movie Where the Boys Are? ”

“Excellent answer,” said Serge. “And wrong. That’s when it really exploded, except it actually began in 1935 just up the street. But since we’re outside Tour Stop Number One, the infamous Elbo Room, let’s talk about that movie…”

They went inside and ordered a round. “… This area here is where they filmed. Students had been flocking from northern universities for years until the migration reached twenty thousand in the late fifties, still extremely modest by today’s standards. Then in 1960, after that movie came out, numbers exploded to more than three hundred thousand, making the required pilgrimage to this very bar. If you look closely at the carved-up wood, you might find your parents’ initials. Or grandparents’…”

Andy was in the rear of the group, facing the other way, surreptitiously sliding a cell phone from his pocket.

“… Until that movie, Middle America had been in the dark about what was going down in Florida… But their first hint came the year before when, on Monday, April 13, 1959, Time magazine exposed the secret world of booze, sex, throwing alligators in motel pools, driving twenty-seven hours from Pennsylvania’s Dickinson College and rioting when a bar ran out of beer during an all-you-can-drink-for-a-dollar-fifty special.”

“Dollar fifty!” said a student.

“Ain’t heritage an ass kicker? And here’s your free bonus: an ultra-cool history footnote that has come to be known as my signature, or obnoxiousness, depending on the reviewer. Remember, it was still 1959, the year before the movie. And that Time article ended with a girl being asked to explain the attraction of spring break. Her answer? It’s ‘where the boys are.’”