Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

“Wow.”

“Andy!” yelled Serge. “What are you doing back there?”

“Nothing!” The cell went back in his pocket.

“The Elbo was even slated for the wrecking ball a couple years back, but the condo market went bust and saved her, for the time being… Kill those drinks-we’re on the prowl!”

Three minutes later, the convoy parked in metered slots a few blocks south. Serge led the gang on foot around a private gate.

“And this is Bahia Mar Marina, home of literature’s Travis McGee and his houseboat, the Busted Flush …“ He walked briskly through a dock entrance.”… His creator, John D. MacDonald, died in 1986, and the following February they erected a magnificent brass memorial plaque on a stately concrete pedestal at Travis’s boat slip, F-18, which is…“-he turned the corner-”… right here… What the fuck?”

“What is it?”

“The monument! It’s gone!”

“It’s a pretty big marina,” said Spooge. “Sure you didn’t get the wrong spot?”

“Not a chance,” said Serge. “This shit I know inside out. Always have to stop and touch the plaque each time through town, ever since the ’97 World Series when I came here with Sharon and nearly shot-Better stick with my official account.”

A security guard in a golf cart zipped by.

“Excuse me!” yelled Serge. “Mr. Make-Believe Cop!”

The cart stopped.

Serge sprinted across the dock.

“Can I help you?” asked the guard.

Serge pointed behind him. “The monument!… MacDonald!… Disappeared!… Was it Maoists?…”

“Oh, the plaque. About some books. Yeah, they moved it to the dockmaster’s office.”

“Why’d they do that?”

The guard shrugged.

“Which way?”

“Last building over there.”

Serge looked back at the gang and made a big wave of his arm. “I found it! Hurry!… Andy, what’s that behind your back?”

“Nothing.”

Serge and the students ran down a seawall along the Intracoastal Waterway. Andy fell farther and farther behind. He began slipping a hand into his pocket again. Before he could reach the phone, it vibrated.

Andy almost fell in the water. He quickly flipped it open with a whisper: “Hello?”

“Andy? Is that you? Andy McKenna?”

“Who’s this?”

“Agent Ramirez. Are you all right?”

“Thank heavens! You have to help…” He stopped and looked at the recently bought disposable phone. “Where’d you get my number? Nobody has it. You’re… Guillermo, aren’t you?”

“I can explain. Don’t hang up!”

He hung up.

Serge cut across a lawn and burst through the doors of the dock-master’s office, lunging at the woman behind the nearest desk.

“Can I help you?”

Serge straightened his posture and collected himself. “Yes, the helpful security guard told me about the relocation of one of our state’s holiest touchstones.”

“Our what?”

The office was small. Students snaked behind Serge and out the open door. Andy was last. His phone vibrated again. He opened it slowly but didn’t speak.

“Don’t hang up! I got lucky and decided to give your father’s answering service another shot. This number was attached to your message.”

Silence.

“Andy? Still there?”

“You know my father?”

“I’m one of the agents who originally moved you fifteen years ago.”

“I had a Dolphins poster in my room-”

“Larry Csonka.”

More silence, this time from shock.

“Andy?”

“Thank God! You’re telling the truth! You’ve got to get me out of here!”

“Where are you exactly?”

“With some lunatic…”

“Andy!” Serge yelled out the door. “What are you doing out there?”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t hang up!”

Click.

Andy trotted toward the office.

“Feeling okay?” asked Serge, holding the door. “You’ve been acting kinda weird.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good, because these kind people just showed me where the plaque is. It’s behind the door on that little stand unworthy of Travis.” He turned to the rest of the group. “Listen up. This puts us behind schedule, so keep the line moving…”

The dockmaster’s staff thought they’d signed up for marina administration. But the new placement of the plaque had drawn a stream of hard-core MacDonald buffs and their spectrum of behavior-so barely a blip registered on their radar as the column of young visitors marched past the stand and ritualistically touched the plaque. They finished and walked out the door. Except one.

“Andy, why aren’t you touching the plaque? What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? How can you goof around at a time like this?”

“I’m not goofing around. It’s all part of the Master Plan…” -he lowered his voice-“… Remember what we talked about in the car?”

“What does touching plaques have to do with any of that?”

“The plan… has tangents.”

“There is no plan! You’re going to get me killed!”

“Touch the plaque. For me?”

Andy sighed and halfheartedly brushed it with the back of his hand.

“Now, how hard was that?”

“I am so dead.” He walked out the door.

Serge turned back to the office staff. “Appreciate the hospitality. But the plaque really should be back on the dock.”

“What?”

“I know it wasn’t your doing.” Serge winked. “We’ll talk later.”

MIAMI

Another phone call.

“Hello?” said Juanita.

“Credit card’s been used again.”

“Where?”

“If I may say something, they’ve got agents all over this. Good ones. We could take a big fall, and for what?”

“The address.”

“You hear what I said?”

Juanita went from ice to thermonuclear in a blink. “You never speak disrespectfully to me! I took you in! I stood by you!”

“Didn’t mean it that way.”

“Anyone else would have been killed for letting Randall Sheets slip away!”

“I made it up to you. Even with everyone looking at us, I still went back for those informant files. Jesus, they were your brothers!”

“You’re the one who gave me their names.”

“And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

“Are we not paying you enough?”

“That isn’t what I mean. This is a business, and this makes no business sense.”

“Because of who you are to me, I will make an exception and ask you one more time, but only one more time. What is the address where the credit card was used?”

A pause. “Have something to write with?”

“That’s a good boy.”

FORT LAUDERDALE

The Challenger-led convoy sped south on A1A and turned right onto Harbor Drive.

A well-kept old Florida motel. Two floors, fresh yellow paint, blue trim. Configured at acute, retro angles protecting a courtyard with lush tropical plants and picnic tables.

Serge hopped out. “This is our place! The fabulous Bahia Cabana!”

Serge checked in at the office across the street. They gathered again in the middle of the courtyard. “Here are your room keys…”

Serge stopped and stared up the street at a much more expensive resort.

“What is it?” asked Coleman. “The Girls Gone Haywire bus.”

“ Girls Gone Haywire is here?“ said Coleman.”Cool!”

“Not cool,” said Serge. “They exploit children.”

“So why are you smiling?”

“Because I have an idea.” He turned back to the students. “Okay, I’ll need some help with the pickup truck.”

“What kind of help?”

“Our next spring break history stop-this one’s the best! Clear everything out of the back bed.”