Tim Dorsey: Gator A-GO-GO

The Challenger slowed and circled a budget motel in the heart of downtown, walking-distance from the stadium. Litter, vacancy, lengths of fallen-down roof gutters stacked behind overgrown shrubs, rusty fence surrounding a drained swimming pool with a busted TV at the bottom. An unhinged sign dangled sideways by the office, saying they spoke French.

“We staying here?” asked Coleman.

“No.” Serge leaned over the steering wheel. “Another of my spring traditions.”

“What’s that?”

“Tourist protection. We’ve been getting a bad rap lately, because we deserve it. And I mean to fix that. Keep your eyes peeled for anyone wearing a Red Sox cap.”

“Why?”

“Because fans come down here for spring training, see magnificent tropical surroundings and think they can stay in just any ol’ budget motel. They don’t realize that wearing those baseball caps at certain accommodations is like stumbling through Central American guerilla strongholds with ‘Kidnap me’ signs on their backs.”

“But we stay at these kinds of motels.”

“Right,” said Serge. “We’re part of the problem.”

“I forgot about that.”

Serge rounded the back of the motel. “Oh my God! Shit’s on!”

BOSTON

The fifth-floor corner office had views of both the Hancock and the Prudential. Two computers running. Plus a small personal TV, which was against the rules.

Patrick McKenna had the biggest accounts. He decided to put in a couple hours on his day off, studying satellite photos from the Midwest. As the computer panned an image, his firm’s proprietary optical-recognition software tabulated parking lot occupancy and entered data on a spreadsheet. Large numbers for a Wednesday afternoon. Patrick closed the image and opened another, this one darker: Thursday, sunset. Numbers rang up again like a telethon tote board.

First impressions of Patrick McKenna were uniform: not impressed. Mainly it was his five-foot-six stature, but it was more. People told him he looked like Michael J. Fox with darker hair. Patrick had just turned forty-two, maintained his weight and was one of the few people at the company who placed his Rs in the correct parts of words. He disliked neckties, loud personalities and nonessential conversation. In fact, Patrick would have kept to himself entirely, except he was driven to support his family. He consciously forced himself to look others in the eye. He was a loner disguised as a people person.

As Patrick moved his mouse over the next satellite image, he wasn’t watching the computer. Because the Florida Marlins had the bases loaded on his personal TV.

A knock on the door.

Patrick hit the television’s remote. The channel changed to the second game of a Red Sox doubleheader.

His boss came in. He looked at the small TV, then Patrick. “Watching the Sox on company time?”

Patrick grinned sheepishly.

“Got the game on in my office, too,” said the supervisor. “One of these days I’m going to have to get to Fort Myers for spring training. Numbers?”

Patrick swiveled his chair toward the computer. “Solid. As long as they continue holding, but I’m sure they will.”

“Good. They’ve been calling.” The boss walked back to the doorway. “Think you’ll finish by tomorrow?”

“Today.”

“I’ll let them know.” The door closed.

Patrick tapped his keyboard through time: Friday morning, noon, evening, then three more Saturday images and four on Sunday. Sure enough, the numbers remained strong.

A spreadsheet filled. Patrick saved the file and attached it to an e-mail. He pressed the send button. “ Western Indiana, hello, Big Mart!”

Then he opened another file. This time the computer superimposed a template with overhead images of vehicles, like World War II silhouette cards used to identify enemy and Allied aircraft. Except this program contained a database with more than ten thousand permutations of automotive make, model and year. Patrick had personally spearheaded the software’s development. The corner office followed. His company was DPX Technologies Inc. The initials didn’t stand for anything, but a consulting agency said its computer determined the letters were the combination that potential customers responded most favorably to, especially the X.

Aerial shapes on the computer flickered rapidly. With each positive match, a tiny car in the parking lot stopped flashing and turned red. Patrick watched the hits climb until they stopped at a record 81 percent recognition. “Yes!” He opened the next day’s image…

The Red Sox reached the seventh-inning stretch; local news filled the gap: “ Authorities received a break this morning in the case of a missing Boston freshman and released this security video from inside a local department store, where she can be seen leaving at three P.M. with two shopping bags… ”

“Shoot!” said Patrick, remembering his neglected Marlins game. He grabbed the remote to change the channel. He stopped and turned up the volume instead.

“ … A second surveillance camera picks her up outside as she loads the bags in the trunk of her Hyundai Sonata, which was found by police with the key still in the driver’s door. Unfortunately, the vehicle was at the edge of camera range, and the location of her abductor is just out of view. All we can see is the assailant’s arm… ”

Patrick sat intently through the rest of the report. When the Sox came back, he shuffled feet on the floor, wheeling his chair across the office to a second computer. He opened files from another client.

Ten minutes later, the door to a fifth-floor corner office opened. Patrick emerged into cubicle land. “We got a VCR machine around here?”

FORT MYERS

The Challenger sat clandestinely in the back of a budget motel parking lot.

“See that old guy with the cane and baseball cap?” asked Serge.

“Yeah,” said Coleman. “He’s talking to that dirtbag. So what?”

“This is how it always starts.” Serge shook his head. “They exploit the open friendliness of our fine visitors, who don’t realize Florida is still the Wild West.”

“What if he’s a nice dirtbag?” asked Coleman. “Most of my friends are.”

“You’re right,” said Serge. “Dirtbags are people, too. We’ll sit here and see what develops so I don’t jump to conclusions and barge in waving a gun like at that bridal shower.”

They sat.

Coleman turned an empty can upside down. “I’m out of beer.”

“Not now.” Serge leaned over the steering wheel. “Something’s happening.”

“What is it?”

“The old dude’s inviting that dirtbag into his room. This is the takedown. Roll!”

Serge ran across the parking lot and pressed himself against a wall.

Coleman came up behind. “Anything happening yet?”

“Don’t know.” Serge crept forward and placed an ear to the door.

“What do you hear?”

“Too quiet,” said Serge. “That’s a bad sign. We’re going in!”

Serge pulled a chrome.45 automatic from under his tropical shirt, took a step back and kicked the door open.

“Freeze, motherfucker. The nightmare is over. Serge is on the case!”

Two stunned men looked up from a small table, where they had been drinking soda and playing cards.

“I-I-I just got paid,” said the dirtbag, removing his wallet with a shaking hand. “You can have it all!”

The old man in the Red Sox cap removed a wristwatch. “It’s gold. Just don’t hurt us!”

“Hurt you?” said Serge. “I’m here to protect you.”

Speechless.

“What’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You don’t look so good.” He noticed their eyes on his gun.

“Oh, that. ” He tucked it back in his pants. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. Think I’ve got the wrong room. Was looking for the one where someone had a huge knife at his throat. Enjoy your card game.”