“Poaching was out of control,” said Kirk. “And you know the importance of alligators?”
“Females dig alligator holes.”
“You really know your stuff. The life cycle of the Everglades. And when droughts come, those holes are the only place for the rest of the animals to get water. So people said, well, we got to get a bunch of people out at night to catch the poachers. I said that’s bullshit. You can’t catch a poacher if he doesn’t want to be caught. What we need to do is go after demand. All those stores in New York selling alligator purses. Stop making purses, you’d be surprised at how fast they stop poaching alligators. But they wouldn’t listen.”
“Holy mother!” said Serge. “What did you do?”
“Some guys came down from the Department of Interior, and to prove it was pointless going at it from the poacher end, I took them down to Punta Gorda, and I was going to be a poacher. Went out alone after dark in an airboat, and they had everyone in the world looking, but they couldn’t find me for anything.”
“Coleman, you listening?” said Serge. “He was like a superhero, sneaking around the swamp at night in an airboat and shit. Now that’s how you govern.”
HOMESTEAD
Forty miles south of Miami, a clapboard hacienda sat on the outskirts of the outskirts, hidden behind a thriving palm tree farm. Inside, a robbery crew lieutenant ate breakfast with his assistant. Over-easy eggs, cheese grits, Canadian bacon, white grapefruit juice and vodka.
A white van screeched up in a cloud of arid dust. The Eel and three goons jumped out and stormed up steps.
A door crashed open. “What the fuck’s the story about this goddamn phone call?”
The pair jumped up and quivered. “Eel,” said the lieutenant. “The guy called me out of the blue. I just passed along what he said.”
The goons surrounded them. Anxious eyes darted. The Eel advanced on the lieutenant, nose to nose. “And how the hell did he get your number?”
“S-s-said it was in Steve’s cell phone-“
“You worthless piece of shit!” yelled the Eel. “Another thing. How’d you let our best informant get killed?”
“I-I-I … Steve- … I don’t know …”
The Eel nodded toward one of the goons in the background. The lieutenant spun to see a steel strangulation ligature stretched between beefy hands.
“Noooooooo!!!!!!”
The goon suddenly lunged sideways, wrapping the wire around the neck of the lieutenant’s assistant. Twitching feet left the floor. The goon used a wooden dowel to twist the cord tighter. Thirty seconds of silent horror. Then it was over with a lifeless thud on the pine floor.
The lieutenant’s eyes whipped back toward the Eel. “Jesus Christ! What’dyou do that for?”
“Because we’re going to give this new informant of yours named ‘Serge’ a trial run.” The Eel headed for the door. “And that was to reinforce what will happen if anything goes wrong.”
WEST PALM BEACH
Serge sped south, bobbing in the driver’s seat. “Governor, tell the story about the rat bait. Please?”
“You do know your history.”
“Coleman,” said Serge. “This is a quintessential Kirk story kicking over the money changers’ tables in the temple. There used to be this big state contract for rat bait, and the governor wanted to make sure it was actually being used. So he went to Gainesville, where there were a lot of abandoned properties, and a bunch of hardworking low-economic citizens were living in unacceptable conditions. Take it from there, gov …”
“Big politicians were always coming back to watch University of Florida football games and would drive right by these neighborhoods, not giving a damn. So I went to the local health officials and said, ‘How many rat baits have we put out here?’ And the top guy said, ‘I don’t know.’ I said, ‘Go get a rat. Logically if you’ve put rat baits out, you’ve killed a rat. Show me how many damn rats you’ve killed. Bring a couple in here. And let’s weigh ‘em. And next time we have a meeting, you’ll bring some more rats in and weigh them. Now if we’ve done our job, the rats have to get smaller, because they’re younger and they’re not eatin’ good.’ The issue got across …”
A cell phone rang. “Sorry,” Serge told the governor. “I need to take this. Would you mind grabbing the wheel?”
“What?”
“The key to Florida road-tripping is a dependable travel companion who’s good at steering from the passenger side so the driver can tend to other tasks.”
“Don’t let go of the wheel!”
Serge let go.
The governor’s left arm swung out and gripped it. “What’s wrong with you?”
Serge held up a finger for quiet, opening a notebook and holding the cell to his head. “Had a feeling you’d call back … No, my terms are unnegotiable … Want the diamonds or not? … Is that a threat? … Oh yeah? Well, 1 make the threats around here …” Serge pulled a gun from under the seat and waved it around the car. “… You want to fuck with me, motherfucker?…” He pulled up to a curb and turned to the governor. “That’s your house. You can let go of the wheel now.” Then into the phone: “… Is that so? I should smash your fucking skull in just for saying that! … Call me back when you calm down [click].”
The governor got out and slowly backed away from the car, watching silently as the Javelin sped off, gun waving out the window.
OKEECHOBEE
Police held back a growing crowd of the curious in a hotel hallway. Forensic techs came and went with boxes and clear, sealed bags.
Inside the room, the hotel manager stood next to a homicide detective. Behind them, medical examiners peeled cardboard off a pair of hardened foam blocks encasing the victims’ heads.
The manager turned and looked across the room at a uniformed officer taking a statement from the hysterical maid who’d discovered the scene.
“She’s pretty hot,” said the detective. “Is that the one you were close to nailing?”
The manager sighed. “Speaks perfect English.”
The detective placed a consoling hand on the manager’s shoulder, and they both looked back at the wall, where someone had written in thick Magic Marker: NOOKIE.
DANIA
Serge led the way across a debris-strewn parking lot toward the last room on the end of a budget motel. “Coleman, did the governor seem a little jumpy to you?”
“Maybe he’s on the pipe.”
“Probably the economy.”
“Hey, Serge, just had an idea. Can I help with your travel advice thing?”
“Dying to hear your insight.”
“Got a great one. Like, at every budget motel, there are at least three or four rooms where people are staying just to hole up and drug binge. Or deal.”
“That’s no tip-it’s just Florida.”
“But I can find them.”
“Are you already drunk?”
“Of course. Here’s the deaclass="underline" Observe the parking lot, plug into its rhythms, and after a few minutes, you just know.”
“You’re wrecked.”
“Time me.”
Serge held up his wristwatch. Coleman squinted in concentration. People coming and going, crossing the parking lot, stopping to chat, walking dogs, getting ice, feeding quarters into vending machines, taking unbolted TVs from rooms, driving up in the kind of pitiful, hanging-together car that would soon be pulled with a rope by another car. Coleman pointed. “That room. One-forty-seven. How long?”
“Ninety seconds.” Serge looked up from his wrist. “But you just pointed at a room. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’ll prove it.” He took a step forward. Then stopped. “Oh my God.”