“It’s starting to chase him,” said Coleman, tracking the pursuit with a pointed finger. “Man, I had no idea they could run that fast.”
“A sustained forty miles an hour, with even faster bursts.” Serge raised binoculars. “That’s what my friend at Busch Gardens found out.”
“But, Serge, when you’re waxing a dude, you usually like it to have some kind of . . .” Coleman stopped to ponder.
“Theme?” said Serge.
“That’s it.”
“Oh, it’s got a theme all right. Some of the finest unknown Florida history around. Back in the late 1800s, they had breeding farms all over the northern half of the state, some for the meat, others for entertainment.”
“Entertainment? Like this?” Coleman gestured across the field at their former hostage, who was losing ground.
“Believe it or not, they used to race these things with little jockeys on their backs. Around 1890, a farm in Jacksonville actually became one of the earliest Florida tourist attractions, with a greyhound-like track. I don’t know if they placed bets. There were other races and farms, including one in St. Petersburg. EBay has some hundred-year-old sepia-tone postcards of people saddling these babies up. Then the whole thing died out until a couple decades ago when breeders started getting good money again for the drumsticks, and they began a resurgence.”
Coleman looked up at the sign again: CIRCLE K OSTRICH RANCH. “So what happened to your friend?”
“The ostrich was much faster than his golf cart, so while my friend drove, the other guy from the rib shack starts pushing fifty-five-gallon drums off the back, one after another, and the ostrich just hurdles them like one of those exciting raptor chases from Jurassic Park. The barrels slowed the bird down just enough to let their cart shoot out the gate at the last second, and they can now laugh about it today.”
Coleman’s finger was still pointing. “It’s almost to the guy. He’s looking over his shoulder . . . But what makes an ostrich so dangerous? Their beaks don’t look too scary.”
“Not beaks, their feet.” Serge held his hands apart like a fisherman bragging about a catch. “They’re huge and powerful, and if you saw a cropped photo without the rest of the bird, you’d swear they belonged to a dinosaur, which on the evolutionary family tree is actually correct. Each foot has two toes with a giant weapon at the end that is a cross between a hoof and a talon.”
“Can I borrow the binoculars?”
Serge handed them over, and Coleman followed the action with magnification. “It’s just a few yards behind him now . . . How do they use those toes, anyway?”
“In the case of human attack, first they knock their prey down and pin the person on their back with one foot . . .”
Coleman tightened the focus. “Just happened.”
“. . . Then they start raking their victim’s chest with the other foot.”
A shrill, spine-tingling scream echoed across the field. “Put a check mark there,” said Coleman.
“The feet are so powerful that they easily rip out all the ribs and keep going through the internal organs until the dude’s on empty.”
“Something went flying,” said Coleman. “Definitely a rib.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
Coleman kept his eyes pressed to the binoculars. “Ostriches are cool!”
“I’m thinking of approaching some of these farmers to start up the races again.”
“What happened to your empathy thing?” asked Coleman.
“Just because I was forced to mete out justice doesn’t mean I don’t feel his pain.”
“There goes a liver.”
“Ouch.”
Chapter Four
THE NEXT MORNING
Sunlight filtered through the leaves of a jacaranda before hitting the kitchen window.
The table had orange juice and all the sections of the newspaper spread out in reading-order preference. Toast popped.
The three-bedroom Mediterranean stucco sat on a quiet street just south of Fort Lauderdale in a town called Dania. You could tell it was an original 1925 hacienda because of the detached garage out back—not the new replicas with two or three horrendous garage doors on the front of the house that wreck the architecture. It was now worth a nice chunk of change, but a bargain back when Jim Townsend bought it in the eighties. Dania was known for having one of the last jai alai frontons that wasn’t a dump.
Jim always had a knack with numbers. He was an accountant, but made more than most because he did corporate work. He could also count cards. And ex-wives, which was three.
Jim liked his toast and his jacarandas. The garage out back had recently been cleaned and emptied to make space. He was going to treat himself to something he always wanted, now made possible by the departure of his latest spouse for a defrocked priest she’d met at the holy candles.
The most important section of the paper was the classifieds. Jim found the listings for used cars. Everyone now shopped on the Internet, which meant the occasional gem could still be found in print. His finger ran down a column to the bottom, then back to the top of the next, just as it had every day for the last two weeks. But this time the finger stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Jim put on glasses and read again. Right there in black and white: a 1969 Corvette Stingray convertible with four-speed manual transmission, 390 horsepower turbojet and a 427 cubic-inch V-8. A little high on miles but the right color. Lemon yellow. But best of all was the price. It definitely wouldn’t last. He jumped for the phone. After eight rings:
“Hello?” Someone eating cereal on the other end.
“Yes, I’m interested in the Corvette in the paper.”
Crunch, crunch. “I’ve been getting a few calls.”
“But you haven’t sold it yet?” said Jim, subconsciously thinking, Trix are for kids.
“No, it’s still here.”
“Good,” said Jim. “I’d like to take a look as soon as possible.”
“Where do you live?”
“Dania.”
“Great. I’ve got to do something down there today anyway. What’s your address?”
Jim told him.
“Wait, that won’t work. Just remembered I got this other thing. You know that pancake house on U.S. 1 north of Hollywood?”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t we meet there? You can take her for a spin, and if you like it, the pancake place is there for coffee and some table space to handle the paperwork.”
“Works for me,” said Jim.
“But let me ask you a question: Are you familiar with Corvettes?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re aware the price is on the low side.”
Jim clenched up. Here it comes: the catch. He played coy. “It’s a little on the low side, but I’ve seen a few in that range.”
“Well, I can perfectly understand if this isn’t acceptable to you, but I can only do it at that price if it’s a cash deal. It’s a personal—”
“I’m an accountant.”
“So you understand.”
“Your business is your business.”
“Okay, and if you have to call me again and a woman answers . . . uh, that’s partly why we need to do this at a restaurant and the cash thing. We’re going through a—”
“I’ve been divorced three times.”
“So you understand.”
“When would you like to meet?”
“How about tonight around seven?”
Jim was in the parking lot of the pancake house at five. Straight from the bank, no stops. The whole procedure at the bank had been a rolling anxiety attack. He’d never even seen $19,000 all in one place before, stacked high on a table. The bank had arranged a private room for security while he filled the briefcase, and even instructed an armed guard to escort him to his car and see him safely off the lot.