from the airbag would pass for too much exposure to the Florida sun.
It was at this point I noticed the sign on the corner of the desk. The one that said, ‘It is the policy of the management to request valid ID with check-in during Spring Break weekend. Thank you for your cooperation.’
I thought about that one for a moment, then turned and headed for the door.
“Excuse me, ma’am, can I help you?”
I half-turned, smiled and waved the leaflet for the Daytona Motor Speedway that I was still clutching. “No thanks,” I said, smiling. “Just wanted one of these.”
Trey was leaning nonchalantly on the Kawasaki when I got back outside. Too nonchalantly. I wondered briefly what he’d been up to while I’d been gone.
“They have a room?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t get that far,” I said. “They’ve a sign up asking for ID and in view of the fact that I showed my driver’s licence when we checked into the motel in Fort Lauderdale, I didn’t think that was a good idea.”
Trey didn’t have to ask me to explain my reasoning. OK, so we were in a different county and I had it in my head that the US police were a lot more territorial than back at home. Even so, when the murder of one of their own was concerned, I’d bet they wouldn’t have much trouble getting assistance from other departments.
Besides, the cop who’d stopped us had known we were the ones he was after. That much was obvious as soon as he’d got out of his car. They must have discovered we’d disappeared from the motel after the shooting and decided that running away from a crime scene made us instant suspects. What had happened afterwards would have put us right at the top of the list.
Either that or the young cop was in league with Oakley man and had simply wanted us dead. In which case, whose side were the men in the Buick on?
I shook my head, setting the fading headache off again. I was too tired to think straight tonight.
There were a couple of pay phones on the wall outside the reception door. I looked at Trey and nodded towards them. “Any chance you can get in touch with your mates tonight and see if we can cadge a bed from them?”
“I called already but they weren’t home,” he said. “I left a message that we’d meet up tomorrow, down at the Ocean Center.”
“What’s going on there?”
“It’s the Spring Break Nationals,” he said, as though I should know straight away what he was on about. “It’s, like, y’know, the biggest car audio competition in Florida. In the whole of the States, probably. It’s just awesome.”
A car audio competition. Only in America, I thought. As if to prove the point a car went past us with its stereo system cranked so high the spot welds holding the roof panel together were buzzing loose. All four windows were down but I still couldn’t name that tune.
“I can’t wait,” I muttered. “So, what do we do tonight?”
Trey shrugged. “This is Spring Break,” he said. “We do what everyone else does if they can’t get a room – we sleep on the beach.”
Eight
The amount of police cars cruising about in Daytona Beach soon convinced me the Kawasaki was going to have to go. Trey and I rode back down the strip until we came across a big hotel with an underground car park and ducked into there.
I found a quiet corner next to the laundry room and that’s where we left it. I retrieved my Swiss Army knife from the ruined ignition and gave the bike a last pat on its battered tank. It had served us well and I was sorry to see the back of it.
As an extra precaution, I unscrewed the rear numberplate and took that away with us, just to slow down the identification a little. I dropped the pressed ali plate down the first storm drain at the side of the road we came to. It must rain like hell in Florida, because they had openings in the gutter that would have been big enough to lose a medium-sized dog into.
***
The prospect of sleeping on a beach, in March, without any camping equipment or a sleeping bag was not one that filled me with excited anticipation.
Still, at least it was Florida. The last time I’d been forced to rough it like that had been doing Escape and Evasion exercises in the army. The Brecon Beacons at the same time of year is a whole different ballgame.
On foot now, we crossed over the highway and walked along the strip until we came to one of the big surf shops that was still open.
“What do we want from here?” Trey asked.
“Beach towels,” I said. “They may not be quite up to blanket level, but at least they’ll keep the sand out.”
I picked up a couple of what felt like the warmest, but Trey balked at the prospect of owning anything with twee cartoon mermaids on the front so I let him choose his own. The one he came back with was a leftover from the previous year’s bike week and looked half as thick as my choice. I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. There was only a desultory crowd as we went to the check-out, but the cashier was looking jumpy.
When I followed his gaze I noticed a couple of teenagers, probably a year or two older than Trey, hanging around by the surfing gear. One was a skinny kid, wearing a bandana and an open shirt over a white vest that showed off his concave chest. His jeans were slung fashionably low, just about clinging on round his protruding hip bones and showing off two inches of underpant over the top. He walked like he thought he was hot stuff.
His mate was shorter and fatter, still trying to shake off his adolescent puppy fat and look like a mean dog instead. It came over as clumsy bluster. The thin kid was the dangerous one. Neither of them looked like they were about to splash out on a new Lightwave longboard.
I realised when I dug in my pockets that I’d let Trey have the last twenty to pay for the fuel. I had to break one of the hundred dollar bills Keith had given me, which I would rather have done without the audience, particularly not as the cashier counted my change out loud into my hand. The only good thing was that he was so busy watching what was going on behind me he didn’t spend long looking at my face.
When we walked out of the shop and back across the road, I checked behind us regularly but as far as I could see there was nobody following.
Beach ramps were spaced at regular intervals along South Atlantic Avenue. According to the signs, if you paid your fee you were invited to take your car down there and ride up and down the sand all day. It sounded like an invitation to major corrosion problems to me. The ramps were gated off at night but it was only to stop traffic. Trey and I walked past them, carrying our towels, and stepped out onto the soft sand.
It wasn’t truly dark out there. There was too sharp a moon, caught and reflected by the white water of every breaker. The navigation lights of a big commercial ship far out to sea shimmered towards us.
Moving heavily through the dry sand, we worked our way further down the beach. Someone had gathered enough odds and ends of driftwood together to light a campfire, in spite of the notices strictly forbidding such an activity.
The night had taken on a chill now and it would have been tempting to stay near the fire, but I didn’t want to be around if the cops arrived to tell them to put it out. We skirted round the edge and kept going.
The flames momentarily wiped out my night vision, so I didn’t see the skinny kid from the surf shop until he was a few metres in front of us. He was tight and wired. There was a cheap knife in his right hand.
“Gimme the money,” he said. No wasted time on banter.
I glanced over my shoulder to check Trey’s position and saw that the fat teen was now behind us. His hands were empty. I turned back to the skinny kid. The glint and shadow from the fire shifted satanically over his face.
“We don’t have much,” I said.
“Don’t lie to me, bitch,” the skinny kid said, raising the knife. “You got plenty.”
Better to buy our way out of trouble if we could. I dropped the towel at my feet and reached into my pocket. I
