Gator A-GO-GO

“Don’t want any trouble,” said Andy. “We’ll be gone first thing in the morning.”

“No! Now!”

One of the officers radioed their status to dispatch. He clipped the microphone back on his shoulder and turned to the manager: “Without a positive ID from your guard, we really can’t do anything.”

“That’s okay,” said the manager. “I got it from here. Appreciate your assistance.”

The officers tipped their caps and left.

Down at ground level, four pairs of eyes peered from bushes. Three dry people, one not. Fishing Coleman out of the pool had critically delayed their escape. By the time they reached the parking lot, officers were getting off the elevators. The eyes followed blue uniforms across the pavement.

Patrol car doors slammed. One cruiser drove off; a dome light came on in the other.

“Why isn’t he leaving?” asked Coleman.

“Crap.” Serge swatted a mosquito. “He’s filling out the report.”

They all gazed at the Challenger, tantalizingly close, next to the police car.

A light rumbling sound.

“Get down!” said Serge. “Someone’s coming!”

A half dozen deflated students rolled luggage from elevators, the manager right behind to make sure. “I’ve got all your names and license numbers! Don’t ever come back!” He returned to his office.

The light went off in the patrol car. It drove away.

Students surrounded a pair of vehicles in the dark lot and loaded suitcases. “What are we going to do now?”

Four nonstudents broke from the bushes and rushed for the Challenger.

“They kick you out, too?” asked Andy. “What?” said Serge, sticking a key in the trunk. “Kick you out.” He pointed at the fifth floor. “We just got tossed for something we didn’t even do. What’d they get you for?”

“Get us for?”

“Why else would anyone check out at this ungodly hour, unless-”

“Oh, right,” said Serge. “Kicked out. Assholes! We should Molotov the office! What do you say? It’s looks really cool at night.”

Another student put his hands up passively. “All the same, we don’t need any more problems right now.”

“Just joshin’,” said Serge. He smiled. Then he didn’t. “Wait. Your voice… Do I know you?”

“Doubt it.” He grabbed a door handle.

“Damn it!” City yelled from the backseat. “Will you fucking get in already?”

“Hold that thought.” He looked back across the Challenger’s roof. His eyes suddenly lit. “Melvin! You’re Melvin Davenport!”

The student released the door handle. “How do you know my name?”

“Melvin!…” -thumping his own chest-“… It’s me, Serge!” Melvin squinted. “Serge?”

“We played catch when you were a kid. Don’t you remember?”

“No, I remember. It’s just-”

“Almost didn’t recognize you either.” Serge looked the kid over. “Wow, you really squirted. What? Six-one, two? But barely a buck thirty. Don’t fret; you’ll fill out soon enough. How’s Jim?”

“Dad’s fine.”

“And your mom?”

“Seriously pissed at you.”

“Still?”

“Probably strangle me just for talking to you like this.”

“Hoo, they really don’t forget.” Serge shrugged. “But that’s the whole point of college: Doing everything that would give your mother ten heart attacks. Speaking of which, I was only half-kidding about the Molotov. You in?”

“I’ll pass.”

“Good idea-it’s like forever getting that gasoline smell off your hands.”

“What the hell’s taking so long?” yelled City.

“Relax! Doesn’t Country have a joint or something?” Serge turned back around. “Sorry. Chicks.” He gestured up the empty street as pot smoke curled out the Challenger’s back window. “So where you heading?”

“No clue,” said Melvin. “Still hasn’t sunk in that we’re out on the street.”

A grin spread across Serge’s face. “Got the perfect idea. Swear you won’t regret it.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

INTERSTATE 75

A Hertz Town Car sped south through the starry Georgia night.

An exit for Robins Air Force Base went by. Raul opened a suitcase and passed out guns again.

“Keep those things down,” said Guillermo, letting off the gas and watching the speedometer drop to the posted 70 limit.

“What’s the matter?” asked Raul.

Guillermo glanced in the rearview. “We got cops.”

A Crown Vic with blackwall tires blew by in the left lane. Behind the wheel: “I just hope we’re not too late,” said Agent Ramirez.

One hundred and fifty miles southwest, a ’73 Challenger sped through empty farmland. It picked up I- 10 in Tallahassee and headed east out of the Panhandle.

“Breaker, breaker…”

“Is that you, Serge?”

Serge brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth again and looked in the Challenger’s side mirror. “Coleman, you’re supposed to say, ‘That’s a big ten-four, Captain Florida.’”

“Captain Florida’?” Coleman said into his own walkie-talkie from the backseat of a New Hampshire station wagon.

“That’s my handle,” said Serge.

“What’s mine?”

“How about ‘Lord of the Binge’?”

“Has a nice ring.”

The Challenger sped down open highway, followed by the station wagon and a Dodge pickup with Gator bumper stickers. They passed Live Oak, fifteen miles before the interchange with I-75, where a Crown Vic took the westbound ramp onto I-10.

“Breaker, Lord of the Binge…”

“That’s a big ten-seven.”

“Looks like we got us a convoy!”

The three-vehicle motorcade continued east, seeing no other cars for miles. Then:

“Breaker, breaker,” said Serge. “Smokey, eleven o’clock.”

Everyone cut back their speed as a Crown Vic driven by Agent Ramirez flew in the opposite direction.

“We’re clear,” said Serge. They sped on, approaching the I-75 cloverleaf, where a Hertz Town Car passed them going the other way toward Panama City Beach.

SUNRISE

“This is Maria Sanchez with Daybreak Eyewitness Action News Seven. I’m standing here on the crystal white sands of Panama City Beach as the sun peeks over the horizon and a number of college guests appreciating our wonderful community are up extra early to take in a morning stroll… Here comes one of them now… Sir, can you tell us what you’ve enjoyed most about your visit?”