Gator A-GO-GO

who knew how long?

The government sedan crept past the Alligator Arms, where a Hertz Town Car pulled into a parking space. Four men headed toward the elevator.

Ramirez’s Crown Vic only rolled another hundred yards in the next ten minutes.

“Hell with this.” He put two wheels up on the curb and honked kids out of the way. The sedan sped up the valet lane at Holiday Isles. Agents jumped out and ran for the entrance.

Hotel employees in blazers: “Hey! You can’t park there!”

Badges.

“Please park there.”

They raced to a room on the ninth floor. Three local uniforms on the balcony guarded the door. Even more crowded inside. Ten agents compared notes.

A real estate broker fidgeted in a chair. “How much longer is this going to take? I’m paying a fortune for this room!”

Ramirez entered. “You Kyle Jones?”

“Yeah. And I demand to know-”

“You don’t demand anything.”

Jones muttered under his breath.

“I didn’t catch that,” said Ramirez.

“Nothing. But I’ve already answered a million questions. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Shut it.” He turned. “Baxter?”

“You must be Ramirez.”

Shook hands.

“Thanks for sitting on this for me.”

“Gets stranger the more we look at it.” He gave Ramirez a printout. “That’s the background check you requested. Spotless, except for mortgage-fraud lawsuits.”

“So he isn’t working with them after all?”

“That’s how it smells.”

“It stinks,” said Ramirez. “He showed up on someone’s radar.”

“Can’t figure the connection except the one phone call. And that’s a dead end.”

Ramirez stared toward the balcony. “There’s got to be something.”

INTERSTATE 95

The southbound ’73 Challenger blew past all three St. Augustine exits. Signs for five-hundred-year-old stuff and adult video stores.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “how’s it going back there?”

“Fine.”

Serge checked his mirror and smiled. Melvin bashfully looked at Country, who returned a confident gaze. She’d been working on a bottle of vodka and poured generously through the open tab of a half-empty can of Sprite. Then she covered the hole with a thumb and shook. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

Country shrugged and drank it herself.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “what do you think of your traveling companion back there?”

“She’s okay.”

“Come on,” Serge chided. “I’ve seen the way you been looking at her.”

He blushed so brightly you could almost read a map by it.

“Serge,” said Country, “I think your friend’s kind of cute.”

“Hear that, Melvin? She thinks you’re cute.”

More blushing.

“Have a girlfriend?” asked Country.

“No.”

“Ever had one?”

“Well, in grade school.”

“Serge,” said Country. “He’s adorable.”

“Why don’t you ask her out?” said Serge.

“Who?” said Melvin. “Me?”

“Anyone else back there named Melvin?”

“I couldn’t. I mean she, I… What if she says no?”

“You’ll never find out unless you ask.”

Melvin couldn’t get his mouth to work. Country poured more vodka.

Finally: “Would you consider, you know, maybe-”

“Sure.” She handed him a soda can. “You need to drink that.” This time Melvin accepted. “How’d you get the name Country?”

“ ’Cause I’m from Alabama.”

“So tell me something about yourself.” He took a sip.

“I’m Serge’s girl.”

Melvin spit out the drink and made a panicked retreat to the farthest corner of the car. “Serge, I didn’t know! I swear!”

“Relax.” Serge checked his blind spot to pull around a slow-moving horse trailer with tails flapping out the side. “Me and Country got an open thing. Ask her when she wants to go out.”

Silence.

“Melvin?”

“Uh, when do you want to go out?”

Country tilted her head. “This is a kind of date right now.”

“What kind?”

She just smiled.

“Andy,” Serge said sideways across the front seat, “ever been to Florida before?”

“Nope. This is my first time.”

“Then you’re in for a real treat!”

Andy McKenna leaned his head against the passenger window, faintly recognizing old billboards for citrus and marmalade stands. His mind drifted back to a childhood in Boynton Beach and that day fifteen years ago when the men in dark suits whisked him from kindergarten…

… Staring out the rear window of their car, watching teachers run down school steps, pointing and gossiping. The school disappeared. Someone gave him a lollipop.

“Who are you guys?”

“Billy, we’re friends of your father.”

“Where is he?”

“Taking you to him right now.”

Then unstoppable crying, no matter how many lollipops.

The cars whipped into the parking lot of a run-down motel off Southern Boulevard near the West Palm airport.

Crying dovetailed to sniffles as the convoy stopped, and the child pressed himself against the glass. Lots more men, same suits. They stood along a row of rooms and in various spots across the lot. Billy’s head swiveled back and forth. No Dad.

Then a burst of action. Five men ran to the car. One grabbed a door handle but didn’t open it. Others stuck hands inside jackets.

Someone gave the signal.

Out of the car. Nothing gentle. One of the men grabbed Billy under the arms. The rest surrounded them, sprinting for a middle room. Billy thought they were going to crash into the door, but at the last second it opened