pier, aerials from the gondolas, the Space Needle, back to earth again, surfers, traffic signs in the sand:
DO N OT B LOCK V EHICLE L ANES.
He accelerated down the boardwalk through an aroma of carnival food-corn dogs, elephant ears, cotton candy-and the casino-like clatter from inside the dark, open-air game rooms: pinball, Skee-Ball, foosball, fortune- telling machines…
Back at the Dunes. Students gathered ’round Coleman, whipping brown batter in a mixing bowl. “Rule number one: Keep baking supplies in your luggage at all times-and an electric pepper mill.” He left the stirrer sticking straight up in the bowl and opened the top of the grinder. “This is critical.” Coleman pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and dumped a half ounce of killer red-bud in the cylinder. Then he replaced the top, held it over the mixing bowl and hit the power switch. Mechanical whirring began as a fine, sweetly pungent dust fluttered down into the batter. “For maximum release and consistent dosage, the particles must be of weaponized fineness.”
“I still can’t believe this is better than bong hits.”
“Believe it,” said Coleman, stirring again. “Slow-cooking effect and batter medium retains ninety-nine percent potency. Just remember it’s got a delayed kick-in, but well worth the wait. Almost like tripping.” He held out a hand. “Baking tin…”
A student slapped it in his paw. Coleman emptied the bowl’s contents into the pan and slid it inside the efficiency’s preheated oven…
A half mile away, Serge reeled off another burst of roadside photos-swimsuit shacks, pizza shacks, head shops, NASCAR restaurants-until he’d come full circle back to the motel parking lot. He climbed in the Challenger and pulled a map from the sun visor. Across its folded top:
THE L OOP.
“I’ve wanted to do the Loop my entire life! And now the moment’s here!”
He peeled out and sped north.
An oven timer dinged inside room 24 of the Dunes. Coleman removed the tin with oven mitts and set it on the counter. A student reached.
Coleman grabbed the wrist. “Have to let it cool. Got anything you need to do?”
“Hit a pawnshop. We’re almost out of money.”
“Let’s rock.” Coleman threw mitts on the counter. “It’ll be ready when we get back…”
… Serge sped north on A1A, camcorder running on the dash, up along Ormond Beach’s inspired seaside, west through Mound Grove, taking Walter Boardman Road to Old Dixie Highway and south again, down into unblemished old-growth Florida. Nothing but oak-canopy two-lane and marshland overlooks. Serge held the camera next to his face for narration: “The Loop isn’t particularly known, even among Florida residents, but the pristine twenty-two- mile route is nationally famous among the motorcycle community…”
A column of two dozen Harleys thundered past, Serge videotaping, honking and waving.
His camera captured the bikers as they swerved back in front of him and reconstituted standard safety formation, staggered left-right on the sides of the lane to avoid potential traction loss from car-fluid drip down the center. “… But now subdivisions and golf courses threaten the works, and back-road enthusiasts from all over rush to catch her while she lasts…”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Luxury cars filled the driveway of a modest Spanish stucco house south of Miami.
No food on the long cedar table in the dining room. There had been a cake, for Guillermo’s twentieth birthday, but its empty platter of crumbs now leaned in the kitchen sink.
Festivities over. Down to business.
In place of the cake was paperwork running the length of the table in evenly spaced piles.
Another family meeting.
Juanita was there, along with her two older brothers, who were running things. Guillermo and a few other young men knew to keep their mouths shut and learn.
“What about these prospects?” asked Hector, the eldest.
“All solid, very experienced,” said Luis, next in line, who oversaw the clan’s data collection.
Hector bent over and placed palms flat on the table, scanning reports. “Any openings?”
“Maybe,” said Luis. “A couple have typical issues, though not severe enough to gain a foothold. But this one”-he tapped a page in the middle-“very promising.”
“Gambling?”
“Into our Hialeah friends for thirty large after doubling down on
Hector handed the pages to Guillermo. “You know what to do.”
Guillermo nodded respectfully, picked up a briefcase by the door and left with the other silent young men.
THE PRESENT
Four Harleys roared south into Daytona Beach.
They throttled down and parked at the curb. Each rider had a petite female passenger dressed entirely in leather hanging on from behind.
The women hopped off and removed black, Prussian-style helmets, revealing four heads of snow-white hair. All in their nineties. A club of sorts. Edith, Eunice, Edna and Ethel. The media had dubbed them the E-Team a while back when their investment klatch outperformed most mutual funds and made national headlines as a feel-good story patronizing old people. The women never took to the name and definitely not the cutesy “granny” references of TV hosts. So they turned those last remarks on their head for their own self-imposed nickname.
The G-Unit.
Edith tucked a helmet under her arm and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Thanks for the ride, Killer.”
“Yeah,” said Edna. “The Loop was even more beautiful than you described.”
Killer politely tipped his helmet visor. “Anytime, ladies.”
Eunice waved. “Keep the wind at your back!”
Harleys rumbled away.
The women walked up the sidewalk. “Bike Week’s over,” said Ethel. “Shit.”
“What do we do now?” asked Edna.
“How about spring break? We’re in Daytona Beach. And it’s spring.”
“I heard kids don’t come to Daytona anymore. They go to Panama City.”
“Some still do.”
“I haven’t seen any.”
“What’s it matter? We’ll do shots without ’em.”
“But I want to look at ripped chests.”
“There’s some kids now.”
“Where?”
“Coming toward us.”
The women veered for the right side of the sidewalk to make room for Coleman and his followers.
Andy jumped.
“What’s the matter?”
He turned around. “Someone goosed me.”
The guys crossed the street and pushed open the door to Lucky’s Pawn.
The manager smiled. “Buyin’ or sellin’?”
“Selling.”
