Gator A-GO-GO

Edith sipped gin. Back in leather.

“Great to get out of those stuffy rags.”

“Anything on TV yet about Highpockets?”

Edna shook her head.

“Serge,” said Eunice. “Where’d you come up with that idea anyway?”

“Coleman gets the credit for this one. He’s to drug knowledge what I am to Florida.” Serge tipped back a bottle of water. “Plus it’s from the sixties, which means I couldn’t resist.”

“What’s the sixties got to do with it?” asked Ethel.

“Rumors circulated about radicals like Ken Kesey, the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead planning to mix LSD with DMSO, then spread it on doorknobs and stair railings at political conventions so the establishment would have a psycho-meltdown on network TV.”

“What’s DMSO?” asked Eunice.

“Dimethyl sulfoxide, from wood pulping,” said Serge. “Powerful skin penetrant. Mix it with any other chemical, and it goes right to the bloodstream. If you put some on your arm and rub, say, a lime, you’ll taste Key lime pie. Coleman scored the acid; I got the DMSO.”

“And that’s what you soaked the dollar bill in?”

“How was I supposed to know they’d whisk him away so fast?”

“That doesn’t sound like a harmless prank,” said Eunice. “Not only is it harmless,” said Serge, “it’s totally fair.”

“How’s that fair?”

“Everything hinges on Riles’s character.” Serge took another calm pull of water. “If his inner soul’s pure, he could actually come off looking more sympathetic than ever. If not…”

At the other end of the bar, Andy was tapped out. He searched his empty wallet. The bartender had seen it many times before and hovered with growing suspicion. As a last ditch, Andy tried the compartment behind his family photos, where he sometimes kept an emergency twenty for cab fare. “So there’s my credit card… Here…”

The bartender relaxed with a smile and ran it through a magnetic slide.

“Look,” said Edith. “Something’s happening on TV!”

“Turn it up,” Edna told the bartender.

He handed Andy his receipt and aimed a remote at the set.

“… Breaking news at this hour concerning the shocking death of oil magnate Riles ‘Scooter’ Highpockets III in a bizarre drilling platform mishap…”

“You promised just embarrassment,” said Edna.

“Shhhhhhh!” said Edith.

“… Our correspondent on Highpockets’s personal helicopter noticed extremely unusual behavior on the flight out to the gulf, captured in this exclusive footage…”

The image switched to a wild-eyed Riles grabbing the lens of the camera and pulling it to his nose. “I’m rich! I’m so fucking rich. We can do anything we want and nobody can stop us! Everyone out there: Keep drivin, suckers!…”

Back to the anchor desk. “The erratic antics continued after landing on the platform, where Highpockets immediately ran to the massive drill. A warning to viewers: The following footage may be disturbing… ”

Riles looked down and spread his arms. “Oil! Oil! I want to [bleep] it.” He lunged. The TV abruptly cut back to the anchorwoman. “ We must stop the film here, but it was at this point that all witnesses agree Highpockets voluntarily took a running leap down into the drill shaft mechanism. The rig’s crew briefly considered suspending operations out of respect and concerns of product contamination, but a petroleum engineer at the site assured them that the magnate’s organic matter added octane and gas mileage… In a prepared statement just released by corporate headquarters in Houston, the board of directors extended its condolences to the victim’s loved ones while lauding their CEO’s actions on the platform. I quote: ‘Riles was a dear friend to the entire Lunar Holdings family, and everyone is deeply touched by his ultimate sacrifice in the development of alternative biofuels. We are moving beyond petroleum to a greener America. Who would expect that from an oil company? Riles, that’s who.’”

Part Three

FORT LAUDERDALE

Chapter Forty

ROD AND REEL PIER

Agent Mahoney bobbed a line in the water.

A phone rang.

“Mahoney here. Mumble to me.”

“It’s Harold. If you’re still interested, I just got a hit on that credit card.”

“Where!”

“Bar in New Smyrna. It’s called…”

Mahoney knew the place inside out. “Thanks, Dutch.”

He closed the phone. “Here, kid. Have a fishing pole.”

“Gee, thanks, mister. And it’s got a fish on it.”

Mahoney cleared out of room 3 at the Rod and Reel Motel and sped east in a ’68 Dodge Monaco.

PALM BEACH

The Atlantic was calm. A light chop sparkled from a late-morning sun and glistened off the windows of old- money mansions.

Unlike other parts of the state, the continental shelf drops like a cliff just a few miles out, where the big freighters and yachts cruise. Route A1A continued south, leaving the famous Worth Avenue shopping district and swinging out to the edge of the beach. A ’73 Challenger rolled by security cameras at the entrance of the Trump compound, station wagon and pickup close behind.

Andy was up front with Serge. City and Country passed a bottle in the backseat. Coleman was there, too. Normally, it would have been tight quarters.

Serge looked in the rearview and raised his walkie-talkie. “Lord of the Binge, you okay?”

Coleman keyed his own walkie-talkie. “I like it here.”

Andy visibly shook as he turned around and stared at Coleman lying up on the rear window ledge, then back at Serge and his walkie-talkie. “No offense, but I’m not sure I want to be riding with you guys anymore.”

“Don’t have a choice,” said Serge, draining a travel mug of coffee.

“Is that a threat?”

“For your own safety.” Serge set the cup back on the dash. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“I get the feeling something will anyway.”

“I was saving this, because I knew how spooked you were.”

“Saving what?”