Finally, they had retrieved everything. And they stayed there.
A taxi stopped outside at the curb. A man with red hair and freckles emerged. One of the few people bringing baggage into baggage claim. He took a spot on the opposite side of the carousel from the Florida visitors. Two grandparents rolled bags away; he stepped forward and set a black suitcase at his feet. Guillermo knew the man was there, but neither looked. After sufficient time to allay suspicion, the man studied the name tag on the black suitcase and pretended it wasn’t his. He placed it on the belt.
Guillermo watched it make the turn and nonchalantly grabbed a handle on the way by. They headed for the rental counter.
Thirty minutes later, a Hertz Town Car cruised south on I-93. Raul rode shotgun, opening the black suitcase in his lap. He reached into the protective foam lining and passed out automatic weapons. “What was the deal back there with the Irish guy?”
“Raul,” Guillermo said patiently, “what is it about not checking machine guns through in your luggage that you don’t understand?”
They took the Dorchester exit at sunset and reached a bedroom neighborhood in the dark. Large oaks and maples. TV sets flickering through curtains. The Town Car slowed as it approached the appointed address. Guillermo parked a house short on the opposite side of the street.
Miguel leaned forward from the backseat. “Is that the place?”
Guillermo checked his notes, looked up and nodded. Everything appeared normal. That is, except for the fiercely bright spotlight in the middle of the front yard.
The gang watched as a last, straggling TV correspondent wrapped up a taped spot for the eleven o’clock report. The yard went dark. Guillermo opened his door.
“Excuse me? Ma’am?”
The woman turned.
Guillermo jogged toward the station’s truck as a cameraman removed his battery belt. “Do you have a second?”
“What is it?”
“Is that the home of hero Patrick McKenna?”
“You know him?”
“Went to school together. Amazing what he did!”
“You went to school with him?” She looked over her shoulder. “Gus, get the camera. We might have something.”
“No!” Guillermo’s palms went out. “I mean, no, my wife will kill me. I was supposed to go to this boring dinner party but told her I was working late.”
She sagged. “Forget it, Gus.”
Guillermo looked toward the house. With the camera off, it became obvious there wasn’t a light on in the place, not even the porch. He turned back toward the woman. “Anyone home?”
She shook her head and opened the van’s passenger door.
“Expect him back?” asked Guillermo.
“Not any time soon.” She climbed inside.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he moved out.”
“Moved? When?”
“This morning. It was crazy.”
“How was it crazy?”
“If you can tell me anything at all about him, I won’t use your name,” said the reporter.
“I’ll try,” said Guillermo. “But what happened this morning?”
“All the stations were set up on the lawn, waiting for him to show, and suddenly these cars came flying up, and a bunch of government guys rushed him out with a coat over his head. You wouldn’t have any idea what that was about, would you?”
Guillermo shrugged. “Last time I saw him, we were in the chess club… These guys say they were government?”
“No, but you could just tell. All business, not even a ‘no comment.’ Then, fifteen minutes later, two giant moving vans pulled up, except they didn’t have any markings on the side. And they had like twenty guys. Cleaned the place out in less than an hour.”
“Thanks.”
The TV van pulled away.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
A camcorder scanned the west end of the strip. Nightclubs, hotels, swimsuit shops, condos. The lens passed something and backed up. It stopped on a neon sign.
The camera fell to Serge’s side and dangled by its shoulder strap. “I don’t believe it.” He broke into a trot, then a run.
A half mile later, Serge grabbed a hitching post and panted beneath colorful curved glass tubing: HAMMERHEAD R ANCH B AR & G RILLE.
He went inside.
Everything was dark wood with heavy layers of varnish to preempt wear and tear from the beach crowd. Sunlight streamed through open veranda doors. Strands of beer pennants hung from rafters. Walls and ceiling covered with old license plates, old photos, old fishing equipment-all bought from a restaurant supply company to give new businesses artificial age. The T-shirt shop took up a quarter of the floor space.
The joint was empty, too early yet for the student shift. Chairs still on tables from mop duty. Singular movement behind the bar: A Latin man in a polo shirt inventoried liquor stock with a clipboard. He jotted a number.
“Tommy?” Serge yelled across the dining room. “Tommy Diaz? Is that really you?”
The man looked up from his paperwork. “Who wants to know?”
“Tommy, it’s me, Serge!”
“Serge?” Tommy set the clipboard against the cash register. “You’re still alive?”
“Rumor has it.”
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
“Just about to ask you the same thing.”
“We’ve gone legit,” said Tommy.
“No way!”
“Way,” said Tommy. “You wouldn’t believe how packed this place gets. We’re making it hand over fist. And I thought there was a lot of money in cocaine.”
“What about the old motel-” Serge caught himself. “Don’t tell me you sold out. That’s our heritage!”
“No, it’s still there, dumpy as ever.”
“Whew!”
Early birds in Iowa State Hawkeye jerseys arrived and grabbed stools. Tommy checked his watch. “Where are those bartenders?”
Serge grabbed his own stool and looked up at a stuffed hammerhead shark painted psychedelic Day-Glo and wearing sunglasses. “Tommy…” He winced at the shark and waved an arm around the interior. “It’s so… yuck.”
Tommy checked student IDs and stuck frosty mugs under draft spigots. “Got to stay up with the times. Our motel in Tampa Bay has become something of a landmark, everyone pulling over to take snapshots of that row of sharks, but it ain’t makin’ shit. So we decided to franchise the name recognition.”
Serge frowned. “Feels like I’m in Cheers.”
“If you’re between gigs, we could always use a bouncer…” He looked back at the swinging “staff only” doors to the kitchen that weren’t swinging. “… and bartenders who show up on time!”
“Personnel problems?” asked Serge.
Tommy poured off foam before setting the students’ mugs on cardboard coasters. He strolled over and leaned against the other side of the bar from Serge. “That’s the only rub. You hire the hottest babes available, dress them accordingly and cash just avalanches. But then you have to put up with their lifestyle.”
Swinging doors creaked.
One of the Hawkeyes looked up from his beer. “Holy God!” Tommy turned and tapped his wrist. “Late again. We got customers.”
“Bite me.”
Students’ jaws unhinged. Before them, visions from Victoria’s Secret. Both statuesque six-footers in stretch-to-fit black tank tops and matching skimpy silk shorts. Perfect bookends: one a classic blond farm girl from Alabama, the other a gorgeous Brooklyn import who gave Halle Berry a run.
“Serge,” said Tommy. “What are you drinking? On the house.”
“Bottled water.”
“Haven’t changed.” Tommy faced the just-arrived employees. “Call me crazy, but can I ask you to work? Man wants a water.”
The blonde sneered, then placed a coaster in front of Serge and twisted off the plastic cap. Something made her pause. She stared into his ice-blue eyes. Serge stared back.
Mutual traces of faint recognition, but they couldn’t quite piece it together because of geographical displacement.