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.
Then, suddenly, the woman’s arm sprang out and stuck a finger in Serge’s face. “You!”
Serge’s brain caught up. “Hey, long time! How’s it been going?”
“Motherfucker!” She turned to her colleague. “Guess who just slimed into our bar?”
“Who?”
“Serge!”
“Motherfucker!” A hand flew into a purse and whipped out a.25-caliber automatic.
Chapter Fourteen
DORCHESTER
Guillermo sat in a Town Car across from an empty house, staring at his cell. “This is one phone call I’m not looking forward to.” He took a full breath and hit a number on speed dial. “Hello, Madre? It’s me. I’m afraid we’re too late. Looks like the feds pulled him back in this morning.”
“You did your best,” said a maternal voice on the other end.
“But we didn’t succeed.”
“Maybe I have some good news.”
“What is it?”
“Randall had a son.”
“That’s right,” said Guillermo. “What was he? Four, five at the time?”
“That would make him about twenty now.”
“But how’s that good news?”
“Billy Sheets is now Andrew McKenna. Got something to write with?”
Guillermo to the rest of the car: “Give me a pen.” One appeared. “Ready.”
“University of New Hampshire…”
He scribbled the rest of the data, including dorm and room number. “But how’d you get all this?”
“Our investigator. He’s good,” said Juanita. “Once we had Randall’s new name, it was a simple public records search. And a few diplomatic phone calls for nonpublic records.”
“People just give our private eye confidential info over the phone?”
“He lies to them.”
Guillermo paused to choose words. “Madre, I don’t want to disappoint you again. If the feds already scooped up Sheets, I’m sure they also went to the school.”
“You may be right,” said Juanita. “But who knows with college students? They don’t keep routines like other people. We might get lucky.”
Guillermo opened a map in his lap and hit the dome light. “Madre, we’re leaving now-shouldn’t take more than ninety minutes.”
“You’re a good boy, Guillermo.”
He was still on the phone as the Lincoln went in gear and proceeded slowly down the tree-lined street. “If we do find him, you want us to, uh”-he considered the unsecure line-“invite him for an interview?”
“No, our government friends would never agree to an exchange.”
“Then what?”
She didn’t answer, which was the answer itself.
“I’ll personally handle it,” said Guillermo. “And, Madre, I’ve always learned from you, so may I ask a question?”
“Please.”
“If it’s the father we’re after, what purpose would that serve?”
“The best purpose of all.”
“Which is?”
“Revenge.”
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Tommy Diaz jumped into action. He grabbed his bartender’s wrist and pushed it down, sending a bullet through the wooden floor. “Not in my bar!”
She gritted her teeth. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
“Agree first,” said Tommy. “Not in the bar.”
“You’re hurting me!”
“Give me the gun and I’ll let go.”
Still gritting, then a slight nod. Tommy released her.
She joined her friend, staring daggers across the counter.
Tommy wandered over. “Serge, looks like you’re winning another popularity contest. Some history here?”
The blonde pointed again. “That shit-eating bastard left us stranded on the side of the road!”
“What?… I… Huh?…” Serge tapped his own chest. “Me?…”
“It was the middle of the damn state,” said the other. “Hot as fuck!”
The Hawkeyes leaned as a group, digging the babes’ dirty talk.
“Huge misunderstanding,” said Serge. “I thought you were tired of being around me.”
“Bullshit! You peeled out of the parking lot…”
“… And you looked back as we chased your car down the street. I was combing dust out of my hair for hours!”
“Ouch,” said Tommy.
“That was years ago,“ said Serge.”Life’s too short. You should focus on all the laughs we had.”
“I can’t believe I actually sucked your dick,” said the blonde. Hawkeyes adjusted their bulging pants. Serge squinted at a blue butterfly. “See you got a tattoo.”
“Don’t try and change the subject!”
Then a crash next to Serge as a stool went over. Coleman pulled himself up from the floor. “Yo, Serge. Sorry I’m late…”
“Who’s that boob?” asked the blonde.
Serge put an arm around his buddy’s shoulders. “Coleman, this is a special day! I’d like you to meet a couple of dear old friends, City and Country.”