“Didn’t you say the people were looking for us on US 1?” asked Lenny.
Serge nodded.
“Then why don’t we just switch to a different road?”
“Because I love US 1, and besides, most of the people on lookout are really, really, really fucked up. They can probably correctly make out the color pink, but after that it gets dicey. We drive by them, and maybe they see a Cadillac, maybe they see a giant laughing vulva with whitewall tires.”
Lenny unwrapped a Twinkie. “I don’t see what’s so great about this road.”
“It’s tradition. This is the same road that Magluta took when he was on the run.”
“Who?”
“Magluta, as in the Falcon and Magluta. Augusto ‘Willie’ Falcon and Salvador ‘Sal’ Magluta, local boys made good. Went to Miami High and struck it rich in the coke biz, something like five hundred million dollars, took up speedboat racing before the feds closed in. Magluta jumped bail, and they finally found him right here along this stretch of road, driving a Lincoln Continental, wearing a wig and carrying twenty grand in cash and a fake passport. US 1 has all kinds of character like that.” Click, click, click, Serge snapping photos of condemned motels and discarded malt liquor bottles in piles the size of ancient shell mounds. “I’ll take this any day over the suburbs and your Bed Bath and Beyond.”
“What a horror show,” said Lenny.
“Out here on US 1, life is close to the skin. Anything can happen at any time.” Serge knelt backward in the driver’s seat and took pictures out the rear of the car. Click, click. “This is where the armored car thieves shot it out with the FBI, and the raccoon jumped off that garbage truck and crashed through the windshield of those tourists, and they found the tractor-trailer full of pirated stone crab claws, and the box of Tide detergent fell out the back of a van and split open and three hundred thousand dollars blew all over the place except the local residents told police it was only like eleven dollars.” Click, click. Serge lowered the camera. “Is that Mercedes following us?”
“Don’t fuck with me, man. I’m so high,
24
“Shit. That Mercedes is still behind us,” said Serge.
“This car’s getting too hot. Is that safe house you know any good?”
“One of the best,” said Lenny. “Not only that, but a quick phone and they’ll come pick us up, extract us from just about anything.”
“Can they be counted on?”
“Stone-solid. Used ’em dozens of times.”
“I’m impressed. Very good, Lenny…. Dump truck.”
“What?” Lenny looked up. “Woahhh!” He cut the wheel, narrowly missing the truck making a slow left turn, forcing Lenny to make his own hard left across several lanes of braking, blaring cars.
The traffic light turned red; a white Mercedes eased up and stopped at the intersection as the Cadillac disappeared around the corner.
“Better not.”
“It’s good.”
“Okay.”
“Two espressos, please.”
“You say the safe house is nearby?”
“Real close, but they’re still not answering the phone.”
“Try again.”
Lenny dialed and listened. “I think I’m getting through.”
“Ask them to send the extraction team.”
Lenny nodded. He said a few words in the phone and closed it.
“Well?” asked Serge.
“They’re on their way.”
“That should give us time for a race. I love the races here!”
Serge and Lenny walked down a ramp and through the glassed-in lobby, lines of people at teller windows, the floor covered with torn paper stubs. A big funky sign on the wall, POMPANO BEACH HARNESS RACING.
“Let’s go out to the grandstand. We absolutely must go to the grandstand,” said Serge. “I love the people, the culture, the smell of the food, the insane betting strategy conversations. We have to go to the grandstand! It’s the only way!”
“What about the briefcase?” asked Lenny, glancing at Serge’s hand. “We don’t want to attract any trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” said Serge. “Not only will there not be trouble, but a parimutuel park is the one place where they
Lenny looked around at the numerous other people scattered across the lobby with silver Halliburton briefcases — standard for carrying cash around Florida — each being graciously waited on by track staff.
“Good evening,” said a uniformed man, smiling at the briefcase, then at Serge and Lenny as he opened the door for them.
Serge smiled back. “We absolutely, positively must go to the grandstand.”
“I understand,” said the man.
A fresh night breeze caught them as they headed across the patio. “Forget the grandstand,” said Serge. “I just remembered I hate the fucking grandstand. We’re going all the way down to the railing, where you can see the little pieces of dirt flying off the hooves. We need to be as close to the horses as possible, breathing the same air.”
A dozen hard-core Type AAA personalities had already assembled along the railing when Serge and Lenny took their spot at the end. The starting gate filled up with horses pulling jockeys in small harness carriages.
