“This one family was ridin’ through Pasco County, and they had like ten thousand in cash when they got pulled over for a busted taillight, which may have been a busted taillight or maybe they looked a little too brown. Anyway, car’s clean as a whistle. So they bring the German shepherd over and he barks at the money, which may have been cocaine residue or maybe he had heart worms. Didn’t matter. ‘Well, we’re just gonna have to take that drug money away from you folks.’ Then they let ’em go. In the old days, that kind of arrangement would be called a bribe. Now it’s forfeiture. And if they want their money back, they have to hire an attorney because the law says the burden’s on
“Doesn’t seem fair,” said Serge.
The man started laughing and slapped Serge on the shoulder again. “It ain’t!… Ha ha ha ha…”
Serge: “Ha ha ha ha…”
“Hoo.” The man pulled out a hanky and dabbed his eyes. “You ain’t thinkin’ of bidding against me, are you?”
“Lookin’ like I’m fixin’ to get a hankerin’ to.”
A final slap. “I like you, boy.” He walked away with his handkerchief.
Serge and Coleman headed over to the folding chairs in front of a small stage. They grabbed seats in the first row. Serge fanned himself with bid paddle number 142.
It was a furious auction, heated bidding, everything selling fast. Corvette, Indian motorcycle, forty-foot Scarab.
Coleman looked over his shoulder at the man in the cattle hat three rows back. “How much money you got?”
“Hundred dollars,” said Serge.
“That’s all?”
“It’ll be plenty.”
The auctioneer moved on to item thirty-two. “A beautiful Diamondback airboat. Only fifty hours on the engine. Who’d like to start the bidding?”
“Ooooo, me, me, me, me!” Bid paddle 142 waved frantically. “I bid a
“A thousand dollars?”
“A hundred,” said Serge.
“Sir, this is a very expensive boat.”
“That’s my bid.”
The auctioneer shrugged. “The bid is one
Booming laughter from the rear. Another bid paddle went up over a cattle hat. “Fifteen-thousand!”
The crowd gasped. Intimidated bidders lowered their paddles.
“…Going once, going twice,
“Looks like you lost,” said Coleman.
“Got any more weed?”
“I thought you didn’t do drugs.”
“I don’t.”
Serge and Coleman hung around to the bitter end. Workers folded chairs and unplugged microphones. Winners paid with guaranteed checks.
A man in a cattle hat hung out the driver’s window of a Bronco, backing up to an airboat.
“Congratulations!” said Serge. “Let me give you a hand hitching that.”
“Mighty neighborly of ya.”
Serge set the clasp and hooked the chains. He waved toward the driver’s mirror. “You’re all set!”
Then Serge walked up next to a DEA agent in dark sunglasses. He leaned his head sideways and whispered.
The Bronco started pulling out of the lot toward U.S. 1.
“Freeze!” yelled the agent. “Turn the engine off and step out of the vehicle!”
“What in cotton-pickin’—”
They brought the dogs over.
Barking.
The agent reached in the airboat. “What’s this?” He held up a joint.
“That ain’t mine!”
“Unhitch it,” said the agent.
“I just bought it!”
“It’s government property now.”
“Excuse me,” Serge said to the agent. “You haven’t cashed his check yet or filed the title papers with the state.”
“So?”
“So under Florida law ownership hasn’t officially transferred. It never
“What’s your point?”
Serge raised paddle number 142 and smiled. “I was the next highest bidder. I’d like my boat now, please.”
“Who’s robbin’ this train?” yelled the man in the cattle hat. “You sumbitches give him that fuckin’ airboat, I’m writin’ my congressman!…”
The agent watched calmly from behind dark glasses. The noisy little dust devil in a cattle hat stomped in an angry circle. “I’ll have your badges!…”
The agent never moved. He spoke out of the side of his mouth to a colleague: “Give him the boat.”
“Thanks!” said Serge.
“God
Serge tapped the agent on the shoulder. “I think you’re overlooking something.”
“What’s that?”
“While the airboat remained government property, it was hitched to the Bronco when the narcotics were found, which means under the forfeiture law the truck had become part of the smuggling continuum.”
The agent began nodding. “I wouldn’t mind driving one of those.”
The man in the cattle hat stumbled backward against the truck and spread his arms like a human shield. “No! Not the Bronco!”
“WOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOO!”
The gang from the No Name Pub was up on the Bogie Channel bridge. An airboat raced toward them.
It zipped under the bridge. They ran across the road to the opposite rail as Serge came flying out.
“…You should have been there,” said Coleman, leaning against the bridge railing. “It was priceless. They had to pry the Bronco’s keys out of the guy’s hands….”
