Torpedo Juice полностью

The Duster began driving out the gravel road, branches scraping the windshield. Gravel became tar as the car turned onto the Tamiami Trail, leaving behind the burning Oldsmobile with the sticks of dynamite that soon sent a chute of flame and evidence skyward.

The Plymouth continued east. The driver could make out major power lines against the moon, the first wisps of Miami. A tiny traffic light flashed in the distance. It took ten minutes to get to it. The crossroads. The Duster made a lazy right, then a half-hour straight shot south through migrant tomato fields and palm tree farms.

It turned in the entrance of the Royal Glades Motel.

2

West Palm Beach, near the airport: five A.M.

A DOZEN POLICE cars with flashing lights filled the parking lot of a small brick medical complex that looked like a strip mall. There was crime tape and a sheet-covered body. Little numbered markers sat on the pavement next to each bullet. Evidence cameras flashed. The head detective was on the phone to the home of the police chief.

“I think we just solved that tourist robbery at the motel… no, not an arrest, a body… yes, the victims just made a positive ID….” He glanced toward the traumatized retired couple from Michigan clutching each other. The man had bandages on his chin and nose. “…No, I don’t think a press conference is a good idea right now…. I know you’re getting a lot of pressure from the mayor’s office because of the tourism angle…. Because I don’t think we know what we’re dealing with yet. Something’s not right…. Six bullet wounds… right, but they’re all exit wounds…. No, someone didn’t stick a gun up his ass or down his throat. The medical examiner has confirmed the trajectory. These are all straight through, three in the stomach and three in the back, like someone was firing a gun inside him. I’ve never seen anything like it….”

A uniformed officer approached the head detective, who covered the phone. “What is it?”

The officer told him.

“Thanks.” The detective uncovered the phone. “Sir, we have a second crime scene. Someone broke into one of the clinics in the medical complex…. Yeah, it’s related. I think we just figured out those exit wounds. You’re not going to believe this…. No, we definitely want to hold off on that press conference….”

The previous evening

A LANKY MAN in a flowing tropical shirt raced down Southern Boulevard on a ten-speed ultralight aluminum racing bike. He passed the airport, a steak house, a medical complex, some gas stations, budget motels…. Suddenly, his senses perked up. Something was out of place. He squeezed the brake levers on the handlebars.

A RENTED GRAND Am with its doors open sat in front of room 112 of the Golden Ibis Motel. Hank and Beatrice Dunn from Grand Rapids carried luggage inside. Beatrice began unpacking a suitcase on the sagging king bed. Hank locked up the car and went in the room. He hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob and started closing the door.

The door flew back open, knocking Hank to the ground. A burly man with sores and crazed, crack-head eyes ran in the room. “Where’s your money!”

Beatrice screamed. The man went to punch her.

Hank grabbed his arm from behind. “Don’t hurt us. We’ll give you everything.”

So he spun around and punched Hank. He was going to do more damage, but saw the wallet and jewelry on the dresser. Then he tore through a purse on the bed. When he was satisfied he had just about everything, he turned to Beatrice. “Give me your wedding ring!”

She clutched her hand to her chest. “No!”

Hank was still woozy on the ground with a torrential nosebleed, trying to get up. “Honey, give him the ring!”

“Shut the fuck up!” The man seized Beatrice’s arm and yanked on her finger. The ring didn’t budge. He pulled and pulled. No luck.

“It’s stuck,” said Beatrice. “I never take it off. Please!”

The thug unsnapped a leather holder on his belt and flicked open a jackknife. “It’ll come off now!”

“No!” yelled Hank, grabbing the man’s shirt from behind. He got another punch in the face and hit the floor again. The assailant turned back to Beatrice and forced her hand down on the sink counter for a cutting surface.

He heard a click behind him and felt something cold and metal against the back of his head. A new voice: “What do you say we let her keep the ring?”

The couple was dizzy from the swing of events. First the motel invasion and now this mystery man in a tropical shirt holding their assailant down on the bed and tying his hands behind his back with the cord from the curtains.

When he was finished, Serge jerked the man up off the mattress and turned to the retirees: “I just want you to know this isn’t what we’re about down here. I’m very sorry about the inconvenience. Welcome to Florida!”

Serge marched his prisoner toward the door.

“Uh, what are you?” Hank called after him. “Some kind of undercover cop?”

“No, a historian.”