Music started again for the next competition. An emcee whipped the crowd into a sexual froth with double entendre. Then he looked at a list in his hand and introduced the first contestant, a drop-dead biology major from the Tar Heel State, who began a grind that would shame most pole dancers.
“Coleman!” said one of the students. “What an excellent place! Thanks, dude!”
Another stunning series of the hottest coeds pranced around the island with skimpy swimsuits and contortionist moves. Illinois, Ball State, Duke. The audience roared.
“Coleman! You rock!… Coleman?” The youth turned to a friend. “Where’d Coleman go?”
The second student looked around. “I don’t know. He was just here.”
A junior from Nebraska finished her butt wiggle, and the emcee came back out. “Let’s give a huge hand for Missy!… And now our final contestant…” He checked his list, and his voice became a question. “… Coleman?”
His followers erupted as Coleman strutted out. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and began thrusting his sunburnt belly.
Students banged cups on the edge of the island. “Shake it, Coleman!…”
Coleman hit the concrete stage and rocked back and forth on his stomach like John Belushi.
Everyone came unglued.
“The dude parties without a net!…”
SIX BLOCKS AWAY
An FBI team from Tallahassee swarmed a room at the Holiday Isles Resort.
An agent came through the door and handed front-desk phone records to his supervisor.
The guest sat on a bed. “I’m telling you, I don’t have any idea what’s going on.”
“Your real name’s Kyle Jones?” asked the agent in charge.
He nodded.
“And you say you only got one phone call? From room service?”
Another nod.
“Just stay seated.”
Other agents pulled luggage apart, opened every drawer. His cell phone was checked for recent activity.
An hour later, the lead agent pulled out his own phone, dialing a number that rang in Logan Airport.
“Agent Ramirez? This is Baxter from Tallahassee. The guy you asked us to check out is clean.” He flipped a notepad. “Kyle Jones, real estate broker from Oshkosh. Not even here for spring break. Said he has no idea who McKenna is or how they got his name.”
“Something’s not right,” said Ramirez.
“I agree,” said Baxter. “He’s forty-three and never went to Boston College. And that business about charging champagne to his room? The hotel has no record, refunded or otherwise.”
“What about the call from room service?”
“Never happened. The hotel has record of just one incoming to his room. We traced it to a prepaid disposable.”
“Hold him till I get there.”
“When will that be?”
“Don’t know. With the drive from Atlanta, probably tomorrow morning.”
“But I said he came up clean.”
“Just hold him,” said Ramirez. “He might be lying and working with the people on the other end of that phone, which means he was waiting in that room to ambush our guy. If not, someone’s using him as a red herring. Either way I want to know the connection.”
“Anything else?”
“Do a full background workup, the whole nine yards, like he’s applying for Secret Service.”
“You got it.” Baxter closed the phone.
“Excuse me,” said Kyle. “Can I go get dinner now?”
“No.”
SUNSET
Serge had his favorite light for documentary filming.
Three church youths stood in the background as their mentor interviewed a Michigan State Spartan. The student smiled big. “I’m really going to be on CNN?”
“Haven’t gotten all the bids yet,” said Serge. “Please stick to the questions. You’re from a prestigious university, so what on earth can you be thinking?”
The youth contemplated his answer when a fellow Spartan whispered in his ear.
“He’s doing what?”
“Hurry up,” said the second student. “It’s about to start.”
“Sorry,” the interviewee told Serge. “I gotta run.”
“What’s happening?” asked Serge.
The student hopped up. “Man, if you’re doing a documentary on spring break, you definitely don’t want to miss this…”
Serge and his disciples followed the Michigan students, who were soon joined by rivers of other spring breakers streaming in from all directions.
They funneled through the back deck of a jumbo-capacity beach bar that was quickly packed beyond fire-marshal code. The chant had already begun.
“… Cole-man!… Cole-man!… Cole-man!…”
Serge pushed his way forward.
On the stage for the nightly band, Coleman lay on his back with a clear tube in his mouth. Three assistants continued pouring a staggering amount of Budweiser into the beer bong.
“… Cole-man!… Cole-man!… Cole-man!…”
“Incredible,” said Serge.
“You know him?” asked one of the church youth. “Unfortunately.” He turned for the door. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my motel room.”
“Can we come with you?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Chapter Twenty
THAT EVENING
Stop-and-go traffic on the strip. A high-mileage pickup with a Florida Gators bumper sticker rolled into town.
“Look at all the babes!” said Cody.
“We need to find a hotel room,” said Melvin Davenport.
“Which one do you like?”
“We just need to find something. All the signs I’m seeing say ‘No Vacancy.’”
“I ignore those.”
“This one,” said Melvin.
He pulled into the parking lot. Then pulled out.
“How about that one?” said Cody.
In and out again.
“Knew we should have gotten reservations,” said Melvin.
“That’s just the first two,” said Cody. “Here’s another…”
Ten motels later: “This isn’t good.”
“You worry too much,” said Cody. “Something will probably open up later tonight.”
“Who checks out at night?”
“Whoa!” said Cody. “Check that ass!”
“I’d rather check into a hotel.” They passed the Alligator Arms.
ALLIGATOR ARMS
Room 534.
Three kids sat on the floor around Serge.
“Never heard of that.”
“It’s true,” said Serge. “Major first-century schism between Paul and Peter. The apostles were divided. Should the new Messiah be just for the Jews, or should the gospel also be preached to Gentiles? Arguably the most critical turning point affecting life as we know it today.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“It’s history. How can you not be fascinated?”
“Serge?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s the matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“That look on your face.”
“Sorry. My mind drifted into negative country. Got cheated out of a trophy today.”
“When?”
“At the army obstacle course. Remember? You were there.”
“Oh, you mean when they threw you in the ocean instead?”
“I guess that’s second place. And I wanted it so bad. I’ve never won a trophy for anything my whole life. Been eating at me ever since Little League, and this morning it was so close I could taste it-”
They heard a violent slam against the outside of the motel room door. Then loud talking. Something shattered on the ground. Another crash against the door.
The students jumped. “What the heck’s that?”
Serge stood. “It’s how Coleman always enters a room.”
“You mean the guy from the stage?”
The door flew open and banged against the wall.
Coleman stumbled in, followed by a dozen students from across the eastern United States.
Serge stared bug-eyed at Coleman’s arms, overflowing with trophies. “Where’d you get all those?”
“What a great day!” Coleman walked past Serge and began lining gold statues atop the TV cabinet. “This one’s for the belly flop, this is for dirty dancing, here’s the chugging contest, goldfish eating-but they were only those little crackers because of animal rights people-and this is for the fat-guy sunburn, and… I don’t remember this one. I was pretty fucked up. They just handed it to me. And I got this big mother with these three chicks…”