“I’ll break it.”

The arm came back.

Serge reached over and playfully punched Andy in the shoulder. “Ain’t this the bee’s knees? You could have been stuck in the Panhandle, but now we get to travel back through spring break history! Look at that magnificent sky! This calls for coffee!” He grabbed a bottom-weighted travel mug off the dash. His other hand reached for his walkie-talkie. “Breaker, breaker. We got the big twenty-four lookin’ green all the way on the flip side.”

“What?”

“It’s a great fucking day!” He stretched an arm to Andy. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good, ’cause I want it all!” He sucked the mug dry, then turned his camcorder on and held it out the window. “There’s just something magical about setting out on the road at night and watching the sky gradually lighten until the sun arrives. Reminds me of childhood. We’d take trips to Cypress Gardens, Busch Gardens, Miami Seaquarium. For some reason, my folks found it essential to make good time and leave in pitch blackness. Our car was loaded the previous night, except for the cheap Styrofoam cooler. They started making ice days ahead and hoarded it in the freezer. Money wasn’t flying around like it is today, and people couldn’t justify buying bags of the stuff at 7-Eleven, which actually opened at seven and closed at eleven. Do we have any more coffee in here? Fuck it, I’ll just go: Mom made piles of bologna sandwiches ahead of time and stored them in Tupperware. America forgets its heritage, but back then Tupperware parties were hugely important tribal events, like Bar Mitzvahs for Gentiles. I want that on my tombstone: ‘There’s nothing’s more goy than Tupperware.’ Did I already ask about coffee? We owned an old Rambler, and I had the backseat to myself. Nobody thought about seat belts then, let alone child safety seats, and I sat on the floor behind Dad with my GI Joes and Tinkertoys. I once made a gallows from Tinkertoys and hung a GI Joe deserter, and my parents took me to a doctor. And on the other side of the drive-train hump, behind my mom’s seat, was the Styrofoam cooler of Total Joy. The back of the Rambler seemed so big then, and I was constantly moving around, as you probably guessed from my personality. Down on the floor, up on the seats doing somersaults. After a few trips, Dad wasn’t even distracted anymore by everything going on in the rearview mirror: little legs whipping by, flying GI Joes who’d stepped on land mines. But best of all-climbing up and lying on the ledge by the back window! Melvin? You can lie up on the ledge if you want. I can’t understate the experience.”

“Don’t think I should.”

“Why not? Coleman does it all the time.”

“No, thanks.”

“Anyway, childhood’s over.” Serge reached under his seat. “Now vacation means a whole new adult routine.” He popped the ammo clip from a chrome.45 and checked the chamber.

“What’s the gun for?” asked Andy.

“What do you think?” Serge replaced the magazine. “Florida.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

PANAMA CITY BEACH

Another stop-and-go morning on the strip. Agent Ramirez slapped the steering wheel of a Crown Vic, caught between overloaded Jeeps of hollering, mug-hoisting students. Holiday Isles was in sight, but who knew how long?

The government sedan crept past the Alligator Arms, where a Hertz Town Car pulled into a parking space. Four men headed toward the elevator.

Ramirez’s Crown Vic only rolled another hundred yards in the next ten minutes.

“Hell with this.” He put two wheels up on the curb and honked kids out of the way. The sedan sped up the valet lane at Holiday Isles. Agents jumped out and ran for the entrance.

Hotel employees in blazers: “Hey! You can’t park there!”

Badges.

“Please park there.”

They raced to a room on the ninth floor. Three local uniforms on the balcony guarded the door. Even more crowded inside. Ten agents compared notes.

A real estate broker fidgeted in a chair. “How much longer is this going to take? I’m paying a fortune for this room!”

Ramirez entered. “You Kyle Jones?”

“Yeah. And I demand to know-”

“You don’t demand anything.”

Jones muttered under his breath.

“I didn’t catch that,” said Ramirez.

“Nothing. But I’ve already answered a million questions. I have no idea what’s going on.”

“Shut it.” He turned. “Baxter?”

“You must be Ramirez.”

Shook hands.

“Thanks for sitting on this for me.”

“Gets stranger the more we look at it.” He gave Ramirez a printout. “That’s the background check you requested. Spotless, except for mortgage-fraud lawsuits.”

“So he isn’t working with them after all?”

“That’s how it smells.”

“It stinks,” said Ramirez. “He showed up on someone’s radar.”

“Can’t figure the connection except the one phone call. And that’s a dead end.”

Ramirez stared toward the balcony. “There’s got to be something.”

INTERSTATE 95

The southbound ’73 Challenger blew past all three St. Augustine exits. Signs for five-hundred-year-old stuff and adult video stores.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “how’s it going back there?”

“Fine.”

Serge checked his mirror and smiled. Melvin bashfully looked at Country, who returned a confident gaze. She’d been working on a bottle of vodka and poured generously through the open tab of a half-empty can of Sprite. Then she covered the hole with a thumb and shook. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

Country shrugged and drank it herself.

“Melvin,” said Serge, “what do you think of your traveling companion back there?”

“She’s okay.”

“Come on,” Serge chided. “I’ve seen the way you been looking at her.”

He blushed so brightly you could almost read a map by it.

“Serge,” said Country, “I think your friend’s kind of cute.”

“Hear that, Melvin? She thinks you’re cute.”

More blushing.

“Have a girlfriend?” asked Country.

“No.”

“Ever had one?”

“Well, in grade school.”

“Serge,” said Country. “He’s adorable.”

“Why don’t you ask her out?” said Serge.

“Who?” said Melvin. “Me?”

“Anyone else back there named Melvin?”

“I couldn’t. I mean she, I… What if she says no?”

“You’ll never find out unless you ask.”

Melvin couldn’t get his mouth to work. Country poured more vodka.

Finally: “Would you consider, you know, maybe-”

“Sure.” She handed him a soda can. “You need to drink that.” This time Melvin accepted. “How’d you get the name Country?”

“ ’Cause I’m from Alabama.”

“So tell me something about yourself.” He took a sip.

“I’m Serge’s girl.”

Melvin spit out the drink and made a panicked retreat to the farthest corner of the car. “Serge, I didn’t know! I swear!”

“Relax.” Serge checked his blind spot to pull around a slow-moving horse trailer with tails flapping out the side. “Me and Country got an open thing. Ask her when she wants to go out.”

Silence.

“Melvin?”

“Uh, when do you want to go out?”

Country tilted her head. “This is a kind of date right now.”

“What kind?”

She just smiled.

“Andy,” Serge said sideways across the front seat, “ever been to Florida before?”

“Nope. This is my first time.”

“Then you’re in for a real treat!”

Andy McKenna leaned his head against the passenger window, faintly recognizing old billboards for citrus and marmalade stands. His mind drifted back to a childhood in Boynton Beach and that day fifteen years ago when the men in dark suits whisked him from kindergarten…

… Staring out the rear window of their car, watching teachers run down school steps, pointing and gossiping. The school disappeared. Someone gave him a lollipop.

“Who are you guys?”