“Still think we should have held out,” said Spooge. “Twenty bucks for a five-hundred-dollar ring.”

“You saw those pails.”

“This will soon make it all better,” said Coleman, opening the door. “It’s brownie time!”

They went inside.

“Hey, Serge.”

Serge sat on the couch, reviewing video footage. “Where’d you guys go?”

“Pawned class rings.” Coleman went into the kitchenette and froze. “Holy shit! Half the brownies are gone!” He looked toward the sofa. “Serge, please tell me you didn’t eat all those brownies.”

“Sorry. I was hungry.” He set the camera down and picked up a book of vintage Daytona postcards. “And they smelled so good.”

“Serge!”

“What’s the big deal? If it means that much, I’ll buy some fresh ones from a bakery.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. Those were laced with ferocious weed.”

“You mean marijuana?”

Coleman ran over. “Serge, you just ate the most pot brownies I ever heard of in my entire life.”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“How long ago did you eat them?”

“Maybe twenty minutes? Why?”

“There’s a delayed effect.”

Serge went back to his postcard book. “I’m probably impervious. My metabolism and all.”

“An elephant can’t eat that much and not be affected.”

Serge wasn’t convinced. He held a magnifying glass over Model Ts driving on the sand. “So when is it allegedly supposed to kick in?”

“Believe me, you’ll know.”

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

The day moved into a warm, blustery afternoon. A tattered orange wind sock snapped on a flagpole. It swiveled east to south.

A Cessna cleared a chain-link fence at the end of the runway and made a wobbly landing in the sudden crosswind. The pilot taxied to safety. Other single-engine planes were covered with tarps, secured to mooring posts on a concrete storage slab behind the hangar.

It was another of the many small landing strips west of the turnpike that characterized south Florida, this one slightly nicer than most because it catered to Coral Gables.

Inside the hangar, a second pilot stood on a small ladder, working under the hood.

A BMW turned through the open gate on the far side of the airstrip and sped across the runway. Four men in tropical shirts got out.

The pilot finished replacing a manifold and wiped oily hands on a rag. He climbed down from the ladder and stopped when he noticed visitors standing in a line.

The tallest stepped forward. “Cash Cutlass?”

“Who are you?”

“Want to rent a plane,” said Guillermo. “And a pilot.”

“Sorry, fellas, I’m not for hire.”

“You are,” said Guillermo. “Just don’t know it yet.”

“If you’re looking for sightseeing, I can recommend-”

“We’re not tourists. We need a shipment delivered.”

“Oh,” said the pilot. “Then I’m definitely not for hire.”

“Heard you like football,” said Guillermo.

“What?”

“Too bad about Monday night. Seemed like a lock.” The pilot went white and stumbled backward. “Listen, I told Ramon I was good for it. Just need a few more days.” Guillermo smiled.

“I swear.” The pilot kept retreating. He placed a hand on the tail rudder. “I’ll sell the plane if I have to.”

Guillermo took another step.

“This isn’t necessary,” said the pilot. “You don’t have to do this.”

Guillermo set something on the ground next to the plane. Then he went back and rejoined the others.

The pilot looked down. “What’s the briefcase for?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Found it outside the hangar,” said Guillermo. “Must have misplaced it.”

“It’s not mine.”

Guillermo just smiled again. He turned and led the others back to their car.

“Hey!” the pilot called after them. “I’m telling you it’s not mine.”

The BMW drove off.

It was empty and still. The wind sock drooped. Cash stared at the briefcase for a good ten minutes. Then he knelt and flipped latches.

The pilot thumbed packets of hundred-dollar bills. Heart racing. Not from fear. Junkie anticipation. He finished tabulating and placed the last pack back in the briefcase. Enough to cover his losses, and some more to play with. He dialed his cell.

“Ramon? Me, Cash. Give me a nickel on the Dolphins… Hold on… I can explain… Will you stop yelling?… Just stop shouting one second… I got it all… What’s it matter to you?… Let’s just say it fell out of the sky, even cover this weekend’s Miami parlay, which you won’t be seeing after Marino picks apart the Jets… I’m at the hangar… Right, it’s all with me… I’ll be waiting.”

And that’s how Cash Cutlass found himself in the delivery business.

The whole proposition had become tricky with the government’s beefed-up shore patrols and AWACS surveillance flights. So it turned into an island-hopping exercise. Aruba, the Caymans, Dominican Republic, and finally the Bahamas, where small fishing boats brought product ashore on South Bimini, because it had a dusty airstrip and Cash’s waiting Cessna. But even with the island shell game, dueling the DEA was still an incredible risk.

Perfect for a gambler.

THE PRESENT

Agent Ramirez hadn’t slept. Good thing Waffle House served breakfast twenty-four hours. He sat in a back booth on the Panama City strip. Table covered with worthless anonymous tips.

He strained to see some type of commotion on the other side of the street.

A waitress refilled his coffee.

“Excuse me, miss. Do you know what’s going on out there?”

“Mothers Against Girls Gone Haywire just ran the film crew out of town. They’re celebrating.”

She left. Starched shirts came through doors. Ramirez looked up. “Tell me it’s good news.”

“It is.” An agent unfolded a fax. “Got a hit from that APB.”

Ramirez grabbed his coat. “Credit card?” He shook his head. “But might as well be.”

“So he’s where?”

“We don’t know.”

“How’s that good news?”

“We’re close. A pawnshop-”

“Pawnshop?”

“Required by law to get photo ID from everyone who makes a sale, then submit lists to police. That’s how we found him. McKenna pawned his class ring.”

Ramirez threw money on the table. “How far? This end of the strip or the other?”

The agents glanced at each other.

“Well?”

“A little farther than that.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

DAYTONA BEACH

The balcony of room 24 at the Dunes was jammed with students. Just like many other balconies at all the other hotels. The reason was down on the shore.

Wild yelling.

It came from the direction of the beach driving lanes. Slow traffic in the sand: Mustang, Cougar, Nova, Hornet, Fairlane, GTX, Dart and, of course, a perfectly restored 1969 Dodge Charger Daytona, cruising between 10 mph signs. Muscle cars all. Almost all.

The exception was in the middle.

“Woooooo!” yelled Serge. “I’m doing eleven! I’m doing eleven! I’ve set the modern record!”-no car, running up the beach, steering with an invisible wheel.

Lifeguards intercepted him.

“Sir, are you feeling okay?”

“Where’s the presentation stand? Matthias Day. Allen Morris. The Loop. Shit on the children. Are you getting all this? Are you from the Answer Tunnel? What happened to Space Food Sticks? Bosco, Tang, Trix are for kids, Genesis, sodomy, Elvis, viva Viagra! Kill those limp-dick motherfuckers! At the current rate, our economy will eventually be based entirely on phone minutes. Nothing else except the care and feeding of minute providers and users. Vocabulary Mash-Up Party Volume Seven: ennui, insouciant, de rigueur, cross the Rubicon! What the hell did Coleman do to my brain?”

Students pointed from balconies. “He’s on the move again.”

“What are the lifeguards doing now?”