Chapter Twenty-Nine

PERRY, FLORIDA

Blastoff.

Guillermo had the gang packed and loading the car in record time. Peaceful in the parking lot-silence so complete that when it was broken by the occasional car, the vehicle could be heard coming and going a half mile in both directions. Then stillness. Nothing but a lone pedestrian with a bag of pennies and a spatula, who suddenly disappeared into bushes as a career move.

The last door slammed, and the Oldsmobile Delta 88 sped away from the Thunderbird Motel.

“How did Madre find out?” asked Miguel.

“One of our informants. Been following the APB in state police computers. He pawned his class ring.”

“Never been to Daytona,” said Raul. “Hear you can drive on the beach. That’s fucked up.”

“We’re not on vacation.” The AC had been leaking freon since the Panhandle. Guillermo rolled down his window and held a flapping map against the steering wheel. No direct shot across the peninsula for where they were heading. Country roads, a spur at Bucell Junction, up through Foley and Fenholloway. Water towers, boarded-up feed stores, ancient granite courthouses from when there was population. Then across a wide, rolling expanse of Florida where the economy is state prisons and renting inner tubes out the backs of trucks to people rafting the Ichetucknee.

A couple hours later, they reached the Daytona coast and cruised down A1A. Guillermo found a parking space in front of the old Stamie’s Swimwear shop with a vintage fiberglass bathing beauty diving off the porch roof.

“Bathing suits?” said Pedro.

Guillermo ignored him, looking one block up at a logo with three dangling balls from the crest of Italy’s Medici family.

LUCKY’S P AWN.

They got out and trotted up the sidewalk.

Bells jingled.

The short-sleeved owner leaned with hands atop a glass case. “Afternoon.”

Guillermo sported another warm smile. “You must be Lucky.”

“No, he got killed. Lookin’ for anything particular?”

“Actually I am. Class rings.”

The owner laughed. “You look a bit old for regret.”

“Why do you say that?”

The owner pulled a display tray from under the counter. “Wouldn’t believe how many of these I sell back to the same kids after they return to their senses and wrangle some cash.”

“I kinda do the same thing. Except there’s more money contacting the parents-once the yelling stops after they find out what their children did.”

Another laugh. “Have to remember that.”

Bells jingled. Hungover students entered with a set of hubcaps and a car jack. The owner shook his head. They left.

Then back to Guillermo. “Where were we?”

“Rings. My best harvests are spring break destinations.” Guillermo bent over the tray. “Let’s see what you got here…” He pulled one out of its velvet slot.

“You’re looking at a real corker there.”

Bells again. A student walked up with something cupped in his hands.

“Don’t need hash pipes,” said the owner. “Try High Seas up the block.”

Guillermo turned the ring around. UNH on one side, 2012 on the other. “Guy still doesn’t graduate for a couple years. This must have just come in.”

“It did,” said the owner.

“Remember him?”

“Sure. Nice boy. But the reason it stuck with me was the rest of his gang, especially this older, drunk guy. Nearly broke the display case.”

“Got a loupe?”

The owner handed him a round magnifier. Guillermo brought the ring to his eye and checked the engraving inside the band. A. MCK ENNA.

Bells again. A student in a full leg cast hobbled inside.

“What am I going to do with crutches?” said the owner. “I can sell you some…” pointing at a pile in the corner.

Guillermo handed the magnifier back but kept the ring. “I’ll take it.” The owner rang him up.

“Hear them talking about anything?” Guillermo said with feigned idleness.

“They never stopped talking. Like what?”

“Coincidentally, I went to the same school.” He stuck the ring in his pocket. “That’s how it caught my eye. Be kind of nostalgic to catch up with the new class.”

“Dang. What was it?”

“What was what?”

“One of them mentioned where they were staying. I remember ’cause they wanted more for their rings since they were paying top dollar without reservations. And I know the place well, know them all. Easy name, too…” He stared off at a shelf of clarinets. “What the heck was it?…”

The kids with hubcaps returned. “Sir, can’t you give us anything at all for these? They’re about to kick us out of the Dunes.”

“The Dunes!” said the owner. “That’s it. I’m positive.”

THE DUNES

A day in full swing. Blender going, Led Zeppelin. Coleman continued slicing up limes with bandages on three fingers.

“… I’m gonna send you… back to schoolin’!…”

Serge staggered into the room. “Coffee…”

“Hey, Serge. How do you feel?”

No answer until he’d drained the dregs of an old pot. “That shit’s insane. No wonder you don’t have any ambition… What are the kids doing over there?”

Coleman looked up at a crowd around the television. “News from Panama City. Think they found some bodies.”

Serge walked up behind the students. “What’s going on?”

“Shhhhhh!”

On TV, a female correspondent stood in a parking lot, intentionally framed with the Alligator Arms sign over her shoulder. “… Police are releasing few details about the massacre in this unassuming motel. All we currently know is that authorities removed five bodies from room 543, the apparent victims of multiple gunshots…”

Behind her, students waved and held up beer cans. “Woooooo!” “Party hearty!” “I see dead people!”

“… One source who spoke on the condition of anonymity said the entire room had been sprayed heavily with automatic weapon fire. We’ll report more as soon as we know it. But for now, it looks like a real spring break buzz-kill…”

The report ended, and the students came alive with chatter.

“That was our room!”

“Happened just after we left!”

“Can you imagine if they hadn’t kicked us out?”

“What kind of madman would do such a thing?”

“Not a madman,” said Serge. “Professional job.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Standard protocol for a Miami hit.”

“If it’s Miami, then why up there?”

“Probably some connection to a smuggling operation,” said Serge. “The whole state’s one big northern pipeline.”

“All those kids were in on it?”

Serge shook his head and walked back to the coffeemaker. “That’s why I said standard protocol. Most likely after just one target. They like to be thorough.”

“But it was all students. How could any of them be involved in something that major?”

“Guessing they weren’t.” Serge dumped scoops of Folgers in the filter. “Smells like a case of mistaken identity. Shooters were probably after someone else who was supposed to be staying in that room.”

The students were practically dizzy, running the fatal near miss through their heads. They changed channels to a special Daytona Beach edition of Ocean Cops.

Serge came back with a fresh cup. Something wasn’t right. He looked around. “What happened to your class rings?”

“We pawned them.”

“You what!”

“Pawned them… Hey, Coleman, come quick! You’re on again!”

“When did you do this silliness?” demanded Serge.

“Recently.”

Coleman arrived with a triple-strength pifla colada. “Where am I?”

“Right there.” On TV, rescuers on Jet Skis chased an unconscious person floating out to sea in an inflatable swim ring with a seahorse head.

Spooge high-fived Coleman. “You take no prisoners!”

“You can’t pawn your class rings!” said Serge. “That’s heritage, some of the best souvenirs of all!”