A half mile away, night-vision binoculars watched a sinewy man crouching near the bait wells of a Boston Whaler, then standing up and appearing to drink from a can.
A whisper: “What’s going on?”
“I think we just caught a big break.”
“But what the hell was all that shooting?”
“That was the big break.” The binoculars followed Remy as he headed toward the front of the boat, tripped over something and disappeared from view, then popped back up. “This clown just shot up the evidence.”
“Why?”
“He was night-fishing. They use beer.”
The three men continued hashing out their predicament in muted tones as they lay on their stomachs across the bow of a six-hundred-horsepower go-fast boat. The boat was as black as their jumpsuits, and all the running lights were off.
They waited silently. The reason was obvious. They were about to slip away from the crime scene, as they say, scot-free. All they had to do was remain dark and quiet until Remy departed without detecting their presence, and pray he didn’t lose his navigational bearings and head toward them.
He headed toward them.
“Don’t panic,” said one of the jumpsuits. “He’s still too far off to be on dead reckoning.”
They waited.
“He’s not veering.”
“He’ll veer.”
Remy’s bow light grew brighter.
“He’s not veering.”
“He’ll— . . . Shit!”
The trio vaulted back behind the controls and gave it full throttle. At the last second, the black void of a large powerboat with its lights off shot out from in front of Remy.
“Whoa!” Remy cut the steering wheel in a classic over-correction, careening for a slalom to port. And because all fishing boats are required to have way more engine than they’ll ever need, the centrifugal force flung Remy over the side into the water.
Fortunately, the boat had a “kill switch” in the event the captain went overboard, and the fishing vessel quieted to a stop and settled into the water just a short swim away.
Remy sighed with relief as he floated. “What a night . . .”
Oh, and when the authorities would eventually question Remy, it would be in a hospital room. Because as Remy dog-paddled back to his boat, the shark still on his fishing line came over and bit him.
Chapter 7
Fort Lauderdale
Chug, chug, chug. “What are we waiting for?” asked Coleman. “It looks like that stuff on your prisoner is dry now.”
Serge glanced out the window. “The weather’s still really crappy.”
“Is it going to rain?”
“You’d think it would cut loose any second,” said Serge. “But it’s holding up. Just a full canopy of black clouds. To this day, whenever the weather is crappy like this, I get a joyous sense of childhood déjà vu. Instead of becoming glum, we’d use our imaginations and play endless games indoors.”
“You don’t mean—”
“To the shopping bags! . . .”
A few minutes later, Serge chased Coleman around the room, running over the tops of beds. “I got you! I got you!”
“You did not!”
“Yes, I did!” Serge blasted his friend in the face.
“Hold on,” said Coleman. “I need to refill my squirt gun . . .”
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm! . . .”
Minutes later. “Coleman, look! I’m walking the dog! Now I’m doing the cat’s cradle. You try.”
“Okay.” Zing, clack. “Ow! My forehead!”
“It’s bleeding,” said Serge. “Apply pressure.”
“I just remembered I hate yo-yos.”
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm! . . .”
Moments after that: “Coleman, here comes the paper airplane.”
“I’ve never played with paper airplanes like this before.”
“It’s no fun unless they’re on fire . . . Oooh, shit, get it away from the curtains.”
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
More stuff came out of shopping bags. More games ensued. Until finally Serge had his eyes closed tightly as he walked around the room with outstretched arms. “Marco!”
“Polo!”
“Marco!”
“Polo!”
Serge grabbed a face and squeezed a nose. “Is that you, Coleman?”
“No,” Coleman yelled from the bathroom doorway. “It’s Clyde.”
“Sorry.”
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmm!”
Serge opened his eyes. “Fun’s over.”
Coleman took a slow sip of whiskey as he surveyed their room: Hopscotch chalk on the carpet, jump rope wrapped around a broken lamp, a burned smell from a cap-gun battle, a horseshoe sticking out of a wall, pencils stuck in ceiling tiles, scattered marbles, baseball cards, jacks, a pogo stick, a robot bong and a hostage. “This was the best party ever!”
Serge checked the window again. “Looks like the weather’s not going to clear. We’ll just have to take our chances and pray there’s no cloudburst.”
“Cool,” said Coleman. “I finally get to see what you have planned for him.”
Serge ripped the tape off Clyde’s mouth and grinned. “Bet you just can’t wait to find out what’s in store.”
“Y-y-you, you’re completely insane!”
“Me?” said Serge, tapping himself in the middle of his pillowcase costume. He reapplied mouth tape. “Coleman, look alive. It’s time to get ready and head out.”
“Are we going in our pillowcases?”
Serge shook his head and grabbed another shopping bag off the floor. “I’ve got a better idea.” He dumped the sack on a bed. “Let’s put these on.”
“Where’d you get that stuff?”
“The Party Store has everything!”
Soon they were dressed again.
“Won’t this attract extra attention?” asked Coleman.
“Just the opposite,” said Serge. “This is like the concept of orange vests, clipboards and safety cones. If you’re wearing these, the general public simply assumes that you’re authorized.”
Coleman looked in the mirror as he adjusted his red Afro wig and rubber-ball nose. “Are you sure about this?”
“When have you ever seen anyone question someone dressed like this?” Serge jauntily snapped his polka-dot suspenders. “People see clowns and they automatically think you know what you’re doing.”
Serge freed Clyde from the chair and walked him to the door. He peeked outside to make sure the coast was clear, then hustled Clyde into their car’s trunk again and slammed the lid.
They began driving south, pulling up to a red light. Some teenagers in the next car began laughing and pointing. “Look! Clowns!”
Serge flashed a clown badge. “We’re authorized.”
The light turned green and they sped off.
Coleman sucked on a robot. “Where are we going?”
“To the far end of the beach, just before the port. It’s a longer walk from the hotels and usually empty, especially with this kind of overcast weather.”