"Gator A-GO-GO" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dorsey Tim)Chapter NineteenPANAMA CITY BEACH Behind one of the beach motels, another massive event at a swimming pool. Hundreds of plastic beer cups. Students rimmed the patio ten deep. A loudspeaker: “ Thunderous applause. Coleman wobbled to the end of the diving board with a pilot’s scarf around his neck. He licked an index finger and raised it to gauge crosswind. Then he bounced twice and sprang into the air. Enormous belly flop. A row of judges marked scorecards for style, splash height and stomach redness. Four blocks away, on the other side of the road from the beach, a pastor walked out of a church activity hall. He reached the edge of the street and rubbed his chin. “Where’d they go?” He returned to the building. Leaning against the outside wall: four free-pancake signs. “Holy…” Serge stopped behind the Holiday Inn SunSpree to empty sand from his sneakers. Church kids took seats around him on the ground. “What else do you have?” “Well,” said Serge, putting his left shoe back on. “There’s Casey Kasem’s Heads shook. “Book of Ecclesiastes.” He stood. “Adapted for the Byrds’ mega-hit ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!’” “Cool.” Serge moved west up the beach, and his flock followed. Heading the other direction, farther toward the waterline, a growing procession followed Coleman. “… This is the Boardwalk Beach Resort, headquarters of MTV… And that’s La Vela, largest nightclub in the entire United States. Afternoon special: all the beer you can drink, twenty bucks, but the catch is, unless you pay extra for a jumbo plastic mug and rights to the VIP filling station”-he held a thumb and finger slightly apart-“you get these tiny cups and have to wait forever…” They approached the club’s entrance. Beefy guards checking drivers’ licenses from twenty states. One of the kids quickly produced a wallet to pay Coleman’s cover. Pounding music greeted them on the massive party patio. The students got in a seemingly endless beer line. Another wallet came out, buying Coleman a giant mug and VIP-line status. All around: hooting and hollering. In the middle of the pool stood a concrete dance-contest island connected to the patio by a small bridge. A driving beat boomed from a 360-degree sound system as a parade of young women strutted onto the island and jiggled their rears. Coleman found an empty table in back where the previous occupants had left empty cigarette packs and a pile of giveaway sample condoms. Students quickly cleared the surface to make space for Coleman’s beer mug. It was promptly empty. He began getting up. A student’s hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we got it…” “I’m never leaving this town.” For the next three hours, proxy students made perpetual trips to keep Coleman’s mug full. At the four-hour mark, Coleman and his new friends were all in the pool, lining the edge of the dance island, surrounded by hundreds of other tightly packed students holding identical orange plastic cups. As many more kids hung over balconies wrapped around the patio. “ “ A new contest on the island. One girl lay on her back with a balloon in her mouth. Another climbed on top, trying to pop it with her tits. “ 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. “ 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. “ Coleman hit the concrete stage and rocked back and forth on his stomach like John Belushi. Everyone came unglued. “ 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 “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. “ 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. “ “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.” |
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