Electric Barracuda by Tim Dorsey

Author:Tim Dorsey
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2011-01-25T07:00:00+00:00

Part III

THE PAST CATCHES UP

Chapter Twenty

The Tamiami Trail

Skid Marks and Bacon Strips rode side by side on glorious machines, lords of the highway, top of the food chain.

It was that kind of day, the open road, wind in their faces, the words “Alive” and “Freedom” written in tall letters across the sky. A sticker on the back of one of the bikes: Honk If You’ve Never Seen A Gun Fired From A Moving Harley.

Serge took pictures. Coleman clung for life.

“Loosen up,” Bacon yelled back. “I can’t breathe.”

“I’m scared.”

They took River Road south until picking up the Tamiami Trail in North Port.

“Quarter mile,” Serge said over Skid’s shoulder. “That’s our turn.”

The bikers eased off the throttle and swung left in unison like an airplane formation.

A half minute later, a convertible T-Bird slowed and looked down the road the bikers had taken, then sped up again. At the next light, the redhead made a U-turn . . .

Back up the street, two Harleys sat parked outside a ticket pavilion.

Inside: People stared.

It was not a common sight at this particular tourist stop. Serge, Coleman and two hairy, barrel-chested, tattooed bikers stood waist-deep in a pool. Surrounding them were no fewer than a hundred other people, all with at least three decades on the new arrivals. The gawking senior citizens eventually got used to their younger companions and resumed low-impact water aerobics. Some wore out-dated swim caps with stick-on plastic flowers. They spoke German and French and Italian.

It wasn’t exactly a regular pool. Actually a large artesian-fed pond. People across Europe believed it had spiritual powers.

“Look at all the old people,” said Coleman.

“It’s Warm Mineral Springs,” said Serge.

“It’s warm,” said Coleman.

“Constant eighty-seven degrees year-round. They come from across the globe to cure what ails ’em.”

“But why are we here?”

“First, it’s the perfect place to hide out. Low police hassle factor because of the remoteness.” Serge waved around at all the octogenarians in the pool. “And these people are generally behaved. Just the occasional dustup with canes and walkers.”

“I saw one of those in Boca Raton,” said Coleman. “It was a slow fight.”

“Second, it’s Warm Mineral Springs,” said Serge. “Opened 1954, one of the last thriving pre-Disney roadside attractions. A one-and-a-half-acre swimming area over a spring-fed, two-hundred-and-thirty-foot-deep hourglass sinkhole connected to the Floridan aquifer and pumping nine million gallons a day. Then there’s my fondness of the weird for which I’ve become widely known. Remember our walk out here from the admission window?”

“That was freaky.”

“Totally surreal, like those near-death experiences you always hear about. The building had this super-long breezeway that creates a dark tunnel with a bright dot of light at the end where you finally emerge at this spring. And along the way, piped-in celestial music.”

“That was creepy, too. I’ve never heard music like that.”

“Neither have I. It’s like if you took a Muzak song, and made a Muzak version of that. Then we came out of the tunnel, and there were all these happy, super-old folks frolicking in this cheerful water park.”

“Do you think heaven’s like that?”

“Could be worse,” said Serge.

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