Gator A-Go-Go Read Free

and smiled.
    Serge looked across the front seat. “That was Gandhi, right?”
    The honking was now nonstop, just leaning on the horn, thanks to Coleman.
    Serge closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. “. . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”
    “Here comes the fire engine,” said Coleman. The siren whizzed by, dropping in Doppler pitch. “And there it goes.”
    Serge opened his eyes and took his foot off the brake. “Finally. Our lives can diverge, and he’s free to go his own separate way toward an anti-future.”
    “He’s not going his separate way,” said Coleman, kneeling backward in his seat. “Still right behind us.”
    “Because he hasn’t found a gap yet in the next lane to pull around.”
    “Then why is he still honking?”
    “Involuntary genetic reflex, like getting a mullet.”
    “He’s still there.”
    “I’ll speed up and open a gap.”
    “Still there.”
    “Then I’ll slow down and force him to pass.”
    “Still there. Still honking.”
    Serge took another deep breath. “Okay, I’ll turn down this next side street.”
    “I’m amazed,” said Coleman.
    “I know,” said Serge. “As the saying goes, the difference between genius and stupidity is genius has its limits.”
    “Not him,” said Coleman. “You.”
    “What about me?”
    “I’ve never seen you go this far to avoid an idiot.”
    Serge hit his turn signal. “I’ve completely rededicated myself to a life of nonviolence.”
    “But you still have that gun.”
    “No need to obsess. ”
    The Challenger swung around a corner.
    “He’s turning, too,” said Coleman. “Still following.”
    Serge’s head sagged in exasperation. “And I’ve got a full to-do list.”
    “He just threw something out the window.”
    “Litter,” said Serge. “A beer can, no less.”
    The Challenger pulled to the side of the road behind an aluminum scrap yard. A low-riding Toyota parked behind. The driver got out. Barrel gut, stained tank top. He walked to the Challenger and banged hard on the driver’s window.
    Serge stared straight ahead. “Haven’t we been here before?”
    Coleman grinned and waved across Serge at the other driver. “I can’t count that high.”
    Bam! Bam! Bam !—Right up to the Underwriters Laboratories shatter point. “Get the hell out of the car! I am so going to fuck you up!”
    Serge rolled his window down a crack. “What seems to be the problem?”
    “Did you tell me to eat your asshole?”
    “Not me.” Serge turned. “What about you, Coleman?”
    “Might have mentioned it in passing. But I don’t want him to actually do it, if that’s what he’s asking.”
    Serge returned to the window slit. “Apparently it was figurative. He’d rather you not eat his asshole. Are we done now?”
    The Challenger was a beaut, Serge’s dream car ever since Vanishing Point and Death Proof. Recently restored, new rings and valves. Snow-white paint job, tangerine racing detail. And now shivers up Serge’s neck, as a car key scraped the length of the driver’s side.
    Serge grabbed the door handle with his left hand and reached under the seat with his right. “Coleman, I won’t be long.”
    SOUTH OF MIAMI
    Ringing on a triangle bell.
    “Dinnertime!”
    Four men, twenty-nine to thirty-five years old, filed in from the back porch where they’d been smoking. Chairs filled around the long cedar dinner table of Cuban-American cuisine in steaming bowls and casserole dishes. Beans, rice, mashed potatoes, yams, plantains. In the middle was a large paella, a slab of roast beef and a ceramic pitcher of milk.
    The woman said grace. They made the sign of the cross. Serving bowls passed clockwise.
    It was a three-bedroom Spanish stucco ranch house with an orange tile roof and black burglar bars. One of those homes that seemed smaller inside because its owner was from the culture that respected too much contents. Sofas, quilts, pillows, family pictures, magazine racks, display cabinets of china. It used to be an