Gator A-Go-Go Read Free Page A

upper-middle-class neighborhood, just off Old Dixie Highway between Palmetto Bay and Cutler. Now it was lower. The home stood out with its regularly maintained yard, because of the men at the table.
    The woman stood in a red-and-white checkered apron, slicing meat with an electric carving knife. She offered a generous piece balanced on the tip. “Raul?”
    He raised his plate. “Thanks, Madre.”
    She was slightly plump at sixty, hair always up in a tall, dark bun with streaks of gray. Her name was Juanita, but they all called her Madre. They weren’t related.
    The men ate with manners and strong appetites. Cuban loaves at one end, Wonderbread in its original sack at the other. Bottle of sangria. Idle conversation, weather, sports, relatives’ diseases. Against the wall, eighty bank-wrapped packs of hundred-dollar bills on a dessert cart.
    The woman rested back in her chair, sipping wine. She looked to her left. “Guillermo, will you be able to take care of our situation today?”
    He washed down a bite with milk. “Yes, Madre. No problem.”
    “Good.” She paused and nodded. “Very good.”
    Behind her on the kitchen counter, stacks of tightly bound kilo bricks and a yellow raincoat.
    “What about civilians?” asked Miguel.
    Juanita shrugged. “If that’s what it takes to be certain.” She stood and dug two large wooden spoons into the paella. “Pedro, you’re getting too thin.”
    He placed a hand on his stomach. “Stuffed.”
    She turned with the spoons. “Miguel?”
    He pushed his plate back. “Can’t eat another bite.”
    The rest set napkins on the table.
    Juanita reached into her apron and handed Guillermo a folded sheet of stationery. “Here’s the list of names he gave me.”
    “Glad he’s not working for us.” Guillermo stuck the list in his pocket. “Didn’t hold out very long.”
    “They never do,” said Juanita.
    Everyone turned toward the head chair at the opposite end of the table.
    Juanita stood again. “Is he secure?”
    “Won’t be running off anywhere soon.”
    “Funny,” said the woman. “Didn’t touch his food.”
    A round of laughter.
    Juanita walked along the back of the table. Her shoes made a crinkling sound on the plastic tarp under the last chair. She looked down at the tied-up man, a black hood over his quivering head.
    Guillermo came over from the other side and yanked off the hood. The man stared up at them with pleading eyes, gag in his mouth.
    Juanita simply held out her arms. Two others at the table quickly got up, grabbed the yellow raincoat and slipped it on her. She smiled and patted their involuntary guest on the head, then turned her back.
    When she faced him again, the man’s eyes went to what was in her hands.
    Juanita leaned forward, placed the electric carving knife to his neck and pressed the power switch.

Chapter Two
    FORT MYERS
    T hud, thud, thud.
    Coleman turned around in his passenger seat. “We got another that likes to bang.”
    “Note to self,” Serge said into a digital recorder. “Soundproof trunk.”
    The Challenger pulled into a strip mall.
    “What are you doing?”
    “My new business. Spring-training tickets and trunk insulation aren’t free.” Serge got out, popped the rear hood and motioned with a pistol. “Would you mind rolling a little to your left? You’re on top of something I need . . . Thanks.”
    He closed the trunk.
    Thud, thud, thud.
    They started at the far end of the shopping center. Dry cleaners. Bells jingled. Serge approached the counter.
    “Can I help you?”
    “No, but I can help you!” said Serge. “Hate to cold-call like this, but spring training left me no choice.”
    “I’m sorry,” said the clerk. “We don’t allow solicitors.”
    “Then we’re brothers in the struggle!” Serge held up his hand for a high five that never came. The clerk looked curiously at Coleman, swaying and drinking from a paper bag.
    Serge slapped the counter. “Pay attention! Opportunity knocks! Sometimes it plays a