The Riptide Ultra-Glide Read Free

TV.”
    Coleman twisted a knob. “That Corvette is really flying.”
    â€œI love watching live police chases on TV,” said Serge. “You usually have to live in California.”
    â€œThey have more helicopters out there,” said Coleman.
    â€œBut our Channel Seven whirlybird is staying right with him,” said Serge. “Down the Eighteen Mile.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThe name for the empty stretch of road through the limbo of mangroves from the bottom of Florida City until the bridge to Key Largo.”
    Coleman pointed. “He’s crossing the bridge . . . The cops are right behind.”
    â€œIt’s the big new bridge,” said Serge. “Takes you right across Lake What-the-Fuck.”
    â€œIs that another real name?”
    â€œNo,” said Serge. “That’s what I call it. It’s really named Lake Surprise. But surprise is usually something good that provides delight, like winning the lottery or reaching in the back of the fridge and finding an unexpected jar of olives. But this lake got its name because it pissed people off.”
    â€œHow’d it do that?”
    â€œAnother funny story. When Henry Flagler started the Overseas Railroad down the Keys, he looked for the route with the most land, because bridges over water cost more. So he sent out surveyors, and they began laying tracks south from the mainland of Florida, across some little islands and an isthmus to Key Largo. And I can’t believe they built that far before realizing that right in the middle of a big chunk of land was this giant lake, and now they have to build an extra bridge that wasn’t in the budget.”
    â€œI guess the guys at the lake didn’t yell, ‘Surprise.’ ”
    â€œThat’s why history gives me a woody.” Serge nodded toward the television. “Even recent history. Like this bozo heading our way.”
    â€œThe TV people said the Corvette was stolen in Coconut Grove.”
    â€œHe’s coming off the bridge,” said Serge. “The rocks will start soon.”
    â€œRocks?”
    â€œIt’s local tradition, and another reason I love the Keys.” Serge stood and put on his sneakers. “It’s our version of when those people went out to the overpasses and waved at O. J. Simpson during the slow-motion chase. Except in the Keys, when there’s a high-speed pursuit on TV heading south, the locals line the road and wait for the car to come off the bridge to Key Largo. Last time was around Christmas.”
    â€œYou’re right.” Coleman pointed at the TV again. “They’re lining the side of the road. They’re throwing rocks.”
    â€œAnd we’re at Mile Marker 105, so that gives us about three minutes.” Serge tightened the Velcro straps on his shoes. “Let’s go throw rocks.”
    â€œCool.”
    They went outside.
    â€œIs this a good rock?” asked Coleman.
    â€œI think that’s a hardened piece of poo.”
    â€œRighteous,” said Coleman, tossing the brown oval up and down in his palm to gauge heft. “I’ll bet nobody else is throwing this at the car.”
    â€œMy wild guess is you’re probably right,” said Serge. “Man, look at all the freakin’ people out here. There’s barely room for us.”
    â€œIt’s like a parade, only better.”
    A drumroll of pinging sounds came up the road toward them. Pieces of gravel and brick ricocheted off the Chevrolet frame.
    â€œThere he is now,” said Serge.
    â€œHe’s swerving all over the place,” said Coleman. “And the car’s completely beaten to shit.”
    â€œThat’s why it’s always better to be at the front of the rock line.” Serge fingered a smooth stone in his pitching hand. “Here’s the secret to enjoying this moment in history: In World War Two, ten percent of the pilots got ninety percent of