name,” said the reporter.
“I’ll try,” said Guillermo. “But what happened this morning?”
“All the stations were set up on the lawn, waiting for him to show, and suddenly these cars came flying up, and a bunch of government guys rushed him out with a coat over his head. You wouldn’t have any idea what that was about, would you?”
Guillermo shrugged. “Last time I saw him, we were in the chess club . . . These guys say they were government?”
“No, but you could just tell. All business, not even a ‘no comment.’ Then, fifteen minutes later, two giant moving vans pulled up, except they didn’t have any markings on the side. And they had like twenty guys. Cleaned the place out in less than an hour.”
“Thanks.”
The TV van pulled away.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
A camcorder scanned the west end of the strip. Nightclubs, hotels, swimsuit shops, condos. The lens passed something and backed up. It stopped on a neon sign.
The camera fell to Serge’s side and dangled by its shoulder strap. “I don’t believe it.” He broke into a trot, then a run.
A half mile later, Serge grabbed a hitching post and panted beneath colorful curved glass tubing: H AMMERHEAD R ANCH B AR & G RILLE .
He went inside.
Everything was dark wood with heavy layers of varnish to preempt wear and tear from the beach crowd. Sunlight streamed through open veranda doors. Strands of beer pennants hung from rafters. Walls and ceiling covered with old license plates, old photos, old fishing equipment—all bought from a restaurant supply company to give new businesses artificial age. The T-shirt shop took up a quarter of the floor space.
The joint was empty, too early yet for the student shift. Chairs still on tables from mop duty. Singular movement behind the bar: A Latin man in a polo shirt inventoried liquor stock with a clipboard. He jotted a number.
“Tommy?” Serge yelled across the dining room. “Tommy Diaz? Is that really you?”
The man looked up from his paperwork. “Who wants to know?”
“Tommy, it’s me, Serge!”
“Serge?” Tommy set the clipboard against the cash register. “You’re still alive?”
“Rumor has it.”
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
“Just about to ask you the same thing.”
“We’ve gone legit,” said Tommy.
“No way!”
“Way,” said Tommy. “You wouldn’t believe how packed this place gets. We’re making it hand over fist. And I thought there was a lot of money in cocaine.”
“What about the old motel—” Serge caught himself. “Don’t tell me you sold out. That’s our heritage!”
“No, it’s still there, dumpy as ever.”
“Whew!”
Early birds in Iowa State Hawkeye jerseys arrived and grabbed stools. Tommy checked his watch. “Where are those bartenders?”
Serge grabbed his own stool and looked up at a stuffed hammerhead shark painted psychedelic Day-Glo and wearing sunglasses. “Tommy . . .” He winced at the shark and waved an arm around the interior. “It’s so . . . yuck. ”
Tommy checked student IDs and stuck frosty mugs under draft spigots. “Got to stay up with the times. Our motel in Tampa Bay has become something of a landmark, everyone pulling over to take snapshots of that row of sharks, but it ain’t makin’ shit. So we decided to franchise the name recognition.”
Serge frowned. “Feels like I’m in Cheers.”
“If you’re between gigs, we could always use a bouncer . . .” He looked back at the swinging “staff only” doors to the kitchen that weren’t swinging. “. . . and bartenders who show up on time!”
“Personnel problems?” asked Serge.
Tommy poured off foam before setting the students’ mugs on cardboard coasters. He strolled over and leaned against the other side of the bar from Serge. “That’s the only rub. You hire the hottest babes available, dress them accordingly and cash just avalanches. But then you have to put up with their lifestyle.”
Swinging doors creaked.
One of the Hawkeyes
“I’ll try,” said Guillermo. “But what happened this morning?”
“All the stations were set up on the lawn, waiting for him to show, and suddenly these cars came flying up, and a bunch of government guys rushed him out with a coat over his head. You wouldn’t have any idea what that was about, would you?”
Guillermo shrugged. “Last time I saw him, we were in the chess club . . . These guys say they were government?”
“No, but you could just tell. All business, not even a ‘no comment.’ Then, fifteen minutes later, two giant moving vans pulled up, except they didn’t have any markings on the side. And they had like twenty guys. Cleaned the place out in less than an hour.”
“Thanks.”
The TV van pulled away.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
A camcorder scanned the west end of the strip. Nightclubs, hotels, swimsuit shops, condos. The lens passed something and backed up. It stopped on a neon sign.
The camera fell to Serge’s side and dangled by its shoulder strap. “I don’t believe it.” He broke into a trot, then a run.
A half mile later, Serge grabbed a hitching post and panted beneath colorful curved glass tubing: H AMMERHEAD R ANCH B AR & G RILLE .
He went inside.
Everything was dark wood with heavy layers of varnish to preempt wear and tear from the beach crowd. Sunlight streamed through open veranda doors. Strands of beer pennants hung from rafters. Walls and ceiling covered with old license plates, old photos, old fishing equipment—all bought from a restaurant supply company to give new businesses artificial age. The T-shirt shop took up a quarter of the floor space.
The joint was empty, too early yet for the student shift. Chairs still on tables from mop duty. Singular movement behind the bar: A Latin man in a polo shirt inventoried liquor stock with a clipboard. He jotted a number.
“Tommy?” Serge yelled across the dining room. “Tommy Diaz? Is that really you?”
The man looked up from his paperwork. “Who wants to know?”
“Tommy, it’s me, Serge!”
“Serge?” Tommy set the clipboard against the cash register. “You’re still alive?”
“Rumor has it.”
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
“Just about to ask you the same thing.”
“We’ve gone legit,” said Tommy.
“No way!”
“Way,” said Tommy. “You wouldn’t believe how packed this place gets. We’re making it hand over fist. And I thought there was a lot of money in cocaine.”
“What about the old motel—” Serge caught himself. “Don’t tell me you sold out. That’s our heritage!”
“No, it’s still there, dumpy as ever.”
“Whew!”
Early birds in Iowa State Hawkeye jerseys arrived and grabbed stools. Tommy checked his watch. “Where are those bartenders?”
Serge grabbed his own stool and looked up at a stuffed hammerhead shark painted psychedelic Day-Glo and wearing sunglasses. “Tommy . . .” He winced at the shark and waved an arm around the interior. “It’s so . . . yuck. ”
Tommy checked student IDs and stuck frosty mugs under draft spigots. “Got to stay up with the times. Our motel in Tampa Bay has become something of a landmark, everyone pulling over to take snapshots of that row of sharks, but it ain’t makin’ shit. So we decided to franchise the name recognition.”
Serge frowned. “Feels like I’m in Cheers.”
“If you’re between gigs, we could always use a bouncer . . .” He looked back at the swinging “staff only” doors to the kitchen that weren’t swinging. “. . . and bartenders who show up on time!”
“Personnel problems?” asked Serge.
Tommy poured off foam before setting the students’ mugs on cardboard coasters. He strolled over and leaned against the other side of the bar from Serge. “That’s the only rub. You hire the hottest babes available, dress them accordingly and cash just avalanches. But then you have to put up with their lifestyle.”
Swinging doors creaked.
One of the Hawkeyes
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