Free Electric Barracuda by Tim Dorsey Page B

. . .”
    . . . A Plymouth with bald tires parked in darkness behind a long, graffiti-tagged building with concrete cracks from water seepage.
    Doors slammed.
    Two men headed for an even darker alley.
    “Another thing that pisses me off,” said Serge. “Movie titles that are predicates. Raising Helen, Feeling Minnesota, Regarding Henry . . . wait, the last one’s a preposition. I hate that sentence-diagramming bullshit even more.”
    Coleman crumpled a beer can. “I say: Biting Me. ”
    Serge stopped. “Coleman. You can conjugate.”
    “Fuckin’-A.”
    “You did it again.”
    Six hours earlier, they had checked into an economy motel on Jacksonville’s hardworking west side. Only three cars in the lot. A neon sign with Arabic letters sizzled in the humid heat, someone on a flying carpet. The night manager ate cold chop suey behind bulletproof glass.
    And now, after a robust day of souvenir gathering and crime fighting, Serge had returned. It was their first time at the motel, so he employed his patented precautionary tactic of parking a couple blocks south behind a Vietnamese grocery. If the stolen car was made, it couldn’t be connected to the room, and if the room was made, he had a stashed getaway vehicle. If neither happened, Serge would make Coleman chase him for fun.
    They worked their way toward the motel through multiple alleys.
    “Looks like the coast is clear,” said Serge. “Ready?”
    “But I don’t want to chase you.”
    They turned another corner.
    Flashing red and blue lights reflected off the muffler shop next door.
    Serge leaped back behind the building.
    “What is it?” asked Coleman.
    “Cops.”
    “They found us! Let’s get out of here!”
    “There’s no way they could have found us.” Serge peeked around the corner. “I used my backtracking, triple-reverse cloaking fugitive maneuver. Besides, have you seen how busy the police are in this town? Probably some other wanted felon.”
    Serge slipped into the alley that led to the front of the motel.
    “What the hell are you doing?” said Coleman.
    “Going to see the takedown.” Serge stepped around puddles. “Takedowns crack me up: I’m not resisting! Stop hitting me with batons! I can’t breathe with your knee on my back! Don’t do the choke hold! That’s the choke hold! Grahhhsfdjgpaojdsg . . . How can you not laugh at excessive force?”
    They slowly crept up the alley and poked their heads around the next corner.
    “Holy mother,” said Serge. “I’ve never seen so many patrol cars. Like a thousand cops and . . . why are they surrounding our room?”
    “Told you,” said Coleman.
    “Must be some kind of mistake.” Serge pulled back until only one eye was at the edge of the motel.
    Bam! Bam! Bam! Crash!
    “What was that?” asked Coleman.
    “The SWAT team just went in and . . . Uh-oh.” Serge began backing up with uncharacteristic fear.
    “What’d you see?”
    “Mahoney!” Serge quietly turned around. “So they are after us. Let’s just creep back to the car.”
    Coleman began making exaggerated tiptoe steps like he was in a cartoon.
    They almost reached the back of the alley, ready to make a dash into the safety of darkness. Serge breathed easier.
    Suddenly, from behind, a bath of bright white light.
    They spun and shielded their eyes from the headlights of another patrol car that had just pulled up the drive. “Shit!” Serge turned back around. “Walk faster.”
    Car doors.
    “Police! Don’t move! Get your hands in the air!”
    Serge froze and clenched his eyes shut with a wince.
    A different officer’s voice: “Now walk backward and keep those hands up!”
    The pair complied until they were ten feet from the cops.
    “Stop right there! Now turn around very slowly!”
    They did.
    Two police officers, one aiming a 9mm, the other with a flashlight. Its beam hit their faces. More reflexive squinting.
    “You staying at the motel?”
    “Yes,” said Serge. Then, preemptively: “Room