Free The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey Page A

Fantasy Fest in Key West and didn’t come back for three weeks, and when I finally remembered, I went to the real-estate agent’s office to apologize, but her secretary says she’s not in, and then I see some woman running out the back door and speeding away in a car. And the secretary suddenly hands me a check, full payment.”
    â€œThat’s weird,” said Coleman, staring at the banging closet.
    â€œSteve must have talked to that agent about me,” said Serge. “Put the ol’ probate boot down on her neck: ‘You want to keep riding this gravy train? Don’t fuck with my people.’ ”
    â€œWow,” said Coleman. “Steve must really like you.”
    Serge nodded again. “It’s great having a probate attorney as a friend. They’re very loyal.”
    LATER THAT NIGHT
    I t always seems to be a full moon in the glades.
    The sugarcane flowed like an ocean, waves of stalk in the wind. Million acres to the horizon in every direction. Whitecaps where the light reflected just right.
    The lonely road south from the lake passed through a vacant crossroads called Okeelanta, Florida’s version of the crop-duster scene from North by Northwest . Then emptiness. Just a long, desolate drive—one of the longest in the state—with no public turnoffs or safe harbor to pull over for three counties, unless you wanted to take your car swimming in a drainage canal.
    Nothing but an elevated causeway of limestone and fill dirt that gave a nice crow’s-nest view over the landscape, first the agricultural tracts, then the glades in full force. Just swamp and gators for another long run until hitting some truck stops on the outer outskirts of Miami.
    It was cool and breezy up in the livestock bed of a cattle truck that crossed the railroad tracks in South Bay. Standing room only for the migrants packed in the back. They had to hold their bladders. Nobody spoke.
    Up front in the cab, the driver turned on the radio, and the passenger turned it off.
    â€œWhat’s the deal?”
    â€œShut up,” said the passenger. “I’m trying to think.”
    â€œAbout what was on TV today? The intercepted buses and raided clinic?”
    No answer.
    The driver stared ahead. “Maybe we should cool it until after the crackdown.”
    â€œYou idiot,” said the passenger. “How do you think the policía knew where to go?”
    The driver shrugged.
    The passenger simply held up an untraceable cell phone.
    The driver did a double take. “ You tipped off the cops? But why?”
    â€œThose fucking hillbillies. This is our territory. They think they can just come down here and take what’s ours?” He spit out the window.
    â€œSo you’re trying to drive them out of business?”
    â€œNo, I want them in business.”
    The driver turned with a questioning look.
    â€œAs our customers,” the passenger explained. “First I cut off their source. No more of this going straight to the clinics themselves and smuggling it out on buses. Then we’ll be the only source, and they’ll have to do business with us.”
    â€œI don’t think they’ll go for that.”
    â€œThey won’t have a choice. They’ll have to pay a lot more, but they’ll still make a bundle on the back end.”
    â€œBut the police have been hitting our clinics, too.”
    â€œThat’s why we have to change tactics. They’re looking for packed parking lots, and sending undercovers to look for lobbies jammed with people.”
    â€œIs that why we got those motel rooms on U.S. 1?”
    â€œDon’t talk anymore.”
    The passenger stared out the window at the moon. Gaspar Arroyo. Immigrant story. Crossed over at Laredo in ’98, then hooked around the Gulf Coast from Louisiana to Biloxi. Worked the Florida farm circuit in Immokalee, then east to La Belle and Belle Glade. Nothing to show for it. The farms