Hammerhead Ranch Motel (Serge Storms)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
There's a different schemer or slimeball behind every door: cocaine duckpins who have survived only by the dumbest fortune, hard-luck gigolos desperate to score, undercover cops busting undercover cops who are running sting operations on undercover cops. And just down the row, local historian and spree killer Serge A. Storms -- who has stopped keeping up with his meds -- is still looking for a briefcase stuffed with five million dollars...and is now capable of wreaking more havoc than hurricane Rolando-berto, the big wind gathering force offshore, just waiting for the opportunity to blow everything straight to hell.
Pack up your bags and head south to sunny Florida. Leave your rational mind at home and come well armed. There's a room with your number on it at the Hammerhead Ranch Motel.
the Gandy Boulevard Bridge heading across the bay from St. Petersburg to Tampa. A few fishermen worked nets and rods on the old Gandy Bridge, now closed down, running alongside the new span. The illuminated red letters of “Misener Marine” glowed on the shore and reflected in the choppy midnight water. Two men sat in the front seat of the Jag and one in the back. “What do you think? Should they tear down the old Gandy or leave it up for a jogging trail?” asked the front passenger. “I don’t
Each chain was extended loosely and fastened in opposite directions so that Sid hung like a hammock. He almost looked comfortable. There wasn’t any challenge to the interrogation. In the first minute, Spittle was ready to confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping. He told Serge everything about the money, about making the switch at the bus station with his girlfriend, Patty, and about their planned rendezvous later that night. Serge had one last question. Who were those guys chasing you? “You don’t
will blow?” “What?” “Never mind. Listen, do you have any kind of door or something that opens up in the floor here?” “We have a small, auxiliary instrumentation hatch…” “Great! That’s wonderful! Let’s call it the bomb bay,” said Crease. “But it’s not—” “I know television!” said Crease. “Now say it!” “It’s the bomb bay,” Honeycutt said sarcastically. “Good! Now here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re going to go get the little drop-thingie and open the bomb bay, and then you’re going to film
“Porkchop” Dole was on the screen being interviewed live about his vain but heroic efforts radioing for help after keenly observing the Skyway jumper. It was such an impressive TV performance that Dole probably would have salvaged his career. Except he was absentmindedly holding his “Ask someone who gives a shit!” coffee mug prominently for the cameras. Mrs. Ploomfield’s condo sat on a thin ribbon of barrier island on the Gulf of Mexico. It towered thirty stories and, with the other condos,
into the Gulf of Mexico. Revised projections had it heading north and passing Tampa Bay in twenty-four hours, missing it by a hundred miles to the left and making landfall somewhere between Pensacola and New Orleans. “Where’s that storm going now?” asked weatherman Guy Rockney. Toto II danced on the map in a little pirate outfit as a ceiling camera filmed the dog from overhead. “Looks like it’s still heading north,” said Rockney, “so you can breathe easy, Tampa Bay.” Up the coast of Florida