The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey Page A

scrotum.” Serge stuck his hand in his pocket. “Unfortunately for this guy, he ran right into my psyche without knocking, plopped down on the couch, and propped his dirty feet up in my Happy Place.”
    â€œYou were more than patient.”
    CATFISH
    L ocal evening news came on. Dramatic theme music that sounded like a loud, rapid-fire teletype, even though nobody had seen a teletype in decades.
    â€œGood evening. Our top story tonight: A major crackdown has begun on the I-95 pipeline of OxyContin being dispensed from numerous South Florida pill mills that have sprouted like mushrooms in recent years. Utilizing strengthened laws passed by the legislature this session, various police agencies have been raiding the most brazen pain clinics operating with little more than a few bare rooms and ballpoint pens. But now state police have opened a second front on the war against the so-called hillbilly heroin, intercepting large vehicles of patients and pills . . .”
    The televised image switched to earlier footage of a school bus, painted gray, stopped on the side of the interstate. Deputies led a single-file line of handcuffed passengers into a series of correctional vans. Then a live news conference at a nearby command post: a trophy table covered with pill bottles, cash and two .38 revolvers. A commander with the state police stepped up to the podium, holding the leash of a German shepherd. “Today marks a new offensive on the scourge of prescription drug traffickers laying waste to South Florida. Taking advantage of just-passed laws, we’re stepping up the fight against out-of-state couriers who have begun using sophisticated tactics that until now haven’t been seen outside the cocaine trade, such as concealing contraband inside fuel tanks and swallowing condoms. This is just the beginning of the battle, but we will not rest until—”
    A thumb hit a button on a remote control. The TV switched off. Next to the television was a table not unlike the one at the news conference: pill bottles, cash, guns.
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” asked someone in the background wearing a trucker’s hat. He pointed at the dark TV tube. “They got our first two buses. And I’m sure they’ll find the third we ditched after unloading all this stuff.”
    â€œI’m thinking,” said the man with the remote control.
    â€œBut we just dumped all those guys at the beach and told them to wait. Most are wearing bib overalls and engine grease. It’s just a matter of time before they connect them to the abandoned bus.”
    The first man massaged his temples. “You’re giving me a headache.”
    â€œBut, Catfish—”
    â€œShut up! For fuck’s sake! You said we dumped them at the beach, which means they don’t know where this motel room is . . .” He tossed the remote on a bed and eased down into a chair. “So just grow a pair and let me logically work this out like I always do . . .”
    He was the leader. The gang loosely numbered forty. Six buses total, three going each way at all times. With Oxy tabs running up to eighty bucks each on the street, they’d made so much money so fast that they hadn’t figured out the laundering end, and a few million dollars was buried in a scattering of ramshackle tobacco barns in Bourbon County and the horse country surrounding Lexington. The rest of the gang drove the buses, but he rode in a trail vehicle with no contraband, allowing him to monitor operations while remaining clean in case the cops stopped them. It was an old Dodge Durango. He could afford a Rolls, but this was his blood.
    His birth certificate said Jebediah Alowishous Stump, but everyone called him Catfish. Because of the deep scars on the backs of his legs. Long story.
    Short version: His dad, Cecil, ran stills from Bowling Green to Cumberland Lake. Clear whiskey. And on the boy, he was quick with the switch.