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Ken Kaye has authored seven novels, including The East Side of Lauderdale, Final Revenge, Stuck on 75, Gash in the Glades, The Wrong Hangar, The Kiss and Kill Girl and The Monroe Massacre. Born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, Ken graduated from the University of Denver, where he had been aiming toward a career as an airline pilot. He was a flight instructor during his last two years of college. Yet, always a writer at heart, he ended up working as a reporter for the Sun Newspapers in Northeast Ohio for four years. He then migrated to South Florida, where he worked for the Sun Sentinel for more than three decades as a reporter, editor and columnist. As a reporter, Ken specialized in weather and aviation. He led the coverage of the tumultuous 2004 and 2005 hurricane seasons, helping the Sun Sentinel to be nominated as a Pulitzer finalist both years. He also led coverage of the ValuJet crash in the Everglades in 1996. Ken lives in Weston, Florida, with his wife, Maria.

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Stuck On 75

By Ken Kaye

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Ken Kaye
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-0088-1

Chapter One

THERE I WAS, CRUISING DOWN Interstate 75 in my snappy red Yaris, stuffing an Egg McMuffin in my mouth. Armed with a real go-getter attitude, I was planning a big day of selling ads in Miami. The sun was just coming up. The sky was clear. The air was nice and cool, blowing in my open windows.

God, what a gorgeous morning!

Then this fricking fuel tanker blew by me, one of those huge eighteen-wheel jobs. The guy passed so closely that his wake pushed my tiny Toyota into the next lane. That prompted a power bitch in a black Jag to lay on her horn. She had come up on my tail like a racecar driver in the Daytona 500.

Suddenly, my ass was in a jam.

In desperation, I tossed the Egg McMuffin onto the passenger seat, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and struggled to regain control. As cars whizzed by angrily, I gingerly resettled back into my original lane. At least my coffee didn't spill out of its holder.

Leaning out my window, I shook a fist at the tanker driver. "You miserable mother trucker!" I yelled.

Even though he had surged ahead, I still caught a glimpse of the jerk in his large side mirrors. He was giggling.

Jesus, talk about tinkling in your bowl of Cheerios. I was ticked. But I quickly cooled off. I had too much business to conduct that day, too many hands to shake. I couldn't afford a foul mood. Slowing down, I picked up my half-eaten Egg McMuffin. While keeping an eye out for other maniacal drivers, I resumed munching and sipped my McDonald's coffee, laced with three creams, just the way I like it.

Eventually, I rediscovered my morning reverie.

The name is George Leon, president, publisher, and editor of GoWeston, a bimonthly community magazine. Our offices are based in—you guessed it—Weston, an upscale city of 75,000 people that sits fifteen miles west of Fort Lauderdale on the edge of the Everglades. Though a small operation, GoWeston is flourishing even though journalism in general is struggling. The reason is simple. We give readers exactly what they want: happy features about everyday people, a colorful presentation, and lots of glossy photos. Hell, we've even turned a sixth-grade softball game into a splashy, front-page display. Murders and mayhem? Not our style. We let newspapers and television blitz people with bad news.

Everyone on my small staff wears a couple of hats. The circulation manager also sells classified ads. The receptionist doubles as the office manager. The graphics artist draws illustrations and lays out the magazine.

Me? Most of my time is spent on administrative chores. But I also edit copy, write the editor's column, and sell retail ads. At age thirty-two, I can multitask like nobody's business.

On that pretty Thursday morning, the third day of March, I was looking spiffy in a blue Armani suit and spit-polished black Florsheim shoes. I was going to hit two existing accounts to make sure the clients were happy. Then I planned to make a few cold calls, which almost always turned out to be fruitful. I can be very persuasive.

As I navigated through heavy traffic, my cell phone rang. I put down my breakfast carefully and pulled the phone from its holster on my belt.

"Hey, George, it's Mercedes."

Mercedes Delgado was the sole reporter and photographer— remember the two hats thing?—on my staff. A lovely young woman, she had a feisty Cuban spirit, always raring to take on the world. She was also fresh out of journalism school and unable to land a job anywhere else.

"Morning, Mercedes. You're up early."

"Yeah. And it hurts. Listen, I'll be over at Regional Park this morning to interview that grandmother who runs marathons. She's training there today." It was one of the more interesting assignments I had parceled out to Mercedes. A grandmother in her mid-seventies was able to run 26.2 miles under five hours. It was a sure-fire cover story.

"Shoot lots of nice photos," I instructed, mother hen that I am.

"Yes, George," Mercedes said tolerantly. "I won't be back until mid afternoon. Okay?"

I could have asked her why she needed five hours to undertake such a simple story. But I knew why. It took Mercedes a long time to do anything because her skills were so raw.

"Yeah, sure."

"George, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," I said, hungrily eyeing my Egg McMuffin.

"Do you think there will ever be a time when I can write a story that has more substance? I don't mind doing all these silly little features. But I want to do something newsier at some point, okay?"

It was true. Since joining the magazine five months earlier, Mercedes had written about pet stores, bridal shops, and ballet classes. But I felt no sympathy. Our readers ate up those stories. "Perhaps," I responded patiently. "But you knew the deal when I hired you, Mercedes. We're a community magazine, not a newspaper. Those 'silly little features' are our bread and butter."

"I guess. When will you be back?"

I glanced at the silver Omega wrapped around my wrist. It was still shy of 7:00 a.m. "Probably before you. I've got appointments with the Marlins and FedEx. Then I'm going to cold call the Doral Country Club. See you later?"

"Okay. Hablamos." Mercedes was bilingual and occasionally broke into Spanish, although she knew I could barely speak a word of that language.

"Right." I snapped the cell phone shut and sighed. Although she had a lot to learn, I knew Mercedes soon would seek a more challenging job. She already was bored with stories about granny marathoners.

I picked up my breakfast sandwich and prepared to take a bite when, about a quarter mile ahead, the fuel tanker that had almost knocked me off the highway exploded.

Chapter Two

MY JAW FELL TO THE floorboards. The whole truck heaved violently upward, erupting into an inferno. Brilliant orange clouds of fire mushroomed into the sky. Metal, tires, and glass sprayed in all directions as thousands of gallons of gas ignited.

The flaming wreck drifted a short ways and plowed into some cars that had been bogged down in traffic. Every one of those vehicles was instantly engulfed. So were a few others that had been trailing too closely behind the tanker, including the power bitch in the Jag.

"Good Christ," I murmured.

Then the earth jolted. Something akin to a crack of thunder, only much louder, rocked my car and rattled my teeth. The concussion wave had finally reached me.

I was momentarily stunned, until I realized I was about to smash into the rear of a Chevy that was right in front of me. It had screeched to a stop, while I was rolling along at more than fifty miles per hour.

Swerving hard to the left, I barely missed the car. But I started to skid sideways. My Egg McMuffin flew out of my hand and into the windshield. My coffee, jarred out of its holder, splashed all over the dashboard.

Somehow, I straightened the wheel and angled off the highway onto the grassy median. My car bounced over rough ground before coming to a halt halfway across the grass. It turned out to be a good move. I-75 quickly transformed into a giant demolition derby. Front grills rammed into back bumpers. Some cars spun out. Others rolled over.

Several other vehicles joined me, darting onto the median and seeking safety. Among them was a Porsche convertible driven by a young woman. She pulled beside me, stopped and stared straight ahead, apparently in...