Nuclear jellyfish, p.10
Nuclear Jellyfish, page 10
part #11 of Serge Storms Mystery Series
“We’re passing the fort again,” said Coleman.
Serge pounded the steering wheel with his forehead. “This is bullshit!” He made a skidding U-turn and headed back. “I triple-checked all my calculations and sources, so the only possible answer is enemy action.”
“Dear God,” said Coleman. “Who do you think’s behind it?”
“Someone who’s going to pay.” Serge killed the rest of his thermos, pulled a 9mm automatic from under the driver’s seat and racked the slide.
Story looked up from the backseat. “Want me to tell you where it is?”
“No!”
“It’ll save you all this silly driving back-and-forth.”
“Please,” Serge said patronizingly, holding a gun in one hand, looking through a View-Master and driving with his elbows. “Doesn’t it look like I know what I’m doing?”
Story shrugged and turned a page.
The Javelin drove up and down the strip five more times, Serge punching the dashboard, clawing upholstery and ripping down ceiling fabric.
“Fuck it,” said Story. “I can’t take this stupidness anymore. It’s the Hilton. They put up a tall cement privacy wall. That’s why you could see the pool in the aerial photo but not from the street.”
Serge stopped at a red light, wiping bloody knuckles on a towel and squinting into the rearview. “You just couldn’t stand to see me having fun.”
Mahoney had gone bloodhound.
The smell was all Serge.
The agent currently hunkered in a dark corner of a mangy old roadhouse near the ocean just east of Jacksonville. The tavern spoke to Mahoney. It said: The farther north you drive in the state, the more south you get. Definitely Florida, but no mistaking this for Madonna’s Miami Beach. Longnecks replaced mojitos, dark wood paneling, framed photos of Bobby Bowden and Bo Jackson, pool tables, yellowed stuffed fish over bottles of budget whiskey for package sale, handwritten liquor license, signs giving the heads up for loose women. The doors remained propped open to bright light and warm salt air. It was noon. They didn’t take plastic.
Mahoney wouldn’t have been caught dead with a laptop, except he thought the just-out-of-the-box Toshiba on the table in front of him was a 1932 Smith-Corona with a “magic screen.” He found Serge’s travel website. Fingers hit six keys: PETE’S.
Up popped a dispatch dated twelve hours earlier: “117 First Street, Neptune Beach, converted from Pete Jensen’s Market at the end of Prohibition. John Grisham used the joint as a setting in one of his novels, and you can sit beneath a charred oak barrel hanging from the ceiling that marks the spot where the Mississippi scribe sat while doing research, and-you’re not going to fuckin’ believe this!-the commemorative plaque on the barrel misspelled the book’s title. Finding that golden footnote made my whole week …”
Mahoney looked up and read the side of a barrel. “… The Bretheren.”
He nodded gravely. Serge was close, real close.
Mahoney tapped down to the bottom of the website. The last item was a thumbnail of the state flag over words: “This is my e-mail button. Serge really wants to hear from you! I promise to write back. In fact, you may have trouble getting me to stop writing back. Change your life forever: Click now!”
Mahoney clicked the button, hit an invisible carriage return and began typing with one finger.
The Javelin angled up the steep, cobbled drive of the St. Augustine Hilton and parked by the office.
Serge hit the bell ten times at the front desk. Someone appeared. He kept hitting the bell.
“You can stop ringing now.”
“Sorry. Surplus excitement about my life. One regular room please. And don’t think a free upgrade to your top suite will get you excellent marks in my travel company’s widely viewed website, even though it will.”
“I can upgrade you anyway. It’s pretty dead.”
Serge winked. “Of course it is.”
The trio checked into their suite and dropped bags. Coleman went in the bathroom. Serge meticulously stowed and restowed his gear, then cleared the dresser, nightstands and all other horizontal surfaces of ubiquitous welcoming literature, local guidebooks, stand-up cardboard advertisements and cable channel guides, stuffing them all in a bottom drawer “to preempt optical confusion.”
Story climbed into a one-piece swimsuit, and knocked on the bathroom door.
From inside. “Who is it?”
“I need a towel. I’m going to lay out by the pool.”
“Almost done.” Humming.
“You’ve been in there forever.”
Coleman eventually opened the door. “Serge, look at all these cute little bottles. What’s this stuff called ‘conditioner’?”
“In your world, background noise.”
“Jesus,” said Story. “Close the door!”
“Thought you wanted a towel.”
“That smell! It’s like a slaughterhouse. What have you been eating?”
“Stuff.”
She pinched her nose. “Screw it, I’ll air-dry.”
Serge slipped into his own trunks and grabbed a small, flexible cooler. “I’ll join you.”
Coleman came out of the bathroom with toilet paper trailing from his pants. “Wait for me …”
Story led the way across the parking lot and pushed open the safety gate. A small pool sat empty in the middle of a tiny patio with a narrow walkway between the far edge and the high concrete wall buffering the racket of unseen traffic. Story settled into a lounger with sunscreen and textbook.
“Look!” yelled Serge. “A bronze plaque!” He raced to the wall and delicately ran fingers over the lettering. “It commemorates Dr. King’s achievement! And I never would have found it without all my expert research skills!”
Story looked up with raised eyebrows.
“I was just about to find it when you blurted it out!”
She smiled and looked back down.
Serge grabbed a notebook from the side pocket of his cooler. “This is incredible. When corporations tear down all the special places, they usually don’t give a hoot about leaving plaques I can touch and make rubbings.” He held one of his book’s pages to the plaque and lightly brushed it with the angled tip of a pencil. “This gets the hotel Serge’s highest seal of approval, plus a personal thank-you note to Paris Hilton.”
Coleman climbed down into the pool with a six-pack and street clothes. Serge joined him and waded over with his cooler. He placed it at the side of the pool, removed three bologna sandwiches and began ramming them in his mouth as fast as he could, accelerating the process with swigs of bottled water. His cheeks bulged like a squirrel stowing nuts.
“That’s disgusting,” said Story.
“I normally have excellent table manners.” Serge crammed another bite. “But I’m field-testing a travel tip. This is about science.”
“Science?”
“I’m going to swim without waiting an hour after eating.” He pushed the rest of a sandwich in and finished the water bottle. “Nobody’s ever considered challenging the prevailing wisdom-nobody’s ever dared!”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You think it’s just one hour, but the loss in job efficiency becomes astronomical over an entire career.” Serge donned swim goggles. “Time management is critical for Fortune 500 travelers on the go. If my hunch is correct, the labor-saving windfall could rock the international exchange rate … Coleman, what’s that on your head?”
“My new hat. I found it with those little bottles in the bathroom.”
“Coleman, that’s a disposable shower cap.”
“How do I look?”
“Like Coleman, except… what’s that look on your face?”
“What look?”
Serge felt the water around his legs grow warm. “Damn it, Coleman! Not in the pool! And not right before my big swim!”
“At least you’re wearing goggles.”
“You always do this.”
“I do not.”
“Coleman, one time you even did a number two.” “That was in the ocean.”
“We’re not finished discussing this.” Serge took a deep breath and dove into the water. His lack of properly coached, hydrodrag mechanics was compensated for by manic, wild-man splashing. He reached the end of the short pool in seconds, executing an Olympic flip-kick against the wall. He splashed a few more seconds and flipped at the other wall. Then another lap, and another. Coleman covered his beer each time Serge thrashed by. Story shook her head.
He continued for a solid, twenty-minute calorie burn, then popped up in the shallow end and whipped off his goggles. “Just as I thought! Come on, Coleman, we have to get back to the room and alert Wall Street. Story?”
“I have more studying.”
The guys took off. She exhaled a breath of relief and uncapped a yellow highlighter. “Finally …”
The hot Florida sun tacked across a clear azure sky until afternoon clouds rolled in from the peninsula. Story looked up and checked her watch. “Wow, four already?”
She gathered belongings, strolled back to the room and opened the door to horrible screams.
“What the hell’s going on in here?”
Serge was doubled up on the bed as Coleman applied a wet washcloth to his forehead.
“… Cramps! Bad! Ooooooo! …”
“You idiot.”
Serge writhed and moaned in agony. He finally managed to lift his chin. “Coleman …”
Coleman cradled his head. “What is it, buddy?”
“Can you leave Story and me alone for a half hour. We’re going to have sex.”
“What!” said Story. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“But last night… Don’t you like me anymore?”
“You have cramps!”
Serge shook his head. “The key to life is pushing on through cramps. I do it all the time when field-testing how long you can keep convenience store sandwiches on the road without refrigeration. General rule of thumb, two days, except tuna fish, which is one with absolutely no wiggle room. Oooooooooo! God it hurts! Ahhhhh!… You may be right. Just give me a blow job.”
“That’s it. I’m going for a walk.” She changed out of her wet suit in record time. The door slammed.
“What a bitch,” said Coleman.
“She’s not a bitch,” said Serge. “Women can’t help their mood swings. Try to be more sensitive like me.”
TUESDAY
Sun baked.
Tall swamp grass. Dragonflies.
The Javelin sat at a rest stop off Interstate 95 along a wetland slough.
Serge distractedly unwrapped a Cuban sandwich while staring at Coleman. “You’re mixing tequila with Yoo-hoo?” “I’ll try anything once.”
Serge took a bite. “I absolutely love rest stops! Could stay here for days!”
“What’s so special about rest stops?”
“People! The entire spectrum of lives in motion. Vacation, business, ill intentions. Rest stops are the great equalizer, bringing together a population cross-section that would never otherwise allow themselves to be found in the same place.”
“Yuck.” Coleman poured his cup out the window. “How long is Story going to take?”
“Who knows what goes on in their bathrooms?”
“I heard they have meetings.”
“That would explain why us men think we’re in charge, but from time to time have a paranormal sensation that our free will is fatefully controlled by invisible puppet strings. Predestination is just another word for sex.”
“Wish she’d hurry.”
“No harm. The whole key to life is utilizing downtime, like envisioning a Utopia without downtime.”
Coleman pointed at the building. “The door’s opening. The meeting’s getting out.”
“Puppet time.”
Story walked toward the car. Serge pushed a last bite in his mouth and crumpled the sandwich wrapper.
She climbed in the backseat. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Not yet. My field study needs more data.”
“What kind of dumbness now?”
“Rest stops! I love them!” He opened his notebook. “Just a few more observations, like that amber warning sign by the picnic tables: VENOMOUS SNAKES IN AREA. Plus I haven’t found the felon yet.”
“Felon?”
“As I was telling Coleman: Rest stops are the great equalizer. All kinds of wanted felons and escaped cons traveling up and down the state-they have to go to the bathroom, too.” Serge scribbled on a page. “Most of these law-abiding travelers will never know it, but there’s always at least one dangerous criminal parked at each rest stop at the same time.”
“Start the car!”
Serge leaning toward the windshield. “I found him.”
“Who?”
“The felon. Over at the line of Winnebagos. Keep an eye on that last job with Minnesota plates where the retired couple is off-loading trash.”
“You’re insane,” said Story. “Those old people aren’t criminals.”
“Not them. That dude walking over from his pickup. He’s saying something and pointing under the RV. One of the oldest Florida scams in the book.”
Coleman popped a beer. “We know about the meetings.”
“It’s started,” said Serge. “He’s telling them they have a transmission leak. That’s what the pointing was about. Now he’s shaking his head: ‘Bad one. Probably won’t make it another fifty miles.’ They’re beginning to panic, asking if he’s sure. Says he could be wrong, so now he’s crawling under the Winnebago.” Serge opened the driver’s door and got down on the pavement for ground-level view. “He’s crawling back out, showing them a greasy, discolored hand. Leak’s worse than he thought. If the couple can get the RV back in gear, they must head straight to the nearest transmission shop. Luckily, he knows one back at the last exit that does excellent discount work. Most likely a seal that can be fixed for under a hundred bucks, which will turn into a complete rebuilding job for two thousand.”
“Dang,” said Coleman. “You can tell what’s wrong with the RV from way over here ?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the RV.”
“But what about the transmission fluid on the guy’s hands?”
“Bronze tanning lotion or some other gunk. Didn’t have a good line of sight, but he probably applied it from a tube while under the chassis. Now he’s wishing them good luck and says he has to get going the other way for Atlanta so they don’t suspect he’s connected to the shop.” He reached for the door handle. “Serge’s travel service to the rescue!”
Story grabbed his shoulder. “No! Don’t get out of the car!” “Society needs me.”
“For the sake of argument,” said Story. “What if they really have a leak and you get them stranded on the side of the highway?”
“Distinct possibility.” He grabbed a roll of duct tape from under the seat. “That’s why I need to run a blind test.”
“No!-“
But Serge was already running across the parking lot. The couple began climbing back into an RV with every factory option.
“Excuse me!”
They turned as Serge jogged up. “Did that guy just say you had a transmission leak?”
“Yeah,” said the man in bib overalls and a Korean vet baseball cap.
“That was awfully neighborly of him,” said Serge, “but these things can be tricky. Want a second opinion?”
“I-“
“Just be a second.” Serge dropped to the ground and scurried out of view. He popped back up a moment later.
“Well?” asked the man.
“Not sure. Thought I could save you some money, but it looks like the other guy might know more about these things. Wish you the best.”
“Thanks. Gee, so far we’ve only met two people in Florida. Is everyone down here this nice?”
“Pretty much.”
One bit of inside knowledge from the hospitality industry is that a certain percentage of guests don’t check out; they simply leave. This was a problem in the old days with brass room keys, but the new magnetic ones cost next to nothing. The front desk simply charges the remaining balance of phone calls, room service and pay-movies to the credit card-“signature on file”-that the occupant presented at checkin.
Just such a room in a south Jacksonville extended-stay was number 303. The third-floor maid got clearance to turn it around for the next guest.
Her housekeeping cart rolled up to the room later than usual because the other maid who worked the floor had failed to show without notice, and the overflow fell on her shoulders. Just after opening the door, she realized she’d caught a break with 303. The room looked hardly used, almost as if nobody had stayed there. The towel count in the bathroom matched her checklist-all hanging exactly as they’d been placed the day before by the other maid. Soap still in wrappers; tiny shampoo, conditioner and mouthwash unmoved from their perfect triangular formation on the little plastic tray. Even the end of the toilet paper retained its original folded point.
She left the bathroom to discover more non-use, everything in its proper spot, including the dresser lamp with a wiped-down base. The state of the unit lulled her into less scrutiny than normal: no notice of the few stray flecks of blood that had been missed when the tiled entryway was mopped. But most important of all to saving housekeeper time, the beds remained perfectly made, as if no one had slept in them. Because the guest, a coin-dealer-turned-diamond-courier, had never been on his bed. He was under it. The bodies of the missing maid and a man in maintenance overalls were beneath the other one.
The maid locked up the room and informed the front desk that 303 was ready for occupancy.
A two-tone Javelin sat across the street from a mechanic’s garage.
“Now what are we doing?” asked Story.
“Staking out a dishonest transmission shop.” Serge rocked enthusiastically like a child. “This is going to be the most excellent travel service ever!”
“Dammit! Take me to the hotel!”
“Please hang with us on this one,” said Serge. “This isn’t about me. It’s those poor folks from Minnesota.”
“I don’t even see their RV.”
“If it’s the scam I think, the Winnebago is behind one of those closed garage bay doors on the end, so nobody can see the expensive work not taking place.”
Serge pounded the steering wheel with his forehead. “This is bullshit!” He made a skidding U-turn and headed back. “I triple-checked all my calculations and sources, so the only possible answer is enemy action.”
“Dear God,” said Coleman. “Who do you think’s behind it?”
“Someone who’s going to pay.” Serge killed the rest of his thermos, pulled a 9mm automatic from under the driver’s seat and racked the slide.
Story looked up from the backseat. “Want me to tell you where it is?”
“No!”
“It’ll save you all this silly driving back-and-forth.”
“Please,” Serge said patronizingly, holding a gun in one hand, looking through a View-Master and driving with his elbows. “Doesn’t it look like I know what I’m doing?”
Story shrugged and turned a page.
The Javelin drove up and down the strip five more times, Serge punching the dashboard, clawing upholstery and ripping down ceiling fabric.
“Fuck it,” said Story. “I can’t take this stupidness anymore. It’s the Hilton. They put up a tall cement privacy wall. That’s why you could see the pool in the aerial photo but not from the street.”
Serge stopped at a red light, wiping bloody knuckles on a towel and squinting into the rearview. “You just couldn’t stand to see me having fun.”
Mahoney had gone bloodhound.
The smell was all Serge.
The agent currently hunkered in a dark corner of a mangy old roadhouse near the ocean just east of Jacksonville. The tavern spoke to Mahoney. It said: The farther north you drive in the state, the more south you get. Definitely Florida, but no mistaking this for Madonna’s Miami Beach. Longnecks replaced mojitos, dark wood paneling, framed photos of Bobby Bowden and Bo Jackson, pool tables, yellowed stuffed fish over bottles of budget whiskey for package sale, handwritten liquor license, signs giving the heads up for loose women. The doors remained propped open to bright light and warm salt air. It was noon. They didn’t take plastic.
Mahoney wouldn’t have been caught dead with a laptop, except he thought the just-out-of-the-box Toshiba on the table in front of him was a 1932 Smith-Corona with a “magic screen.” He found Serge’s travel website. Fingers hit six keys: PETE’S.
Up popped a dispatch dated twelve hours earlier: “117 First Street, Neptune Beach, converted from Pete Jensen’s Market at the end of Prohibition. John Grisham used the joint as a setting in one of his novels, and you can sit beneath a charred oak barrel hanging from the ceiling that marks the spot where the Mississippi scribe sat while doing research, and-you’re not going to fuckin’ believe this!-the commemorative plaque on the barrel misspelled the book’s title. Finding that golden footnote made my whole week …”
Mahoney looked up and read the side of a barrel. “… The Bretheren.”
He nodded gravely. Serge was close, real close.
Mahoney tapped down to the bottom of the website. The last item was a thumbnail of the state flag over words: “This is my e-mail button. Serge really wants to hear from you! I promise to write back. In fact, you may have trouble getting me to stop writing back. Change your life forever: Click now!”
Mahoney clicked the button, hit an invisible carriage return and began typing with one finger.
The Javelin angled up the steep, cobbled drive of the St. Augustine Hilton and parked by the office.
Serge hit the bell ten times at the front desk. Someone appeared. He kept hitting the bell.
“You can stop ringing now.”
“Sorry. Surplus excitement about my life. One regular room please. And don’t think a free upgrade to your top suite will get you excellent marks in my travel company’s widely viewed website, even though it will.”
“I can upgrade you anyway. It’s pretty dead.”
Serge winked. “Of course it is.”
The trio checked into their suite and dropped bags. Coleman went in the bathroom. Serge meticulously stowed and restowed his gear, then cleared the dresser, nightstands and all other horizontal surfaces of ubiquitous welcoming literature, local guidebooks, stand-up cardboard advertisements and cable channel guides, stuffing them all in a bottom drawer “to preempt optical confusion.”
Story climbed into a one-piece swimsuit, and knocked on the bathroom door.
From inside. “Who is it?”
“I need a towel. I’m going to lay out by the pool.”
“Almost done.” Humming.
“You’ve been in there forever.”
Coleman eventually opened the door. “Serge, look at all these cute little bottles. What’s this stuff called ‘conditioner’?”
“In your world, background noise.”
“Jesus,” said Story. “Close the door!”
“Thought you wanted a towel.”
“That smell! It’s like a slaughterhouse. What have you been eating?”
“Stuff.”
She pinched her nose. “Screw it, I’ll air-dry.”
Serge slipped into his own trunks and grabbed a small, flexible cooler. “I’ll join you.”
Coleman came out of the bathroom with toilet paper trailing from his pants. “Wait for me …”
Story led the way across the parking lot and pushed open the safety gate. A small pool sat empty in the middle of a tiny patio with a narrow walkway between the far edge and the high concrete wall buffering the racket of unseen traffic. Story settled into a lounger with sunscreen and textbook.
“Look!” yelled Serge. “A bronze plaque!” He raced to the wall and delicately ran fingers over the lettering. “It commemorates Dr. King’s achievement! And I never would have found it without all my expert research skills!”
Story looked up with raised eyebrows.
“I was just about to find it when you blurted it out!”
She smiled and looked back down.
Serge grabbed a notebook from the side pocket of his cooler. “This is incredible. When corporations tear down all the special places, they usually don’t give a hoot about leaving plaques I can touch and make rubbings.” He held one of his book’s pages to the plaque and lightly brushed it with the angled tip of a pencil. “This gets the hotel Serge’s highest seal of approval, plus a personal thank-you note to Paris Hilton.”
Coleman climbed down into the pool with a six-pack and street clothes. Serge joined him and waded over with his cooler. He placed it at the side of the pool, removed three bologna sandwiches and began ramming them in his mouth as fast as he could, accelerating the process with swigs of bottled water. His cheeks bulged like a squirrel stowing nuts.
“That’s disgusting,” said Story.
“I normally have excellent table manners.” Serge crammed another bite. “But I’m field-testing a travel tip. This is about science.”
“Science?”
“I’m going to swim without waiting an hour after eating.” He pushed the rest of a sandwich in and finished the water bottle. “Nobody’s ever considered challenging the prevailing wisdom-nobody’s ever dared!”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You think it’s just one hour, but the loss in job efficiency becomes astronomical over an entire career.” Serge donned swim goggles. “Time management is critical for Fortune 500 travelers on the go. If my hunch is correct, the labor-saving windfall could rock the international exchange rate … Coleman, what’s that on your head?”
“My new hat. I found it with those little bottles in the bathroom.”
“Coleman, that’s a disposable shower cap.”
“How do I look?”
“Like Coleman, except… what’s that look on your face?”
“What look?”
Serge felt the water around his legs grow warm. “Damn it, Coleman! Not in the pool! And not right before my big swim!”
“At least you’re wearing goggles.”
“You always do this.”
“I do not.”
“Coleman, one time you even did a number two.” “That was in the ocean.”
“We’re not finished discussing this.” Serge took a deep breath and dove into the water. His lack of properly coached, hydrodrag mechanics was compensated for by manic, wild-man splashing. He reached the end of the short pool in seconds, executing an Olympic flip-kick against the wall. He splashed a few more seconds and flipped at the other wall. Then another lap, and another. Coleman covered his beer each time Serge thrashed by. Story shook her head.
He continued for a solid, twenty-minute calorie burn, then popped up in the shallow end and whipped off his goggles. “Just as I thought! Come on, Coleman, we have to get back to the room and alert Wall Street. Story?”
“I have more studying.”
The guys took off. She exhaled a breath of relief and uncapped a yellow highlighter. “Finally …”
The hot Florida sun tacked across a clear azure sky until afternoon clouds rolled in from the peninsula. Story looked up and checked her watch. “Wow, four already?”
She gathered belongings, strolled back to the room and opened the door to horrible screams.
“What the hell’s going on in here?”
Serge was doubled up on the bed as Coleman applied a wet washcloth to his forehead.
“… Cramps! Bad! Ooooooo! …”
“You idiot.”
Serge writhed and moaned in agony. He finally managed to lift his chin. “Coleman …”
Coleman cradled his head. “What is it, buddy?”
“Can you leave Story and me alone for a half hour. We’re going to have sex.”
“What!” said Story. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“But last night… Don’t you like me anymore?”
“You have cramps!”
Serge shook his head. “The key to life is pushing on through cramps. I do it all the time when field-testing how long you can keep convenience store sandwiches on the road without refrigeration. General rule of thumb, two days, except tuna fish, which is one with absolutely no wiggle room. Oooooooooo! God it hurts! Ahhhhh!… You may be right. Just give me a blow job.”
“That’s it. I’m going for a walk.” She changed out of her wet suit in record time. The door slammed.
“What a bitch,” said Coleman.
“She’s not a bitch,” said Serge. “Women can’t help their mood swings. Try to be more sensitive like me.”
TUESDAY
Sun baked.
Tall swamp grass. Dragonflies.
The Javelin sat at a rest stop off Interstate 95 along a wetland slough.
Serge distractedly unwrapped a Cuban sandwich while staring at Coleman. “You’re mixing tequila with Yoo-hoo?” “I’ll try anything once.”
Serge took a bite. “I absolutely love rest stops! Could stay here for days!”
“What’s so special about rest stops?”
“People! The entire spectrum of lives in motion. Vacation, business, ill intentions. Rest stops are the great equalizer, bringing together a population cross-section that would never otherwise allow themselves to be found in the same place.”
“Yuck.” Coleman poured his cup out the window. “How long is Story going to take?”
“Who knows what goes on in their bathrooms?”
“I heard they have meetings.”
“That would explain why us men think we’re in charge, but from time to time have a paranormal sensation that our free will is fatefully controlled by invisible puppet strings. Predestination is just another word for sex.”
“Wish she’d hurry.”
“No harm. The whole key to life is utilizing downtime, like envisioning a Utopia without downtime.”
Coleman pointed at the building. “The door’s opening. The meeting’s getting out.”
“Puppet time.”
Story walked toward the car. Serge pushed a last bite in his mouth and crumpled the sandwich wrapper.
She climbed in the backseat. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Not yet. My field study needs more data.”
“What kind of dumbness now?”
“Rest stops! I love them!” He opened his notebook. “Just a few more observations, like that amber warning sign by the picnic tables: VENOMOUS SNAKES IN AREA. Plus I haven’t found the felon yet.”
“Felon?”
“As I was telling Coleman: Rest stops are the great equalizer. All kinds of wanted felons and escaped cons traveling up and down the state-they have to go to the bathroom, too.” Serge scribbled on a page. “Most of these law-abiding travelers will never know it, but there’s always at least one dangerous criminal parked at each rest stop at the same time.”
“Start the car!”
Serge leaning toward the windshield. “I found him.”
“Who?”
“The felon. Over at the line of Winnebagos. Keep an eye on that last job with Minnesota plates where the retired couple is off-loading trash.”
“You’re insane,” said Story. “Those old people aren’t criminals.”
“Not them. That dude walking over from his pickup. He’s saying something and pointing under the RV. One of the oldest Florida scams in the book.”
Coleman popped a beer. “We know about the meetings.”
“It’s started,” said Serge. “He’s telling them they have a transmission leak. That’s what the pointing was about. Now he’s shaking his head: ‘Bad one. Probably won’t make it another fifty miles.’ They’re beginning to panic, asking if he’s sure. Says he could be wrong, so now he’s crawling under the Winnebago.” Serge opened the driver’s door and got down on the pavement for ground-level view. “He’s crawling back out, showing them a greasy, discolored hand. Leak’s worse than he thought. If the couple can get the RV back in gear, they must head straight to the nearest transmission shop. Luckily, he knows one back at the last exit that does excellent discount work. Most likely a seal that can be fixed for under a hundred bucks, which will turn into a complete rebuilding job for two thousand.”
“Dang,” said Coleman. “You can tell what’s wrong with the RV from way over here ?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the RV.”
“But what about the transmission fluid on the guy’s hands?”
“Bronze tanning lotion or some other gunk. Didn’t have a good line of sight, but he probably applied it from a tube while under the chassis. Now he’s wishing them good luck and says he has to get going the other way for Atlanta so they don’t suspect he’s connected to the shop.” He reached for the door handle. “Serge’s travel service to the rescue!”
Story grabbed his shoulder. “No! Don’t get out of the car!” “Society needs me.”
“For the sake of argument,” said Story. “What if they really have a leak and you get them stranded on the side of the highway?”
“Distinct possibility.” He grabbed a roll of duct tape from under the seat. “That’s why I need to run a blind test.”
“No!-“
But Serge was already running across the parking lot. The couple began climbing back into an RV with every factory option.
“Excuse me!”
They turned as Serge jogged up. “Did that guy just say you had a transmission leak?”
“Yeah,” said the man in bib overalls and a Korean vet baseball cap.
“That was awfully neighborly of him,” said Serge, “but these things can be tricky. Want a second opinion?”
“I-“
“Just be a second.” Serge dropped to the ground and scurried out of view. He popped back up a moment later.
“Well?” asked the man.
“Not sure. Thought I could save you some money, but it looks like the other guy might know more about these things. Wish you the best.”
“Thanks. Gee, so far we’ve only met two people in Florida. Is everyone down here this nice?”
“Pretty much.”
One bit of inside knowledge from the hospitality industry is that a certain percentage of guests don’t check out; they simply leave. This was a problem in the old days with brass room keys, but the new magnetic ones cost next to nothing. The front desk simply charges the remaining balance of phone calls, room service and pay-movies to the credit card-“signature on file”-that the occupant presented at checkin.
Just such a room in a south Jacksonville extended-stay was number 303. The third-floor maid got clearance to turn it around for the next guest.
Her housekeeping cart rolled up to the room later than usual because the other maid who worked the floor had failed to show without notice, and the overflow fell on her shoulders. Just after opening the door, she realized she’d caught a break with 303. The room looked hardly used, almost as if nobody had stayed there. The towel count in the bathroom matched her checklist-all hanging exactly as they’d been placed the day before by the other maid. Soap still in wrappers; tiny shampoo, conditioner and mouthwash unmoved from their perfect triangular formation on the little plastic tray. Even the end of the toilet paper retained its original folded point.
She left the bathroom to discover more non-use, everything in its proper spot, including the dresser lamp with a wiped-down base. The state of the unit lulled her into less scrutiny than normal: no notice of the few stray flecks of blood that had been missed when the tiled entryway was mopped. But most important of all to saving housekeeper time, the beds remained perfectly made, as if no one had slept in them. Because the guest, a coin-dealer-turned-diamond-courier, had never been on his bed. He was under it. The bodies of the missing maid and a man in maintenance overalls were beneath the other one.
The maid locked up the room and informed the front desk that 303 was ready for occupancy.
A two-tone Javelin sat across the street from a mechanic’s garage.
“Now what are we doing?” asked Story.
“Staking out a dishonest transmission shop.” Serge rocked enthusiastically like a child. “This is going to be the most excellent travel service ever!”
“Dammit! Take me to the hotel!”
“Please hang with us on this one,” said Serge. “This isn’t about me. It’s those poor folks from Minnesota.”
“I don’t even see their RV.”
“If it’s the scam I think, the Winnebago is behind one of those closed garage bay doors on the end, so nobody can see the expensive work not taking place.”
