“You know the Bermuda Triangle?” Serge clicked through more photos. “Florida has what I’ve dubbed the Biker Trapezoid. St. Augustine to New Smyrna Beach, then over to Kissimmee and Lees-burg. Extends farther, but that’s roughly the core. Magnificent back-road scenic tours for the two-wheel crowd, which is now welcomed everywhere.”

  “I remember when police would fuck with bikers.”

  “Until the financial statements came in. Ask any Daytona Beach merchant who used to bank on spring break. College students eat and drink on the cheap, pack ten to a room and trash the place. Then they had a couple motorcycle fests and couldn’t believe the contrast. Bikers spend a fortune. Not only that, but they behave better than the kids and leave rooms in one piece.”

  “They don’t still party like maniacs?”

  “More than ever,” said Serge. “Which is a bigger plus. Capitalism’s favorite son is anyone getting hammered on a full wallet. The cash infusion to the local economy is so ridiculous that chambers of commerce persuaded police departments to go on flex-mode during motorcycle migrations. Instead of arresting rambunctious bikers, they now politely steer them from trouble so they can live to spend another day.” Serge looked at the floor next to Coleman’s stool. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Oh, almost forgot.” He bent down and handed it to Serge. “Howard asked me to give this to you.”

  “When?” Serge reached inside.

  “I don’t know. Couple days ago at one of the hotels.”

  “And you’re just now getting around to it?”

  “Sorry.”

  Serge pulled out his hand. “Oh my God!”

  “What is it?”

  He slowly rotated the white plastic dolphin. “Carolina Snowball! The famous albino dolphin from the sixties at the Miami Seaquarium.” Serge held it right to his eyes. “This came from one of those vintage, glass dome injection-mold vending machines. And it’s just like the one I got as a kid when my grandfather took me to the aquarium, except I lost mine years ago.”

  “That was awfully thoughtful of him.”

  “But how’d he know?”

  “You told him all about it.”

  “I did?”

  “Went on and on …”

  Serge hopped from his stool. “Watch my souvenirs.” He ran out the door to their car and returned in a flash, opening a laptop on the bar.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “That reminded me about my promise to Howard.” He typed nonstop on the stolen computer with wireless Internet access, “Here we go …” Serge found a website for the hometown newspaper where Howard’s mother lived. Serge clicked into the classified section and read down a column of homes for sale. “Here’s one … Here’s another … and another …”

  “Another what?”

  “Homes listed with the agent who ripped off Howard’s mom. If my hunch is correct …” He flipped open his cell and dialed the number from the ads.

  Coleman turned. “But how are you going to-“

  “Shhhhh! It’s ringing … Hello? Mr. Miller? My name is Tom Gifford with the Clarion-Ledger-Beacon. I’m in the classified department, and I apologize for the inconvenience, but one of my new employees incorrectly entered the credit card information when you placed some recent home ads. No, I can’t get it from the last time: Database is down for maintenance … Yes, I have a pen … Uh-huh… uh-huh … uh-huh … and the expiration date?… and the three-digit security code on the back? … and your billing address … Got it. Again, I’m awfully sorry for the trouble …”

  Serge hung up and surfed the Internet until he found another phone number. He dialed again. “Hello, Appliance King? What’s your most expensive refrigerator?… Sounds perfect… That’ll be delivery… Yes, I have my credit card ready …”

  Minutes later, another phone call. “Eduardo, Serge here. Remember the favor you owe me? … That abandoned gas station next to your shop is about to get a delivery, and I need you to sign for it … No, not your name. T.A. Miller … Real estate agent… Right, then I need you to deliver and install it at another address. Got something to write with?…”

  Serge finished the call and closed his laptop. “The Justice League triumphs again.”

  COCOA BEACH

  Mahoney walked across a parking lot, unfolding a flyer and reading it for the tenth time: “Howard Enterprises. Floridiana from all eras. Estates appraised.” The agent returned it to his pocket and entered the only conference room in a modest beach motel.

  Against the back wall, a young man boxed up pins and buttons and citrus-packing labels. It had been a slow day, as in nothing. Howard decided to bag it early.

  “Excuse me.”

  Howard looked up. “Yes.”

  Mahoney pulled a brown leather holder from his tweed jacket and flashed a badge.

  “Wow!” said Howard. “That’s a Dade sheriff, 1942. I’ll give you fifty.”

  Mahoney turned the shield around. “Shoot, grabbed the wrong one.” He returned it to his jacket. “Genuine article’s back on my dresser.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  Mahoney answered by whipping out a mug shot. “Seen this man?”

  Howard instantly recognized it. “Has he done something wrong?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I gave him a postcard the other day.”

  Mahoney stuck a matchstick in his mouth. “Which way’d he hoof?”

  “South, I think.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Seemed real nice.”

  Mahoney pulled the matchstick out. “Fits his M.O.”

  THE LAST RESORT BAR

  An uncharacteristic mood swing. Serge jumped and reflexively glanced behind his stool. Nothing there.

  Coleman killed another longneck and slammed the empty on the bar. “What’s the matter?”

  “Not sure. You know how you sometimes get the feeling you’re being followed?”

  “No.”

  Serge took a swig of spring water. “I’ve been having them more and more lately, and I don’t understand why. Well, actually I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Hasn’t it ever struck you odd that, given my lifestyle all these years, I’ve never been caught or clipped? I’m good, but not that good.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Everyone’s luck runs out sometime.”

  “Serge! Don’t talk like that!”

  “It’s okay.” He placed a consoling hand on his buddy’s shoulder. “Life’s already rained an abundance of blessings on me.”

  “But you’ve always had a wild imagination. Nobody’s following us.”

  “Probably right.” He raised the water again. “Must be all in my head …”

  A new customer appeared in the doorway, slowly scanning the dim room before taking sideways steps along the wall. He clutched a folded newspaper to his chest like it concealed a grenade.

  “Still,” said Serge. “There eventually has to be a time. Everyone’s got a bullet with their name on it.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in that fate stuff.”

  “I don’t,” said Serge. “I’m more afraid of bad ratings.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The new customer tiptoed around the near wall, clandestinely sliding behind Serge’s chair.

  “My life’s so weird, it’s like I’ve been walking through the script of a sit-com.” Serge drained his water. “I’m just worried the universe will grow tired of my character and write me off the show. That’s why I chose this seat.”

  “Why did you choose it?”

  “Got views of all three assault ports: entrance, side door and bartender’s service exit. If the script guy comes in here …” -he patted the gun butt under his tropical shirt-“… I’m doing some rewrites.”

  “Maybe I can help,” said Coleman. “I’ll stay alert for anyone suspicious who might come in here lookin’ for you.”

  “Someone already has.”

  “Where?”

  “Right behind me. Don’t look-“

  Coleman looked.

  “Thanks.”

  “Serge, he’s got something hidden in his newspaper.”

  “I picked up on that.” Serge slowly slipped his hand off the bar and down to the bulge under his shirt.

  “Think it’s a hit?”

  “No,” Serge said sarcastically. “He just popped in to give a complete stranger a whole bunch of money.”

  “Serge, he’s coming toward you! He’s lifting the newspaper!”

  Serge simultaneously spun on his stool and whipped out the pistol, aiming it sideways, low in his lap, so only the new customer could see.

  The man froze and took quick, shallow breaths. He looked at the empty stool on the other side of Serge from Coleman. “May I?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  The man sat and placed the folded paper on the bar in front of him. “Are you Scagnetti?”

  “Nope.”

  “Never mind. It’s better I don’t know your real name.” He glanced at his watch.

  “You’re early.”

  “Why put things off?”

  The stranger’s eyes shifted a final time before surreptitiously sliding the folded paper to his right.

  “News-Journal,” said Serge, keeping aim from below bar level. “Excellent paper.”

  “Thought you’d be more muscular.”

  “I make up for it with deceptive speed, Zen-like mental toughness and champion bird calls.” Serge’s free hand lifted the newspaper’s front edge, revealing a bulky brown envelope tucked inside. He lifted the flap and peeked like a poker player. Thick wad of bills.

  “It’s all there,” said the man. “Two grand.”

  Serge reached under the money, pulling out a Polaroid, a scrap of paper and a house key.

  “My wife and the address.”

  “I guessed that.” Serge slipped the photo back inside. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “That tropical shirt.” He pointed down. “And the particular stool you’re on, just like Vince said.”

  “Vince?”

  The man covered his mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to use his name.”

  “What else did Vince say?”

  “That you could make it look like an accident.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Make her suffer.”

  “That I don’t do. You want her to suffer, grow some balls and handle it yourself.”

  “I’ll pay an extra grand.”

  “How much screaming do you want?”

  “This isn’t a joke!”

  “See me laughing?” Serge stood with the newspaper. “Consider it done. But you need to do a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know that other bar south of the crossroads?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Make yourself visible. Have a few pops, talk to everyone. Keep asking if the clock over the bar is right and all that police-show alibi shit. And don’t leave the bar for anything, especially the bathroom, even if you have to piss like a racehorse. Some asshole will always say ‘Yeah, he left to take a leak,’ and the three minutes you took will later balloon into a half hour when the cops grill him, long enough to get back and forth from your house. Last question: Any kids?”’

  “Two. They’re staying out of town with my mother.” The man looked down; his voice became tentative: “When will I know?”

  “I’ll find you. Now git!”

  The man scurried out of the bar.

  Serge slid over a stool. He reached inside the brown envelope, removed some of the cash and stuck it in his hip pocket. Five minutes passed.

  A muscular man in a tropical shirt stepped through the doorway. Gaunt, sun-dried face like a walnut. He headed directly for the bar and climbed on the stool Serge had just vacated.

  Serge turned. “Scagnetti?”

  “Got something for me?”

  Serge slid the newspaper over.

  The man peeked inside. “Looks light.”

  Serge shook his head. “It’s all there. A grand.”

  “A grand? It’s supposed to be two.”

  “That’s not what Vince said. I give two to him and one to you.” “You were supposed to give me the two! Fuckin’ Vince, holding out.”

  “Does this mean it’s off?”

  “No,” snarled the man, pulling out the photo and address. “I’ll deal with Vince later. How do you want it done?” “Double tap to the back of the head.”

  “But that’ll draw attention your way. Sure you don’t want me to make it look like an accident? The latest thing is getting run over by your own car in the driveway.”

  Serge shook his head. “Even make it easy for you. I’m going home to play with the whore first. You’ll find her tied up and gagged in a closet.”

  “You’re one sick bastard! Why not just finish it if you’re going that far?”

  “Need to establish my alibi when the forensic team pegs time of death. Give me four hours to reach Miami, well outside the margin of error.”

  “That puts us at five-thirty.” He looked up from his watch. “Which closet?”

  “Uh …”

  “You don’t know your own house?”

  “Of course I know my house! The front closet. You’ll probably hear muffled screams.” The man left abruptly.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “I have no idea what’s going on.” “We’re driving over to the address.” “But you only kill jerks.”

  “I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to save her.”

  “Shouldn’t you go to the police?”

  “Are you listening to yourself? Go to the police? Me?”

  “I meant call anonymously on one of those tip lines.”

  “There’s no guarantee they’ll nail him. And even if they do, he’ll still eventually get out because it’s only attempted murder. You saw that level of rage-‘make her suffer’-she’ll always be in danger unless I tie a bow on this. Luckily, her husband mistakenly came to an undercover citizen. Guys like that turn my stomach.”

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  Serge broke into a skip as he headed out the door. “Because this is going to be so much fun!”

  PORT ORANGE

  A Kenworth semi took the Atlantic detour from 1-95 to avoid state weighing stations. It crossed the bridge over Rose Bay. The driver had been the consummate gentleman, as had all the other truckers, who recognized one of their own social class in need and helped pass a hitchhiker named Story up the coast like a relay baton.

  Brake hydraulics wheezed as the rig pulled up to the Fairview Motel. “This is as far as I’m going.” “But it’s only two in the afternoon.” “I’ve been running thirty of the last thirty-four hours.” “Your log books?” “Fiction.” “Amphetamines ?”

  He just smiled. “I need to take the edge off if I’m ever going to get to sleep. There’s this spot up the road if you want to join me. Coldest beer you’d ever want.”

  Story knew men well enough to know it wasn’t a come-on. The driver had been talking nonstop about his wife and kids since Titusville, showing wallet pictures.

  “Sure,” said Story.

  The two walked through a blazing sun up the side of U.S. 1. They stood on the sidewalk along the east side of the street, locally known as Ridgewood Avenue, waited for a dump truck to pass, then scampered across the highway toward the inviting doorway of The Last Resort. Story wiped sweat off her face with her tank top.

  She was almost to the entrance when two men ran out, paired physically like Abbot and Costello-“Woooo!” “We’re rockin’ now!”-and sped off in a Javelin.

  Story looked back. “What’s with them?”

  “It’s The Last Resort,” said the driver.

  They went inside to the coldest beer anyone could want.

  The Javelin sped up a dirt road in Port Orange. Ahead: old cracker house with sagging porch. A woman heard the over-revving engine and came to the screen door. Serge jumped out, bounding up the steps. “Mrs. Milford?”

  “Stop right there! Who are you?”

  “Your husband-“

  “No!” She slammed the wooden door behind the screen and ran to call the cops. Serge knocked it in with his shoulder. He ripped the wire from the wall before she could dial.

  “I’m begging you!” She crumpled into a ball below the cuckoo clock and shielded her face.

  “It’s okay,” said Serge. “We’re here to help you.”

  She looked up. “You aren’t his friends?”

  “Hell no. Now listen carefully: You’re in great danger from your husband.”

  “But I just got a restraining order last week. He’s not allowed near me.”

  “Afraid ‘allowed’ isn’t part of it.”

  “You’re not saying …” She began sobbing uncontrollably. “My partner and I need this place for a stakeout. Have relatives nearby?”

  She gulped back tears. “Sister. Let me get some things.”

  “No time.” Serge grabbed her arm. “Get moving. And whatever you or your sister do, don’t talk to anyone for four hours, especially the police.”

  “But I thought you were the police.”

  “Elite undercover unit.” He led her down the porch and into the driveway. “But if you call regular cops, they could show up in marked cars and blow the whole takedown before we have enough evidence.

  And next time he might approach a real hit man instead of us.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Don’t lose it now.” Serge opened the driver’s door of her Camaro. She got in and looked back out the window. “How will I know when it’s safe?”

  “It already is.”

  ANOTHER EXTENDED COMFORT EXPRESS SUITES USA

  Steve sat alone in the motel’s glassed-in business center, leaning back in an ergonomic chair and tapping a keyboard.

  The door opened. Steve quickly hit a key, switching the computer screen from porn to spreadsheet. He swiveled to see who it was.

  “Uh-oh.”

  A bodyguard pulled up another leather seat.

  Steve scooted his chair backward on casters. “We have to stop being seen together.”

  “Just take a minute. Who’s your next courier?”

  “There aren’t any more.”

 

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