Nuclear jellyfish, p.23
Nuclear Jellyfish, page 23
part #11 of Serge Storms Mystery Series
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m asking you to plug me into the gang, not your distributor,” said Serge.
“You just tell the crew I’m your new recruit.”
“Why on earth would you want me to do that?”
“It’s better you don’t know. I’m watching out for your safety. They can beat you stupid for days, and what can you tell them?”
Sobbing again.
Serge pulled a scrap of paper from his wallet and slid it along the bar. “Here’s where we’ll meet tomorrow night.”
Steve studied the address. “What’s this place?”
“Excellent joint. I’ve been dying to go there. If you survive long enough, we’ll get to see all kinds of Florida funk together. It’ll be a gas, right, Coleman?”
“All party, all the time … You do weed?”
“What?”
“Just meet us there at seven,” said Serge. “I’ll give you all the details to feed the gang so they can take me down.”
“Take you down?” said Steve. “You really are insane.”
“Going to play ball?”
“Forget it. Those guys will kill me for sure if they ever find out.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ll just have to go to the gang myself and tell them you’ve been blabbing. Sorry, I don’t make the rock-and-hard-place rules.”
“Dear God …”
“Let you in on the big secret,” said Serge. “They’re already going to kill you. My guess is sooner rather than later.”
“But we’re in business together.”
“You’re a tool. When you finally want out, you think they’re just going to let you walk away: ‘Hey guys, it’s been a load of yuks.’ Then you’ll go to another routine meeting to get your final cut, and the Coast Guard will find your torso in a shipping channel. Your torso doesn’t have any tattoos, does it?”
Steve shook his head.
“Then it’ll be your torso.”
“But why would they do that?”
“Because you’re a schmuck. One of the biggest risks they have right now is you eventually turning state’s evidence, and that’s a risk they’ll never take.”
“Dear Jesus, what am I going to do?”
“You’re in luck!” Serge grinned and put an arm around Steve’s quivering shoulders. “I’m your only hope.”
THE NEXT EVENING
Another multi-hued sunset over Okeechobee. An orange-and-green Javelin rolled slowly along the edge of the lake. It turned onto a gravel drive in front of a massive aluminum building with no doors or windows.
Coleman bent toward the windshield. “What in the hell is that?”
Half the letters were missing on the side of the structure, and passers-by had to play Wheel of Fortune to make out the name.
“Stardust Lanes!” said Serge, driving slowly around the west side of the building. “I love bowling alleys! Along with pool halls, they’re among the last museums of the old ways.”
“What’s it doing out here in the middle of the swamp?”
“That’s why I love this place so much,” said Serge. “Nobody expects it here. It’s a complete geographical non sequitur, like when that NASA probe beamed back photos of Elvis’s face on the surface of Mars.”
“We’re going to bowl?”
Serge shook his head. “You can, but my unorthodox style always invites conflict with the management.” “What’s your style?”
“You know when a bowler releases the ball, it travels a short distance before landing in the lane and rolling the rest of the way to the pins?”
“Yeah, that’s how everyone plays.”
“Because they don’t have the kind of imagination that gives me total advantage. I’ve never seen any rule that says how far down the lane the ball must land. My patented style exploits this loophole. I twirl three times like an Olympic hammer throw and release in a forty-degree arc. If the ceiling’s high enough, it hits the pins on the fly. Unbeatable technique. The rest of the competition weeps from inadequacy and pawns their equipment.”
“You can actually hit the pins on the fly?”
“In theory. But bowling balls are fucking heavy. Plus, with all my twirling, there’s no telling what direction the ball will go. I tried explaining to the last owners that this is precisely the kind of excitement the sport needs to fill those empty lanes, but they wouldn’t stop yelling.”
“Why were they yelling?”
“In my first frame, I got excellent hang time and the ball made it most of the way down the lane. Except it was the third lane over. Landed a few feet in front of the pins and stuck, just the top half of the ball poking out of the wood. They wouldn’t even let me pick up the spare.”
The Javelin curled around the back of the building, which was the front. Serge and Coleman trotted up steps and went inside. Serge stopped by the front desk, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. An irrepressible smile crept across his face. “Coleman, listen to that symphony: baritone of balls rolling in staggered sequence, clattering of pins, guy across the desk from me spraying disinfectant in rental shoes that you’d never think of wearing if you saw the last guy.”
“Sir, are you okay?”
Serge opened his eyes and looked across the desk at the manager. “I’m freakin’ great! Hope you are, too!”
“Do you want to bowl?”
“Oh, I want to bowl all right, but I don’t know what kind of insurance you have.”
“What?”
“Coleman, come on!”
“Serge, wait up! You’re running away from the lanes.”
“We’re going to the bar.”
“They have a bar?”
“Remember when we were talking in the car about how strange this place was? That was only the tip of the berg. Its bizarreness quotient is about to go off scale.”
They reached a pair of double doors. Serge pointed at a sign: the orbit lounge. “Even if they bring nothing else to the table, any joint called The Orbit Lounge is priceless. But wait, there’s more! The stage over there is for stand-up night. That’s the weirdness trifecta: a bowling alley in the middle of a swamp with a space-age lounge hosting comedians catering to bass fishermen.”
Coleman grabbed a stool on the end of the bar. “How do you find these places?”
“It’s my job. Except no employers recognize the position, unless they’re just saying that and filling all the open slots with no-talent nephews.”
Coleman waved for the bartender. Serge checked his watch: 7:01. “Steve’s late.”
“I don’t think he’s coming,” said Coleman. “He looked pretty shook.”
“He’ll come.”
Coleman was soon into his fourth draft. It was 7:25. “He’s not coming.”
“He just arrived.”
They turned toward the doorway. Steve stood frozen. He jumped at the sound of a ball hitting pins. He took a timid step forward, then back, then jumped again, head jerking in all directions.
“Steve!” Serge yelled with hands cupped around his mouth. “The coast is clear! None of the robbery gang is here!”
Steve sprinted past rows of people feverishly playing casino-style arcade games. “Keep your voice down!” He looked around again. “Are you crazy?”
“Have a seat.”
“Let’s make this fast.”
Steve slid half his butt on the stool, keeping a foot on the ground.
Serge pushed a scrap of paper along the bar. “I’ve listed the carats, clarity and cuts of all the stones I’m supposedly carrying-they won’t be able to resist-along with the time we’ll be out of the room and where the stash is hidden. For convenience, I’m staying at the same hotel you are up by the rodeo arena.”
“How’d you know what hotel I’m staying at?”
Serge gave him a stupid-question look.
“Are we done here?”
“Unless you want to stay for the comedian.”
Steve bolted out of the bar.
“Serge, how long do we have to stay in the closet?”
“Shhhhh! We can’t let the robbers hear us when they enter the room.” Serge raised a pistol next to his head. He checked the glowing hands on his diver’s wristwatch. “What’s taking them so long?”
“Can I get a beer?”
“No!” Serge looked at his wrist again, then smacked himself in the forehead. “Shoot! I knew I forgot to tell Steve something! Our room number.”
“Steve knows what room we’re in.”
“He should, but he’s Steve.” Serge jumped out of the closet and started down the hall.
Coleman jogged to catch up. He stopped. “Ow. Serge, something just got me in the eye.”
Serge turned around and laughed.
Coleman rubbed his face. “What’s so funny.”
Serge pointed at a tastefully unobtrusive beige plastic container attached to the wall. “Automatic air-freshener. Battery powered. Sprays a fragrant blast of chick-magazine goodness every half hour or so. They’re usually mounted higher, but this hotel’s got low ceilings. And you just happened to be walking by.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“On the positive side, you’re the new, improved Coleman, now in jasmine potpourri.”
Coleman stopped rubbing and held the hand to his nose. “It stinks.”
“Women have a completely different sense of smell, highly sensitive to flowers or when guys are up to something sneaky.”
They resumed walking down the hall and came to a door. Serge knocked lightly. “Pssst! Steve, it’s me, Serge.”
Coleman wiped his palm on the wall. “Maybe he’s not in.”
“Steve!” Serge knocked harder. The door was unlatched and creaked open. Seige stuck his head inside. “Steve?”
“I don’t think hs(s in.”
Serge silently paddedonto the room. “Steve?”
“I told you he’s not here.”
Serge stopped by the dresser and drew his gun. “You’re half right.”
“What do you mean?”
He pointed at the floor between the double beds. Steve, facedown, three entry wounds in the back of the skull. Serge’s shoulders sagged. “We’re screwed.”
“Steve’s the one who looks screwed.”
“He was my ‘in.’ I worked hard on surveillance, intelligence and counterintelligence. Now I’m on the outside again.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Who else? The.gang.”
“Think they found out about your plan?”
“Hard to say.” Serge grabbed the deceased’s cell phone off the dresser. “When you’re a fuck-up like Steve, you could get whacked over any number of things. Still, the timing so close to our meeting at the Orbit is a bit too’coincidental … We better get out of here. Don’t touch anything …”
Serge tucked the pistol back in his waistband and opened the door. He took one step into the hall, then jumped back, crashing into Coleman.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t believe it.” Serge peeked his right eye around the doorframe. “Down the hall, telephone repair uniforms. Long, stringy hair. They’re going in our room.”
“We’re back on?”
“Dang it. We were only gone five minutes. There goes our ambush.”
“What do we do now?”
“Plan B.”
“What’s that?” “The anti-plan.”
They headed quietly down the hallway. Coleman ducked under an air freshener. Serge reached the room first and placed his ear to the door.
“Hear anything?” asked Coleman.
“Just rummaging.” Serge removed a small black tube from his pocket.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Off a law enforcement website. Used by police extraction teams before they charge in.” Serge placed one end of the tube over the outside of the door’s peephole. “Series of lenses reverse optics so you can see everything going on inside a hotel room.” Serge put his right eye to the other end of the tube. “Also picked up a bunch of plastic wrist straps, cheaper by the dozen.”
“What’s going on?”
“The painting’s off the wall with back ripped open-right where I said the stones would be.”
“Guess Steve had the room number after all.”
“They’re busy taking the place apart, the perfect diversion.” Serge stuck the tube back in his pocket and pulled a gun from his waistband. “Extraction team ready?”
“Ready.”
Serge silently slipped his magnetic room key in the slot. A green light came on. He burst through the door. “Freeze.”
They stopped where they stood. “We’re here to fix the phone.”
Serge pulled a pair of wrist straps from his back pocket and handed them to Coleman. “Both of you: Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
“We want a lawyer.”
Coleman finished and stepped away. Serge walked up to test the tightness of the straps. “Lawyer? Why? Drawing up a will?”
“You’re not cops?”
“You wish. I mean that earnestly.”
“So you’re really a courier?”
“Strike two.”
“Then who are you?”
“Very close personal friend of Howard Long.”
“Howard?”
“Florida souvenir guy. Intensive care thanks to you.”
The hostages shot each other a knowing look, then over their shoulders to Serge: “That was never supposed to happen …”
“It’s our boss …”
“He’s crazy!”
“Bet I can give him a run for his money.” Serge opened the lower dresser drawer and removed an empty yellow legal pad. He clicked open a pen. “I’m going to need the names and addresses of everyone in the gang, your fences, where you’re currently staying, everyone you’ve hit in the last six months, who you’re planning to hit next, the location of all stashed gems, and personal preference: Ginger or Mary Ann?”
“What?”
“Threw that in to see if you’re listening.” Serge leaned over the pad with his pen. “Ready when you are …”
“He’ll kill us …” “We’re not telling you shit…”
Serge dragged a pair of chairs in front of the entertainment center. “Wilma or Betty?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Told you. Time’s up.” Serge waved his gun toward the chairs. “Have a seat. We now proceed to the consolation round.” He opened the drawer again and removed a second legal pad. This one covered with crude drawings. Serge rapidly flipped pages: deep pits full of snakes, vats of acid, catapults, homemade guillotine, jugs of poison with skulls on the side, mad scientist giant laser, large pool with circling shark fins-all containing bloody stick figures, some in pieces, others with flames or electricity bolts. Serge tapped his chin with the pen. “What will it be?…”
Water was running in the bathroom sink. Coleman’s voice: “I can’t get the stink off.”
Serge stopped tapping his chin and looked up with big eyes. “Coleman! That’s it! You’ve done it again!” He tossed the legal pad back in the drawer and kicked it closed with a foot. “This way I don’t have to use up any of my ideas. They’ll all still remain eligible for the playoffs.” He ran to a suitcase, pulling out several coils of rope and rolls of gray adhesive. “Duct tape again-I should buy voting stock … Hold still. This won’t take long.”
“What are you planning?”
“Ever watch Flip That House?”
“What?”
Serge worked industriously with the rope and tape. Repeated loops and triple knots, between their legs, around chest and necks, up behind their backs, threaded under arms, circling chair legs and ankles, until little of them was left showing. “Fairness is very big with me. Give everyone a chance, I always say. So if you can get free from your bindings by morning, before my plan has a chance to fully bloom, you’re free to go. My word of honor. Except the odds are against it. You never want to get tied up by an obsessive-compulsive. We over-engineer everything.” Serge finished the last knot, fastening them securely to the chairs, which in turn were rigidly held in place with ten large loops around the giant TV cabinet. Then mouths were finally silenced with another excessive amount of duct-tape head wrapping. “Stay here. Have to make a quick trip to the hardware store.” He ran out the door.
Coleman returned from the bathroom and sat on the edge of a bed with a beer. He smiled at the men, then turned on the TV with the remote. Three’s Company. “Could you move your heads?”
A half hour later, Serge burst back through the door with shopping bags, two large cardboard boxes and overflowing zest. “You’re in luck: found everything I needed.” He dumped the bags on the bed, grabbed a pair of scissors and the cardboard.
Serge’s ensuing labor was dedicated, furious and made no obvious sense. Soon, the captives found their heads resting inside the boxes, poking up through round holes in the bottom Serge had cut, their necks sealed to the openings with tape. Then more tape held the boxes fast against the entertainment cabinet. The men looked straight up through the open cardboard tops. Serge looked back down. Something was in each hand, which he enthusiastically thrust in their faces. “Know what these are? Bet you do, if you think hard. Take a guess! Coleman knows. People usually don’t even notice-and now the people on the top floors of this hotel can’t, because I snatched all the automatic air-fresheners from the walls. Internal timer triggers an actuator that presses the button on top of an aerosol can at olfactory intervals predetermined by focus groups.” Serge gave them each a manual squirt. “Lilac.” He popped covers off the dispensers and discarded the cans of freshener. “Have to modify these so my replacement cans fit. Be right back.” He disappeared from view. The hostages heard a high-pitched buzzing sound and struggled without result.
“Dremel hobby tool if you’re curious,” said an unseen Serge. “Sands, polishes, drills, cuts. Million and one uses. Now, million and two.” More buzzing. Then, abruptly, quiet.
Serge appeared again at the top of the boxes, literally bouncing. He held up a prototype of his new device, which had been sliced in half and reassembled with a cardboard stent to accommodate the new, taller cans.
“And I replaced the batteries with the super-alkaline ones in those commercials that show someone narrowly averting a horrible death, and tearful loved ones say, ‘Thank God for these batteries!’ Don’t want an operational failure at the crucial moment.” The device was stuck in their faces again. “Recognize the product? It’s great stuff. That’s really its name: Great Stuff.”
