Nuclear jellyfish, p.25
Nuclear Jellyfish, page 25
part #11 of Serge Storms Mystery Series
“Holy mother!” said Serge. “What did you do?”
“Some guys came down from the Department of Interior, and to prove it was pointless going at it from the poacher end, I took them down to Punta Gorda, and I was going to be a poacher. Went out alone after dark in an airboat, and they had everyone in the world looking, but they couldn’t find me for anything.”
“Coleman, you listening?” said Serge. “He was like a superhero, sneaking around the swamp at night in an airboat and shit. Now that’s how you govern.”
HOMESTEAD
Forty miles south of Miami, a clapboard hacienda sat on the outskirts of the outskirts, hidden behind a thriving palm tree farm. Inside, a robbery crew lieutenant ate breakfast with his assistant. Over-easy eggs, cheese grits, Canadian bacon, white grapefruit juice and vodka.
A white van screeched up in a cloud of arid dust. The Eel and three goons jumped out and stormed up steps.
A door crashed open. “What the fuck’s the story about this goddamn phone call?”
The pair jumped up and quivered. “Eel,” said the lieutenant. “The guy called me out of the blue. I just passed along what he said.”
The goons surrounded them. Anxious eyes darted. The Eel advanced on the lieutenant, nose to nose. “And how the hell did he get your number?”
“S-s-said it was in Steve’s cell phone-“
“You worthless piece of shit!” yelled the Eel. “Another thing. How’d you let our best informant get killed?”
“I-I-I … Steve- … I don’t know …”
The Eel nodded toward one of the goons in the background. The lieutenant spun to see a steel strangulation ligature stretched between beefy hands.
“Noooooooo!!!!!!”
The goon suddenly lunged sideways, wrapping the wire around the neck of the lieutenant’s assistant. Twitching feet left the floor. The goon used a wooden dowel to twist the cord tighter. Thirty seconds of silent horror. Then it was over with a lifeless thud on the pine floor.
The lieutenant’s eyes whipped back toward the Eel. “Jesus Christ! What’dyou do that for?”
“Because we’re going to give this new informant of yours named ‘Serge’ a trial run.” The Eel headed for the door. “And that was to reinforce what will happen if anything goes wrong.”
WEST PALM BEACH
Serge sped south, bobbing in the driver’s seat. “Governor, tell the story about the rat bait. Please?”
“You do know your history.”
“Coleman,” said Serge. “This is a quintessential Kirk story kicking over the money changers’ tables in the temple. There used to be this big state contract for rat bait, and the governor wanted to make sure it was actually being used. So he went to Gainesville, where there were a lot of abandoned properties, and a bunch of hardworking low-economic citizens were living in unacceptable conditions. Take it from there, gov …”
“Big politicians were always coming back to watch University of Florida football games and would drive right by these neighborhoods, not giving a damn. So I went to the local health officials and said, ‘How many rat baits have we put out here?’ And the top guy said, ‘I don’t know.’ I said, ‘Go get a rat. Logically if you’ve put rat baits out, you’ve killed a rat. Show me how many damn rats you’ve killed. Bring a couple in here. And let’s weigh ‘em. And next time we have a meeting, you’ll bring some more rats in and weigh them. Now if we’ve done our job, the rats have to get smaller, because they’re younger and they’re not eatin’ good.’ The issue got across …”
A cell phone rang. “Sorry,” Serge told the governor. “I need to take this. Would you mind grabbing the wheel?”
“What?”
“The key to Florida road-tripping is a dependable travel companion who’s good at steering from the passenger side so the driver can tend to other tasks.”
“Don’t let go of the wheel!”
Serge let go.
The governor’s left arm swung out and gripped it. “What’s wrong with you?”
Serge held up a finger for quiet, opening a notebook and holding the cell to his head. “Had a feeling you’d call back … No, my terms are unnegotiable … Want the diamonds or not? … Is that a threat? … Oh yeah? Well, 1 make the threats around here …” Serge pulled a gun from under the seat and waved it around the car. “… You want to fuck with me, motherfucker?…” He pulled up to a curb and turned to the governor. “That’s your house. You can let go of the wheel now.” Then into the phone: “… Is that so? I should smash your fucking skull in just for saying that! … Call me back when you calm down [click].”
The governor got out and slowly backed away from the car, watching silently as the Javelin sped off, gun waving out the window.
OKEECHOBEE
Police held back a growing crowd of the curious in a hotel hallway. Forensic techs came and went with boxes and clear, sealed bags.
Inside the room, the hotel manager stood next to a homicide detective. Behind them, medical examiners peeled cardboard off a pair of hardened foam blocks encasing the victims’ heads.
The manager turned and looked across the room at a uniformed officer taking a statement from the hysterical maid who’d discovered the scene.
“She’s pretty hot,” said the detective. “Is that the one you were close to nailing?”
The manager sighed. “Speaks perfect English.”
The detective placed a consoling hand on the manager’s shoulder, and they both looked back at the wall, where someone had written in thick Magic Marker: NOOKIE.
DANIA
Serge led the way across a debris-strewn parking lot toward the last room on the end of a budget motel. “Coleman, did the governor seem a little jumpy to you?”
“Maybe he’s on the pipe.”
“Probably the economy.”
“Hey, Serge, just had an idea. Can I help with your travel advice thing?”
“Dying to hear your insight.”
“Got a great one. Like, at every budget motel, there are at least three or four rooms where people are staying just to hole up and drug binge. Or deal.”
“That’s no tip-it’s just Florida.”
“But I can find them.”
“Are you already drunk?”
“Of course. Here’s the deal: Observe the parking lot, plug into its rhythms, and after a few minutes, you just know.”
“You’re wrecked.”
“Time me.”
Serge held up his wristwatch. Coleman squinted in concentration. People coming and going, crossing the parking lot, stopping to chat, walking dogs, getting ice, feeding quarters into vending machines, taking unbolted TVs from rooms, driving up in the kind of pitiful, hanging-together car that would soon be pulled with a rope by another car. Coleman pointed. “That room. One-forty-seven. How long?”
“Ninety seconds.” Serge looked up from his wrist. “But you just pointed at a room. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’ll prove it.” He took a step forward. Then stopped. “Oh my God.”
“What is it?”
Six police cars whipped up the motel’s drive and parked, hidden behind the office. “They’ve found us! We’re going to jail!”
“Not this time.”
“How do you know?”
Serge gestured at a red van with TV antennas following the police cars around the backside of the office. “That’s the film crew from COPS.”
“And?”
“It’s so widely known it’s a running joke: On COPS, they only arrest the guys not wearing shirts.”
Coleman looked down to make sure he was wearing one. “I’ll be right back.” He headed across the lot to room 147, then knocked three times in slow cadence. Someone with a mullet opened. They spoke briefly. The man glanced over Coleman’s shoulders and waved him in. The door closed.
Serge shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He went inside his own room. A cell rang. He flipped it open. “Serge here. Fulfill my dreams.”
“Still want to sell that information?”
“Hey, buddy, long time! Great to hear from you! Calm now?” “There’s no way we’ll go the extra ten percent.”
“That was just my initial offer. You have to open a business dialogue somewhere. Make me a counter.”
“My boss will cut your fucking head off.”
“See? We’ve established trust. How much to keep my head?”
“Five.”
“Done,” said Serge. “Let’s meet. I don’t like to conduct this kind of transaction over the phone.” “Where?” Serge told him.
“I know the place. Five o’clock.” “It’s a date.”
“How will I know you?”
“Trust me, you’ll know.” Serge hung up, then punched numbers.
Coleman came in the room. “Hey, Serge …”
“We got a meet at five.” Serge listened to the phone and jotted something. “I lucked out. Guy messed up and phoned from a landline instead of his cell. Called reverse directory and got the address.”
“We’re going to surprise him at that place and not make the meet?”
“No, we’re still going to the meet.” He closed the notebook. “This is for the post-meet follow-up sales call. In business it’s important to reinforce relationships.”
Coleman smiled and held up a Baggie. “They’re running an excellent deal on sensimilla. And I got a free bump of coke, just for being a member.”
“Of what?”
“The Partying Brotherhood.”
“But how did they, I mean, you’re a total stranger …”
“We can smell each other.” Coleman sat on the bed and sniffed a pungent bud.
“Stow that.” Serge pulled the strap of a canvas bag over his shoulder. “We’re rolling.”
They went out the door and headed for the Javelin. A film crew ran behind them as police pulled a shirtless man from room 147.
CYBERSPACE
Serge’s Blog. Star date 937.473.
So much to tell! So little time!
Tip One: Not a tip, just weird shit I saw today. From the only-in-Florida file: a hooker with a walker on the side of U.S. 1. At some point your heart just isn’t in it anymore.
Tip Two: Capture the memories! You can never have enough extra tapes for home movies, especially around Coleman. I ran out yesterday and discovered Coleman had been using my camcorder to bootleg in-room movies off the TV. I said, Coleman, you can make a perfect copy with the VCR on top of the TV. But he said “the street” won’t respect you.
Tip Three: Dealing with loud drunks in the next room who stumble in after closing time and disturb your sleep: At daybreak, start calling their room every fifteen minutes. Hangovers will take it from there.
Tip Four: Best travel tool: those twelve-foot-long telescoping letter-grabbers that hospitality employees use to change messages on tall marquees. Got one in my trunk. Guests at the last place I stayed woke up this morning to: “Welcome Hotel Emergency Delousing Team.” The fun ship never docks!
Closing word for the day: Postcards! Don’t forget about the loved ones back home who missed the love-cutoff to come with you. And don’t be trite by purchasing the usual cards from spinning metal racks. Instead, schedule a virtual postcard. What’s that, you ask? I’ll tell you! E-mail those second-tier relatives with a preordained time and Internet site. Then, when they log in, they’ll find one of the many live Web cams positioned around the state. And they’ll see you standing in streaming-video splendor, holding up a personalized greeting sign. The key is finding the right cam. The long-range skyline jobs atop Doppler radar towers aren’t good unless you want to hold up a billboard. But there are plenty others: Sloppy Joe’s, the Cocowalk and Pier 60. Let’s pull one up now! Here’s the sidewalk cam from A1A in Fort Lauderdale, showing happy visitors walking the beach and cool convertibles in the background cruising the strip and … hold it, what’s this?
A man in a rumpled fedora stepped into view and held up a sign: SERGE, WE HAVE TO MEET AGAIN..
FORT LAUDERDALE
The Javelin took exit 31 off 1-95 and sped east on Oakland Park Boulevard.
Serge looked ahead at a roadside bench. “There’s Story now.”
“Just got out of class?”
“Took the bus to meet us.” Serge pulled over.
Story climbed in. “You’re late!”
“No time like the present.”
Onward east. The coast grew near. A high-end neighborhood extensively laced with finger canals.
Yachts.
“Trivia flash,” said Serge. “Fort Lauderdale has more miles of canals than Venice.”
They crossed a tiny hump bridge at one of the narrowest points over the Intracoastal Waterway. A wall of exclusive high-rises blocked the sea. A half-century ago it would have screamed spring break. Now it said: Go away.
Serge found a metered spot on the side of A1A. “We’re here!”
Story looked around. “Where’s our hotel?”
Serge pointed out the windshield. “Right there.”
“That’s not a hotel,” said Story. “It’s a condo.”
“Bingo! Now L’Hermitage.” Serge grabbed his beach bag and threw a camera inside. “But back in the day it was the fabulous Gait Ocean Mile. I can see it all now …”
“Idiot!” said Story. “You promised there’d be a great swimming pool where I could get some sun.”
“There is,” said Serge. “One of the most historic. Famous wire photos from forty years ago seared into the nation’s collective consciousness. Let’s go dig it!”
“Didn’t you hear me?” said Story. “You can’t just waltz right in a condo.”
“You have to waltz right in,” said Serge. “Otherwise they’ll get suspicious that you’re up to something. So when you’re up to something, dress proper and stroll confidently like you own the place because it’s the last thing they’ll expect. And if some guard or factotum in a blazer gets nosy and starts coming toward you, you head their way even faster and badger them with difficult questions until they want to get away from you. Never fails. I get at least fifteen minutes to sponge up history before they throw me out.”
Story angrily hoisted her beach bag. “You owe me big-time.”
“I forgot what a treat it was when you were off studying.”
The condo theory held. They marched through the lobby-Serge smiling and waving aggressively at everyone-and right out back to the pool.
Serge reached in the breast pocket of his tropical shirt and unfolded a library microfilm printout. An old AP newspaper photo. He held it up to the patio and gauged layout. His eyes narrowed on a particular patio lounger by the ocean. He couldn’t run fast enough.
Story went the other way, for maximum separation.
Serge stopped next to the lounger and disrobed down to plaid swim trunks he was wearing underneath: the too-short, too-tight style fashionable in the sixties. He lay down, reached in his beach bag and handed Coleman a notepad and pen. “Write.”
“What do I write?”
“Just look like you’re writing.” Serge snuggled into a comfortable position on the hot plastic straps and raised his voice. “The Jets will win! I guarantee it! …”
A heavily perspiring man in a tweed jacket emerged from the back of the condo. Mahoney quickly acquired the target and walked around the pool. The agent pretended not to know Serge as he reclined on the adjacent lounger and placed a rumpled fedora on his stomach.
Serge turned his head sideways. “Hope your money’s not on the Colts.”
“This is too conspicuous,” said Mahoney. “I can’t be seen with you.”
“That’s why I picked it. I knew you couldn’t resist coming here.”
“Poolside press conference,” said Mahoney. “Friday, January 10, 1969.”
“New York quarterback Joe Namath repeats his historic guarantee of victory in Super Bowl Three that he’d boldly made the night before …”
“… At the Miami Touchdown Club banquet,” said Mahoney. “Bad news: The hit’s still on.”
“You’re losing it. There is no hit.”
Mahoney shook his head. “Someone’s still asking around.”
“Must be my Internet travel service. It’s outrageously popular.”
“You’re being shadowed straight down the coast, stop for stop. At first they were a couple days behind, now just hours. It’s almost as if they have someone on the inside.” Mahoney gazed across the pool as Story applied lotion. “Nice gams.”
Someone in a blazer walked up to the end of Serge’s lounger. “Excuse me, sir. Do you live here?”
“No.” A big smile.
“Then what’s going on?”
“A press conference.”
Serge checked his watch: 4:45.
“Why can’t I sit at the bar?” asked Coleman.
“I already went over this. I need you for my backup.” He handed Coleman his piece.
“But I don’t know how to shoot a gun.”
“You won’t have to. Just sit in this booth while I’m at the bar. In the absolute worst-case, I’ll give a nod, and all you have to do is stand, look mean and briefly raise the edge of your shirt to expose the pistol butt.”
“But don’t you need the gun?”
Serge patted a bulge under his tropical shirt. “Have something better.”
Coleman plopped down in the booth beneath brass portholes and hanging maritime lanterns. “Why do I feel like I’m on a ship?”
“Because you’re supposed to. It’s the incredible Wreck Lounge in Fort Lauderdale’s Yankee Clipper hotel.” Serge swept an arm across the ultra-dark interior and up at thick, aged timbers. “I love the Wreck. Designed to look like the cargo hold of a nineteenth-century schooner.” He pointed another direction, toward the source of a dim turquoise glow that seeped through the lounge as its primary light source. “Best feature of all! Remember my number one rule for grading bars?”
