Nuclear jellyfish, p.26
Nuclear Jellyfish, page 26
part #11 of Serge Storms Mystery Series
“The view behind the bottles?”
Serge nodded. “Those thick windows framed with nautical rope provide a magnificent underwater vantage of the hotel’s pool.”
Someone came off the diving board and knifed through the water behind the Bacardi.
Coleman waved for a waitress.
Serge grabbed his arm and lowered it. “Stop drinking.” “But it’s a bar.”
“Coleman, you’re already halfway in the bag. You need to stay on your toes.”
“I’ll be fine.” He raised his arm again.
Serge lowered it again. “I’m just asking for a half hour. Until the meeting’s over, whatever you do, don’t drink. Then you can do whatever you want.”
Coleman folded his arms. “This sucks.”
Serge glanced at his watch again. “Better take our positions. And I’ll need to ask that guy to get up.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where Robert DeNiro sat in Analyze This.”
Serge left Coleman in the booth. He reached the bar and tapped a designer shoulder. A low-grade golf pro turned around and looked Serge over. “What’s your problem, loser?”
“DeNiro sat there.”
“So?”
“I have to sit there.”
“Fuck off.”
Moments later, hotel staff rushed in to aid a customer twitching on the floor.
“He was just fine a minute ago,” said Serge, buoyant atop the DeNiro stool, making sure his tropical shirt covered the stun gun.
A ship’s clock ticked. A stretcher rolled out of the lounge. Serge sat with his back to the bar, facing the entrance. Coleman ordered two drinks. Bikini babes dove into the pool. Tension grew.
5:01. Four men entered the lounge: a scrawny accountant type flanked by three bodybuilders. They looked around.
Serge held up a chauffeur-type sign: Hotel Robbery Gang.
The quartet rushed over. “Put that damn thing down!”
Serge folded the cardboard. “I’m on the DeNiro chair.”
“You wanted to meet, so meet.”
“You the one I talked to on the phone?”
He nodded.
“We probably should use names.”
“Dick.”
“Dick, what’s with the goon squad?”
“In case of a double-cross. Then you’ll be taking a little ride.”
“Sorry fellas, not today.” Serge leaned smugly against the bar. “I’ve got a crack backup man. Best in the business. He’s sitting anonymously somewhere in this bar, but you’d never guess who until it’s too late. Won’t ever hear the bullet. Yes sir, the consummate pro.”
The goons looked around the lounge, including the rear booth. No Coleman.
Suddenly, a splash and small explosion of bubbles. They all turned and looked through the underwater pool windows. A fully clothed man dog-paddled toward the surface. A pistol drifted down to the drain.
Serge closed his eyes and placed his forehead on the bar. He raised his head. “Would you believe I have two backups?”
“You’re wasting my time.”
“Okay, here’s the deal.” Serge slipped Dick a matchbook. “Hotel, room, time.”
“What’s the take?”
“Opals, small but decent quantity. The big catch is a twenty-carat flawless ruby.”
“How do you know?”
“If I told you, I’d be out of a job.”
“Better not be a trick or you won’t hear the bullet.”
Javelin flew out of Miami on South Dixie Highway. Blistering afternoon. Mercury flirted with a hundred. Even hotter in the car since Serge had the heater up all the way. Sweat sheeted down their heads.
Coleman wiped his face. “My eyes are stinging.”
Serge grabbed a handle. “Roll down your window.”
Coleman cranked the knob on his own door. “Why’d you turn the heater on full blast?”
“Because the car’s overheating at this temperature.”
Coleman stuck his head out the window like a cocker spaniel. “I don’t understand.”
“Most people don’t. Serge’s travel tip number 739: When a radiator gets too hot, some drivers know to turn off the air conditioner, because the law of thermodynamics adds heat to the engine inversely proportional to the cooling of the passenger compartment. But the real trick in averting a boil-over is to turn on the beater. There is no real heater in most cars. It just sucks hot air off the engine and blows it in here. See?” He tapped the dash’s temperature gauge.
Coleman came back inside and looked at the instrument dial. “It’s working. The needle’s dropping out of the red zone.”
“The radiator was about to blow, but we successfully improvised to continue the mission. I should have been on Apollo 13.”
“So what’s the mission?”
“Perimeter sweep.”
They reached Homestead at the bottom of the state and took a small county road to the western outskirts. Low, flat agricultural fields with tomato pickers in wide-brimmed straw hats. “I’m driving
out to the address I got off that phone call. We need daylight to assess the layout for our counter-offensive against the gang tonight.”
“I thought we were going to double-cross them at that hotel room on the matchbook.”
“Correct. Two sets of targets today, so timing will be tight. My Master Plan to take out most of the gang requires an intricate sequence of perfectly ordered strikes or we risk picking off only a few. After the ambush tonight, we’ll need to get back here toot-sweet before word of the betrayal leaks out.”
“But won’t they already suspect us from the foam-heads?”
“Probably not, because that was based on Steve’s tip-and before my phone call. But after tonight, there’ll be no doubt. And as soon as they find out, they’ll come after us with everything they’ve got.”
“What’ll we do then?”
“Beat ‘em to the punch.”
Farther west. Limestone quarry, dump trucks, abandoned airstrip and, finally, an isolated hacienda on the back side of a palm tree farm. Serge rechecked his notebook. “I think that’s the place now.”
Moments later, Serge and Coleman crept through rows of coconut palms. They reached the edge of the trees and a clearing that led to the front porch. A van and a pickup. Buzzing crickets. Pesticide odor. A screen door opened. Serge raised binoculars. Three men came out: two strapped with weapons, the other holding a walkie-talkie. There was a short conversation at the foot of the porch, then the smallest raised the two-way radio to his mouth. They headed for the vehicles.
Coleman peeked over Serge’s shoulder. “What do you see?”
“Just as I thought. Two goons and ‘Dick’ from the Wreck Lounge.” He lowered the binoculars and swatted a mosquito on his neck. “Some kind of stash house, nice and secluded, just how I like it.”
The gang pulled out of the driveway and sped down a dusty road along the edge of the palms.
“Quick,” said Serge. “Behind a tree.”
The vehicles shot past them.
THAT NIGHT
Two burly goons in electricians’ uniforms stood in a motel hallway. One had a toolbox and the other a universal magnetic card key bribed from one of the motel’s staff. They looked both ways, then jumped inside.
The first burglar abruptly pulled up after two steps. Their informant had said nobody was supposed to be inside. He was wrong, except in this case it was better: no need to search for the hiding place.
On the other end of the room, Coleman sat at a desk with a jeweler’s magnifying loupe in his right eye, examining a large tray full of real-looking fake gems. He glanced up when he heard the men; the loupe fell from his eye and bounced across the desk.
The one with the toolbox smiled at the other. “This is too easy.” The second pulled a gun and moved quickly across the room. “Step away from the tray and you won’t get hurt.”
Coleman got up and stumbled backward until he was pressed against a wall.
“Now stay there and don’t move a muscle.”
The armed electrician kept him covered while the other dumped the tray’s contents into his toolbox. He closed the lid and latched it. “Got it. Let’s go.”
The one with the gun: “We have a witness.”
“Didn’t you hear me? We got the stones.”
“He can identify us.”
“We don’t need the heat.”
“You want to explain that to the Jellyfish? He was very specific: Never leave a witness. We can’t take the chance now that they can pin those two murders.”
“Why don’t we just split and say the room was empty.”
“Jellyfish will kill us.” He raised his shooting arm.
Suddenly, Serge rolled out from under the bed. He laid on his back and braced a pistol between his knees. “Drop it!”
The man glanced down at Serge, but kept his gun on Coleman.
“You’re not that fast,” said Serge, slowly standing up.
The man took a step backward toward the door. “Let’s call it a draw.”
“Let’s not,” said Serge. “We want our stones back. Then we’ll let you leave.”
“Fuck off.” The man took another retreat step, gun still trained between Coleman’s eyes.
“Don’t move another inch.”
“There’s no way you can shoot me before I take out your friend.” “So what?” said Serge. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.” “Serge!” yelled Coleman. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” He grabbed a pillow off the bed, placed it in front of the barrel and fired.
The electrician heard the bullet whiz by. He placed a hand to his arm, then looked at it. Blood. He dropped the gun.
“That’s better.” Serge walked over and kicked the pistol under the bed. “Take a seat in that chair. And you …”-waving the gun at the other intruder-“… grab that other chair.”
“What for?”
“We going to play a little parlor game.”
Minutes later, Serge was giddy with excitement. The electricians sat back-to-back in the pair of rigid motel room chairs, hands bound behind their backs with plastic wrist cuffs. Ankles wrapped with rope to the chairs’ legs.
Serge then tied another plastic cuff around each of their necks, leaving them slightly loose.
Both captives struggled vainly against their bindings. “Whatever you’re planning, you won’t get away with it.”
“I already have,” said Serge. “Now here’s the fun part …” He displayed a roll of sturdy nylon twine, then unrolled two short lengths and cut them.
“We’ll yell,” said one of the bandits.
“No you won’t.” Serge tied loops of twine around each of their foreheads and held them in place with his coveted duct tape. “You want to escape without getting arrested, and I’m giving you the perfect opportunity.” Each loop of forehead twine left a two-foot-long tail behind each of their backs. Serge tugged them. “What I’m doing now is attaching the twine from each of your heads to the end of the plastic cuff around your friend’s neck.”
“But Serge …” said Coleman.
“Shhhhh!” He threaded both lengths of nylon through the top slats of the opposing chairs and back to the ends of the straps around their necks. “Coleman, your lighter …” Serge caught it on the fly and flicked it between the heads. They couldn’t see the action but smelled burning plastic. Serge began blowing to cool the welded joints between the melted nylon and straps. He stepped aside and smiled. “There. Done. And not a shabby job if I do say so.”
Coleman came over. “Seems like we’ve been leaving a lot of guys in chairs.”
“My life is now completely about chairs and things that remind me of chairs.”
The hostages looked up at him without a hint.
“I’ll give you a hint,” said Serge. “I’m sure you’re familiar with those plastic cuffs. When you pull them, they notch progressively tighter, but don’t loosen. I’m conducting a behavioral test.”
“What kind of test?”
“Moral dilemma. If you work as a loyal team and remain calm, you’ll survive until the maid comes in the morning. Of course you’ll get arrested when they realize you’re not legitimate electricians working for the hotel. If you turn state’s evidence and testify against the Jellyfish or Eel or whatever, you can dodge the death penalty. Still go to jail for a long time, but at least you’ll be alive.”
“You said we had a chance to escape.”
“That’s the dilemma part,” said Serge. “If you pull forward with your heads, the twine will tighten the notched strap around your colleague’s neck. Those things are ten times strong enough to effect strangulation.” Serge reached with both hands and tugged. They each heard a notch click and felt the straps tighten slightly against windpipes.
They gulped.
The one on the left looked up. “How does that help us escape?”
“I’ll be back in an hour. If only one of you is still alive, I’ll let you go. If you’re both still kicking, I’ll leave you for the maid. And there’s the big moral choice: Sacrifice a jail sentence to save your friend’s life, or betray him for your freedom.”
“You’re sick!”
“I can see you’d like a little privacy to discuss it. Come on, Coleman …”
They left the room and closed the door.
Coleman stopped at a vending machine for a rum mixer. “I still don’t understand what’s going on in there. You didn’t attach the twine to the other guy’s neck strap.”
“That’s right. I lied.” Serge fed quarters into the machine for his own bottle of spring water. “I looped each piece of twine through the other guy’s chair slat and back to his own neck cuff. So if he pulls to strangle his pal, he’s only tightening his own strap. Then, of course, he’ll think the other guy’s doing it, and he’ll pull harder to try to kill his friend before the guy can kill him first, and so forth. Whoever coined ‘vicious circle’ had no idea.”
“I’m still not getting it.”
“When I come back in an hour, the one who survives and gets to go free will actually be the guy who was loyal to his friend. I like to reward those who live by an ethical code.”
“You’re always helping people.”
“Yet for some reason they never say thank you.”
Coleman felt his pockets. “I forgot my lighter.”
“You’d forget your head …” They went back to the room and Serge opened the door.
Coleman grabbed his Bic off the dresser, next to a pair of blue heads slumped lifelessly to their chests. “That was fast.”
“Again, no thank-you.”
HOMESTEAD
Aerge squinted up as wispy clouds parted around a crescent moon. “Still more light than I’d like. But no going back now. We’ll wait for the next cloud.”
Coleman peered out from the edge of the palm tree farm. “Where’s Story?”
“Auditioning.”
“Another strip club ?”
“Not exactly.” Serge kept his eyes on the hacienda. “At least she’s out of our hair. Women don’t approve of guys’ habits.”
The pickup and van had returned to the driveway. Lamps glowed through slits in hurricane shutters on the back of the house.
Serge held a travel thermos that had risen above all others in function, value and personality statement. He clicked open the drip-proof sipping spout, raised it straight up and sucked a good fifteen seconds. Then he tucked the half-empty bottle into the shopping bag at his feet. Next to the bag were a pair of hefty black machines with molded rubber grips, the size of small suitcases. Serge reached down and grabbed one in each hand. “Here’s the next cloud. Coleman, get that shopping bag.”
“What’s in it?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. So will they. I love surprises! The expressions are priceless.”
They slipped quickly across the clearing.
“Hope we’re in time,” said Serge.
“For what?”
“If my suspicions are correct, once the Eel finds out ‘Dick’ hooked the gang up with a double-cross, he won’t have the life expectancy of a lottery-winning heroin addict.”
They slid along the side of the hacienda and reached a side door.
“You don’t want anything to happen to ‘Dick’?”
“Not before I get him.” Serge set his cargo on the ground and tried the knob. Locked. He pressed an ear to the door. Loud TV and louder voices. “Perfect.” He picked the lock with a pair of thin metal tools and slowly opened the jalousie door. A rusty creak. They tiptoed into a small utility hall with hooks for rain gear. Voices grew louder. Light in the next room. Serge pulled his pistol and peeked around the corner. The goons were rolling up a Persian rug, two feet sticking out the end. Serge stepped back.
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
” ‘Dick’ won the lottery.”
“What now?”
“They’re distracted.” Serge sprang from the hall and spread his legs in police academy shooting stance. The thugs looked up, unimpressed.
“Turn around!” yelled Serge. “Against the wall, hands high!”
They bitterly complied.
Serge ran over and pressed his pistol to the back of a skull.
The goon turned his head sideways. “You’ve just written your own death warrant. I can’t wait to be there. It won’t be quick-“
“Shut up!” Serge’s free hand slammed the man’s head, smashing his face into the wall. He jerked the goon’s right arm behind his back and pulled out the plastic wrist cuffs. “Coleman, coffee me!”
Coleman reached into the shopping bag, opened the thermos and held it to Serge’s mouth …
Moments later, another typical scene of increasing frequency. Two bound hostages. With one crucial distinction.
“Hey, Serge, how come you’re not using chairs this time. You don’t like them anymore?”
Serge looked down at the floor. “Chairs are out.”
“What about songs?”
“No more chair songs either. Especially instrumentals.”
On the side of the room lay Dick’s broken, lifeless body, where it had rolled to a stop against the baseboard after Serge had grabbed the edge of the Persian rug and unspooled him. Now in Dick’s place were his two killers, only their gagged heads visible, wrapped back-to-back in six layers of carpet that were secured with a hundred feet of thick hemp rope and almost as much reinforced packing tape.
