“Got a loupe?”
The owner handed him a round magnifier. Guillermo brought the ring to his eye and checked the engraving inside the band. A. MCK ENNA.
Bells again. A student in a full leg cast hobbled inside.
“What am I going to do with crutches?” said the owner. “I can sell you some…” pointing at a pile in the corner.
Guillermo handed the magnifier back but kept the ring. “I’ll take it.” The owner rang him up.
“Hear them talking about anything?” Guillermo said with feigned idleness.
“They never stopped talking. Like what?”
“Coincidentally, I went to the same school.” He stuck the ring in his pocket. “That’s how it caught my eye. Be kind of nostalgic to catch up with the new class.”
“Dang. What was it?”
“What was what?”
“One of them mentioned where they were staying. I remember ’cause they wanted more for their rings since they were paying top dollar without reservations. And I know the place well, know them all. Easy name, too…” He stared off at a shelf of clarinets. “What the heck was it?…”
The kids with hubcaps returned. “Sir, can’t you give us anything at all for these? They’re about to kick us out of the Dunes.”
“The Dunes!” said the owner. “That’s it. I’m positive.”
THE DUNES
A day in full swing. Blender going, Led Zeppelin. Coleman continued slicing up limes with bandages on three fingers.
“… I’m gonna send you… back to schoolin’!…”
Serge staggered into the room. “Coffee…”
“Hey, Serge. How do you feel?”
No answer until he’d drained the dregs of an old pot. “That shit’s insane. No wonder you don’t have any ambition… What are the kids doing over there?”
Coleman looked up at a crowd around the television. “News from Panama City. Think they found some bodies.”
Serge walked up behind the students. “What’s going on?”
“Shhhhhh!”
On TV, a female correspondent stood in a parking lot, intentionally framed with the Alligator Arms sign over her shoulder. “… Police are releasing few details about the massacre in this unassuming motel. All we currently know is that authorities removed five bodies from room 543, the apparent victims of multiple gunshots…”
Behind her, students waved and held up beer cans. “Woooooo!” “Party hearty!” “I see dead people!”
“… One source who spoke on the condition of anonymity said the entire room had been sprayed heavily with automatic weapon fire. We’ll report more as soon as we know it. But for now, it looks like a real spring break buzz-kill…”
The report ended, and the students came alive with chatter.
“That was our room!”
“Happened just after we left!”
“Can you imagine if they hadn’t kicked us out?”
“What kind of madman would do such a thing?”
“Not a madman,” said Serge. “Professional job.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Standard protocol for a Miami hit.”
“If it’s Miami, then why up there?”
“Probably some connection to a smuggling operation,” said Serge. “The whole state’s one big northern pipeline.”
“All those kids were in on it?”
Serge shook his head and walked back to the coffeemaker. “That’s why I said standard protocol. Most likely after just one target. They like to be thorough.”
“But it was all students. How could any of them be involved in something that major?”
“Guessing they weren’t.” Serge dumped scoops of Folgers in the filter. “Smells like a case of mistaken identity. Shooters were probably after someone else who was supposed to be staying in that room.”
The students were practically dizzy, running the fatal near miss through their heads. They changed channels to a special Daytona Beach edition of Ocean Cops.
Serge came back with a fresh cup. Something wasn’t right. He looked around. “What happened to your class rings?”
“We pawned them.”
“You what!”
“Pawned them… Hey, Coleman, come quick! You’re on again!”
“When did you do this silliness?” demanded Serge.
“Recently.”
Coleman arrived with a triple-strength pifla colada. “Where am I?”
“Right there.” On TV, rescuers on Jet Skis chased an unconscious person floating out to sea in an inflatable swim ring with a seahorse head.
Spooge high-fived Coleman. “You take no prisoners!”
“You can’t pawn your class rings!” said Serge. “That’s heritage, some of the best souvenirs of all!”
“I know,” said Andy. “But what’s done is done.”
“Not as long as I’m alive,” said Serge.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t let you do this.” Serge checked the contents of his wallet. “We’re going to get them back right now. I’ll spot you, though I doubt I’ll see any of it again. But that’s how I roll.”
They went downstairs and drove out of the parking lot.
A Delta 88 pulled in.
Chapter Thirty
LUCKY’S PAWNSHOP
Ting-a-ling.
A pack of students entered.
The owner looked up from his racing form. “Back so soon?”
“I want to buy their class rings,” said Serge.
“No problem.” The owner hoisted a metal pail onto the counter. “They should be somewhere near the top. But you understand there’ll have to be a modest surcharge. I got rent.”
“Of course.” Serge turned to the students. “Go get ’em.”
The kids dug through rings from all years and states. The owner set two velvet display trays beside the bucket. “Some also might be here.”
“I found mine!” A ring slipped on a finger.
“Me, too…”
“There it is…”
Soon, all hands had jewelry again. Except one.
Andy McKenna scanned velvet slots.
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge.
“Can’t find mine.”
“Oh, just remembered,” said the owner. “What school do you go to?”
“New Hampshire.”
“That’s right. Guy bought it.”
“When?” asked Serge.
“Just before you came in.”
Serge placed a consoling hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Very sorry.”
“I’ll live.”
“You might still get it back,” said the owner. “How’s that?” asked Serge.
The owner turned to Andy. “Your name was engraved inside the band, right?”
Andy nodded.
“Man said he was an investor. Selling rings back to parents of kids who, well, spring break happens.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Serge.
“Who knows?” said the owner. “Guy went to the same college.”
“UNH?” asked Andy.
“Real nice gent.” The owner put a pail back against the wall. “Told him where you were staying.”
“Why?”
“He asked.”
“That’s weird,” said Serge.
“Got the feeling it was a school pride thing,” said the owner. “Told me he wanted to catch up with the new class, maybe even give it back to you for free.”
“But how’d you know where we were staying?”
“You told me, remember? No reservations.” The owner slid velvet trays under the counter. “Man, these rings sure are getting popular.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Serge.
“A second guy was in here. Showed me a badge.”
“Cop?”
“Latin name, Ramirez or something.”
“What did he want?”
“Same as the other guy. I told him you kids were staying at the Algiers.”
“We’re at the Dunes,” said Andy.
“Whoops,” said the owner. “Well, I guess he’ll be coming back. At least I told the first guy the right place.”