A sunburned man with an amorphous, glowing tattoo stood beside a bed in room 232. A wide, hollow-point blast pattern of blood covered the wall behind the headboard. A 9mm Ruger automatic and silencer hung by his side. He was leaning over the bed, staring detached at the lifeless woman with a pair of entry wounds, one for each eye. Behind him, the sound of a door creaking open.
He turned to find a pair of tourists from Ohio, neutral expressions turning to horror. Mr. Montpelier grabbed the knob and yanked the door shut.
The sunburned man quickly braced his shooting arm across the other and fired a silent fusillade. Door splinters flew from a chest-high row of bullet holes, left to right, at precise, six-inch intervals. Then he stopped in a haze of ammunition smoke and listened.
On the other side of the door: two heavy thuds.
JACKSONVILLE
Rush-hour traffic out of downtown was thick and slow on westbound I-10. Horns honked. Off-key singing inside a two-tone AMC Javelin.
Serge: ” ‘Gimme three steps
Coleman: ‘“Gimme three steps, mister …’”
” ‘Gimme three steps toward the door’… Here’s our exit…”
They took the ramp at mile 358, drove a block south and turned right on Lenox. “Start checking numbers. It’s 5301.”
“Here’s 55-something. Now a 54.”
“We’re getting close. It’s at the crossroads with Verna Boulevard.”
Coleman nodded up the street. “There’s a traffic light.”
“Must be the crossroads.”
The Javelin slowed. Their jaws fell. The car pulled onto a dirt shoulder. Its occupants turned and looked at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. The heads rotated back, staring out the windshield at a plain, gray concrete blockhouse. Harley and an old pickup. Neon Budweiser signs and a small notice in the window: bike parking only. The front door remained open to the bright, sunlight world outside; shadows in the dim interior silhouetted by more lighted beer advertising. Four numbers above the entrance: 5301.
Serge grabbed Coleman’s arm. “Tell me it’s not a mirage.”
“No, it’s here all right. But you said it had been torn down.”
“They just changed the name.” He pointed up at wooden, Old West-style letters, pastime. “I simply assumed because of all the other empty lots I’ve stood in.” Serge grabbed a tall Styrofoam 7-Eleven cup of coffee from its window holder, and they exited the Javelin.
Coleman was almost to the door when Serge grabbed his arm again.
“What’s the matter?”
“You can’t just bluster into a place like this,” said Serge. “Why not?”
“Any joint that chased off a man’s man like Ronnie Van Zant is no place to be trifled with.”
“But you’re not afraid of anything.”
“Respect is more the word.” He turned sideways and checked the pistol in his waistband. “Regulars in dives like this smell fear as sure as Dobermans. Before we go in, we have to get our shit wired tight and project insane confidence. And whatever you do, under no circumstance are you to mention that song. Then they’ll think we’re goofy tourists and pick our bones clean.”
“Can I go in and get a beer now?”
“One more second.” Serge ran his fingertips over a bas-relief metal plaque just outside the door. Established 1948. He looked up at the American flag flapping above the building, then took a deep breath and drained his Styrofoam cup. “Ready.”
They walked inside to nobody’s notice. Serge took three steps and threw up his arms. “Goddamn, I’m in the bar from that freakin’ Skynyrd song!”
Everyone turned.
Serge grinned awkwardly. “Shit … I mean, shit! Do I feel confident! If you think you smell something, it’s my No Fear hormones marking territory with their musk.” He bellied up to the venerable bar. “I’m all about Dixie, yessiree. Love ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ in those KFC ads. Keepin’ it finger-lickin’ real! Unlike Yankee ad jingles for processed cheese: ‘You’re crumb-believable.’ Fuck those assholes.”
A female bartender strolled over. “What can I get you?”
“Bottled water …”
The regulars glared.
“… And a dirty glass!”
“Boilermaker,” said Coleman.
The others nodded approval and returned to private discussions.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “What are you doing?”
Serge’s back was to the bar. He held a digital camera inconspicuously below hip level. “Got the flash turned off. I’m taking a three-dimensional grid-sequence of spy photos for future forensic study. There are certain places it’s far too dangerous to openly take pictures. I perfected my technique based on CIA surveillance protocol so there’s no possible way anyone can detect what I’m doing.”
The barkeep returned with their d rinks. “Nice camera.”
Serge spun around. “I’m not taking pictures!” He slipped the camera back in his pocket. “Not many.”
“You guys here on business?”
Serge uncapped his water. “I’m a travel expert. Thinking of writing a big spread about your fabulous place here. The whole Skynyrd mystique.”
“Really?” said the bartender. “Wait here. Someone will want to meet you.” She disappeared out the back of the bar.
“Uh-oh.” Serge cautiously slid off his stool, eyes shifting side to side.
Coleman dropped the shot glass in his beer. “What’s the matter?”
“Shit’s on boil. We’ve been radar-pinged in the ‘Gimme Three Steps’ bar, the most bad-ass honky tonk in all America.” He walked over to the wall and grabbed a cue stick. “The end is near. There’s no way both of us can make it, so as soon as the bloodbath begins, you make a break for the door. The best I can hope for is a valiant fight to be immortalized in song.”
“Serge, I think you should live.” Coleman killed the boilermaker. “I’ve had a full life.”
“Not a chance. The end will be slow and unspeakable. When they swarm us, I’ll charge and take out the biggest with my patented pirouette of death. That should give you time to reach the door in three steps.”
“But I don’t want you to die.”
Serge shook his head. “Too late. And whatever you do, don’t look back no matter how loud I scream.”
Coleman began to sniffle. “But Serge-“
A deep southern accent from behind the bar: “Hey! You fellas!”
TALLAHASSEE
A uniformed police officer stood guard outside a hospital room door. Two detectives returned from lunch and peeked inside. An unconscious young man, IV tubes, wires, electronic monitors. A nurse wheeled a ventilator out the door.
One of the investigators touched her arm. “Still improving?”
“Doctor said a complete recovery.”
“When can we talk to him?”
“He’s heavily sedated.”
“But it’s important.”
“So is his rest.” She pushed the medical cart down the waxed hall.
The detective looked at his partner. “We don’t have the luxury of time.”
“Three hotel robberies in one week.”
“That other guy, Ralph-what a worthless witness.”
“And the third is dead.”
“This kid’s the only one who got a good look.”
“We better double the guard. Once they killed that last guy, our patient here became their ticket to death row.”
“But we already moved him from the other hospital and registered him under a fake name.”
“Can’t hurt to be safe.”
“Why don’t they use armored cars anyway?”
“I don’t know shit about the diamond business. Guess these couriers try to blend in as the last people you’d suspect to be carrying a fortune in stones.”
“They’re right in this case. Just look at the guy.”
“Same as the other two victims: unassuming faces, low-key attire, fake business covers that would throw anyone off.”