“So how did the gang nail three in a row?”
“Only one possible answer. Someone on the inside’s feeding information.”
THE PASTIME
Serge stood in the middle of the empty dance floor with a pool cue at the ready.
A tall, rugged southern man in a black T-shirt came out from behind the bar, wallet chained to his jeans. “You a travel writer?”
“One second,” said Serge. He gave Coleman a good-bye hug. “It’ll be okay. If they resort to torture, I’ll bang my head on the floor and knock myself unconscious.” Serge turned back toward the voice. “I’m ready to face my fate.”
The man broke into a warm smile and extended a hand. “I’m the owner, Billy Bob. This is my wife, Vicki.”
Serge warily shook the hand.
“Heard you’re a Skynyrd fan,” said Billy Bob.
“Big-time, but not in a tourist way.”
“Let me show you something.” The owner headed past a pool table. Serge glanced back at Coleman, shrugged and followed.
Billy Bob reached the southwest corner of the bar and pointed up at a locked glass case near the ceiling.
“What’s that?” asked Serge.
“Old Skynyrd drum cover signed by Artimus Pyle.” Serge’s heart pounded. “Do you think … maybe … I could … you know … take photos of the bar?”
“Be my guest.”
Serge began shooting with the drum cover and worked clockwise, covering every inch like he was mapping a threatened rain forest. The enthusiasm impressed Billy Bob. “Say, why don’t we take a ride in my truck? I know the families. Give you the Skynyrd tour of west Jacksonville.”
Serge stopped and looked at Coleman. “This is it.”
“This is what?”
“They lull you with southern hospitality while plunging the knife. We’re no doubt going to be driven to a pair of pre-dug graves behind a catfish farm.”
“So let’s not go.”
“But it’s the Skynyrd tour.”
Soon they were all packed tight in Billy Bob’s red pickup with a number eight Dale Earnhardt Jr. license plate on the front. The truck whipped through working neighborhoods, from the band’s boyhood homes, to the high school, the old store from the “Ballad of Curtis Lowe,” and finally the cemetery where the lead singer had to be secretly reburied after his first grave was vandalized under mysterious circumstances. Serge knelt in reverence at a modest marble marker: RONALD WAYNE VAN ZANT, 1948-1977. He lifted glassy eyes toward Billy Bob. “I’d heard about this, but never would have found it without you …”
Fifteen minutes later, the pickup arrived back at the bar. Serge slowly climbed down from the passenger seat and studied his outstretched arms. “I’m not dead.”
Billy Bob laughed. “Of course you’re not dead.”
Serge had never made a friend so fast. He gave the owner a big bear hug, briefly lifting him a couple of inches off the ground. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! …”
“Are you okay?”
“More than okay! This is the best day of my entire life!” Serge sprinted back inside the bar and leaped onto a stool like it was a pommel horse. The corner TV had local news: “… Police continue to investigate what they believe is an organized gang or gangs targeting traveling businessmen for robberies at local hotels. The latest victim, a positive-thinking seminar teacher, remains in critical condition after attempting suicide… Meanwhile, another shocking development in the case of two so-called skinheads found executed in what authorities have described as the most bizarre and nauseating crime scene they’ve ever encountered. The cause of death had investigators completely stumped, and an unnamed source inside the medical examiner’s office said the fatal injuries most closely resembled being crushed by Burmese pythons, except their faces had also been smashed beyond recognition. But a major break came within the last hour when a video of the victims’ final minutes was discovered posted on the popular website YouTube …”
Someone changed the channeclass="underline" “… This revolutionary spinning lure is the magic bullet if you want to put a heap of fish in the boat…”
Billy Bob walked around to the business side of the bar. “Drinks on me. What are you having?”
“Three boilermakers,” said Coleman.
“Water.”
“Never had anyone ask for water when drinks are on the house,” said Billy Bob. “Sure you don’t want something with a little more kick?”
“Coffee.”
“I guess that’s got a little kick.”
“You have no idea,” said Coleman.
The coffee arrived first. Serge burned his mouth chugging. “So tell me about the bar!”
“Let’s see …” Billy Bob began lining up Coleman’s drinks. “Probably know it used to be the West Tavern, but a lot of people think that was because this is west Jacksonville when actually one of the old owners was named West…”
“Preach!”
“… Me and Vicki picked up the place a few years back. I mean, who could resist the history?”
Serge pounded a fist on the bar. “Who could!”
“Skynyrd even played a few early gigs out back where we barbecue. If this place wasn’t so small, the song might have been ‘Gimme Five Steps,’ because three’s literally all you need to hit the parking lot.”
Serge manically waved his empty cup. “Java me!”
Billy Bob laughed again as he poured. “Am I going to have to cut you off from coffee?”
“It’s happened before. You know the old tourist observation tower in Lake Placid? Not the New York Lake Placid; the one below Sebring, whose town name was suggested by none other than Melvil Dewey of Dewey Decimal System fame, who changed life as I know it, and not for the better. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been hot on the trail of a book, and the library’s aisles run out before I get to the number and I go, ‘What the fuck?’ Anyway, U.S. Highway 27 runs down the spine of central Florida where three curious towers rise like bulb-less lighthouses: the Citrus Tower in Clermont, Bok Tower in Lake Wales and Lake Placid’s tower, whose viewing deck is now closed because of some risk from telecommunication microwaves, and there’s a coffee shop on the bottom floor, where I was on my fourth cup, strip-mining the waitress for trivia, and she said, well, a few years back one of those self-appointed spidermen free-climbed up the side all the way to the observation platform. And I said, of course! They won’t let me take the elevator, so I’m forced to chart my own route up the north face. Ran outside and prepared for the big climb. Said another precautionary good-bye to Coleman, because I swore I would reach the summit or die trying, and after three hours I’d drawn a pretty good-sized crowd, including the restaurant staff and a couple off-duty cops, and Coleman’s shouting encouragement up at me, my fingers wearing raw as I clung desperately to the side of the building. Held on as long as I could, but at the five-hour mark, my body finally betrayed me and I lost my grip. Luckily I’d only made it two feet off the ground and was able to escape lasting disfigurement by going into a paratrooper’s tuck-and-roll, but they still wouldn’t let me have any more coffee.” Serge held out his empty cup again.
Billy Bob poured. “Where you headed?”
“Points south. First, the Martin Luther King Jr. lunch-counter site in St. Augustine that triggered an act of Congress, then the Aileen Wuornos walking tour of Port Orange. Got a lengthy scavenger list.” Serge pulled a lengthy scavenger list from his pocket and spread it across the bar. An item near the top reminded him of something, and he looked around. “Thought you’d have a jukebox.”
“We do,” said Billy Bob. “Over there.”
“What? That little thing?”
“One of those new touch-screen jobs connected to the Internet. Got almost every song ever recorded.”
Serge sprang off the stool and fumbled for his wallet. “Please, dear God, let it be so …”