Two hours passed quietly. The van idled for air-conditioning in the Jacksonville heat. The driver stared off without objective as the center span of a bridge rose to block the sun.
The vehicle strategically faced the convention center’s entrance. Toward the end of the day, small groups left the facility in spurts. Then a lull.
The building’s double glass doors opened again. The van’s front passenger checked Xeroxed black-and-white photos in his lap. He looked up toward the front walkway. “That’s him.”
The driver waited with silent discipline. At the instinctive moment, he threw the van in drive and followed a five-year-old Nissan Altima out of the parking lot. The van remained under the speed limit as it picked up Interstate 95 southbound, keeping a minimum three-vehicle separation with the target car.
The Nissan got over in the right lane for exit 341, then headed east on Baymeadows Road. It pulled up the driveway of an architecturally sterile extended-stay hotel and stopped under an overhang in front of the lobby.
A half minute later, a white van entered the lot and slowed as it passed a short line of cars parked temporarily for registration. It sped up again, turned the corner of the building and backed into an isolated parking space against the rear of the hotel. The van’s side door opened. Someone in maintenance overalls climbed down and swapped the magnetic signs with ones promising longer septic tank life. The person got back in and closed the door. The van was still.
A 1971 Javelin sped south on 1-95, through the underside of Jacksonville, characterized by viral suburban growth and distracted-driving accidents. It exited at Baymeadows and entered the parking lot of an extended-stay hotel. Serge leaned as far as he could over the steering wheel as they rolled past rows of empty cars.
Coleman exhaled pot smoke out the window. “Why are you driving so slow?”
“Hunting down the perfect parking space,” said Serge. “The perfect space is absolutely essential. Sets the whole tone for your visit. But it looks like everyone else already grabbed the perfect tone, and this inconsiderate asshole parked too far over the line for me to fit, so I’ll have to come back and deflate his tires to downgrade his tone.”
The joint pointed out the window. “There’s a great spot.”
“I see it,” said Serge.
“So why aren’t you parking there?”
“I am.”
“But you just drove by.”
“Have to get extra room so I can back in. Always back in at Florida hotels. Serge’s secret travel tip number forty-two.”
“Why?”
“See that police car patrolling the other side of the parking lot? What do you think he’s doing?”
“Hotel security,” said Coleman. “Make sure people don’t break into cars and stuff.”
Serge shook his head. “In Minnesota they patrol for guest safety. In Florida, they’re looking for guests.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Notice the device he’s pointing out the window?”
“Yeah?”
“Checking for fugitive license plates. That’s an optical reader, which transmits plate numbers back to headquarters and the national crime computer. You wouldn’t believe the ridiculous amount of warrants they turn up.”
“And that’s why you always back into hotel parking slots?”
“The haul of criminals is so robust they don’t have the man-hours to get out of their patrol cars and check plates backed up against shrubs.”
“Will you hurry up and just park,” said Story. “I have to pee.”
“Another second.” Serge threw the Javelin into reverse and cut the wheel. The car backed into the slot. Serge pulled out of the slot, then backed in again. Then pulled out, backed in. He opened the door and looked down. Shook his head. Pulled out of the slot, backed in again, pulled out…
“Told you I have to go to the bathroom!” yelled Story. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Respecting the community. It’s a heavy rudeness guilt-cross not to park in the middle of your slot.” Serge grabbed a tape measure out of the glove compartment, opened the door again and bent down. “Eleven inches to the line.” He handed the tape to Coleman. “Check your side.”
Coleman leaned out the door. “Thirteen.”
“Fuck.” Serge shifted back into drive. “Not courteous enough.”
Story threw open her door. “I’m out of this boob-mobile.”
Serge aligned the car one more time. The lot was quiet and empty as they stepped onto a sidewalk. A statuesque brunette abruptly materialized in front of them. “Just get in from the airport?”
Serge jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Be gone, industrious hotel hooker. I’m onto your high-end business-traveler vagina ways.” They brushed past her on the narrow walkway.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “How do you know that was a hooker?”
“First, a hot-looking woman striking up idle chat with us in a parking lot. Better odds finding a woodchuck doing card tricks. Second, ever been diving in the Keys?”
“On purpose?”
“Barracudas can be unnerving at times.”
“No shit. Once I was at the aquarium. Those sharp, scraggly teeth freaked me out, and I ran into a wall. I was really stoned.”
“Any experienced diver knows a ‘cuda will never go after an animal as large as a human, unless the water’s cloudy and you’re wearing something shiny, like a watch or bracelet, which they mistake for tiny bait fish.” Serge felt for his wallet to confirm he hadn’t been pick-pocketed. “No, what’s really unnerving is their blinding speed. One second you’re all alone grooving on brain coral and the next, a barracuda is suddenly just there, right in front of you.”
“So anytime a chick suddenly appears outside a hotel?…”
Serge nodded. “Barracuda hooker.”
The hotel reception desk was dark wood with a polished black marble top. The desk was empty except for a lone woman in a smartly pressed blazer with a plastic name tag that was supposed to look like brass: JESSICA. Corporate fever charts determined business increased proportionately to marble surface area. Insufficient data on real brass name tags.
Arriving customers tended to bunch up at the official three P.M. checkin time and, much later in the evening, after businessmen and -women finished their business. This was that in-between limbo part of the day when but a single employee was required. Only three customers in the last hour. Jessica mainly answered the phone about ice machine location and whether the names of adult movies would show up on expense account receipts.
The phone rang again. She answered professionally. It was the same customer from last week who’d been calling all day to complain about the sneaking-a-pet-in-the-room penalty charge on his credit card.
Jessica maintained training-seminar poise. “Sir, I completely sympathize, but I spoke with my manager and you’ll have to call our corporate office. Would you like that number again? … I understand your position that the barking was from a TV show about dogs … No, I can’t change anything in the computer ‘just between you and me’… I’m sorry, I couldn’t make out that last thing you said because of the barking in the background … Okay, I’ll wait while you turn the volume down on the Dog Channel …”
Automatic front doors opened. A woman in cutoffs veered urgently for the restrooms. Moments later, the doors hissed open again. Two more entered.
“You carry that clipboard everywhere?” asked Coleman.
“Million and one uses,” said Serge.
“What’s it for this time?”
“To get a free upgrade.”
They approached the front desk.
“Excuse me,” Jessica said in the phone. “I have to put you on hold.”
“Don’t put me on hold-“
Serge arrived with purpose and plopped folded hands on the counter. “Reservation, Storms.”
“One moment.” She smiled and tapped computer keys.