“That’s the problem. You thought.”
“I’m really sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up-“
The Eel raised a hand that received prompt silence. “Mistakes happen. We got the diamonds so no harm done… Get your shit…”
“Oh, thank you! It’ll never happen again!” The maintenance man with the stitched name turned and closed the lid on his toolbox. He was so unnerved by the roller-coaster events that he never realized what came out of his mouth next: “You won’t be sorry, Jellyfish …”
The lamp came off the dresser again.
Wham, wham, wham, wham …
The others jumped back.
Seemed like it would go on forever … Wham, wham, wham …
Finally, the Eel was done. A previously white maintenance uniform was now red. A bodyguard stepped forward with Kleenex and wiped specks from his boss’s cheeks.
The Eel looked at the remaining trio of overalls, frozen in the realization that they were next. Instead, the lamp flew into a corner. “Now clean all this up. And next time follow instructions.”
A bodyguard opened the door and held out his arm for them to wait as he made another visual sweep. All clear. They filed out and headed up the hall, passing room after room. On the other side of one door: rapid, clipped conversation.
“Who’s your favorite astronaut?”
“Frank Borman. His first lunar circumnavigation healed national wounds of 1968,” said Serge. “Yours?”
“John Young.”
“Good choice. He and Story Musgrave co-hold the record of six space flights.”
“Except Musgrave’s were all shuttle. Young did it the hard way…”
“Two Geminis …”
“And two Apollos,” said Story. “Oh yes! Including a moon walk. Fuck me! Faster! Fuck the shit out of me!”
Serge thrust like a jackhammer. “Where have you been all my life?”
“Don’t stop! Oh God! Don’t stop!”
“Okay, original Mercury astronaut Deke Slayton finally made it into space on 1975’s joint Soyuz mission …”
“Harder! Faster! I’m coming!…”
Serge increased his rhythm. “What made you change your mind about me?”
“Back at the bar, you defended my honor. No man’s ever done that … Oh God! I’m coming again! I’m coming again!…”
Coleman cracked a beer in a dark corner. “I had the G.I. Joe with the space capsule, but I blew it up with firecrackers.”
Story panted and raised her head. “What the hell’s he doing in here?”
“You know how some guys think of baseball players to prolong ejaculation?”
“Yeah?”
Coleman crashed into the sliding glass balcony door. “Sorry …”
Serge thrust again. “That’s why he’s here.”
“Make him leave.”
“Coleman …” said Serge.
Coleman grabbed a joint from over his ear. “I’ll be on the balcony.”
Fifteen minutes later, Serge rolled off her in utter exhaustion.
Story fought to catch breath and wiped sweat off her face with a bedsheet. “That was incredible. I’ve never been with anyone like you! Must have had a dozen.”
Serge stared at the ceiling in a religious trance.
“You okay?”
He spoke in a flat robotic monotone. “I can’t believe it. I actually came twice. There is a God.”
“You’ve never come twice before?”
“No, I’ve come more than that, but it took a long night of love-making with extended intermissions to reload the howitzer. But this time they were three minutes apart without stopping. Until now I thought the cosmos had sentenced me without parole to The Guy’s Curse of One.”
“Yeah, I thought you were losing it a little there in the middle.”
“That was after the first. But I didn’t want to say anything because you seemed to be having such a good time.”
“What made the difference?”
“Guess our space conversation. Whew! After sex like that, there’s one thing I love to do!” He rolled over and reached for the drawer on the nightstand.
“I didn’t know you smoked … Well, I guess if you’re ever going to smoke, it’s after sex …”
“Oh, I don’t smoke.” Serge removed a small plastic device from the drawer and held it to his eyes.
Story got a puzzled look. “You like to look at View-Masters after sex?”
Serge hit the lever. “I actually like to look at them during sex, but it’s been met with near-universal criticism.” , I
“Let me see that…”
He handed it to her. She clicked the lever through black-and-white stereographic images of the Overseas Highway. “Wow! These are fantastic! Must be sixty years old!” Click, click, click. “I hope you have more …” Click, click …
Serge stared at the ceiling again. “Love has come to town.”
“And here’s a super-early one of Sloppy Joe’s.” Click. Click. Click.
Serge looked sideways on the pillow. “If I’d only known, I’d have been smashing all kinds of noses into bars.”
Click, click. Story kept her eyes to the viewer and held out a hand. “Another reel!”
NEXT MORNING
An AMC Javelin raced down A1A and took a small, low bridge across the Tolomato River. It turned south on San Marco Avenue. Serge alternately glanced out the windows and down at his cluttered lap: glossy eight-by-ten satellite photos, View-Master reels, vintage postcards in protective plastic cases.
“Holy cow,” said Coleman. “Look at all those shoppers at that big freakin’ mall made of old stones.”
“How many times do I have to tell you to keep the joints down!” said Serge. “And it’s not a mall. It’s Castillo de San Marcos, the massive four-hundred-year-old masonry fort-“
“-to protect St. Augustine inlet as part of Spain’s early coastal defense.” Story looked back down at her history text. “Coquina rock quarried from Anastasia Island. And it’s three hundred years old, not four. The first century they used a series of wooden battlements.” Serge’s heart went pitter-pat.
Coleman exhaled another huge hit out the window. “You know all those new malls that are made to look old? And how instead of inside, all the store entrances are outside, and everyone walks around fake brick courtyards getting sweaty, and you can’t find a place to park for shit unless it’s a mile away, and by then you forgot what you came to buy and now just want a taco, but have to settle for elephant ears at the county fair until the guards smell your weed behind the Tilt-A-Whirl, and you’re exhausted by the time you escape back to the parking lot and decide to go to the mall. I am really, really high.”
“Just keep that joint down.”
“I want to buy something,” said Coleman. “You sure it’s not a mall?”
“Fairly certain.” Serge held an encased, circa 1960 postcard up to the windshield for roadside comparison. “Ever seen that commercial about your brain on drugs?”
“I love that commercial.” Coleman fired up another number. “It’s a scream if you’re toasted. ‘Look, my brain’s an egg!’ I’m hungry. Do we have any eggs ?”
“I’m trying to concentrate,” said Serge.
“I’m trying to study,” said Story.
“I’ll look for eggs,” said Coleman.
The riverfront road swung south onto Avenida Menendez. Tourists jammed sidewalks and narrow alleys. A horse pulled a carriage of Norwegians with disposable cameras. Coleman toked; Story highlighted her textbook; Serge held up a postcard. Nothing matched. He checked the satellite photo and clicked through a View-Master reel. No hits. “I could swear it’s around here somewhere.”
“We just passed a place with eggs.”
“I’ve definitely driven too far.” Serge made a U, retracing his route north.
Coleman pointed out the window again. “Now I know where we are. There are those giant cats that scared the piss out of me last time.”
“The Bridge of Lions,” said Serge.
“But they’re just statues made of stone. Why was I so scared?”