Mahoney angled his head to look around Mickey. “Who’s the suspicious mug sitting up front that keeps glancing back here.”
“Just John Travolta. Listen, I’m not kidding about walking away from this. In all our years, I’ve never had a feeling like this before.”
“What’s the lowdown on this snoop?”
“That’s what’s got me worried. No matter how bad this Serge character is, he can’t be anything like the guy who came around. You just get a vibe off some people.”
Mahoney fit his hat back on his head and stood. “Thanks, Mickey.” He opened his wallet and removed a twenty.
The bartender shook his head. “This one’s on the house,”
Mahoney put a hand on his shoulder-“They broke the mold, Mickey”-and walked out into the night.
3 A.M.
Story was propped up in bed with three pillows, editing a composition.
A door under the sink opened, and Serge spilled onto the tiles. He and Coleman headed for the door, flashlights in hand.
Story looked up from her paper. “Where are you going?” “To work.” The door closed behind them.
A half hour later, Serge jiggled a bent paperclip, easily popping the flimsy lock. He and Coleman crept through a rusty double-wide trailer on the edge of a cow pasture just west of 1-95.
They reached a bedroom. Serge clicked on his flashlight and aimed it at a sleeping face. “Wake up.”
Snoring.
Serge reached out with the flashlight and bonked a forehead.
“Ow!” A man shot up in bed. He turned and shielded his eyes against the blinding halogen beam. “What the fuck?”
“I’m the ghost of Christmas past.”
“Who?”
“Should have accepted my three-thousand-dollar offer,” said Serge. “It will soon look like the bargain of a lifetime.”
“Wait, I remember you. You’re so fucking dead!”
“Goodnight,” said Serge. The flashlight came down again, this time strategically harder. The transmission-shop owner went back to sleep.
One hour later, the shop owner awoke again with a splash of water in the face. He was lying down, but not on anything comfortable like a bed. In fact-his head looked side to side-where was he?
“You’re in the Ocala National Forest,” said Serge. “What a treat! So peaceful.”
The mechanic conducted a clockwise assessment of his various limbs, spread eagle. He began struggling furiously, but the wrist and ankle restraints didn’t budge a millimeter.
“That’s because I used hurricane tie-downs. Had one guy almost get free, so I decided to spring for the best remedy money could buy.” He reached inside a bag. “Sometimes it’s expensive to be cheap.”
“What are you planning?”
“Take you back to transmission school. If you’re going to hang a shingle, at some point you need to actually start doing the work. Let’s see what we’ve got here …” Serge’s hand came out of the bag. It held a thick, three-foot-long corkscrew with a giant eye loop at the top. “Bought an extra tie-down to show you because visual aids always help my students retain their lessons.” Serge got on his knees and twisted the device into the ground. “Home Depot again. Love that place! People buy these to anchor their sheds and whatnot so hurricanes don’t turn them into aircraft, which means you might as well stop that flopping around …” Serge looked up at the Big Dipper. “… Found a nice, remote clearing. No trees for a hundred yards, which means you’ll have full sunlight tomorrow. The weatherman says it’s going to be a scorcher.”
“You’re going to leave me out here to die of exposure?”
“That would be sick.” Serge reached in his bag again and came out with duct tape. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
“Please, I’m begging you! I’ll pay the money!”
He peeled an edge of the tape from the roll. “Sorry, you threatened a family.”
“I won’t do anything to them! I swear!”
“Really?”
“Word of honor!”
“Hmmmm …” Serge tapped his chin, then ripped a long strip from the roll. “Don’t believe you.”
“Wait, I’ll-“
Tape covered the man’s mouth and wrapped several times around his head.
Serge stood over him and smiled. “Took the liberty of having Coleman follow us in your car. It would be incredibly impolite to leave you stranded way out here with no transportation.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “Stay put. I’ll just be a sec.”
The mechanic heard a familiar car start. The engine grew louder: My God! He’s going to run over me!
The hostage closed his eyes and soiled himself. The engine reached a roar. Then it suddenly stopped. The shop owner opened his eyes and stared up at the undercarriage of his car a few inches from his face. He heard a voice from the side. Serge was lying on his stomach next to the vehicle, chin propped jauntily in his hands.
“See? I positioned it for total shade cover from tomorrow’s sun. And for the sake of irony-which tickles me pink-the transmission is right over you so you’ll have plenty of opportunity to study it. Well, at least the outside, which is about as close as you’ve gotten so far.”
Serge stood again. The mechanic watched sneakers walk around to the other side of the car.
“Coleman, I need to borrow your disposable lighter.”
“What for?”
“Just give it!”
Coleman tossed it over the roof. Serge snatched it out of the air and opened the driver’s door.
“If this was a movie, the camera angle would be somewhere near the floor of the car, looking up at Serge’s hand …”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to yourself.”
“I was? What was I saying?”
“Something about a movie camera.”
“I thought the narration was just playing inside my head. Oh well … Serge’s hand reached, slow motion, as the camera zoomed on the 69-cent butane lighter being placed gently in the middle of the dashboard. Then the film sped back up as Serge slammed the door, and he and Coleman drove away in their 1971 AMC Javelin … Cut! Print!”
ROUTE Al A
A two-tone Javelin sped south on the part of the highway below St. Augustine that ran against the shore. The sky was gray, extra-choppy surf. Serge grooved on the perpetual rhythm of large, rolling waves that began doming hundreds of yards out and crashed into the beach with bursts of foam and salty mist. Ahead, a disciplined line of eight pelicans rode the stout wind, gliding along the edge of the road at a velocity only slightly slower than traffic. Serge passed them at window level, saluting eight times. They crossed the Matanzas River.
“Oh my God!” said Serge. “Look!”
A compound of white buildings appeared on the sea side of the road, like a small campus or research institute.
“Coleman!” Serge reached over and shook his shoulder. “Are you looking?”
“Yeah, buildings.” Coleman stared back down, diagnosing the engineering flaw in his makeshift, toilet-paper-tube bong that was flaking apart in a bowl of water. “All that work for one shitty hit.” He pulled limp pieces of cardboard from his mouth.
“Someone’s fixing up Marineland!” Serge let off the gas. “She’s saved from the executioner! Where’s a parking space?”
Story punched the back of his seat.” You’re not stopping!”
“Of course we’re stopping. It’s Marineland, the world’s first ocean-arium, 1938.” He hit a turn signal for the parking lot and grabbed his camera.
She hit the seat again. “Keep driving! I told you I have an appointment at the dance club. Someone in this car has to make money.”
“You can strip anytime-“
Swat.
“Ow!”
“I am not stripping.”
“Okaaaaay, we’ll keep going. But just this once because I hate people who miss appointments.” Serge stepped on the gas and snapped a quick photo as they went by. “But hit me one more time …”
“And you’ll what?”
“I’ll… stop someplace and take lots and lots of pictures.”