The lounge side of the property sat in the shadow of the highway overpass, and long-haul truckers rumbled by at such an acute angle as to suggest landing aircraft. Beneath the bridge’s eastern berm stood the lighted motel marquee-WELCOME DIVERSIFIED CONSOLIDATORS - and below that, someone in a dishwashing hairnet manipulated a twelve-foot telescoping aluminum pole to capture black plastic letters. He left the WELCOME up and changed the rest to DATA IMPLEMENTERS. The WELCOME had an off-putting slant in the middle because they were short on L’s and flipped over a 7. The largest conference room had a fire-marshal capacity of eighteen.
The gang in the hotel bar-like all gangs in all hotel bars-had a universal familiarity. Some was the result of actually knowing each other, traveling identical job circuits and enrolling in the same reward-points program. The rest had never met but recognized their own kind. Like Darin and Frank.
“I’m Darin, he’s Frank. Join you?”
Another table slid over.
“What’s your line?”
Frank removed a plastic straw convention hat. “World Congress of Data Implementers.”
Someone pointed at the military ribbons on Darin’s jacket. “What are those?”
“Seven straight quarters, most data implemented.”
“Nobody can touch Darin,” said Frank. “They call him the terminator.”
Beer bottles clinked. A toast to data.
Frank turned to Steve. “Who are you with?”
“Southeast Rare Coins. Finished a show in Tallahassee, getting a leg up on Jacksonville tomorrow. I’m Sh-teve. This is Ted and Henry.”
“Nice to meet…”
“Saw the billboards,” Frank said respectfully. “That big expo with the stamp collectors.” Ted winced.
Henry made a silent, slashing gesture across his throat with a finger.
“I say something wrong?”
Steve stared down into his cocktail. “Stamps guys are faggots.”
Ted crouched and lowered his voice. “Some exhibitors pulled out of the tour. Forced to let philatelists in or we’d get creamed on the hall deposits.”
“Speaking of exhibitors …” Ted looked around the room. “Where’s Ralph?”
“Stayed back at the conference,” said Steve.
“What? The hotel where we had the show?”
Steve nodded curtly, biting an olive off a plastic spear.
“But Ralph should know better. You never stay at the show hotel.”
“He’s an adult.”
“So was Buffalo Nickel Bill.”
“How’s he doing?” asked Henry.
“Getting out of the hospital next week.”
“Who would have thought he’d be hit in Panama City?”
“Whole state’s gone crazy.”
“Police think it’s one of the new professional gangs.”
“Good,” said Steve.
“How’s that good?”
“Because pros only hit when they’re absolutely sure you’re out of the room. And we’re insured.”
“Then why’d they jump Bill?”
“Must have varied his routine and come back at the wrong time.”
“I’m worried,” said Henry.
“You all worry too much,” said Steve. “It’s an isolated incident …”
“… That required sixty stitches.”
“Listen,” said Steve. “Bill got sloppy.”
“And some punks got lucky,” said Henry. “Police found a few loose gems in the carpet that were scattered in the attack. How’d they know there’d be such a score?”
“Back up,” said Ted. “What was Bill doing with stones? He’s a coin guy. Not even good coins. Warned him about loading up on buffalo nickels.”
“Do you have to talk about him like that while he’s still got tubes ?” said Henry. “We all took a beating when the buffalo bubble burst.”
“But what was Bill doing with stones?”
“Police said they were definitely pros who knew exactly what they were looking for. Didn’t even touch the nickels.”
“Screw the nickels already! What the hell was Bill doing with stones?”
“Just telling you what I heard.”
“Makes perfect sense now,” Steve said with authority. “Read all about it in the paper: the latest thing …” Everyone turned and waited.
“… Traveling businessmen secretly moonlighting as diamond couriers.”
“Diamond couriers?” said Henry.
“Little-known fact, but secret networks of highly trained couriers are crisscrossing Florida at all times. With the state’s insane growth, there’s more than enough work to go around, and they’ve started recruiting part-timers.”
“Don’t they use armored cars?” asked Ted.
“Sometimes.” Steve opened his wallet, removing an iridescent plastic card. “But you do the math: too many jewelry stores and not enough vehicles. Plus, those trucks are neon advertisements. So couriers go under the radar, no security, dressing down, the last people you’d ever expect, like Bill. Unfortunately, there’s also a secret network of professional robbery crews who know the deal, and it’s become a high-stakes game of cat and mouse from Pensacola to Key West.”
“But if couriers are undercover, how do the gangs find out?”
“Police theorize paid informants …” Steve tilted the shiny card back and forth in the light. “… People very close to the couriers, possibly the same line of work. Maybe even staying at the same hotels …”
Everyone at the tables hushed and leaned back. In their minds, Vincent Price played the pipe organ. Eyes darted from person to person in a round-robin of suspicion. Steve’s card found the perfect angle; a hologram appeared.
“When did you reach platinum?” asked Henry.
“Last week.” He began sliding it back into his wallet.
“Can I touch?”
“No.”
MEANWHILE …
Serge grabbed a briefcase from the Javelin’s backseat and opened it in his lap. Pockets brimmed with tourist pamphlets aggressively harvested from hotel-lobby racks, then alphabetized. Florida Theater, Fort Caroline, the symphony, the zoo …
Coleman cracked another beer. “When do we get to the part about making money?”
“We’re already there.” Serge pawed through flyers. “This is the perfect spot to take in all the bridges.” A digital camera sat on the dash, and Serge rotated it ten degrees at half-minute intervals for an overlapping panorama of time-lapse night shots. “I love bridges, and Jacksonville loves me! Hard to find more spans in one spot except Pittsburgh, but then you’re in Pittsburgh. Here we have seven bridges downtown alone, because of the mighty St. Johns, and even more downstream.”
“What about tunnels?”
“Love them too, but in the current climate of homeland security, authorities now frown on my tunnel routine of taking twenty photos while standing in the moon roof steering with my knees. I think they frowned on it before as well.” Serge hit the recline lever on the driver’s seat for the required bridge-appreciation angle, smiling as he scanned sparse evening traffic crossing respective west-to-east spans: Corporate climbers from skyline insurance buildings heading south to the suburbs after another late night at the office, rental cars and hotel shuttles driving down from the northside airport, Disney-bound families in minivans with New York and New England plates getting some last miles under their belts before putting up, a stretch limo full of non-limo people who’d pooled money for a birthday party, a windowless white van with ladders on top and magnetic licensed-contractor signs on the side.
Outside the Javelin, in Serge’s blind spot, an ominous shadow grew larger.
Serge raised his eyes toward old girders of the bridge they were beneath. He grabbed his travel mug off the dash and refilled from a thermos. “Now I’m milking the last few moments of simple pleasure.”
Coleman crumpled a beer can. “From what?”