“Numbers.”
“That’s it?”
“Coleman, it’s all code, most frequently used by the Castro regime communicating with agents stationed in Florida to keep tabs on exile dissidents. They found one guy transmitting from a grimy apartment on South Dale Mabry in Tampa. But they’re also used by coke smugglers and other nefarious enterprises.”
“Who runs the stations?”
“That’s the best part!” said Serge. “Almost always some chick with a super-sultry voice-probably to keep the spies’ attention. I’ve always wanted to hear a numbers station! That would be the best!”
“You mean you haven’t?”
“There’s always hope,” said Serge. “And that’s why I need scan mode. In the meantime, I must find contentment peppering myself with fractured Top Forty and advertising persuasion. I’d prefer the scan mode had shorter bursts, but the intervals are set at the factory.”
“I’ve seen you listen to music. Ten seconds a song max.”
“Because I love music so much and life is so short! That’s why the iPod is the invention of the century. I’ve tapped mine into the car radio with this special RF transmitting cradle. Let’s listen to the Stones!”
The opening hook of “Satisfaction” filled the car.
“I always listen to the Stones,” said Serge, spinning the click wheel. “What else is in here?… Springsteen!… New Jersey’s too depressing … Steely Dan! They rule! … I still don’t know what these fucking lyrics mean … Floyd! I love the Floyd! … But I don’t do drugs… . Creedence!… Bayou, bayou, swamp, bayou, I get it… What haven’t I heard in a while?… The Stones! …”
Their Javelin continued down the dark, pensive highway, through Edgewater, along the Canaveral National Seashore and into Mims, before the road zigged out to the rim of the mainland at Titusville. Serge unplugged the iPod, restoring standard radio broadcast. NASA’s mammoth Vehicle Assembly Building appeared in the distance, across the Indian River, and farther back on one of the pads, a tiny space shuttle glowing in a ring of spotlights.
“… No money down! No reasonable offer will be refused! . . , Like a Bridge over Troubled Water … And now, page two …”
Coleman tapped through the website’s mailbox. “You’re right. All the messages are from Mahoney.”
“That guy’s got obsession issues.”
A cell phone rang.
Coleman looked around. “That doesn’t sound like yours.” “Story’s purse,” said Serge. “Get it for me.” Coleman turned and reached in the backseat. He handed the phone to Serge, who flipped it open.
“Serge’s Florida Experience. How may I assist with your offbeat travel needs ?.. . Story’s asleep… Of course I remember you: that chick in the shark cage doing the Pythagorean Twist… Some cop was asking about us?… Wearing a rumpled fedora? Yeah, I have a good guess … No, you did the right thing… How are your classes coming?.. .”
“… Along with the Hooters girls, this Saturday under three big tents!… Take home a pound of Tennessee Bride … Buenos …”
“… Keep studying.” Serge closed the phone.
Coleman tapped some more. “What was that?”
“Mahoney’s hot on our tail. He was showing my picture around the Shark Lounge.”
“Maybe he’s just following the stuff you’ve been putting up on your website.”
“Not this time,” said Serge. “Haven’t posted the Shark yet, which is what really worries me.” “Why?”
“He’s the only person who comes anywhere near my passion for the state, and his instincts are getting sharper. There’s a good chance he could even show up ahead of us at our next stop. He’ll never rest until he catches me.”
They pushed on into the world of 5 a.m., now joined by a skeleton traffic of delivery trucks with fresh seafood, baked goods and celebrity magazines. Serge passed an off-brand convenience store, where a man yanked bundles of newspapers out the back of a panel van.
Coleman had a joint in his lips as he continued toying with the laptop. An ash fell onto the keyboard.
“I saw that.”
“Sorry.”
“Just watch your beer. It’s the natural enemy of the laptop.”
The Javelin rolled on. Bonaventure, Eau Gallie, Melbourne-sky slipping from black to dark blue, flashing traffic lights returning to standard green-yellow-red rotation-Malabar, Sebastian, Wabasso. Coleman tapped more keys and read the glowing screen.
“Hey, Serge, check this out: I don’t think Mahoney wants to catch you.”
“Of course he does.”
“I just opened his latest message.”
“Didn’t I say not to open his e-mail? Now you’ve done it! The hex is on. And you don’t trifle with a hex. It’s worse than a pox. Luckily I’m protected by my magic cloaking tropical shirt.”
“You mean like Harry Potter?”
“Coleman, don’t be a stooge,” said Serge. “That’s make-believe book fiction.”
“But Serge, the e-mail-“
“Don’t read it!”
“He’s trying to warn that someone’s after you.”
“Yeah, him.”
“No, it says a snitch told him some hit men have been sent to take you out.”
“It’s a trick.”
“What if it’s not?”
“… In the book of Deuteronomy the Lord smote …”
“Turn off the laptop before you further anger the gods.”
“If you say so.” He closed the lid and popped a beer. “Where are we heading?”
“I’m on the trail of the Highwaymen. The country needs to know.”
“Who are the highwaymen?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Serge grabbed a coffee-table book from under his seat and opened it in his lap. “The big problem is that Mahoney digs Florida almost as much as me. If he’s heard of the Highwaymen, we could be heading straight into an ambush. But wait, I’m needlessly worrying myself. There’s so much other history in the area. I mean, what are the odds Mahoney would pick the Highwaymen?”
Thirty miles farther south, Agent Mahoney sat in a parked Crown Vic, blowing steam off the top of a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
The car was the only one in the lot, two blocks east of U.S. 1 on Avenue D. Across the inlet, predawn activity aboard a few boats at a marina with Spanish barrel tiles. A verdigris statue of two entwined sailfish stood at the corner of the seawall. Mahoney looked toward the water and watched the sun peek over the horizon at Fort Pierce. The agent checked his Green Hornet watch and shifted his eyes to the front doors of a building, still hours from its 10 a.m. opening. The A.E. “Bean” Backus Gallery and Museum.
Mahoney was under strict orders to the contrary, but he had called in a marker and received the latest law enforcement dossier on Serge. It lay open in his lap. There was the cliched, long-as-your-arm rap sheet, plus copies of countless fan letters Serge had written to top political and cultural leaders. Mahoney glanced at an old letter to the president, which he now knew by heart, then flipped to a more recent correspondence to the administration that had been intercepted while Mahoney was officially off the case. He began reading:
Ex-Vice President Dick Cheney, aka the real 43RD president Washington, D.C. (Your initials!)
Dear Dick,
Go fuck yourself! Ha! Remember that one? And you said it on the floor of Congress no less. When I first heard about it, milk came out my nose-and I wasn’t even drinking milk! That’s how funny you are!
Yes, you’ve coined the catchphrase for the millennium. Pithy, introspective. Plus it translates well. Unfortunately all the president can manage is a hayseed “shit” at a summit lunch when he leaves the mike on, chews with his mouth open and makes Tony Blair hover obsequiously over his shoulder like a trained parakeet. Don’t get me wrong: George was an effective deterrent for a while, proclaiming America was on “a crusade,” like he missed school that day and didn’t realize it was the most brainless thing he could have said. Meanwhile, his finger’s on the button of the largest arsenal in the history of the world, and he pretends he can’t even fucking pronounce it. “Nucular.” Genius! (Your idea, right?) Because while George had his moments (“Mission Accomplished” pops to mind), you, on the other hand, understand real deterrence. I’ll never forget when insurgents were setting off all those car bombs, so you responded by outing one of our own CIA agents, and the insurgents went, “Not too shabby, but we’ve seen better,” and you said, “Oh yeah? Check this out, motherfuckers,” and then you shot your own friend in the face! And the insurgents went, “Goddamn!” Now that’s the Cheney magic I’m talking about! I say crank it all the way up! We’re facing an illogical foe, and you of all people appreciate the value of fighting crazy with crazy. So here’s my plan: Now that you’re out of office, move into a cave and start making underground videos, wearing a ski mask and carrying an RPG launcher. Maybe even fire the thing. (Just remember to yell “duck” this time.)