Agent Mahoney jumped out, flashing a badge and a photo. “Anyone seen this mug?”
“That crazy son of a gun?” said the old man. “He was just here. None of us will ever forget him.”
“How so?”
“We were laughing at his butt-ugly painting when he said it was just his warm-up exercise and that he was now going to paint the most fantastic piece of art anyone had ever seen. Then he got out a new canvas and went completely apeshit! We thought he was having a seizure.”
Mahoney pointed at the canvas in the old man’s hands. “Don’t tell me you actually bought a painting from him.”
“No, the other guy.” He turned his canvas around. “Excellent primitive erotica.”
“See which way they went?”
The old man pointed south. “Look for the guy driving with a canvas around his neck.”
www.sergeastorms.com
Serge’s Blog. Star date 937.473.
Today’s topic is traveling with Coleman. Just substitute that one friend we all have whose level of partying can create its own weather system. But Coleman and I have an understanding. I do my travel thing, and he does his. I’m on a fact-finding mission; he’s on the Booza-palooza Tour. But he never nags, no matter how many photos I take of historic markers. The perfect traveling companion. Not like Story, who’s put me on a two-picture limit, which I grudgingly accept because travel is the art of compromise. But then she demands that Coleman stop throwing up out the passenger window. Now she’s messing with a decade of tradition. Against that benchmark, Coleman’s a treat. Plus he’s value conscious. Once we had to fly somewhere and he checked half a pizza through in his luggage. The downside is motel room damage, which could quickly add up to thousands on the guy’s credit card we’re using.
Today’s Tip #1: Fixing Coleman’s damage. Last week I left him unsupervised, and when I returned, the mini bar was empty and he’d locked himself in the bathroom, screaming about pygmies. By the time I jimmied the door open, he was unconscious in the tub with the snapped-off towel rod across his chest. Solution: Wet squares of toilet paper and wrap them around the anchor-bolts of the ripped-out rod holder. Then, gently push the complete assembly back into the wall. And if you don’t breathe hard, it should stay put until after checkout, when the maid knocks it loose hanging new towels, and hopefully she’s undocumented and pushes it back in herself.
Tip #2: Refilling the mini bar. The next morning I tell Coleman he racked up a three-hundred-dollar minibar tab. He says there must be some mistake. I say, it’s simple economics. Mortgage companies build into their rates for potential inflation. Mini bars build in for a cataclysmic meteor strike. So we make a supply run. Liquor miniatures are a snap, but mixers are the real killer. Hotels know we’re refilling the mini bars, so they deliberately use short, fat eight-ounce soda bottles that you can’t get anywhere except other hotels. Solution: Fish empties out of the trash and refill with 99-cent generic two-liter soda bottles. Screw the caps on tight and hide in the back row, and the minibar guy won’t notice the seals are broken because the fridge’s handle just came off in his hand.
Tip #3: What ever happened to the Shell No-Pest Strip? Not a tip, just been thinking about it a lot lately. I’d kill to have sat in on the corporate meeting that gave birth to that feel-good product. “What would be an irresistible status symbol to hang over the dining room table?” “I know: a box full of dead flies on a sticky piece of cardboard.”
News from Serge World!
When my collected travel knowledge is finally published as a best-selling book, I’ve decided to simultaneously release a special children’s edition. It’s almost completely finished. I’ve only got the first page, but that’s the hardest part. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title means, and I said life is like traveling on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading what I’d written and asked if a children’s book should have the word motherfucker eight times on the first page. I said, absolutely. They’re little kids after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition.
To the Mailbag!
Let’s see what’s here … “Mahoney, Mahoney, Mahoney, Cialis soft-tabs, Mahoney, Mahoney, Tiny size is killing your woman’s interest, Mahoney, Mahoney, Cialis, Irish Lottery, Mahoney … I know I shouldn’t open this, but the curiosity is killing me …
The Javelin continued south along the coast. Serge took A1A out of Fort Pierce, and roadsides quickly thinned. Gas stations, mom-and-pop diners, retro sign of a smiling alligator bowling. The Javelin swung inland and picked up U.S. 1 below Port Salerno.
Serge’s window was down, an ocean breeze mussing his hair. “What a magnificent day to be alive in this state! God has once again fulfilled my definition of happiness: Florida, a full tank of gas and no appointments.”
Coleman held up a beer and a joint. “My definition, too.”
“Crank the radio! Scan mode!”
“Aye-aye!”
.. Life is a highway! I’m going to ride it… Fifty-two, forty-one, seven, thirteen …”
“Oh my God!” Serge dove for the dash and hit a button, knocking the radio out of scan.
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
“A numbers station! I finally found one!”
“… Ninety-nine, eighty-six …”
“Serge, that babe really sounds hot!”
“Told you.” Serge wrote as fast as he could in a notebook.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to crack the code.”
The numbers broadcast soon ended and Serge stowed his notebook. They entered the Hobe Sound area. Blowing rocks and turtle egg-laying country. Sparse development ceased altogether, Serge copping a natural buzz on white sand dunes running down both sides of the highway.
An intersection approached in the distance.
Serge looked at Coleman. “Meet Mahoney or not?”
“You’re actually thinking of going through with that?”
Serge shrugged. “He’s pretty insistent with all those e-mails.”
“But you said you didn’t believe that someone was out to whack you.”
“I don’t. But Mahoney’s up to something. I’m dying to find out.” In the backseat, Story looked up from a French lit textbook. “Who’s Mahoney?” “My nemesis.”
She rolled her eyes again and looked back down. Madame Bovary, c’est moi.
“But Serge,” said Coleman. “What if it’s a trick?”
“That’s the thing about Mahoney. He’s one of the few people left like me who still lives by a code. If he says it isn’t a trick, you can bet the farm on it.” Serge handed something across the seat to Coleman.
“What do I need your gun for?”
“In case it’s a trick. You got my back.”
“But Serge, I’m royally baked. Remember last time you gave me the gun?”
“Yeah, it accidentally went off eight times.” “Then I dropped it and another bullet went through the end of my shoe. Lost a toenail.”
“Grew back, didn’t it?”
“I liked the first one better.”
“I’ll unload it, all right? Just the threat should be enough … Here comes the intersection. A1A or U.S. 1. Which direction?” “Sounds like an appointment.”
“Shit, you’re right.” Serge got over in the far lane and began hanging a left. Midintersection, he suddenly cut the wheel, weaving expertly through oncoming, honking traffic.
Coleman puffed his joint and looked back at the spun-out cars. “What changed your mind?”
“Mahoney picked the perfect place. Been forever since I visited Harry and the Natives.”
“Who?”
“Let the magic begin.”
Minutes later, the Javelin parked in front of a rustic greasy spoon splashed in lively Jamaican colors. A Crown Vic was already there.