Howard’s love of travel was advertised by the space-maximizing configuration of his car’s interior, which resembled a professionally organized closet: interlocking matrix of clear plastic bins and tubs and filing containers from Office Depot filled the entire backseat and cantilevered over the front passenger’s; zippered, easy-reach pouches hung everywhere from hooks and Velcro straps. Contents obsessively segregated: toiletries, clothes (clean, dirty, dirtier), car maintenance, all-purpose repair tool, kitchen including complete mini pantry, coffeemaker, micro-microwave and world-class collection of condiment packets from convenience stores squirreled away in see-though flyfishing tackle boxes. On the passenger seat sat an executive mobile organizer of maps, pamphlets, guidebooks, notepads, pens, receipts and backup sunglasses. Between the seats wedged a first-aid kit, and mounted over the dash was a quick-release fire extinguisher.
But the most important cargo was under the hood of the Beetle’s trademark front-end trunk: Howard’s product line.
A fast-moving high-pressure system had lifted most of the smoke by the time the Beetle rolled into downtown Cocoa Beach. A cell phone rang. He grabbed it from a hanging pocket.
“Good morning, Howard Enterprises … Oh, hi Mom … I was going to call… I’m not just saying that… Mom, we talked yesterday … I already have a job … It is a real job … Mom, I have to go. I’m in the middle of something … Traffic … No, the other cars aren’t more important than you … You asked me if I had a girlfriend yesterday … I know you liked Cathy … Mom, she broke up with me … I did try calling … a number of times … because she said ‘never call me again’… What do you mean, ‘Maybe if I didn’t cry .so much’? It was a tough time … I know she was sweet … And beautiful … And I’ll never find anyone else like her … Mom, I’ve been trying for months to stop thinking about her … You’ll call her? Oh, please!- … You already did? … I know her answering machine says, ‘If this is Howard, I’m dead.’ … Mom, I really have to hang up … I’ve got a call on the other line … No, I seriously doubt that it’s Cathy … I really have to hang up … Right, I’ll call… And visit… I don’t know when … Love you! Bye!”
The Beetle turned up a commercial driveway and pulled around the side of a convention center. It parked next to a propped-open service entrance that was a nexus of unloading activity.
Howard made the regular rounds of the expos, and nobody knew what to make of it. From the Panhandle to points south, Howard presented his wares with incandescent pride. And left at the end of the day with everything he’d arrived with. His credit cards were maxed. The Beetle needed new oil.
It was a business-model problem that could have been diagnosed over the phone. Howard signed up for expos that had nothing to do with what he was selling, because there were no such markets for his wares. Didn’t stop Howard. He’d just find a cheap table at any event that had surplus vendor space. So what if all the customers were there for baseball cards, lapidary supplies or Star Wars figures? He was on the road. He was happy.
The Javelin pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of a budget motel.
“Serge, why are we stopping here? I thought you needed to get to your job fair?”
“Need more travel research for my first report.” Serge got out of the car. “First rule of job interviews: always bring a work sample.” He headed for the lobby.
The whiskered motel manager had little to do since switching over from the bulletproof night checkin window and unlocking the front doors. He sat in the backroom, feet on the desk, reading a hot rod magazine with a centerfold. His free hand rustled through a bag of pork rinds. A sound from the front desk:
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!…
He popped a final rind in his mouth and furled the centerfold. Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!…
The manager appeared from the backroom, wiping pork-rind dust on a T-shirt that appeared to have been tie-dyed in motor oil. “Can I help you?”
Ding! Ding! Ding!… Serge stopped and stilled the bell with his hand. He removed a clipboard from a canvas shoulder bag, clicked a pen and began writing. “Response time, twenty dings.”
“What’s the clipboard for?”
“Pay no attention to the clipboard or it’ll skew the experiment. I need to observe you in your natural habitat. Personal appearance: The Hills Have Eyes.”
“Are you from the home office ?”
“You wish.” Serge pulled a rolled-up coupon book from his back pocket. “I’d like a room.”
“Checkin isn’t ‘til two p.m.”
“I know. Wanted to get my reservation request in early enough so there’d be no misunderstanding.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?”
“That I arrived too late, and you didn’t have any more of the rooms I wanted.”
The manager opened a reservation book. “What kind of room Would you like?”
“The kind you won’t allow me to have with my coupon. Any of those left not to give me?”
“I… What’s the question?”
Serge ripped the coupon from the book and slapped it on the counter. “One of these rooms. How many do you not have left?”
The manager picked up the torn square of recycled paper. “Oh, the coupon. Yeah, we don’t have any of those rooms left.”
“Bingo,” said Serge. “I want one of the rooms you don’t have.”
“They’re all full.”
“Your parking lot’s nearly empty.”
“We have other rooms just like it that you can have for the regular price.” The manager turned a wary eye to Coleman, swaying and drinking his breakfast from a paper bag. “Want one of those?”
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! “Look at me,” said Serge. “Try to stay on message. How many of the discount rooms do you usually not have ?”
“Varies.”
“Is it ever a negative integer?” “What?”
“I’ll just put down zero.” Serge stuck the clipboard back in his shoulder bag. He pulled out a can of spray paint and rattled the metal ball. “Well, that just about does it.”
Coleman reached for the counter. Ding! Ding! Ding!
The manager turned. “Can I help you?”
Ding! Ding! Ding!…
Serge grabbed Coleman’s arm and grinned at the manager. “I’m his caregiver. He just likes to ring bells and play with cat toys.”
The pair left the office. The manager returned to the backroom and picked up a magazine.
COCOA BEACH
Tables lined the walls of hotel conference room number one. Most were vacant.
Steve completed his setup procedure, straightening a locked glass display case of Liberty dimes. He felt a presence and turned, expecting his first customer of the day. “Uh-oh.”
A hulking, sunburned man with long stringy hair. “Jesus! What are you doing?” Steve’s head whipped side to side. “Nobody can see us together at the shows!” “We need to talk.” “Not here. In the hall.”
Steve rushed out and darted into a nook by the restrooms. “What’s so important to risk everything?”
“Nice job last night. Excellent stones.” “That’s what you came to tell me?” “The Eel wants more couriers.”
“Like I told you on the phone, I don’t know any more.”
“So recruit some new ones like you always do.”
“We need to cool it.” Steve glanced around again. “Every coin guy I’ve brought in has been hit. It’s just a matter of time until the cops figure out it’s me.”
“You’ve been very useful. Do you want to become useless?”
“What are you implying?”
The bodyguard smiled with missing teeth.