“Then why are you smiling?”
Serge broke into a skip as he headed out the door. “Because this is going to be so much fun!”
PORT ORANGE
A Kenworth semi took the Atlantic detour from 1-95 to avoid state weighing stations. It crossed the bridge over Rose Bay. The driver had been the consummate gentleman, as had all the other truckers, who recognized one of their own social class in need and helped pass a hitchhiker named Story up the coast like a relay baton.
Brake hydraulics wheezed as the rig pulled up to the Fairview Motel. “This is as far as I’m going.” “But it’s only two in the afternoon.” “I’ve been running thirty of the last thirty-four hours.” “Your log books?” “Fiction.” “Amphetamines ?”
He just smiled. “I need to take the edge off if I’m ever going to get to sleep. There’s this spot up the road if you want to join me. Coldest beer you’d ever want.”
Story knew men well enough to know it wasn’t a come-on. The driver had been talking nonstop about his wife and kids since Titusville, showing wallet pictures.
“Sure,” said Story.
The two walked through a blazing sun up the side of U.S. 1. They stood on the sidewalk along the east side of the street, locally known as Ridgewood Avenue, waited for a dump truck to pass, then scampered across the highway toward the inviting doorway of The Last Resort. Story wiped sweat off her face with her tank top.
She was almost to the entrance when two men ran out, paired physically like Abbot and Costello-“Woooo!” “We’re rockin’ now!”-and sped off in a Javelin.
Story looked back. “What’s with them?”
“It’s The Last Resort,” said the driver.
They went inside to the coldest beer anyone could want.
The Javelin sped up a dirt road in Port Orange. Ahead: old cracker house with sagging porch. A woman heard the over-revving engine and came to the screen door. Serge jumped out, bounding up the steps. “Mrs. Milford?”
“Stop right there! Who are you?”
“Your husband-“
“No!” She slammed the wooden door behind the screen and ran to call the cops. Serge knocked it in with his shoulder. He ripped the wire from the wall before she could dial.
“I’m begging you!” She crumpled into a ball below the cuckoo clock and shielded her face.
“It’s okay,” said Serge. “We’re here to help you.”
She looked up. “You aren’t his friends?”
“Hell no. Now listen carefully: You’re in great danger from your husband.”
“But I just got a restraining order last week. He’s not allowed near me.”
“Afraid ‘allowed’ isn’t part of it.”
“You’re not saying …” She began sobbing uncontrollably. “My partner and I need this place for a stakeout. Have relatives nearby?”
She gulped back tears. “Sister. Let me get some things.”
“No time.” Serge grabbed her arm. “Get moving. And whatever you or your sister do, don’t talk to anyone for four hours, especially the police.”
“But I thought you were the police.”
“Elite undercover unit.” He led her down the porch and into the driveway. “But if you call regular cops, they could show up in marked cars and blow the whole takedown before we have enough evidence.
And next time he might approach a real hit man instead of us.”
“Oh my God!”
“Don’t lose it now.” Serge opened the driver’s door of her Camaro. She got in and looked back out the window. “How will I know when it’s safe?”
“It already is.”
ANOTHER EXTENDED COMFORT EXPRESS SUITES USA
Steve sat alone in the motel’s glassed-in business center, leaning back in an ergonomic chair and tapping a keyboard.
The door opened. Steve quickly hit a key, switching the computer screen from porn to spreadsheet. He swiveled to see who it was.
“Uh-oh.”
A bodyguard pulled up another leather seat.
Steve scooted his chair backward on casters. “We have to stop being seen together.”
“Just take a minute. Who’s your next courier?”
“There aren’t any more.”
“Recruit one.”
“No, I mean, literally, I’ve gone through every last coin dealer,” said Steve. “When you took down Paul last night, that was it.”
“So recruit one of the stamp guys.”
Steve shook his head. “There’s a war on.”
“Then come up with someone else.”
“Aren’t you listening? There isn’t anybody.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to tell that to the Eel. Probably throw you a retirement party.”
“No! Wait, I’ll come up with something.”
“Great.” The bodyguard stood. “You can go back to your porn.”
THE CROSSROADS
Just south of where two rural routes met, a building that looked more like an abandoned farmhouse sat framed by oak and moss. Serge burst through double saloon doors. A man at the end of the bar jumped up and swallowed a deep breath. Serge nodded. The man exhaled.
They both walked outside. Serge turned at the bottom of the steps and held out an expectant hand.
“What?” said the man.
“Where’s the back end?”
“Vince said I don’t have to pay the rest until I get proof. You were supposed to take a picture.”
“What picture?” Serge’s hand stayed out. “Vince didn’t say anything.”
“Can I wait for the morning paper?”
“You’re really starting to piss me off!”
“Sorry, it’s just that Vince promised-“
“Fuck Vince! And fuck you! I smell where this is going. I’m heading out of town, and on the way I’m dropping a little something in the mailbox to the police.”
“No! Jesus! Don’t!”
Serge swished the toe of a sneaker in the dirt. He looked up. “Sorry, got a little heated. If I was in your position, I’d demand proof, too. When you’re right, you’re right.” He opened the door of the Javelin. “Get in the car.”
“What for?”
“We’re driving to Proof City.”
“I’ll take your word.” He reached for his wallet with a trembling hand.
Serge grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into the backseat. “Wouldn’t hear of it.”
They sped inland.
The man recognized the way. “We’re not going back to the house, are we ?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” said Serge. “This other place is around the corner.”
Cows watched through barbed wire. The Javelin continued across the hot, Florida pastureland and turned up an unmarked dirt road.
“We are going to my house!”
“Okay, I lied,” said Serge. “Because I can’t wait for the money. I doubled down on football last Sunday and have to meet these bookies by midnight or I’ll end up in more pieces than your wife.”
“I told you, I’ll pay without proof!”
“But not seeing the pieces wouldn’t be fair to you. Except I hope you don’t mind: Not all the pieces are still there. You never told me you have the new Brahman gas grill! Your tastebuds don’t know they’re alive until they’ve met a Brahman! … I got a great idea! We’ll celebrate over dinner!”
The husband turned green and lunged for a door handle. Serge hit the brakes, cracking him across the face with his pistol. Then he jammed the barrel in a bloody ear. “You are going in the house.”
MINUTES LATER
The Javelin parked at the front porch, and the husband was forced into the house at gunpoint.
The man clenched his eyes shut. “I can’t look.” Serge jabbed him in the back. “Look!”
The man opened his eyes to a slit. Thoughts of dread turned to puzzlement. Eyelids went up the rest of the way. No trace of his wife, no expected blood trails, not the least sign of a struggle. In fact, the whole house looked in perfect order. The only thing out of place were two brand-name shopping bags on the coffee table. Hardware and toy store. “What’s going on?”