“Big money as a courier. You’ll start tonight.”
“Courier?”
“Teach you everything you need to know.”
“I don’t think so.” Howard’s fork speared a marinated meatball. “I’d have to give up the souvenir thing.”
“No, you see that’s the beauty of it. You keep doing souvenirs. It’s the perfect cover. All couriers need one.”
“Cover? Sounds dangerous.”
“Absolutely not. You take a bigger risk every time you step in the shower.”
“Your coins? Is that also a cover?”
“About a year ago I was at this big show in Pensacola where a gem expo was also being held. And that night over drinks in the hotel bar, the top diamond guy at the place said he needed more couriers for his distributorship.” Steve left out the part where the distributor was in on the whole robbery thing with the gang, for the insurance and fencing angles.
“Don’t they use armed guards and stuff?”
“That’s what everyone assumes. But there’s over a thousand jewelry stores across the state, and nowhere near the available security. They have to get product from somewhere. So there’s a giant invisible army out there making deliveries, hiding in plain sight, some even carrying stones around in crumpled bags that look like trash they want to throw away.”
“I don’t think I have the nerves.”
“And that’s why you’ll be perfect.” Steve gestured up and down at Howard. “Who’d ever suspect someone like you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
PORT ORANGE
Serge drove back down the dirt driveway and turned onto a country road. The Javelin made a skidding U-turn and pulled onto the shoulder next to flat pasture with a clear view of the house.
“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.
“Waiting for our surprise guest.”
It was peaceful. Two cattle egrets picked at cows by the drinking hole.
Coleman cracked a beer. “Sorry about ‘Undercover Angel.’”
“Dang it. And I’d just gotten that out of my mind.”
“See what else is in the Rock Vault.”
Serge concentrated, then began tapping the steering wheel.
“Can I listen?” asked Coleman.
“Outlaws. ‘Green Grass and High Tides.’”
Coleman swayed to the rhythm. “Another Florida band?”
Serge nodded and tapped faster with the growing tempo. “Formed 1972 in Tampa.”
One of the cows turned its head. A mile up the country road, an older-model Ford pickup with bad mufflers crested a low hill. It raced toward them, getting larger.
“Duck,” said Serge.
A roar passed. Serge slowly raised his head above the dash. The pickup turned at the dirt driveway and bounded toward the house. It parked sideways at the porch. A muscular man in a tropical shirt got out and circled the residence, scoping for anything that didn’t feel right.
“Hey,” said Coleman. “That’s the other guy from the bar. Now I get it.”
“Two for one,” said Serge. “Took me a while to think this up, because they’re equally wrong. And his wife would never be safe until both are out of the picture.”
“You’re my hero.”
“This is going to be so much fun!”
They stopped talking and watched. Coleman noticed Serge had a rare frown.
“What’s the matter, buddy?”
“I thought this was going to be fun.”
“I’m having fun.”
“I’m not. Something’s wrong.” He opened a cell phone and punched buttons. On the other side of the state, a phone rang in a psychiatrist’s office. “Hello ? …”
“It’s me, Serge … No, I’m out of town. That’s why I’m calling instead of just popping in … I’m sure you are busy … You have a patient waiting? But this is an emergency. I read where psychiatrists are always on call for clients in crisis … Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m not having fun … That is so an emergency … All right, I’m bored, too … You think I might be coming down with depression? … No, I don’t feel depressed, just not having fun …”
“Serge …” Coleman pointed at the house. Scagnetti reappeared from the far side, satisfied that everything was in order. He trotted up the front steps and stuck a key in the door.
“… Wait! Don’t hang up!” said Serge. “Listen, I read a psychiatric article: manically enthusiastic people like me burn twice as bright and half as long. The first symptom is uncontrolled rage, but who knows if it’s true since the article was written by that Mahoney shit-sucking asswipe should-have-cut-his-goddamn-head-off-when-I-had-the-chance motherfucker! The second symptom is disinterest, but what do I care? … No, see, that’s why I’m calling. I’ve been getting this weird feeling lately, like I’m reaching the end of the line and might do something crazy … Crazier than that … Crazier than that … You’ve made your point… But this time it’s different…”
Scagnetti scanned the living room. His eyes locked on a door. He gently pulled the pistol from his waistband and screwed on a silencer.
“… Plus, paranoia, just like in that article,” said Serge. “I’ve never been paranoid a day in my life … No, that time the Trilateral Commission really was trying to silence my international call to arms …”
Scagnetti quietly stepped across the living room and up to the closet. He raised the pistol and grabbed the knob. The door quickly jerked open. Nothing. Unless he wanted to shoot winter coats and boots.
“… Like right now,” said Serge. “I’m doing one of my absolute favorite things in the whole world … Can’t tell you that … Why would you think someone’s tied up? … The point is that I should be having the time of my life with a little snack tray. Instead, emptiness …”
Scagnetti closed the door and looked around. Another closet. He headed across the room. Something stopped him. He sniffed the air. What was that funky smell? He looked at the bottom of the door, where a tiny trickle of urine rolled out. A wicked grin. “Yoo-hoo! Anyone in there ?”
Muffled screams from the other side. Scagnetti grabbed the doorknob.
“But Doc,” said Serge, “I really think there’s something wrong with me … You agree? Good … You know ‘Tears of a Clown’? … Because I’d always thought it was just a cleverly contrived song targeting the self-pity dork market…”
A giant fireball exploded out the west side of the farmhouse. A smoldering arm landed fifty yards away in the pasture.
A wide smile spread across Serge’s face. “That was excellent! … And look: Here comes a foot!”
A loud bang on the Javelin’s hood.
“I feel like a snack.”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “The phone.”
“Oh, right.” He placed it to his head. “You still there? … Sorry, false alarm … I said I was sorry … Yelling never helps … Maybe you should do something about your anger problem …” Serge winced and held the phone away from his head. He brought it back to his ear. “I have to go. The cows are stampeding.”
THAT NIGHT
A motel room door opened. Howard stepped inside.
He turned on the TV and sat at the end of the bed. SportsCenter. Howard opened his wallet and thumbed through the three hundred dollars of advance money for his first delivery to Miami.
He stopped for a moment to whistle at the most cash he’d seen in forever. Yes, he had been skeptical, thinking Steve was setting him up for some kind of scam, maybe looking to boost his whole souvenir collection. But then the meeting an hour later in the hotel restaurant where Steve introduced him to the distributor and the initial payment was made. No scams came to mind where the victim got a bunch of cash.
The billfold went back in his pocket. From another pocket came a small, padded brown envelope. He glanced around: Where to hide it? Steve had given him a few ideas. Howard got up to check behind a mirror.