A sound at the door. A magnetic key. Howard turned.
The door opened. Two massive men with long, stringy hair.
“I think you have the wrong room.”
“We have the right room.”
VERO BEACH
The motel room’s decor was a bit on the blue side. The property sat, as it had for decades, just north of State Road 60 between the municipal airport and a configuration of manicured baseball fields.
When Coleman first stepped into the room a few hours earlier: “It’s kind of blue in here.”
Serge followed with a suitcase in each hands. “Because it’s Dodgertown! I’ve been waiting my whole life to stay here!” “Dodger-what?”
“You’ve got to get into sports more, even if just from the couch.” Serge dropped luggage and pressed the side of his face to a wall. “Brooklyn Dodgers began spring training here in 1948, one of the first teams to make Florida their preseason home. And one of the few to construct their own accommodations for the players.”
“That’s where we are?”
Serge ran and leaped onto one of the beds. “Yet another hidden jewel. Most people don’t know it, but after spring training ends, they rent out the players’ rooms, and you get to sleep in Brooklyn-blue history. No true Floridaphile can die before staying at Dodgertown.” He rolled onto his back, sweeping his arms and legs across the bed’s covers like he was making snow angels. “Wonder who slept in this room? Roy Campanella? Duke Snyder, Gil Hodges, maybe even Jackie Robinson!”
“Serge.” Coleman had picked something up from the dresser.
“Says in this pamphlet that players used to stay in a refurbished navy barracks until they built these villa-style quarters in 1974.”
Serge stopped and glared angrily at Coleman, then suddenly smiled and began swinging his arms and legs again. “Steve Garvey, Ron Gey, Don Sutton, Fernando Valenzuela …”
Hours passed. “… You know that tiny airport we saw on the way in? Filmed as a Nicaraguan airport during the Somoza overthrow in the 1983 Jan Michael Vincent classic Last Plane Out. The entire city was the star, townspeople flocking to be extras …”-Serge shook Coleman to stay awake-“… and they didn’t even have to film Latin American rebel scenes out-of-country; just shot the bad parts of Vero, jeeps full of guerrillas driving past American stop signs …”
Today became tomorrow. Dark in the room with the TV off. Coleman’s eyes were closed tight as he lay tucked snugly under a bedspread with a pattern that made people subconsciously want to buy baseball tickets.
As he slept, Coleman smiled the smile of children. A pleasant dream was playing. He was standing in a field of nachos. The smile grew bigger. His eyeballs moved back and forth, making his eyelids poke around disconcertingly like a small animal trying to find its way out from under a collapsed circus tent. Coleman’s smile fell, then an open-mouthed silent scream. He was being chased by the nacho monkeys. He ran as hard as he could, faster and faster, but his legs just spun in place like a cartoon. He suddenly sprang up in bed with a cold sweat.
Someone was standing over him.
“Oh, hi Serge.”
No answer.
“Serge?”
Still nothing.
Coleman noticed Serge’s right hand. “What’s the gun for?” Serge just stared down at him. “Serge! You’re scaring me!”
Serge blinked a few times. “Hey, Coleman.” He looked around. “What the hell am I doing here?”
“Must have been sleepwalking again.” “What do you mean ‘again’?”
“You’ve been doing it a lot lately.” “No, I haven’t.”
Coleman nodded. “Usually pacing and mumbling. Or tonight standing over me with a gun. I got the strange feeling you were going to kill me.”
“Not a chance.”
Coleman pointed.
Serge looked down at the pistol in his hand. “How’d that get there?” He tossed it on his own bed. “Have I been doing anything else while sleepwalking?”
“Yeah, but it’s kind of weird.”
“Coleman, we’re way past the turnstiles at that theme park.”
“You’ll be in the bathroom talking to yourself in the mirror.”
“What am I saying?”
“Hard to make out, but it sounds like you’re saying good-bye.”
“To whom?”
“Yourself.”
“Saying good-bye to myself? That’s weird.”
“Told you.”
“Did I mention why?”
“Just that you had a gnawing sixth sense your luck might be running out and wanted yourself to know there weren’t any regrets.”
“Maybe Mahoney’s right about unraveling.” Serge sat down on the edge of the bed next to Coleman and placed his face in his hands. “I could always at least bank on my own stability-relatively speaking-but now I’m turning into a mumbling freak who somnambulates.”
“And sleepwalks.” Coleman grabbed an ashtray and lighter off the nightstand.
“This is worrisome. If I’m blacking out and don’t know what I’m doing, you may no longer be safe around me.”
“Don’t feel bad,” said Coleman. “When I go to bed really trashed, I sleepwalk, too.”
“Yeah, but at least there’s no gun in your hand. You just wake up covered in pizza.”
“That’s the best part. Breakfast in bed.”
A cell phone rang. Serge reached for the dresser.
Coleman reached for a joint. “Who could it be at this hour?”
“Probably one of the big travel websites wanting to apologize.” Serge flipped the phone open. “Hello? … This is he … Yes, I know him … He asked you to call me? … But why couldn’t he just call himself-What! … When did this happen?… I’ll be right there!”
Serge jumped up and grabbed his gun.
“What’s the matter? Are you starting to cry?”
But Serge just ran out the door.
JACKSONVILLE
Story Long had found a place to stay with one of her scattered old high school friends-“just a few days until I get some money.” The classmate’s live-in boyfriend didn’t like the idea, but too bad. He didn’t have a job, either.
The boyfriend was currently at a bar around the corner under protest. Fine by the gals. It was after midnight. Empty wineglasses. Story’s busted lip was almost healed.
“You should sue,” said the friend, named Beth.
“Better to just forget it and move on.”
“I wouldn’t forget it.” Beth poured the dregs of a $3.99 bottle of Zinfandel. “Want me to open another?”
“No.” Story stretched and yawned. “Already started online registration at the community college. My grades will transfer-“
A cell phone rang. Story reached for her purse.
Beth reached for a pack of cigarettes. “Who could it be at this hour?”
Story shrugged and flipped the phone open. “Hello? … Yes, this is she … The hospital? … I don’t understand … What! … When did this happen?… I’ll be right there!”
She jumped up and grabbed her purse.
“What’s the matter?”
“I need a ride.”
MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
The Javelin skidded into a parking space. Serge and Coleman jumped out and ran through the emergency room’s automatic doors.
“There’s the admissions desk!” Serge practically dove over it demanding information.
“Take it easy.” The nurse behind the counter flipped pages on a clipboard. “Room three-twelve. But he’s only seeing immediate relatives. Are you …” She looked up from the clipboard.
Serge and Coleman had already taken off.
The nurse leaned over the desk. “Wait! Your visitors’ passes! …”
The pair took the elevator and arrived at the open door of the appointed room. Serge caught one look inside and gasped. He’d never seen so many bandages and tubes and wires.