“Coleman, was I just talking to myself?”
He shook his head.
“You didn’t hear a word?”
“No, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Serge reached for the sun visor and pulled down some kind of yellow styrene implement.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
“Florida device nobody up north would ever recognize: canal-survival tool.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You know how in Michigan they have windshield ice scrapers? This is the Sunshine State’s counterpart. Down here we don’t have ice; we have drainage canals. Friggin’ deep too, often running right alongside the road. Some of the ones south of Lake Okeechobee go down twenty feet or more. Combine that with south Florida’s well-earned ‘Most Reckless Drivers in America’ crown, and you’ve got pimped-out whips constantly spinning off roads and diving into the drink. Miami-Dade actually has police vans that say, ‘Submerged-Vehicle Response Unit.’”
“That little tool thing keeps you from going off the road?”
“No, it gets you out of the car.” Serge tapped the end of the tool on the side of his head. “Ow … Lots of people were drowning from not being able to get their electric windows open. Became so common in south Florida that it barely warranted a paragraph on page twelve of the metro section. Luckily some corporations took notice of grieving relatives at the funerals and said, Hey, I see a way to make a buck here.”
“How’s it work?”
“The windows are safety glass, so smacking it with your elbow won’t make the grade. These survival tools don’t look particularly threatening, being small and plastic, but it’s the brilliance of elemental engineering that turns them into lifesaving super-hammers. The metal head is tapered to a fine point, concentrating the pounds-per-square-inch force at impact.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure.” Serge passed it across the front seat.
Coleman turned the tool over and ran his finger along a sharp strip of metal indented in the side. “What’s this razor thing halfway down?”
“Second challenge of canal submersion. Seat belts. People panic or the buckle jams in the crash. And tearing the strap with your bare hands is even less possible than breaking windows. So just slip the edge of the strap in this indentation, give it a yank, and the razor edge slices like butter. Out of the car you go.”
Coleman reached into his lap and pulled. “You’re right.”
“Coleman, you fucked up the seat belt. You’re supposed to be underwater first.”
“But that would be harder.”
“Gimme that thing.” He jerked it from Coleman’s hands. “Now I’m going to have to tie you to the seat with a boat-trailer strap.”
“When do you think we can use it for real?”
“Never. I rarely drive by canals.”
“Then why’d you get it?”
“Coolest gadget by the cash register. It was this or the tire gauge, but I decided to be practical.” Serge slid it into his hip pocket. “It’s my new good-luck charm. From now on I’m carrying it everywhere.”
YET ANOTHER EXTENDED COMFORT EXPRESS SUITES USA
“Serge,” said Coleman. “All these motel lounges look the same. Why don’t we go to a cool bar?”
“Because I’m working on my travel service …” Serge twisted his stool toward a group of pushed-together tables. “… And keeping Steve under surveillance.”
“Still?”
“The Master Plan takes patience.”
“But we’ve seen him in like ten hotels now where you could have nailed him. I thought you were in a hurry to take revenge for Howard.”
“Steve’s a minnow,” said Serge. “But he’s also the sole person that Howard ever met who was connected to the robbery crew. It was the only name he could give me.”
“When you talked to him in the hospital?”
Serge nodded. “I’ve been waiting for Steve to make personal contact with the gang and lead me to bigger fish, but so far just cell phone calls.”
Coleman turned and looked toward the far end of the bar, where Story sat with militant disinterest as a storm-shutter salesman chatted her up.
“What’s she doing?” asked Coleman.
“Working on her twenty-dollar-bill collection.”
“Let’s go to a cool bar.”
“Hold everything.” Serge suddenly perked. “I think our luck just changed.”
“What is it?”
“Those two goons with stringy hair talking to Steve.”
“He looks scared.”
“Now one grabbed his arm and is pulling him toward the lobby.” Serge tossed currency on the bar. “We’re rolling.”
Serge and Coleman shadowed the bodyguards as they hustled Steve into an alcove where pay phones had been removed.
“What do you think they’re talking about?”
“If my hunch is correct, Steve’s been tardy with inside dope on their next mark.”