“Yeah, that’s how everyone plays.”
“Because they don’t have the kind of imagination that gives me total advantage. I’ve never seen any rule that says how far down the lane the ball must land. My patented style exploits this loophole. I twirl three times like an Olympic hammer throw and release in a forty-degree arc. If the ceiling’s high enough, it hits the pins on the fly. Unbeatable technique. The rest of the competition weeps from inadequacy and pawns their equipment.”
“You can actually hit the pins on the fly?”
“In theory. But bowling balls are fucking heavy. Plus, with all my twirling, there’s no telling what direction the ball will go. I tried explaining to the last owners that this is precisely the kind of excitement the sport needs to fill those empty lanes, but they wouldn’t stop yelling.”
“Why were they yelling?”
“In my first frame, I got excellent hang time and the ball made it most of the way down the lane. Except it was the third lane over. Landed a few feet in front of the pins and stuck, just the top half of the ball poking out of the wood. They wouldn’t even let me pick up the spare.”
The Javelin curled around the back of the building, which was the front. Serge and Coleman trotted up steps and went inside. Serge stopped by the front desk, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. An irrepressible smile crept across his face. “Coleman, listen to that symphony: baritone of balls rolling in staggered sequence, clattering of pins, guy across the desk from me spraying disinfectant in rental shoes that you’d never think of wearing if you saw the last guy.”
“Sir, are you okay?”
Serge opened his eyes and looked across the desk at the manager. “I’m freakin’ great! Hope you are, too!”
“Do you want to bowl?”
“Oh, I want to bowl all right, but I don’t know what kind of insurance you have.”
“What?”
“Coleman, come on!”
“Serge, wait up! You’re running away from the lanes.”
“We’re going to the bar.”
“They have a bar?”
“Remember when we were talking in the car about how strange this place was? That was only the tip of the berg. Its bizarreness quotient is about to go off scale.”
They reached a pair of double doors. Serge pointed at a sign: the orbit lounge. “Even if they bring nothing else to the table, any joint called The Orbit Lounge is priceless. But wait, there’s more! The stage over there is for stand-up night. That’s the weirdness trifecta: a bowling alley in the middle of a swamp with a space-age lounge hosting comedians catering to bass fishermen.”
Coleman grabbed a stool on the end of the bar. “How do you find these places?”
“It’s my job. Except no employers recognize the position, unless they’re just saying that and filling all the open slots with no-talent nephews.”
Coleman waved for the bartender. Serge checked his watch: 7:01. “Steve’s late.”
“I don’t think he’s coming,” said Coleman. “He looked pretty shook.”
“He’ll come.”
Coleman was soon into his fourth draft. It was 7:25. “He’s not coming.”
“He just arrived.”
They turned toward the doorway. Steve stood frozen. He jumped at the sound of a ball hitting pins. He took a timid step forward, then back, then jumped again, head jerking in all directions.
“Steve!” Serge yelled with hands cupped around his mouth. “The coast is clear! None of the robbery gang is here!”
Steve sprinted past rows of people feverishly playing casino-style arcade games. “Keep your voice down!” He looked around again. “Are you crazy?”
“Have a seat.”
“Let’s make this fast.”
Steve slid half his butt on the stool, keeping a foot on the ground.
Serge pushed a scrap of paper along the bar. “I’ve listed the carats, clarity and cuts of all the stones I’m supposedly carrying-they won’t be able to resist-along with the time we’ll be out of the room and where the stash is hidden. For convenience, I’m staying at the same hotel you are up by the rodeo arena.”
“How’d you know what hotel I’m staying at?”
Serge gave him a stupid-question look.
“Are we done here?”
“Unless you want to stay for the comedian.”
Steve bolted out of the bar.
“Serge, how long do we have to stay in the closet?”
“Shhhhh! We can’t let the robbers hear us when they enter the room.” Serge raised a pistol next to his head. He checked the glowing hands on his diver’s wristwatch. “What’s taking them so long?”
“Can I get a beer?”
“No!” Serge looked at his wrist again, then smacked himself in the forehead. “Shoot! I knew I forgot to tell Steve something! Our room number.”
“Steve knows what room we’re in.”
“He should, but he’s Steve.” Serge jumped out of the closet and started down the hall.
Coleman jogged to catch up. He stopped. “Ow. Serge, something just got me in the eye.”
Serge turned around and laughed.
Coleman rubbed his face. “What’s so funny.”
Serge pointed at a tastefully unobtrusive beige plastic container attached to the wall. “Automatic air-freshener. Battery powered. Sprays a fragrant blast of chick-magazine goodness every half hour or so. They’re usually mounted higher, but this hotel’s got low ceilings. And you just happened to be walking by.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“On the positive side, you’re the new, improved Coleman, now in jasmine potpourri.”
Coleman stopped rubbing and held the hand to his nose. “It stinks.”
“Women have a completely different sense of smell, highly sensitive to flowers or when guys are up to something sneaky.”
They resumed walking down the hall and came to a door. Serge knocked lightly. “Pssst! Steve, it’s me, Serge.”
Coleman wiped his palm on the wall. “Maybe he’s not in.”
“Steve!” Serge knocked harder. The door was unlatched and creaked open. Seige stuck his head inside. “Steve?”
“I don’t think hs(s in.”
Serge silently paddedonto the room. “Steve?”
“I told you he’s not here.”
Serge stopped by the dresser and drew his gun. “You’re half right.”
“What do you mean?”
He pointed at the floor between the double beds. Steve, facedown, three entry wounds in the back of the skull. Serge’s shoulders sagged. “We’re screwed.”
“Steve’s the one who looks screwed.”
“He was my ‘in.’ I worked hard on surveillance, intelligence and counterintelligence. Now I’m on the outside again.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Who else? The.gang.”
“Think they found out about your plan?”
“Hard to say.” Serge grabbed the deceased’s cell phone off the dresser. “When you’re a fuck-up like Steve, you could get whacked over any number of things. Still, the timing so close to our meeting at the Orbit is a bit too’coincidental … We better get out of here. Don’t touch anything …”
Serge tucked the pistol back in his waistband and opened the door. He took one step into the hall, then jumped back, crashing into Coleman.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t believe it.” Serge peeked his right eye around the doorframe. “Down the hall, telephone repair uniforms. Long, stringy hair. They’re going in our room.”
“We’re back on?”
“Dang it. We were only gone five minutes. There goes our ambush.”
“What do we do now?”
“Plan B.”
“What’s that?” “The anti-plan.”
They headed quietly down the hallway. Coleman ducked under an air freshener. Serge reached the room first and placed his ear to the door.
“Hear anything?” asked Coleman.
“Just rummaging.” Serge removed a small black tube from his pocket.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Off a law enforcement website. Used by police extraction teams before they charge in.” Serge placed one end of the tube over the outside of the door’s peephole. “Series of lenses reverse optics so you can see everything going on inside a hotel room.” Serge put his right eye to the other end of the tube. “Also picked up a bunch of plastic wrist straps, cheaper by the dozen.”