“What is it?”
Six police cars whipped up the motel’s drive and parked, hidden behind the office. “They’ve found us! We’re going to jail!”
“Not this time.”
“How do you know?”
Serge gestured at a red van with TV antennas following the police cars around the backside of the office. “That’s the film crew from COPS.”
“And?”
“It’s so widely known it’s a running joke: On COPS, they only arrest the guys not wearing shirts.”
Coleman looked down to make sure he was wearing one. “I’ll be right back.” He headed across the lot to room 147, then knocked three times in slow cadence. Someone with a mullet opened. They spoke briefly. The man glanced over Coleman’s shoulders and waved him in. The door closed.
Serge shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He went inside his own room. A cell rang. He flipped it open. “Serge here. Fulfill my dreams.”
“Still want to sell that information?”
“Hey, buddy, long time! Great to hear from you! Calm now?” “There’s no way we’ll go the extra ten percent.”
“That was just my initial offer. You have to open a business dialogue somewhere. Make me a counter.”
“My boss will cut your fucking head off.”
“See? We’ve established trust. How much to keep my head?”
“Five.”
“Done,” said Serge. “Let’s meet. I don’t like to conduct this kind of transaction over the phone.” “Where?” Serge told him.
“I know the place. Five o’clock.” “It’s a date.”
“How will I know you?”
“Trust me, you’ll know.” Serge hung up, then punched numbers.
Coleman came in the room. “Hey, Serge …”
“We got a meet at five.” Serge listened to the phone and jotted something. “I lucked out. Guy messed up and phoned from a landline instead of his cell. Called reverse directory and got the address.”
“We’re going to surprise him at that place and not make the meet?”
“No, we’re still going to the meet.” He closed the notebook. “This is for the post-meet follow-up sales call. In business it’s important to reinforce relationships.”
Coleman smiled and held up a Baggie. “They’re running an excellent deal on sensimilla. And I got a free bump of coke, just for being a member.”
“Of what?”
“The Partying Brotherhood.”
“But how did they, I mean, you’re a total stranger …”
“We can smell each other.” Coleman sat on the bed and sniffed a pungent bud.
“Stow that.” Serge pulled the strap of a canvas bag over his shoulder. “We’re rolling.”
They went out the door and headed for the Javelin. A film crew ran behind them as police pulled a shirtless man from room 147.
CYBERSPACE
Serge’s Blog. Star date 937.473.
So much to tell! So little time!
Tip One: Not a tip, just weird shit I saw today. From the only-in-Florida file: a hooker with a walker on the side of U.S. 1. At some point your heart just isn’t in it anymore.
Tip Two: Capture the memories! You can never have enough extra tapes for home movies, especially around Coleman. I ran out yesterday and discovered Coleman had been using my camcorder to bootleg in-room movies off the TV. I said, Coleman, you can make a perfect copy with the VCR on top of the TV. But he said “the street” won’t respect you.
Tip Three: Dealing with loud drunks in the next room who stumble in after closing time and disturb your sleep: At daybreak, start calling their room every fifteen minutes. Hangovers will take it from there.
Tip Four: Best travel tooclass="underline" those twelve-foot-long telescoping letter-grabbers that hospitality employees use to change messages on tall marquees. Got one in my trunk. Guests at the last place I stayed woke up this morning to: “Welcome Hotel Emergency Delousing Team.” The fun ship never docks!
Closing word for the day: Postcards! Don’t forget about the loved ones back home who missed the love-cutoff to come with you. And don’t be trite by purchasing the usual cards from spinning metal racks. Instead, schedule a virtual postcard. What’s that, you ask? I’ll tell you! E-mail those second-tier relatives with a preordained time and Internet site. Then, when they log in, they’ll find one of the many live Web cams positioned around the state. And they’ll see you standing in streaming-video splendor, holding up a personalized greeting sign. The key is finding the right cam. The long-range skyline jobs atop Doppler radar towers aren’t good unless you want to hold up a billboard. But there are plenty others: Sloppy Joe’s, the Cocowalk and Pier 60. Let’s pull one up now! Here’s the sidewalk cam from A1A in Fort Lauderdale, showing happy visitors walking the beach and cool convertibles in the background cruising the strip and … hold it, what’s this?
A man in a rumpled fedora stepped into view and held up a sign: SERGE, WE HAVE TO MEET AGAIN..
FORT LAUDERDALE
The Javelin took exit 31 off 1-95 and sped east on Oakland Park Boulevard.
Serge looked ahead at a roadside bench. “There’s Story now.”
“Just got out of class?”
“Took the bus to meet us.” Serge pulled over.
Story climbed in. “You’re late!”
“No time like the present.”
Onward east. The coast grew near. A high-end neighborhood extensively laced with finger canals.
Yachts.
“Trivia flash,” said Serge. “Fort Lauderdale has more miles of canals than Venice.”
They crossed a tiny hump bridge at one of the narrowest points over the Intracoastal Waterway. A wall of exclusive high-rises blocked the sea. A half-century ago it would have screamed spring break. Now it said: Go away.
Serge found a metered spot on the side of A1A. “We’re here!”
Story looked around. “Where’s our hotel?”
Serge pointed out the windshield. “Right there.”
“That’s not a hotel,” said Story. “It’s a condo.”
“Bingo! Now L’Hermitage.” Serge grabbed his beach bag and threw a camera inside. “But back in the day it was the fabulous Gait Ocean Mile. I can see it all now …”
“Idiot!” said Story. “You promised there’d be a great swimming pool where I could get some sun.”
“There is,” said Serge. “One of the most historic. Famous wire photos from forty years ago seared into the nation’s collective consciousness. Let’s go dig it!”
“Didn’t you hear me?” said Story. “You can’t just waltz right in a condo.”
“You have to waltz right in,” said Serge. “Otherwise they’ll get suspicious that you’re up to something. So when you’re up to something, dress proper and stroll confidently like you own the place because it’s the last thing they’ll expect. And if some guard or factotum in a blazer gets nosy and starts coming toward you, you head their way even faster and badger them with difficult questions until they want to get away from you. Never fails. I get at least fifteen minutes to sponge up history before they throw me out.”
Story angrily hoisted her beach bag. “You owe me big-time.”
“I forgot what a treat it was when you were off studying.”
The condo theory held. They marched through the lobby-Serge smiling and waving aggressively at everyone-and right out back to the pool.
Serge reached in the breast pocket of his tropical shirt and unfolded a library microfilm printout. An old AP newspaper photo. He held it up to the patio and gauged layout. His eyes narrowed on a particular patio lounger by the ocean. He couldn’t run fast enough.
Story went the other way, for maximum separation.
Serge stopped next to the lounger and disrobed down to plaid swim trunks he was wearing underneath: the too-short, too-tight style fashionable in the sixties. He lay down, reached in his beach bag and handed Coleman a notepad and pen. “Write.”