“He’s already an adult, so you won’t get to take him on Cub Scout trips. And he’s ‘special’ on multiple levels, but they say those are the most loving.”
“Serge!”
He pushed out his chair and stood. “What are you doing?”
“I gotta be me!”
He sprinted out of the restaurant.
The Eel’s cell phone rang. He opened it. “Talk.”
“Hello, worm.”
“You must have the wrong number.”
“I don’t have the wrong number,” said Serge. “I know most people call you Eel, but I think worm is a better name, or sea slug. What do you think?”
“Who are you?”
“Serge, the guy who’s been messing up your operation. You should never have touched that kid.”
“What are you talking about? Where’d you get this number?”
“From the cell phones I collected at your Homestead stash house, Jellyfish!”
A prolonged moment of steaming silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Why don’t we meet somewhere and discuss this?”
“We will,” said Serge. “Wait, I just thought of a better name for you. Dead Man.”
“You do realize what you’ve just done.”
“See you in hell.” Click.
A goon came over. “Who was that?”
The Eel studied the display screen on his cell. “Someone who just seriously fucked up. He called from a hotel phone and told us where he’s staying.”
“I know that place,” said the goon. “It’s in Miami Beach.” “Get Frankie. Take the van.”
Serge walked away from a courtesy phone in the lobby of a Miami Beach hotel.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Why’d you use that phone when you got your cell?”
“To tell him where I’m staying.” “Why would you want to do that?” “Make myself bait.”
MIAMI BEACH
Two bulging men with long, stringy hair glanced down the length of the hotel bar.
“That’s him.”
“You sure?”
“Inside source got us a name on our witness.”
“That kid we put in the hospital?”
“Police moved him to an undisclosed location. But we lucked out and got his sister’s name. Tracked her to a local college.”
“So how does the guy over there fit in?”
“I tailed the sister from the school this afternoon. She came to this bar and met that guy. They seemed to know each other real well.”
“And this guy’s going to tell us the new hospital where the witness is?”
The first bodyguard shook his head. “We have a new problem. Just got briefed. Looks like the kid’s sent some people after us.”
“Who’d have ever thought he had muscle behind him?”
“They even threatened the Eel on his own phone.”
“Jesus, the balls.”
“And I thought it was just a big coincidence.”
“What? All the guys in the crew we’ve lost lately?… You’re saying someone’s on a revenge spree?”
“Starting to look that way.”
“Even the Homestead stash house?”
“Especially the Homestead stash house. And we could be next.”
“Let’s make our move.” He looked down the bar again. “Guy’s alone. Perfect chance.”
“Why’s it perfect?”
“He’s stewed.”
Coleman slipped off his stool and clawed vainly for the edge of the bar before he went down.
Large hands grabbed him from behind-“Easy there, fella”-and propped Coleman back onto his seat.
“Gee, thanks.”
The bodyguards took a stool on each side. “What are you drinking?”
“Whiskey.”
A muscular arm went up. “Bartender, double Jack over here for our new friend …”
“So,” said the thug on the other side. “What brings you to town?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
Drink up.”
A half hour later: “… Then we started tracking this band of hotel robbers who beat the hell out of this kid.”
“Sounds like an interesting job. Is the girl working with you?”
Coleman shook his head. “Completely in the dark.”
One goon looked at the other. “Think he’s lying about the chick?”
“He’s too drunk to lie.” Then, back to Coleman: “What do you think of this hotel?”
“Great place. Free liquor.”
“We’re not that happy with our room.”
“You’re kidding,” said Coleman. “Ours is great!”
“Sometimes the quality differs floor to floor,” said the thug on the other side. “What room are you in?”
“Three-twelve.”
The larger of the goons got off his stool and glanced back at the other. “Stay here with our new friend and make sure he doesn’t come up. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
Serge opened the motel room door. “Coleman, I’m home!” No answer.
“Coleman?” He checked the bathroom. Then looked across the suite. “That’s funny. Could have sworn I turned the TV off.” He walked toward it.
Someone jumped from the shadows, looping a strong, thin cord around Serge’s neck from behind.
Serge heard him at the last second, but only enough time to get two fingers up under the cord. It wouldn’t be enough. The assailant possessed brute force, and the ligature was like a razor. Serge’s fingers began to bleed as he choked and gasped for breath. He twisted and jumped. They slammed into one wall, then another, crashing into the television cabinet. The much stronger assailant easily maintained his grip. Even laughed.
Serge gave it everything he had, and, with a primordial grunt, tried to double forward and flip the man over his back. They barely moved, telling Serge he was dealing with at least three hundred pounds. So back to slamming into walls, each failed attempt sapping energy from Serge’s body. The man laughed again and whispered in his ear: “The Eel says,‘Hi.’”
Serge’s face turned bright red. He strained with all his might, pulling the attacker forward, and they both fell onto the bed. The hit man jerked Serge back up by the cord, his feet briefly leaving the floor.
Toying time over. Another whisper: “You’re really beginning to piss me off.” The goon had a wooden dowel through the ends of the cord, which he twisted over and over, tightening the strangle hold. Blood ran down Serge’s left arm from where his fingers were sliced clean to the knuckles. His right arm flew out desperately, swatting a lamp off the dresser. The light bulb shattered and the room went dark. Serge’s arm quivered by his side. His tongue hung out, eyes rolling back in his head.
A final whisper: “Goodnight.” Then the death pull on the cord. Serge’s feet left the ground again. His twitching right hand found the top of a hip pocket. Out came something the attacker didn’t recognize. But so what? Just a harmless piece of plastic.
Serge quickly brought it to his neck and slipped it between the two bleeding fingers of his other hand.
The attacker found himself in utter shock as he stumbled back a step, holding two pieces of cord snapped apart by the seatbelt cutter. He looked up.
Serge swung with a wicked sidewinder motion. The point of the survival tool’s window punch caught the man in the temple, buried itself a good inch and stuck. Serge let go and stepped away.
Normally a person would have immediately collapsed, lights out. But every once in a while, if a foreign object enters the brain just right, there’s a short period of otherwise comical short-circuiting through the nervous system, like over-voltage in a robot. The man’s limbs flapped spastically, his face contorting in all kinds of crazy expressions … Okay, it actually was funny. The attacker briefly caught himself in the mirror, his last memory on the planet: this ridiculous-looking hazard-yellow gizmo sticking out the side of his head like a tiny toy ax. Then, all life ceased, and he went straight down as if someone snipped the wires on a marionette.
Serge looked at his fingers. “I got a boo-boo.” He grabbed a travel first-aid kit out of his suitcase, stepped over the body and went in the bathroom. A faucet came on. Minutes later, Serge came out with fresh bandage dressing. He bent down and wiggled his lucky tool free.