The Internet has what is known as lurkers. Means just about the same in real life. They sneak into various alleys of cyberspace and never post. Simply watch and listen, and you’d never know they were there.
The last person left alone in the Merry Pranksters’ chat room was one such lurker. He read down through the entire evening’s activities and printed out a complete transcript.
Then he logged off.
Chapter Nine
THE NEXT DAY
Sunset. A black Firebird Trans Am pulled up to a pancake house on U.S. 1 just north of Hollywood.
A lime neon sign said the establishment also made good pies. The tables in the windows were full of customers holding the kind of laminated menus that had big pictures of food to speed the process.
Coleman crumpled a beer can against the top of his head. “Look at all those people eating breakfast at night.”
“I love eating breakfast at night,” said Serge. “It means you’re calling the shots.”
“With me it means I passed out and lost my watch.”
“Coleman, you don’t wear a watch.”
“Right.”
The pair jumped out of their car.
“Oh my God!” Serge placed a hand over his heart. “It’s what I’ve dreamed of my whole life!”
A smiling man slapped the hood of a Corvette Stingray convertible. “You like?”
“Hell yes!” Serge ran over and extended a hand. “I’m Serge.”
“I’m Cid. Friends call me Uncle Cid, but I don’t know—”
“Can I drive!” Serge hopped up and down like a first grader. “Can I? Can I? Can I?”
Cid thinking, This is too easy. “Sure, get in.” He tossed the keys.
Serge caught them on the fly and vaulted the unopened driver’s door. The sports car roared to life and sped away from the restaurant, where someone else was hiding in the alley with a planted pickup truck.
“Uh, you might want to slow down a bit,” said Cid.
“No, I’m fine.” They screamed through a yellow light.
Cid gripped the dashboard. “Have you ever driven one of these before?”
“Oh, many, many, many— No. But I’ve watched other people.” Serge gripped the stick shift and got both feet ready on the pedals. “Here’s what’s really fun about these babies. I’m skipping a gear now.”
“What?”
Serge hit the clutch and jumped from second to fourth with a gnarling sound that repair shops love to hear. They were pasted back in their seats like the upper stage of a Saturn rocket igniting.
Serge tilted his head with a smile. “Ever seen Scent of a Woman? Al Pacino is this blind guy who doesn’t give a poo and bluffs his way into taking a sports car for a test drive. I love that movie!” He punched the gas. “Bet you never guessed I was blind. What color is this car anyway?”
“You’re blind!”
Serge wove back and forth over the center line.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh! Stop the car! Stop the car!”
“The car’s yellow.” Serge playfully punched Cid in the shoulder. “I was just joshin’. Don’t you remember I caught the keys when you tossed them? You should see someone about your nerves.” He floored the pedal, and they were flattened back again.
“Slow down!”
“I can’t hear!”
“Slow down!”
Serge skidded to a stop at a green light. Horns blared as speeding traffic swerved around. “I couldn’t hear with all the wind and the engine. What were you saying?”
“Good Lord! Do you always drive like this?”
“Of course not.” Serge accelerated again. “This isn’t my car, so it’s only proper respect to drive extra carefully.”
Cid wiped his forehead. “I’d hate to see how you drive what you own.”
“What?” said Serge, pointing in the rearview. “You mean that thing?”
Cid twisted around and saw Coleman behind the wheel of the black Firebird, trailing a few lengths back. His head turned toward Serge. “What’s he doing following us?”
“I don’t understand,” said Serge. “We always do that.”
“You always have someone follow you when you’re taking a test drive?”
“No, when I’m kidnapping someone.” Serge conscientiously checked his side mirror and hit a signal for a lane change. “That way my car’s conveniently right there to throw the hostage in the trunk, eliminating the always annoying foot chases through backyard clotheslines.”
“Fuck you! Pull over right now!”
Serge drove into a boarded-up gas station on the corner that was usually occupied by someone selling velvet rugs of Elvis, Malcolm X and kittens. But the rug people had knocked off early. The Corvette parked next to rusty pumps, and Coleman stopped behind it.
Serge turned with a .45 automatic in his hand and a toothy grin. “Let’s take another test drive.”
Serge and Coleman sat on the ends of their motel beds, intently watching TV.
“That kid in the wheelchair is so cool,” said Coleman.
“And what a voice,” said Serge.
The show ended and Coleman packed a bong made from a motel room lamp. “Those Glee kids sure are something.”
Serge grabbed the duct tape. “I already feel better as a human.”
“They’ve taught me so much about understanding people who are different.” Coleman leaned over the bong with a Bic lighter. “What’s the duct tape for? There’s already some on his mouth.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s working it loose with his tongue.” Serge walked over to the chair with the tied-up Corvette owner. “A lot of them do that. Just wastes tape.”
Coleman exhaled. “He’s not earth-friendly.”
Serge grabbed the edge of the gray strip and ripped it off.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
“I let you watch Glee with us, and this is how you repay me?” Serge bashed him in the head with the big roll of tape. “You’re letting those kids down . . .” He tossed the tape aside and walked to the dresser.
Revvvvvvvvvvvvv . . .
Coleman pointed with a beer bottle. “What are you doing now?”
Serge ran an electric jigsaw through a piece of wood molding. “My latest project,” he said from behind safety glasses. “You and our contestant will soon be amazed.”
He turned off the saw and smoothed his cut with eighty-grit sandpaper. Then he grabbed a portable drill and inserted one of those massive circular-boring attachments that they use on unfinished doors to create the hole for the knob.
Revvvvvvvvvvvvv . . .
Serge bored. Coleman scratched his butt. The captive’s eyes bugged out.
Then prying with a crowbar. Hammering nails. Slicing balsa wood with an X-Acto knife. Cutting string with scissors. Dipping a small brush in a bottle of model airplane paint. Opening a package of thumbtacks.
Coleman tossed the empty beer bottle toward the trash can in the corner, except it was the wrong corner.
Serge opened another package and looked up at the sound of breaking beer-bottle glass. “You’re cleaning that up.”
Coleman stared at Serge’s hand. “A piece of cheese?”
Serge set it in place. “The final step to make my project operational.”
“So now what?” asked Coleman.
“Where’s Skippy?”
“In my pocket.”
Serge held out a hand. “Give him to me.”
Coleman clutched his own hands over his right breast. “Stay away from Skippy! I know what you did last time I passed out and you took him in the pet store. That’s janitor interference.”
“Custodial interference.” Serge gestured with his hand for emphasis. “Now give!”
“No!”
They began wrestling. Serge got Coleman in a headlock.
“Let go of me!”
“Not until you give me Skippy!”
“Never!”