Serge’s trail had grown icicles. And Agent Mahoney, former ace profiler for Florida’s counterpart to the FBI, was slowly rebounding from another involuntary mental commitment and back to a world where the color of the sky is blue. Nobody had ever come remotely as close as Mahoney to catching Serge. Because nobody had ever gotten so far inside Serge’s head. Mahoney was ideally suited to the task, sharing the same passion for nostalgia, geography and arcane tidbits. But it came with a hefty price tag. Nearly a decade had passed since the first of Mahoney’s six paid medical leaves, and he was now under strict doctor’s orders to “drop this Serge thing.”
Recovery progress was steady. Until Mahoney walked back into the lobby of his by-the-hour Jacksonville motel, and the varicose woman behind the desk reached into a wooden cubbyhole.
“Got a message for you …”
PASTIME
Serge swiftly navigated the Internet jukebox’s on-screen menu. Soon, unmistakable guitar chords filled the tavern. Serge raced back to the far end of the bar, where an attractive young blonde in Daisy Duke cutoffs idly peeled the wet label off a cold tallboy.
“… I was cutting a rug …”
Serge tapped her shoulder. “Would you like to dance?”
Her female-barroom-defense-wall went up before she even turned around. But then she caught Serge’s smile and piercing ice-blue eyes. The wall crumbled. “Sure.”
He led her to the middle of the tiny dance floor and waved Coleman over. “Dance with him.”
The woman stopped. “I thought you were asking me to dance with you?”
“That part’s coming up. I’ll cut in.”
“When?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t miss it.”
She reluctantly began dancing, but had to avert her eyes to stomach it. Coleman held a beer to his chest and did the drunk-white-guy shuffle.
A minute into the song, “Hey!” Serge leveled a gun at Coleman. “What are you trying to prove?”
Coleman began shaking. “But you told me to dance with her.”
Serge leaned and whispered: “Work with me.”
Eyes grew large around the bar. Everyone eased off stools and began backing away. Someone dialed 911.
Serge waved the gun wildly. “This might be it for you!”
“You’re scaring me,” said Coleman. “Be careful with that thing.”
Serge cupped his mouth and whispered again. “Say the words.”
“What words?”
“Serge!” Billy Bob yelled from behind the bar. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Putting the cherry on the best day of my entire life!”
“Get rid of that gun! Now!”
“It’s not loaded, see?” Serge pointed the pistol out the open door and squeezed. Bang. “Serge!”
“Demonstrating firearm safety: No such thing as an unloaded gun.”
Someone ran in the door. “What just happened to my windshield ?” He saw Serge’s pistol and dashed back out.
“Coleman! Say the words!”
“What words?” Serge whispered in his ear.
Coleman looked at him oddly. “Gimme three steps?”
“Run!”
“I’m running!”
Coleman darted out the door with Serge on his heels. They raced across the gravel lot and jumped in the Javelin.
An unexpected voice from behind: “Hold up!”
The woman in the Daisy Dukes ran toward the car with a small duffel bag. “Can I get a lift?”
Without waiting for an answer, she opened Coleman’s door and pushed his bucket seat forward, throwing him into the dash. Then she dove in back with her bag. “Might want to start driving. Those are police sirens.”
Serge patched out in a dusty, white cloud and sped for the I-10 ramp. They snaked east on elevated lanes and merged with downtown rush hour. Sirens faded. Serge eased off the gas and looked in the rearview: “What’s your status?”
The woman calmly applied blush. “Heard in the bar you were headed south. I need a ride.”
Serge hit his blinker for the 95 bridge. “But back there … the gun and everything … I mean, you’re not afraid of us?”
“Please!” She snapped her compact closed. “After all the other men in my life, you two are pussycats.”
Coleman giggled. “She said ‘pussy’ … Ow! Serge, she just smacked me in the back of the head!”
Serge glanced in the mirror again. “I’m Serge, this is Beavis. What’s your name?”
“Candy.”
“Candy?” said Serge. “What are you, a stripper? … Ow!” He rubbed the back of his head.
“I am not a stripper! I’m a dancer.”
“Do you take your clothes off?”
“Of course.” She pulled a date book from her purse. “You stupid or something?”
“Then you’re a stripper … Ow!”
“Stop saying ‘stripper.’”
“Deal.”
She opened the date book in her lap. “Look, everyone thinks strippers are dumb slut pieces of trash who curse and smoke and drink and do drugs all the time.” She reached over Coleman’s shoulder and grabbed his beer.
“You’re drinking,” said Serge.
“I don’t smoke. Or do drugs. On weekdays.”
” A foolish consistency …’” Serge said sarcastically.
”’… is the hobgoblin,’ blah, blah, blah,” said Candy. “Don’t condescend to quote Emerson at me.”
Serge’s eyes snapped toward the rearview mirror. “You know Emerson?”
“Who the fuck doesn’t?”
Coleman cheerfully raised his hand.
“But how do you know Emerson?” said Serge.
