“English lit. That’s why I need a lift. Just came home to Jacksonville during break to dance for next semester’s rent because money’s better up here.”
“You’re a lit major?”
She shook her head. “Florida history.”
Serge placed a hand over his heart. “What’s your real, nonprofessional name?”
“Story.”
“Story?” Serge flipped down his sun visor for a quick peek at the photo, then flipping it back up. “Like Musgrave? The astronaut?”
“Duh.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Long.”
“Story Long. Story Long. Where have I heard that name before?” said Serge. “Story Long … Wait, I remember now.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You were in the newspaper, weren’t you?”
She just reached into her bag for a textbook.
“It was you.” Serge slapped the steering wheel. “I knew it! You’re like my hero.”
“What’d she do?” asked Coleman.
“Oh, it was so cool!” said Serge. “The police raided this strip … I mean dance club north of St. Petersburg, trying to shut it down for obscenity. But Story was smarter than the cops. American obscenity laws are delightfully quirky. First, the offense has to be of a sexual nature. You can stand onstage with two handfuls of shit, and it’s not obscene, just gross. Second, even if it is sexual, it’s not obscene if the act contains material of a scientific, political or artistic nature. So the night after the raid, Story organized the other girls. Instead of dancing, they performed Shakespeare in the nude.”
“And they didn’t get busted?” said Coleman.
“No, they got busted all right,” said Serge. “That was even better. She showed up the cops, understanding the law better than the people whose careers are law enforcement. One of the top police officials went on TV to explain that even though it was a famous play, they were still arrested because none of the girls had formal acting training and their performances, stunk. The statutory ignorance was so monumentally obvious that Lenny Bruce was making jokes about it more than forty years ago. For something to pass the non-obscenity test, it’s just a question of whether it contains art, not whether the art’s any good.”
“How’s that cool?” asked Coleman.
“She got that police official to unwittingly admit they went to jail for bad acting.” He looked in the rearview again and detected traces of a faint smile. “Coleman, this is a special day. We’re sitting in the presence of the smartest stripper in Florida-” Serge ducked. Story’s hand swished empty air.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Serge. “I love history, but what can you do with a degree besides teach?”
“I’m actually going to graduate school to be a vet.”
Serge reached up and snuck another quick glimpse of the visor photo. “Tell me …”-he crossed his fingers-“… did you ever want to be anything else besides a vet?”
“Well, when I was real young, before I got practical, I wanted to be an astronaut-“
“Yesssss!” Serge flipped down the sun visor, tore out the picture and crumpled it into a ball.
Coleman pointed at the empty visor. “Does that mean we can stop wearing diapers?”
“You guys are wearing diapers?” asked Story.
“For the space race,” said Serge.
“Changed my mind.” Story stuck her textbook back in the duffel bag. “I’d like to get out of the car now.”
“But we just started having fun.”
“This has gotten way too weird. You’re no travel writer.”
“Yes I am.”
“You’re a psycho in a diaper.”
“I’m … multi-tasking.” Serge opened his cell phone and punched numbers. “Just get to know me a little better.” Serge listened a moment, then began beating the phone on the dashboard.
“What are you doing?” asked Story.
Bam, bam, bam. “Making a hotel reservation.”
“Having problems?”
“Those goddamn endless phone menus. And they always finish with: ‘Rotary callers please stay on the line.’ That last part only takes a few seconds, but over a lifetime it adds up to days of lost existence. And all because one guy won’t get with the century. Who the hell out there is still using a rotary phone?”
Twenty miles away, a thick, callused index finger dialed a rotary phone. The heavy black receiver went to an ear.
“This is Agent Mahoney. You left a message for me at the motel? … Of course I’m still interested in Serge … No, not over the phone … The usual place …”
Mahoney headed north in a late-model Crown Vic with blackwall tires, but to Mahoney it looked like Broderick Crawford’s highway patrol car with vintage bubbletop police light. He pulled into a dim parking garage and stopped next to the elevators.
The agent entered the Jacksonville airport in a frayed tweed jacket and rumpled fedora. He strolled past the men’s room and climbed onto a small platform, taking a seat in a comfortable, padded chair. His feet went onto metal rests. A toothpick wiggled in his teeth.
“Sparky, give me the works.”
“The name’s Luke.”
“It should be Sparky.”
Below him knelt a short, thin man with white hair and drooping, blotched cheeks. A shoeshine box opened. Mahoney’s eyes swept the terminal for nosy eavesdroppers. The shine man was old school, working the buffing rag in a furious 1940s Times Square subway choreography.
