Hold the phone. Speaking of passing out, Coleman wants to give a travel tip. “Don’t buy any coke from Rico. It’s stomped on.” Coleman, that’s not a travel tip … No, it’s not… No, I won’t help you get your money back … Anyhoo, where was I? Weirdness. Florida has such a rarefied per capita concentration that CNN might as well be the local news. Some guy shoots a Wendy’s manager over their three sauce-packet limit; alligator attacks naked guy on crack doing backstrokes in retention culvert; driver falls out of car at forty-five miles an hour opening door to spit; smuggler makes it through airport security with monkey under his hat. And if something does happen in another state, it’s just a matter of time for the Florida shoe to drop. You say some criminal Rhodes scholar stole Crystal Gayle’s tour bus in Tennessee? Gee, where on earth might he head next?
Today’s Tip: A three sauce-packet limit is wrong. But pulling a gun is just as wrong. Go to Arby’s instead. They understand packet dynamics.
Back to the Mailbag! … Uh-oh. It’s Agent Mahoney. “I’m going to get you.” What a broken record. Mahoney blames me for everything, especially the stuff I’ve done. To compound it, there’s been a recent spike in businessmen mugged at hotels by highly organized crews. And now someone’s going after the robbers. So Mahoney naturally thinks it’s me, just because I happened to be at all the same places at the same time. I wish it was me (lol).
Mahoney, Mahoney, Mahoney … maybe that explains this nagging sensation I’ve been having lately, like something really bad’s about to happen. Can’t quite put my finger on it. And I’m not the superstitious type, which is why I don’t like superstitious people. They’re bad luck. But everyone’s number eventually comes up, and I’ve already skated through more than my share of tough jams. So just block it out. Enough negative thoughts! I hate them. They suck. They piss me off. If they were people, I’d get a Chainsaw and … You’re still doing it. Have to bear down. Concentrate: Appreciate God’s gift of this beautiful day where the Florida sun is shining and my gas tank’s full. Now I’m so happy I could burst! Off we go!
JACKSONVILLE
Midnight
Two young men walked along the bank of the St. Johns River, sporting shaved heads, sleeveless T-shirts and bituminous eyes that proudly announced: MINIMUM WAGE 4 LIFE. They gripped baseball bats halfway up the barrels.
“I hate fuckin’ bums.”
“So where are they?”
“Supposed to be a bunch of them right around here.”
“Just like fuckin’ bums.”
There had been a light rain, and warm mist rose from the road. Work boots slapped across glistening tar and splashed through moonlit puddles. They approached the underpass of the Fuller Warren Bridge.
“Where the hell are those damn bums?”
“Hold up.”
“What is it?”
“Over there.”
“Where?”
“Shhhhh. Get your camcorder ready …”
A two-tone 1971 AMC Javelin with split upholstery sat in darkness and trash beneath a downtown bridge over the St. Johns River.
“Theories abound concerning the phenomenon of the nation’s trash elite inexorably percolating down to Florida like industrial toxins reaching our aquifers …”
A beer can popped. “You’re doing it again.”
Serge wrote furiously in his notebook. “Doing what?”
“Talking to yourself.”
“No I wasn’t.” More writing. “… This travel writer places his money on time-release scumbag DNA …”
Coleman burped. “You always talk to yourself and then say you’re not.”
“I am? Really? That’s embarrassing.” He leaned over his notebook. “… The scumbag genetic factor is like hereditary blood disease or male-pattern baldness. At progressive age milestones, a series of rusty, chain-link twists in the double helix trigger a sequence of social tumors: Buy a pit bull, buy an all-terrain vehicle, get a DUI, sponsor a series of blue-ribbon slapping matches with your wife in the middle of the street, discharge a gun indoors, fail to appear in court, discharge fireworks indoors, get a DUI, forget where you put your Oxy-contin, crash your all-terrain vehicle into your pit bull, spend money to replace missing front teeth on large-mouth-bass mailbox, get stretchered away by ambulance for reasons you don’t remember, appear on COPS for a DUI, run out the back door when warrants are served and, in a trademark spasm of late-stage dirtball-ism, move to Florida …”
Serge finished the transcription and turned to a fresh page. There was a period of silence in the two-tone Javelin (orange and green) sitting under the Fuller Warren Bridge. Then, a crunching of wax paper. A soggy tuna sandwich appeared. A travel mug of cold coffee came off the dashboard.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “What did you mean before, ‘We’re on stakeout’? We’re not police.”
“Common mistake everyone makes, like the Constitution’s reserve clause for states’ rights. Just because cops do it, doesn’t mean we can’t.” Serge took a sip from the mug. “This is our new job.”
