Mahoney lowered his gaze. “Sparky, what’s Serge’s twenty?”
“Huh?”
“Location.”
The man’s eyes stayed on the agent’s wingtips. Mahoney pulled a fin from his wallet and handed it down. The man slipped the five-spot in his shirt pocket. “I don’t know where Serge is.”
“You mumbled on the blower about the bona fide.”
“That’s right.”
“Canary.”
Buffing resumed in silence. Mahoney passed down another fiver.
“Someone’s on Serge’s trail. And I don’t think he wants to catch up on old times.”
“Don’t shine me on. Everyone’s snooping for Serge.”
Luke shook his head. “This is different. He’s got a target on his back.”
“The big sleep?”
“That’s how it looks from here.”
Mahoney ruefully removed his toothpick. “Where’d you score the dope?”
“Talk’s on the street.”
“Sing.”
The shoes got more polish. Luke got another five.
“Couple of guys came poking around.”
“Solid they weren’t shields?”
“I’d know if they were cops. I just got this vibe. Not warm and fuzzy.”
“Chin?”
“Huh?”
“What’d they say?”
“Same thing you always do: just wanted to know if I’d seen Serge. Said they were old friends, but I wasn’t buying. Actually only one talked while I did his shoes; think the other was the lookout-hung back by the ticket counter.”
“Strapping iron?”
“The talker had a bulge in his shirt. Both gave me the creeps.” “Reruns?”
“Never seen them before in my life. That’s what doesn’t add up: I don’t even know Serge. Why’d they come to me?” Mahoney removed the toothpick. “History.” “Don’t follow.”
“Someone yodeled up a pair of zippers to close Serge’s eyes. Did their homework on the mark. Serge is all about tradition, and you’re the end of a dying breed, the best shine in the state. If they heard Serge was in J-ville, it’s just a matter of time before he lands in your chair.”
A narrow brush scraped leather above the sole. “But it’s a big state. Why do they think Serge came to Jax?”
“He’s fobbing the tourists a bent travel angle. After getting your Western Union, I found a blog with photos under the Fuller Warren Bridge from Monday Night, and nobody was playing football if you catch my drift.”
Luke stood and gave the agent’s shoes a last theatrical snap of his towel. “How’d you hear about this blog?”
“Dropped a dime to the hundredth power.”
“What?”
“I Googled him.”
ELVIS
Serge looked over his shoulder as the Javelin raced east toward downtown Jacksonville. “Make you a deal, Story. I’ll prove I’m a Florida travel writer.”
“How are you going to do that?” “State trivia.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Fair enough. But it works both ways. All I see back there is a dancer. How do I know you’re really a history major?”
“I am so a history major!”
The Javelin crossed back over the St. Johns. “Then you won’t mind a spirited little competition.”
She stewed with folded arms. “You’re on. What’s the category?”
“Elvis.”
“Elvis?” said Story. “That’s not history or travel.”
Serge paused. “Can be.”
“No, it can’t. Pick something germane, like Ponce de Leon’s burial site or Andrew Jackson’s controversial execution of British subjects during the Seminole conflict.”
“Old San Juan Cathedral, Puerto Rico; Armbrister and Arbuthnot.” Serge sighed. “I want it to be challenging. But if you’re afraid …”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then what’s your problem with a little pop culture?” Story folded her arms in defiance. “Question!”
“That’s more like it,“‘said Serge. “Elvis’s first indoor concert in America.”
Story grinned malevolently. “Nice touch. Jacksonville, August 10, 1956. Florida Theatre … My turn.”
“Fire away.”
“Why did the appearance make Life magazine?”
“A judge sat through the show, threatening arrest if offended by his pelvis,” said Serge. “Who was that judge?”
“Marion Gooding. Name one of the opening acts.”
“Shit, you’re not bad.” Serge stared up at the ceiling for a dramatic period, then raised an index finger. “Jordonaires.”
“Damn!”
“Back to your side,” said Serge. “Elvis’s favorite hotel room in Jacksonville?”
“You mean hotel?”
“No, room.”
“I… don’t know.”
“Serge wins!”
The Javelin angled up a private drive.
Story leaned out her side window. “The Riverfront?”
“Used to be the Hilton, now the Crowne Plaza.”
“Wow, we’re staying here?”
“Not exactly.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Just follow my lead.”
The trio marched through automatic doors and into a finely paneled elevator with brass accents.
Five minutes later: “We’re still in the elevator,” said Story. “We’ve just been riding up and down over and over.”
“There’s a good reason for that.” Serge pointed toward a special slot in the elevator’s control panel, which required a magnet key to access the executive level.
The elevator reached the lobby again; Serge fumbled for his wallet as the doors opened. An older couple in formal evening attire got on and smiled. Serge returned the greeting and resumed his wallet search. The man in the tux pressed the button for the executive level. “What floor?”
“Same,” said Serge, still going through his billfold. “That key has to be in here somewhere.”
“Allow me,” the man said cordially, producing his own magnetic card and inserting it in the control panel.
