“Where?” Jake looked around, laughing. “Are they invisible?”
“Yes,” said Steve. “Those early bandits gave way to polished crews. You wouldn’t believe the extent of their preparations. Whose easel is this by my leg?…”
“Mine. I’ll move it.”
“… Start surveillance the day before, noting security cameras, highway exits, even visit the show to see who has the best stuff. Then hit us as we leave. One guy got jumped right in the valet line loading his trunk.”
“Don’t forget Vic,” said Ted.
“Vic.” Steve whistled. “Followed the poor guy a hundred miles back to his house and ambushed him in the driveway.”
“That’s why we take evasive maneuvers,” said Henry.
“You’re pulling my chain,” said Jake.
“All of us drive away in formation,” said Ted. “Take turns rotating in and out of lanes looking for tails …”
“… Get off the highway and immediately get back on at the same exit,” said Henry. “Before finally arriving at our safe-house hotel.”
Steve leaned back and inflated his chest. “Yes sir, the rare coin circuit is now one of the most hazardous occupations in the state. It takes a rare breed with nerves of steel.”
Jake broke out laughing. “You’re paranoid.”
“That’s what Ralph thought.”
“Speaking of which, I should call the hospital.” Henry opened his cell. “Uh-oh. Battery’s dead.”
“Use mine,” said Steve.
“No …” Henry pushed out his chair and threw a pair of tens on the table. “I’ll try my room phone. Behind on e-mail anyway. Better get back up there and check the ol’ laptop.”
Steve looked down at his own phone. “Reminds me, I need to make a call…”
He was interrupted by an elbow from Ted. “Whoa! Check that action at the bar!”
Three people sat at the bar. Coleman was on one side of Serge, and Story was on the other, sitting an extra stool down to leave an empty seat between them for peaceful textbook study.
Serge opened his laptop.
“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.
“Finding a wi-fi hot spot.” Serge began tapping. “Need to check our online payment account the travel company set up to compensate us.”
“How does it work?”
“Every time we file a report…” -Serge waved his arms and wiggled his fingers-“… they magically zap money through the air and into our lives.” He stopped and rubbed his palms together. “Let’s see how rich we are!” A finger dramatically pressed a button.
Coleman leaned toward the screen. “Can we retire now?”
“Something’s wrong.” Serge sat back and scratched his head. “There’s no money. In fact it’s got a negative balance.”
“What’s going on?”
Serge pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched numbers. “I intend to find out. Probably just a clerical error. The astounding brilliance of my first report must have left them in such shock they couldn’t type straight. Can’t wait to find out how much extra they’re going to pay us …”
“I’m buying the biggest bong-“
“Shhhhh! They ‘re coming on the line now … Hello? …”
On the other side of Serge, a man stepped to the bar. He grinned at Story. She turned, giving him an exquisite view of the back of her head.
“… Bet you can’t find the words,” Serge said into the phone. “If my bonus is too large, we can work out an installment plan … What? … Could you repeat that? … There must be some kind of mistake …”
Story felt a tap on her shoulder. “My name’s Sh-teve. What’s yours?”
“Go away.”
“Let me buy you a drink … Bartender!” He placed a twenty on the counter. Story grabbed the bill and stuck it in her pocket.
Steve unconsciously felt his nose. “Have we met before?”
“I severely hope not.”
Steve climbed onto the empty stool between Serge and Story, invading her personal space with gin breath. “I have lots of rare coins in my room …”
Serge held the phone oddly in front of his face like it was an undiscovered swamp species with ten sphincters. He returned it to his ear. “Back up … What do you mean you’re not going to pay me a red cent? … Of course I got your checklists for hotel quality ť . . No, I didn’t forget to fill them out… Because I thought it was some kind of performance test, like: ‘Anyone with so little ambition as to use the checklist is not someone we want working for us.’ … Oh, it wasn’t a test? Well it should be. ‘Window treatment appeal, scale of one to five.’ I got a sixth square: ‘Who gives a shit?’ … I see …”
“Coin collecting is for wimps,” said Story.
“That’s just my hobby,” said Steve. “I teach autistic children.”
“How much extra are we getting?” asked Coleman.
Serge waved for him to pipe down. “… But I worked hard on that report. It goes on for pages. There must be something you can use … You’re kidding … What about the Elvis room? … Not even the Skynyrd bar? … I disagree … No, it’s got everything to do with travel. Don’t you want to be a Freebird? …”
The next stool: “… Bitch …”
Story’s head slowly rose, eyes boring another hole in the wall.
