“Can’t if they’re regular hoses,” said Serge. “But like the TV lady said, those are the special irrigation kind.”
“Irrigation?”
“Roll up flat,” Serge continued. “Hundreds of tiny holes. Stretch ‘em across a lawn, turn on the water, and they expand into thick round hoses spraying a light but high-coverage mist that results in a magnificently lush tropical landscape, unless they’re wrapped around skinheads, then it’s a landscape of justice.”
“I remember those,” said a pharmaceutical salesman from Savannah. “My grandfather used them in the sixties.”
“Very big in this state when I was a kid,” said Serge. “Evokes idyllic childhood memories, getting goose bumps stroking the hose’s sleek rubber skin the other night. I mean decades ago.”
Someone pointed at the screen. “They made it to the valve. They’re trying to switch the lever with their noses.”
“They’re bashing each other’s faces!”
“Look at ‘em go!”
“This is too sick to watch. Can you enlarge it?”
“The sprinklers just came on! The hoses are expanding!”
“They’re seizing up! … Ooooo …”
“Jesus! Look at the blood flow from those head wounds!”
“Why is it spurting so much?”
“Fun fact,” said Serge. “Most people think constrictor snakes-and now irrigation hoses-kill prey through strangulation, when death actually comes from high blood pressure. CNN’s Dr. Sanjay Gupta calls it the silent killer.”
The hotel robbery crew was divided into two groups: talent and muscle. Talent was thinning out. The muscle took the form of the Jellyfish/Eel’s personal bodyguards, who were required when the gang locked horns with another crew in a turf dispute and won a messy, decisive victory. There was little chance of the rival faction reconstituting, and they weren’t very tough anyway, but why take the chance?
Muscle had the stomach-and voracious appetite-for violence. Talent didn’t. Several had been shanghaied from the remnants of the capitulated gang. Their hallmarks were tedious preparation, stealth and intel, which helped avoid any contact with the marks, who were never harmed. Consummate gentleman bandits.
Muscle had a more inelegant approach.
Talent wore overalls, and right now four of them stared down at the precedent-setting deviation of an unconscious salesman and maid on the room’s tiled entryway.
A light knock at a door. Everyone knew who it was.
“Answer it.”
“I’m not going to answer it.” Another quiet knock.
“Someone has to answer it.”
“So you answer it.”
“Damn.” The one with the false GARY stitched over his pocket forced himself toward the door on licorice legs. He checked the peephole from habit and undid the chain.
Two massive bodyguards pushed their way inside, followed by a taller, thinner person in a brown leather jacket. A glowing blob peeked out the neckline of his dark T-shirt.
Two trailing bodyguards covered the flank. They made a last visual recon of the hall before coming inside and bolting the door.
The Eel squatted and felt the victims’ wrists. Weak pulses.
He stood back up. He never spoke loudly, never had to. “They get a look?”
“No, I mean, the guy. We jumped him immediately. I don’t know. He- … I think the maid can identify us.”
Moaning from the floor.
Without fanfare or urgency, the Eel slowly slipped his hands into leather riding gloves that matched his jacket. Then he grabbed a lamp off the dresser, snapping the plug out of the wall, and brought the base down hard, over and over, striking both heads with a series of stomach-churning thuds that started with a thick resonance and eventually became squishy. One of the overalls ran in the bathroom and hugged the toilet.
The Eel set the lamp back. “Where are the stones?”
“C-c-couldn’t find them.”
“Check the light switches?”
Energetic nodding. “Just like you said.”
An intimidating pause. He held out a palm. “Screwdriver.”
One of the gang practically fell over himself fishing a slot-head from a toolbox and slapping it into a gloved hand. The Eel went to the wall. “Check this one?”
More nodding.
He unscrewed the faceplate. Nothing there. Then he unscrewed the switch itself, carefully removing the mechanism and letting it hang from two copper wires. He reached into the back of the junction box and retrieved a small white envelope. The contents emptied into a leather palm. The gang stood stunned at the sight of a dozen near-flawless Peruzzi-cut diamonds in the two-to-four-carat range. He gently poured them back into the envelope.
“How’d you know those were there?”
“Our inside source,” said the Eel. “Same info I gave you.”
“But we just thought you meant the faceplates, not behind the switch.”
“That’s the problem. You thought.”
“I’m really sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up-“
The Eel raised a hand that received prompt silence. “Mistakes happen. We got the diamonds so no harm done… Get your shit…”
“Oh, thank you! It’ll never happen again!” The maintenance man with the stitched name turned and closed the lid on his toolbox. He was so unnerved by the roller-coaster events that he never realized what came out of his mouth next: “You won’t be sorry, Jellyfish …”
