“As I was telling Coleman: Rest stops are the great equalizer. All kinds of wanted felons and escaped cons traveling up and down the state-they have to go to the bathroom, too.” Serge scribbled on a page. “Most of these law-abiding travelers will never know it, but there’s always at least one dangerous criminal parked at each rest stop at the same time.”
“Start the car!”
Serge leaning toward the windshield. “I found him.”
“Who?”
“The felon. Over at the line of Winnebagos. Keep an eye on that last job with Minnesota plates where the retired couple is off-loading trash.”
“You’re insane,” said Story. “Those old people aren’t criminals.”
“Not them. That dude walking over from his pickup. He’s saying something and pointing under the RV. One of the oldest Florida scams in the book.”
Coleman popped a beer. “We know about the meetings.”
“It’s started,” said Serge. “He’s telling them they have a transmission leak. That’s what the pointing was about. Now he’s shaking his head: ‘Bad one. Probably won’t make it another fifty miles.’ They’re beginning to panic, asking if he’s sure. Says he could be wrong, so now he’s crawling under the Winnebago.” Serge opened the driver’s door and got down on the pavement for ground-level view. “He’s crawling back out, showing them a greasy, discolored hand. Leak’s worse than he thought. If the couple can get the RV back in gear, they must head straight to the nearest transmission shop. Luckily, he knows one back at the last exit that does excellent discount work. Most likely a seal that can be fixed for under a hundred bucks, which will turn into a complete rebuilding job for two thousand.”
“Dang,” said Coleman. “You can tell what’s wrong with the RV from way over here ?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the RV.”
“But what about the transmission fluid on the guy’s hands?”
“Bronze tanning lotion or some other gunk. Didn’t have a good line of sight, but he probably applied it from a tube while under the chassis. Now he’s wishing them good luck and says he has to get going the other way for Atlanta so they don’t suspect he’s connected to the shop.” He reached for the door handle. “Serge’s travel service to the rescue!”
Story grabbed his shoulder. “No! Don’t get out of the car!” “Society needs me.”
“For the sake of argument,” said Story. “What if they really have a leak and you get them stranded on the side of the highway?”
“Distinct possibility.” He grabbed a roll of duct tape from under the seat. “That’s why I need to run a blind test.”
“No!-“
But Serge was already running across the parking lot. The couple began climbing back into an RV with every factory option.
“Excuse me!”
They turned as Serge jogged up. “Did that guy just say you had a transmission leak?”
“Yeah,” said the man in bib overalls and a Korean vet baseball cap.
“That was awfully neighborly of him,” said Serge, “but these things can be tricky. Want a second opinion?”
“I-“
“Just be a second.” Serge dropped to the ground and scurried out of view. He popped back up a moment later.
“Well?” asked the man.
“Not sure. Thought I could save you some money, but it looks like the other guy might know more about these things. Wish you the best.”
“Thanks. Gee, so far we’ve only met two people in Florida. Is everyone down here this nice?”
“Pretty much.”
One bit of inside knowledge from the hospitality industry is that a certain percentage of guests don’t check out; they simply leave. This was a problem in the old days with brass room keys, but the new magnetic ones cost next to nothing. The front desk simply charges the remaining balance of phone calls, room service and pay-movies to the credit card-“signature on file”-that the occupant presented at checkin.
Just such a room in a south Jacksonville extended-stay was number 303. The third-floor maid got clearance to turn it around for the next guest.
Her housekeeping cart rolled up to the room later than usual because the other maid who worked the floor had failed to show without notice, and the overflow fell on her shoulders. Just after opening the door, she realized she’d caught a break with 303. The room looked hardly used, almost as if nobody had stayed there. The towel count in the bathroom matched her checklist-all hanging exactly as they’d been placed the day before by the other maid. Soap still in wrappers; tiny shampoo, conditioner and mouthwash unmoved from their perfect triangular formation on the little plastic tray. Even the end of the toilet paper retained its original folded point.
