The manager stepped up nose to nose with Serge, deliberately underscoring his size advantage. “Deaf or something? I said get the fuck out!”
Serge shook his head. “Can’t let you do this to yourself.”
“Do what?”
“Miss out on my ground-floor opportunity!” said Serge. “Three thousand is an absolute steal for us to go our separate ways.”
“Out!”
“It’s a win-win! You break even and live to enjoy a brighter tomorrow.”
“Fuck you!” The manager gave Serge a hard, two-handed shove in the chest.
Serge stumbled backward and caught his balance. “Investors are lining up fast! Price is now four thousand!”
The manager shoved him again.
Serge stumbled again. “You obviously don’t know what the price of regret is running these days. But because I like you, special new deal: five thousand!”
The manager saved his most vicious shove for last. Serge crashed backward into the glass door and crumpled on the ground. The manager pointed threateningly in his face. “You’ve fucked with the wrong guy! Those friends with the RV? They just bought them a world of shit. I have their address on the work order. I know people in Minnesota. And when my associates pay a visit, they’re going to tell them it’s all because of you!”
“Sorry,” said Serge. “Investment deadline just passed.” He stood and opened the door. Ting-a-ling.
SERGE’S SUITE
Frenetic tapping on a laptop keyboard.
A beer can popped. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Uploading the daily addendum to my renegade travel website. Today’s nuggets: avoiding transmission ripoffs and the best place to spot John Travolta.”
“Travolta?”
“Coleman, you were with me there yesterday.” Typing rate increased. “That old Holiday Inn across from Silver Springs.”
“Now I remember.”
“Travolta’s an aviation fiend. Got a giant spread out in the country north of here, two jets in the driveway, including a Boeing 707, and his own airstrip, but I’m not going to reveal the location on my site because I respect his privacy.”
“Is that why we kept circling his property?”
“Those were public roads-plus I wanted to make sure no unstable people were bothering him.”
“What’s Holiday Inn got to do with it?”
“Staff told me he’s a night owl…” Tap, tap, tap, tap. “… In wee hours, he likes to eat at the Denny’s attached to the motel because it’s about the only thing still open in the middle of nowhere …” Tap, tap. “… Imagine that: The Pulp Fiction assassin frequenting this funky little place in our own fine state. Apparently a real nice guy, too. Next to the motel’s reception desk are some cool photos of him on the wall posing with staff and a night watchman.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I took photos of the Travolta photos, which I’m just about finished posting …” Tap, tap, tap. Serge stood. “There, done.” He looked around. “Where’s Story?”
“Still down at the pool,” said Coleman, opening the suite’s refrigerator to store remaining beers dangling from their plastic six-pack ring.
Serge began pacing. And pacing, wearing a rut in the motel carpet.
“What’s the matter, buddy?”
Serge reached a wall and paced back the other way. “Nothing on the to-do list until my project later tonight.” He came to another wall and turned. “You know how I can’t stand not to have a fixation target.” Another wall…
Coleman idly looked around the room. “Is it my dope, or did we get a bigger place than usual?”
“It’s a suite.” He spun at the windows. “What to do? What to do?…”
Coleman investigated the kitchenette, opening and closing all the drawers. “It even has a dishwasher.”
Serge trudged toward the window. “I usually have the opposite problem of choice shock. Too many diversions …”
The microwave opened and closed. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever stayed.” Another drawer. “I remember loving to go to motels when I was a kid.”
Serge stopped in his sneaker tracks. “Coleman! That’s it! You’re brilliant!”
“I am?”
“How could I be so stupid? I’ve been thinking like a middle-aged person.”
“You are middle-aged.”
“Of all people I should know better.” Serge ran into the kitchenette, rapidly opening and closing drawers. “Life was invented for kids. But then we all grow up, and society imposes filters that block the joy of silliness and sponging up pointless little things that make childhood the magic time for which it is widely known.” He stuck his face in an overhead cabinet.
Coleman bent down and opened double doors. “Look at all this space under the sink.”
“Much work at hand!” He dashed over to a bed and yanked off the sheets. “Coleman, grab those chairs.”
“What are we doing?”
“It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”
DOWN THE HALL
Johnny Vegas couldn’t miss.
The flight attendant had said she was hungry, so he’d bought her dinner and even dessert. Now, time to pay up. What’s fair was fair.
The elevator opened on the third floor. The attendant had a little trouble holding her liquor. She began kissing Johnny and unbuttoning his shirt before he could get the magnetic card in the door. They tumbled inside.
