She began ripping off her clothes. Johnny hurried to keep up, breaking his zipper in the rush. She slammed into him for a sloppy kiss, still disrobing in a clumsy, stumbling march across the spacious room. Sensual moaning, items of apparel randomly jettisoned. They reached the back of the suite in front of a magnificent waterfront view from the giant, floor-to-ceiling windows. Night strollers on the beach stopped and pointed up at the northeast corner of the hotel.
Johnny hopped past the TV, yanking off socks. She grabbed him around the neck, tripping backward with feet tangled in panties and pulling Johnny down on top of her. They landed hard on the carpet next to the bed.
Beach strollers sagged as the show disappeared from view.
The flight attendant closed her eyes and panted with shallow breaths. “Hurry …” -reaching down to help accelerate the process. Louder moaning. “Baby, now! …” Johnny positioned himself for the plunge. Finally! After all these years! Goodbye virginity!
More moaning. “Put it in!” Her head fell to the side. She opened her eyes. Staring back from under the bed was the blue, lifeless face of a coin dealer named Henry.
Beach people looked up again toward the source of hysterical shrieking from room 303..
AN HOUR LATER
Two men stood in front of a hotel room door. They whispered and glanced suspiciously up and down the hall.
One opened a brown paper bag. “Hurry up! Before someone sees us!”
The other reached in his fanny pack and removed a can of shaving cream. He squeezed the top, foaming the entire contents into the sack.
The first one pressed the end of the bag flat, and quietly slipped it under the door.
An elevator at the end of the hall opened. Story got off, wrapped in a towel from the pool. A dozen rooms ahead, two men seemed to be having trouble getting into their room. As she grew nearer, one leaned toward the door. “Stamp-collecting wussies!”
The other stomped on the paper bag.
They ran past her giggling.
She reached her own room and opened the door. “I’m back …”
No answer.
“Anyone here?” She checked the bathroom. “That’s odd.”
Then something odder caught her eye: on the other side of the room, an ad hoc tent fashioned from bedsheets and two chairs. She walked over and lifted the edge of a sheet. Souvenir matchbooks, pins and postcards scattered on the floor, next to a stack of hotel stationery covered with tic-tac-toes. And a scorecard: Serge 50, Coleman 0. Her face pinched with puzzlement.
Story began walking back across the suite. She stopped. Some kind of faint noise, like people talking. Except it had a strange electronic sound like a police scanner. Where was it coming from? She resumed walking, more slowly this time, stopping by the dresser to reach silently into her purse. Out came a shiny .25-caliber chick gun. She held it outstretched in both hands, sliding her feet across the carpet. The voices grew louder. They were coming from the kitchenette.
Story rounded the breakfast nook, gun leading the way. The mechanical voices became even louder. But still no sign of their source. Weird. A few more steps. Even louder. It seemed to be coming from the sink. She slipped closer. Actually, beneath the sink.
Story gripped the pistol tight in her right hand, carefully reaching for a cabinet handle with her left. She quickly jerked it open, jumped back and took aim.
Serge and Coleman sat bunched under the sink with potato chips, flashlights and walkie-talkies, a pile of playing cards between them.
“Hey, Story,” said Serge.
Coleman raised his walkie-talkie “Go fish.”
Serge grabbed a card and looked up. “Would you mind closing the door?”
SILVER SPRINGS
Agent Mahoney unfolded three pages of printouts from the Internet. One had pictures. He held it up to a Holiday Inn lobby wall for comparison. Perfect match. He entered Denny’s.
The waitress arrived. Mahoney waved off the menu. “Just a cup of joe.” She left him seated in the last booth at the back of the restaurant, facing the door. He removed his fedora and placed it on the table next to a paper placemat.
Coffee arrived. Then a thin old man in checkered slacks. He stopped in the doorway and raised his stubbled chin to acknowledge the agent.
They were soon sitting across from each other.
“Mickey, how’s my favorite bartender?”
“Lumbago. You got my message?”
“No, it’s a big coincidence I’m sitting here.”
“Still interested in this Serge business?”
Mahoney stuck a wooden matchstick in his mouth.
The bartender looked around, then bent over the table. “Why don’t you just drop it. I have a bad feeling.”
“You seen Serge or not?”
Mickey shook his head. “I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Then what was that message about?”
“Some wiseguy came around the bar asking about him, and I don’t think it was to send a birthday card.”
Mahoney angled his head to look around Mickey. “Who’s the suspicious mug sitting up front that keeps glancing back here.”
