The adjoining tables were inhabited by a race of subterranean, combed-over business travelers with the physiques of water balloons resting on something flat. They racked up massive 41-cent miles and a gold-card number of hotel nights due to very good or very bad marriages. The chair they’d saved was at the head of the first table because the rest of the gang lived vicariously through Steve’s sex stories. They were all false, of course, but the guys believed him since he was the youngest and the best looking of the bunch, which was beyond relative and little coin in the realm of getting any.
“Why ‘Sh-teve’?”
“Babes dig it. Still spelled the same.” He plopped down and looked back toward the swinging doors. “Did you check out that piece of ass at the reception desk?”
“Couldn’t miss. Looks like she’s still in high school.”
Steve leaned back arrogantly.
“Don’t tell me you did her.”
“A gentleman doesn’t talk.”
“Come on!”
“Okay, first I grabbed her ears …”
They were an hour east of Tallahassee, just off I-10, in the state’s Spanish-moss belt girding the Georgia line. The nearest dots on the map were Live Oak, Madison and Shady Grove. It was a modest but sanitary motel, kept to chain standards, that went up quickly when economy at the exit ramp exploded with a convenience store and fast-food franchise that did morning biscuits right.
The lounge side of the property sat in the shadow of the highway overpass, and long-haul truckers rumbled by at such an acute angle as to suggest landing aircraft. Beneath the bridge’s eastern berm stood the lighted motel marquee-WELCOME DIVERSIFIED CONSOLIDATORS - and below that, someone in a dishwashing hairnet manipulated a twelve-foot telescoping aluminum pole to capture black plastic letters. He left the WELCOME up and changed the rest to DATA IMPLEMENTERS. The WELCOME had an off-putting slant in the middle because they were short on L’s and flipped over a 7. The largest conference room had a fire-marshal capacity of eighteen.
The gang in the hotel bar-like all gangs in all hotel bars-had a universal familiarity. Some was the result of actually knowing each other, traveling identical job circuits and enrolling in the same reward-points program. The rest had never met but recognized their own kind. Like Darin and Frank.
“I’m Darin, he’s Frank. Join you?”
Another table slid over.
“What’s your line?”
Frank removed a plastic straw convention hat. “World Congress of Data Implementers.”
Someone pointed at the military ribbons on Darin’s jacket. “What are those?”
“Seven straight quarters, most data implemented.”
“Nobody can touch Darin,” said Frank. “They call him the terminator.”
Beer bottles clinked. A toast to data.
Frank turned to Steve. “Who are you with?”
“Southeast Rare Coins. Finished a show in Tallahassee, getting a leg up on Jacksonville tomorrow. I’m Sh-teve. This is Ted and Henry.”
“Nice to meet…”
“Saw the billboards,” Frank said respectfully. “That big expo with the stamp collectors.” Ted winced.
Henry made a silent, slashing gesture across his throat with a finger.
“I say something wrong?”
Steve stared down into his cocktail. “Stamps guys are faggots.”
Ted crouched and lowered his voice. “Some exhibitors pulled out of the tour. Forced to let philatelists in or we’d get creamed on the hall deposits.”
“Speaking of exhibitors …” Ted looked around the room. “Where’s Ralph?”
“Stayed back at the conference,” said Steve.
“What? The hotel where we had the show?”
Steve nodded curtly, biting an olive off a plastic spear.
“But Ralph should know better. You never stay at the show hotel.”
“He’s an adult.”
“So was Buffalo Nickel Bill.”
“How’s he doing?” asked Henry.
“Getting out of the hospital next week.”
“Who would have thought he’d be hit in Panama City?”
“Whole state’s gone crazy.”
“Police think it’s one of the new professional gangs.”
“Good,” said Steve.
“How’s that good?”
“Because pros only hit when they’re absolutely sure you’re out of the room. And we’re insured.”
“Then why’d they jump Bill?”
“Must have varied his routine and come back at the wrong time.”
“I’m worried,” said Henry.
“You all worry too much,” said Steve. “It’s an isolated incident …”
“… That required sixty stitches.”
“Listen,” said Steve. “Bill got sloppy.”
“And some punks got lucky,” said Henry. “Police found a few loose gems in the carpet that were scattered in the attack. How’d they know there’d be such a score?”
“Back up,” said Ted. “What was Bill doing with stones? He’s a coin guy. Not even good coins. Warned him about loading up on buffalo nickels.”
“Do you have to talk about him like that while he’s still got tubes ?” said Henry. “We all took a beating when the buffalo bubble burst.”
“But what was Bill doing with stones?”
“Police said they were definitely pros who knew exactly what they were looking for. Didn’t even touch the nickels.”
“Screw the nickels already! What the hell was Bill doing with stones?”
“Just telling you what I heard.”
