The car was the only one in the lot, two blocks east of U.S. 1 on Avenue D. Across the inlet, predawn activity aboard a few boats at a marina with Spanish barrel tiles. A verdigris statue of two entwined sailfish stood at the corner of the seawall. Mahoney looked toward the water and watched the sun peek over the horizon at Fort Pierce. The agent checked his Green Hornet watch and shifted his eyes to the front doors of a building, still hours from its 10 a.m. opening. The A.E. “Bean” Backus Gallery and Museum.
Mahoney was under strict orders to the contrary, but he had called in a marker and received the latest law enforcement dossier on Serge. It lay open in his lap. There was the cliched, long-as-your-arm rap sheet, plus copies of countless fan letters Serge had written to top political and cultural leaders. Mahoney glanced at an old letter to the president, which he now knew by heart, then flipped to a more recent correspondence to the administration that had been intercepted while Mahoney was officially off the case. He began reading:
Ex-Vice President Dick Cheney, aka the real 43RD president Washington, D.C. (Your initials!)
Dear Dick,
Go fuck yourself! Ha! Remember that one? And you said it on the floor of Congress no less. When I first heard about it, milk came out my nose-and I wasn’t even drinking milk! That’s how funny you are!
Yes, you’ve coined the catchphrase for the millennium. Pithy, introspective. Plus it translates well. Unfortunately all the president can manage is a hayseed “shit” at a summit lunch when he leaves the mike on, chews with his mouth open and makes Tony Blair hover obsequiously over his shoulder like a trained parakeet. Don’t get me wrong: George was an effective deterrent for a while, proclaiming America was on “a crusade,” like he missed school that day and didn’t realize it was the most brainless thing he could have said. Meanwhile, his finger’s on the button of the largest arsenal in the history of the world, and he pretends he can’t even fucking pronounce it. “Nucular.” Genius! (Your idea, right?) Because while George had his moments (“Mission Accomplished” pops to mind), you, on the other hand, understand real deterrence. I’ll never forget when insurgents were setting off all those car bombs, so you responded by outing one of our own CIA agents, and the insurgents went, “Not too shabby, but we’ve seen better,” and you said, “Oh yeah? Check this out, motherfuckers,” and then you shot your own friend in the face! And the insurgents went, “Goddamn!” Now that’s the Cheney magic I’m talking about! I say crank it all the way up! We’re facing an illogical foe, and you of all people appreciate the value of fighting crazy with crazy. So here’s my plan: Now that you’re out of office, move into a cave and start making underground videos, wearing a ski mask and carrying an RPG launcher. Maybe even fire the thing. (Just remember to yell “duck” this time.)
I’ve been your biggest fan ever since hearing you at a Tampa campaign rally in 2000. Maybe you remember me: I was the guy in back chanting “Hal-li-bur-ton! Hal-li-bur-ton!” until the Secret Service made me run. (Sorry, didn’t realize that was a secret.) The administration’s just drawn to a close, and history will judge harshly, but don’t think for a second that it applies to you. True Americans in the fly-over states appreciate your brilliance. I’ll bet you’ll even get a stamp! They’ve got antique sewing machines and “Lady and the Tramp,” so it’s only right. The post office could even hold a vote, like fat Elvis or thin Elvis (Cheney classic, or ski mask).
Now that’s a legacy! Of course, nothing like “Go fuck yourself.”
You crack me up! Serge A. Storms
Mahoney finished the letter and stuck the dossier back in his briefcase. Then he pulled a coffee-table book from under his seat.
The agent took a tentative sip of still-too-hot coffee and opened the book in his lap, refreshing himself on the history of the Highwaymen.
FORT PIERCE
The Javelin cruised down U.S. 1 and reached the city at first light.
“Here we are!” said Serge. “Birthplace of Florida’s Highwaymen. The air is electric! I must roll the window down!” “Sunrise!” said Coleman. “That calls for a beer!” “You already have one going.”
“It’s not the sunrise beer.” Coleman popped a second Schlitz for his other hand and plowed into the new day with his signature two-fisted zeal to beat back agenda.
“Coleman, I’m trying to teach you a little culture.”
“I’m listening. They were some kind of painters, right?”
“Not just any painters. Florida’s seminal landscape artists of the fifties and sixties, a loose collection of twenty-six African Americans who used their talent to escape the period’s low-pay citrus fields.”
Coleman finished the first can. “Why were they called the Highwaymen?”
