“Now wait a minute,” said Steve. “That wasn’t part of the deal. My shipments go untouched, otherwise it’ll attract attention to the information I’m feeding you.”
“The diamonds.”
“Let me make it up some other way. Anything but that. It’ll look way too suspicious if I report a theft.”
The Eel placed a chummy arm around Steve’s shoulders. “You know, you’re right. We wouldn’t want to place our trusted associate in that kind of position.”
“Glad you agree.”
Wham. A jackhammer punch to the stomach. Steve doubled over.
The Eel bent down for eye contact. “You stupid motherfucker! How difficult is counting floors?” He twisted the hand-drying vent upward, then mashed the large chrome button with his fist and pressed Steve’s right cheek over the opening.
“Ahhhhh! It burns! It burns! …”
The Eel kept Steve’s face jammed against the machine and turned to his goons. “Our friend is worried about appearing suspicious.”
The gang closed in with a swarm of fists. Thirty seconds later, they stepped back revealing a bloody, crying coin dealer crumpled on the ceramic floor. One of the guards snatched Steve’s torn coat and felt along the silk lining. “Here they are, sewn inside.” He tossed a tiny sack to the Eel, who gave Steve a final kick in the ribs. “Now you look very convincing.”
Serge turned right onto Avenue D and cruised west through Fort Pierce.
“Coleman, look here …” He tapped a spot in his oversized pictorial book. “This magnificent painting was created by one of the Highwaymen’s two founders, Harold Newton, whose brother Sam now tends his own gallery in Cocoa’s thriving historic district…”
Coleman saw a pastel green juke joint surrounded by palm trees. A handful of people milled in the unpaved road. One leaned against a red coupe. Long shadows from telephone poles said it was late afternoon. The sky moody.
“Looks nice.”
“It’s Eddie’s Place, the yin-yang of the Highwaymen’s saga: subject of one of their most beautiful paintings, yet also site of the saddest day in their history. The movement’s other founder, Alfred Hair, was the only Highwayman to study formally under A.E. Backus.”
“That art gallery dude?”
“As the story goes, a stray bullet fatally felled Hair in Eddie’s Place on August 9, 1970. Until now, all I’ve had to go on was this painting, driving up and down Avenue D over the years looking for Eddie’s, but much has changed. The road’s paved, fresh paint, many upgrades. Plus there’s always the constant threat that the building had simply been demolished or burned down.”
“What changed?”
“The Internet.” Serge slowed and scanned the south side of the road. “Found some informative articles. Like the Pastime in Jacksonville, Eddie’s Place lives on under a new name, now the Reno Motel.”
Coleman completed his second sunrise beverage as they crossed Eleventh Street. A hard slap from the driver sent the can flying. “There she is! There she is!”
“Where?” asked Coleman.
“Up there.” Serge pulled over and parked on the opposite side of the street. He ran to the trunk. “Coleman, give me a hand.”
Coleman fell out of the car like a medicine ball and rolled to the curb. He got up, rubbing skinned palms. Serge handed him equipment.
“Aren’t you going to take a bunch of pictures like you usually do?”
“Something more relevant first.” Serge handed him a large rectangle.
“What’s this?”
“Canvas.” Serge grabbed a second one.
“You’re going to paint?”
“You, too.”
“But I’ve never painted before.”
“Neither have I. But what if I’m a natural who can paint like a photograph and don’t know it because I’ve never tried?”
Coleman grabbed a brush. “I thought you did try painting about ten years ago in Tampa. Remember? You set up an easel on the bay, saying the overwhelming beauty was suffocating, then went berserk with three brushes in each hand.”
“That was different. I was working in acrylics.”
“You ended up covered head to toe in paint with a shredded canvas hanging around your neck.”
“Acrylics are a much more difficult medium.”
Coleman uncapped a squeeze bottle. “How do I start?”
“First, get rid of the brush. Everyone uses them. The key to making a living as an artist is volume. I learned that from Hair. See how I’m slathering the entire painting at once-background to final detail-with nothing but my bare hands.”
“Just looks like a big mess.”
“It’s called a primitive. Or post-modern. Depending on the market.”
“I think it needs something more.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Serge scratched the canvas with a fingernail. “I’ll add a stick man for scale. Now you try.”
Coleman began swirling his hands on the other canvas. “What about Story?”
“Should stay asleep in the backseat for at least another half hour, long enough for us to whip off two or three masterpieces before she awakens and becomes an art critic.”
“Look.” Coleman pointed with a blue hand. “A bunch of people are staring at us.”
“I knew it! We’re already attracting the attention of the art crowd. They detect our homage to the Highwaymen.”
“An art crowd in front of a barbecue shack?”
