“Mahoney picked the perfect place. Been forever since I visited Harry and the Natives.”
“Who?”
“Let the magic begin.”
Minutes later, the Javelin parked in front of a rustic greasy spoon splashed in lively Jamaican colors. A Crown Vic was already there.
Serge looked at the rearview. “Story, for your own good I suggest you stay in the car. Don’t want you up on charges of accessory before, during and after the fact.”
She closed the textbook and grabbed her purse. “No way I’m sitting in some hot parking lot while you play fort.”
“Story-“
“I’m hungry!”
“Okay, but don’t take this personally. Could you sit at another table and pretend like you don’t know us?”
“My pleasure.”
“Then here’s the plan. Coleman and I go in first. Story: Lie on the backseat and wait five minutes until I can distract Mahoney. You silently exit the car so he won’t have the slightest inkling we all came together.”
She got out and slammed the door hard.
“Or that,” said Serge.
He and Coleman approached the eatery’s front door.
Coleman stopped and looked through the windows. “Serge, I think I took too many pills.”
“And that’s different how?”
“Everything’s weird. Look at all that crazy stuff inside. Cans of Spam in the cigarette rack.”
“It’s not pills. It’s Harry and the Natives! A half-century of Florida I-don’t-give-a-shit and ticky-tack covering the walls. ‘Waterfront dining, when it rains.’ Everybody comes to Harry and the Natives!”
“It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“Now it is. But back when they first opened in 1941-Pearl Harbor Day for those playing along at home-this was the perfect, high-traffic commercial spot. Those dunes we passed earlier formed an ideal ridge for the federal highway, and Harry’s was a convenient pull-over for the tin-can tourists. Then they built the Turnpike and 1-95, spelling doom for roadside funk. But not Harry’s! Loyal customers wouldn’t hear of it, and kept coming in droves to ensure its survival.” Serge opened the door and instantly spotted the rumpled fedora. Mahoney had his usual aces-and-eights seat, back corner facing the entrance. “Coleman, stand by the bar and look like you’re armed.” He took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing …”
Mahoney saw him coming. He sat back and wiggled a wooden matchstick in his teeth.
Serge grabbed the opposite chair and took a seat at the table with yellowed ephemera lacquered into the gnarled wooden surface. Both sat rigid and motionless, squaring off with squinty eyes.
Mahoney theatrically removed the matchstick like Clint Eastwood. “Originally the Cypress Cabins and restaurant.”
“Fashioned from tidewater pecky cypress,” said Serge. “Chopped at Kitchen Creek.”
Mahoney leaned in challengingly. “Rockin’ juke joint for the jungle warfare soldiers training at Jonathan Dickinson.”
Serge matched the lean. “Michigan MacArthurs bought the spread in 1952.”
Mahoney angled closer. “Native son Harry born here.”
Serge, nose to nose. “Reopened under present name, 1989.”
Mahoney settled back into his chair with a wry smile. “Wondering if you still had it.”
“It was you I was worried about.” Serge opened his menu. “What looks good today?”
“Smoked fish dip, venison burger.”
“Fried oyster po’ boy has my name on it.” Serge slid the menu toward the center of the table. “What’s with all the crazy e-mails? Have you finally gone ‘round the bend?”
“Mattress time. Uptown boys rolled a mystery joker. Snooping for a dime drop from the Georgia line to St. Lucie …”
“What’s it to you if someone takes me out? Isn’t that what you want?”
“What I want is to take you down myself. Can’t do that if some button man gets to the party first. But you already knew that or you’d never have darkened this door.”
“We live by the same code, you and me. If you said it wasn’t a trick, I take you at your word.”
Mahoney nodded toward Coleman.
“What’s with the second banana?”
“In case it was a trick,” said Serge. “So don’t try anything. Coleman’s a crack shot, and his ability to remain absolutely focused on the target…” Serge turned around and pointed. “… Crap …” Coleman was over at the gift counter, slipping his head through a Harry’s bar T-shirt: “Give me what the guy on the floor is having.”
Serge turned back to Mahoney. “You’re wasting your time. There is no assassin. You’ve been trying to get inside my head so long you’ve gone battier than me.”
“Gut’s never been stronger,” said Mahoney. “Remember the psychology article I wrote for that law enforcement magazine about profiling you?”
“My feelings are still hurt.”
“Ultra-intense mugs burn out twice as fast.”
“What are you saying?”
“Your mental state.”
“I know. Isn’t it great?”
“Short money on your mind slipping. Might even fragment soon, different personalities, blackouts, memory loss, losing your edge, not picking up approaching threats like you would have in earlier times because your noodle’s tuned between channels.”
“Not a chance.”
“Give me the lowdown: Anything out of the routine lately?” “Everything” said Serge. “That’s how I like my life, kicking Routine’s ass around the block.”
