“Ooooo. The 1909-SVDB. Coleman, that’s the Cadillac of Lincoln pennies. The guy who did the engraving snuck his tiny initials onto the back, and when the government found out, they removed them, making the early ones extra rare, especially with the San Francisco mint mark. Wanted it ever since I was a kid!”
Steve pulled out his cash box. “So you’d like to buy it?”
“Hell no!” Serge slammed the album shut. “I stared at that empty hole in my penny book every day after school until it represented all issues of emotional rejection. I despise that coin with every cell in my body.” Serge stood and dabbed his eyes. “Sorry, can’t buy anything today. Don’t need that kind of negative energy in my life. Let’s go, Coleman …”
They continued around the room, long lines of display tables with initially smiling salesmen. Serge walked briskly, glancing in glass cases as he passed. “… Coins that suck … More coins that suck … Fuck half-dollars … Quarters will only break your heart…”
They reached the back of the room and a stretch of folding tables that were all oddly empty except for a single exhibitor in the middle with no customers.
“Wait. What’s this?” said Serge. “It can’t be …”
“What is it?”
Serge raced over and fell to his knees. “It’s … too good to be true. Coleman, am I awake?”
Howard straightened and smiled at his first and only customers of the day. “How ya doin’?”
Serge stood with sparkling eyes. “Excellent! Where’d you get all this great stuff?”
“Mainly estate sales and flea markets.”
Serge stepped back to catch his breath. Spread before him was an immense, eclectic feast of Floridiana. “And I thought J had a collection …” His eyes didn’t know where to start. They went from the hundred-year-old 3-D stereoscopics, to vintage sterling spoons with pineapple handles, to faded felt pennants-Gatorland, Cape Kennedy, Sunken Gardens. “Look at all these lapel pins! And license plates! And salt and pepper shakers!” He picked up an ashtray from the Algiers. He set it down carefully, then lunged against the table. “How much for all of it? Wait, get a grip-there’s no way I can afford-Wow!” He grabbed a matchbook from the Collonades. “You must make a fortune selling these things.”
“Actually, I’m barely getting by.”
“You’re kidding!” Serge stopped and appraised the young man for the first time. Not very tall, way too thin, the wormy type who was probably picked on relentlessly as a child and undermined as an adult. Howard seemed okay with the arrangement.
“I don’t understand,” said Serge. “You’ve got the best stuff I’ve ever seen. How can you not be raking it in?”
“Doesn’t seem to be much of a market. But at least I get to do what I like-“
“Oh my God! Coleman, check it out!”
“What is it?”
Serge looked up with begging eyes. “Can I touch?”
“Be my guest.”
He gingerly picked up a slender protective sleeve. “Coleman, this is one of the highly sought-after Lansdorf alligator-border postcards, circa 1910. And it’s from Tampa! Henry Plant’s old railroad hotel and staging ground for the Spanish-American War.”
“Really know your Florida souvenirs,” said Howard.
“You don’t have any idea.” Serge opened his wallet. “Damn. I’ll need to find some cash. Actually, I need to earn some.”
“Take it.”
“What?”
“You’re the first person I’ve met who loves this stuff like me,” said Howard. “If it means that much, then you should definitely have it.”
Serge went mute.
“What is it?” asked Howard. “Are you okay?”
Serge just stood with an open-mouth expression as if Howard had just removed a thorn from his paw.
The whiskered manager of a budget motel tore open a bag of red-hot pub fries with a picture of Andy Capp on the front. Morning became early afternoon. The manager had his feet up again, watching a bounty hunter show. Then an odd feeling. He hadn’t noticed it until then, but something was different.
The manager got up and walked to the reception desk. Business was always slow at this location, which was fine by him. But today, except for checkouts, there hadn’t been any. Literally.
He crossed the lobby and looked out the front window. A van with Indiana plates rolled onto the lot. Here we go: a customer. Must be imagining things.
He waited for them to come in, but the van kept rolling past the office before speeding away.
Oh well, lots of people didn’t like the looks of the place when they got up close. Seen it hundreds of times. The manager was about to return to the backroom when he saw a station wagon from Tennessee pull off the highway. He waited at the desk. The vehicle drove up to the office and screeched out the exit. Then an SUV. And a Chrysler.
Curiosity was killing him as the scene repeated over and over, all kinds of high-mileage family vehicles approaching the office, slowing down as the occupants strained for some kind of view, then fleeing at escape rate.
