Mahoney walked across a parking lot, unfolding a flyer and reading it for the tenth time: “Howard Enterprises. Floridiana from all eras. Estates appraised.” The agent returned it to his pocket and entered the only conference room in a modest beach motel.
Against the back wall, a young man boxed up pins and buttons and citrus-packing labels. It had been a slow day, as in nothing. Howard decided to bag it early.
“Excuse me.”
Howard looked up. “Yes.”
Mahoney pulled a brown leather holder from his tweed jacket and flashed a badge.
“Wow!” said Howard. “That’s a Dade sheriff, 1942. I’ll give you fifty.”
Mahoney turned the shield around. “Shoot, grabbed the wrong one.” He returned it to his jacket. “Genuine article’s back on my dresser.”
“You’re a cop?”
Mahoney answered by whipping out a mug shot. “Seen this man?”
Howard instantly recognized it. “Has he done something wrong?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I gave him a postcard the other day.”
Mahoney stuck a matchstick in his mouth. “Which way’d he hoof?”
“South, I think.”
“Anything else?”
“Seemed real nice.”
Mahoney pulled the matchstick out. “Fits his M.O.”
THE LAST RESORT BAR
An uncharacteristic mood swing. Serge jumped and reflexively glanced behind his stool. Nothing there.
Coleman killed another longneck and slammed the empty on the bar. “What’s the matter?”
“Not sure. You know how you sometimes get the feeling you’re being followed?”
“No.”
Serge took a swig of spring water. “I’ve been having them more and more lately, and I don’t understand why. Well, actually I do.”
“Really?”
“Hasn’t it ever struck you odd that, given my lifestyle all these years, I’ve never been caught or clipped? I’m good, but not that good.”
“What are you saying?”
“Everyone’s luck runs out sometime.”
“Serge! Don’t talk like that!”
“It’s okay.” He placed a consoling hand on his buddy’s shoulder. “Life’s already rained an abundance of blessings on me.”
“But you’ve always had a wild imagination. Nobody’s following us.”
“Probably right.” He raised the water again. “Must be all in my head …”
A new customer appeared in the doorway, slowly scanning the dim room before taking sideways steps along the wall. He clutched a folded newspaper to his chest like it concealed a grenade.
“Still,” said Serge. “There eventually has to be a time. Everyone’s got a bullet with their name on it.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in that fate stuff.”
“I don’t,” said Serge. “I’m more afraid of bad ratings.”
“What do you mean?”
The new customer tiptoed around the near wall, clandestinely sliding behind Serge’s chair.
“My life’s so weird, it’s like I’ve been walking through the script of a sit-com.” Serge drained his water. “I’m just worried the universe will grow tired of my character and write me off the show. That’s why I chose this seat.”
“Why did you choose it?”
“Got views of all three assault ports: entrance, side door and bartender’s service exit. If the script guy comes in here …” -he patted the gun butt under his tropical shirt-“… I’m doing some rewrites.”
“Maybe I can help,” said Coleman. “I’ll stay alert for anyone suspicious who might come in here lookin’ for you.”
“Someone already has.”
“Where?”
“Right behind me. Don’t look-“
Coleman looked.
“Thanks.”
“Serge, he’s got something hidden in his newspaper.”
“I picked up on that.” Serge slowly slipped his hand off the bar and down to the bulge under his shirt.
“Think it’s a hit?”
“No,” Serge said sarcastically. “He just popped in to give a complete stranger a whole bunch of money.”
“Serge, he’s coming toward you! He’s lifting the newspaper!”
Serge simultaneously spun on his stool and whipped out the pistol, aiming it sideways, low in his lap, so only the new customer could see.
The man froze and took quick, shallow breaths. He looked at the empty stool on the other side of Serge from Coleman. “May I?”
“Knock yourself out.”
The man sat and placed the folded paper on the bar in front of him. “Are you Scagnetti?”
“Nope.”
“Never mind. It’s better I don’t know your real name.” He glanced at his watch.
“You’re early.”
“Why put things off?”
The stranger’s eyes shifted a final time before surreptitiously sliding the folded paper to his right.
“News-Journal,” said Serge, keeping aim from below bar level. “Excellent paper.”
“Thought you’d be more muscular.”
“I make up for it with deceptive speed, Zen-like mental toughness and champion bird calls.” Serge’s free hand lifted the newspaper’s front edge, revealing a bulky brown envelope tucked inside. He lifted the flap and peeked like a poker player. Thick wad of bills.
“It’s all there,” said the man. “Two grand.”
Serge reached under the money, pulling out a Polaroid, a scrap of paper and a house key.
“My wife and the address.”
“I guessed that.” Serge slipped the photo back inside. “How’d you know it was me?”
“That tropical shirt.” He pointed down. “And the particular stool you’re on, just like Vince said.”
“Vince?”
The man covered his mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to use his name.”
“What else did Vince say?”
