“That you could make it look like an accident.”
“Anything else?”
“Make her suffer.”
“That I don’t do. You want her to suffer, grow some balls and handle it yourself.”
“I’ll pay an extra grand.”
“How much screaming do you want?”
“This isn’t a joke!”
“See me laughing?” Serge stood with the newspaper. “Consider it done. But you need to do a few things.”
“Like what?”
“You know that other bar south of the crossroads?”
“Yeah?”
“Make yourself visible. Have a few pops, talk to everyone. Keep asking if the clock over the bar is right and all that police-show alibi shit. And don’t leave the bar for anything, especially the bathroom, even if you have to piss like a racehorse. Some asshole will always say ‘Yeah, he left to take a leak,’ and the three minutes you took will later balloon into a half hour when the cops grill him, long enough to get back and forth from your house. Last question: Any kids?”’
“Two. They’re staying out of town with my mother.” The man looked down; his voice became tentative: “When will I know?”
“I’ll find you. Now git!”
The man scurried out of the bar.
Serge slid over a stool. He reached inside the brown envelope, removed some of the cash and stuck it in his hip pocket. Five minutes passed.
A muscular man in a tropical shirt stepped through the doorway. Gaunt, sun-dried face like a walnut. He headed directly for the bar and climbed on the stool Serge had just vacated.
Serge turned. “Scagnetti?”
“Got something for me?”
Serge slid the newspaper over.
The man peeked inside. “Looks light.”
Serge shook his head. “It’s all there. A grand.”
“A grand? It’s supposed to be two.”
“That’s not what Vince said. I give two to him and one to you.” “You were supposed to give me the two! Fuckin’ Vince, holding out.”
“Does this mean it’s off?”
“No,” snarled the man, pulling out the photo and address. “I’ll deal with Vince later. How do you want it done?” “Double tap to the back of the head.”
“But that’ll draw attention your way. Sure you don’t want me to make it look like an accident? The latest thing is getting run over by your own car in the driveway.”
Serge shook his head. “Even make it easy for you. I’m going home to play with the whore first. You’ll find her tied up and gagged in a closet.”
“You’re one sick bastard! Why not just finish it if you’re going that far?”
“Need to establish my alibi when the forensic team pegs time of death. Give me four hours to reach Miami, well outside the margin of error.”
“That puts us at five-thirty.” He looked up from his watch. “Which closet?”
“Uh …”
“You don’t know your own house?”
“Of course I know my house! The front closet. You’ll probably hear muffled screams.” The man left abruptly.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “I have no idea what’s going on.” “We’re driving over to the address.” “But you only kill jerks.”
“I’m not going to kill her. I’m going to save her.”
“Shouldn’t you go to the police?”
“Are you listening to yourself? Go to the police? Me?”
“I meant call anonymously on one of those tip lines.”
“There’s no guarantee they’ll nail him. And even if they do, he’ll still eventually get out because it’s only attempted murder. You saw that level of rage-‘make her suffer’-she’ll always be in danger unless I tie a bow on this. Luckily, her husband mistakenly came to an undercover citizen. Guys like that turn my stomach.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
Serge broke into a skip as he headed out the door. “Because this is going to be so much fun!”
PORT ORANGE
A Kenworth semi took the Atlantic detour from 1-95 to avoid state weighing stations. It crossed the bridge over Rose Bay. The driver had been the consummate gentleman, as had all the other truckers, who recognized one of their own social class in need and helped pass a hitchhiker named Story up the coast like a relay baton.
Brake hydraulics wheezed as the rig pulled up to the Fairview Motel. “This is as far as I’m going.” “But it’s only two in the afternoon.” “I’ve been running thirty of the last thirty-four hours.” “Your log books?” “Fiction.” “Amphetamines ?”
He just smiled. “I need to take the edge off if I’m ever going to get to sleep. There’s this spot up the road if you want to join me. Coldest beer you’d ever want.”
Story knew men well enough to know it wasn’t a come-on. The driver had been talking nonstop about his wife and kids since Titusville, showing wallet pictures.
“Sure,” said Story.
The two walked through a blazing sun up the side of U.S. 1. They stood on the sidewalk along the east side of the street, locally known as Ridgewood Avenue, waited for a dump truck to pass, then scampered across the highway toward the inviting doorway of The Last Resort. Story wiped sweat off her face with her tank top.
She was almost to the entrance when two men ran out, paired physically like Abbot and Costello-“Woooo!” “We’re rockin’ now!”-and sped off in a Javelin.
Story looked back. “What’s with them?”
“It’s The Last Resort,” said the driver.
They went inside to the coldest beer anyone could want.
