He stopped for a moment to whistle at the most cash he’d seen in forever. Yes, he had been skeptical, thinking Steve was setting him up for some kind of scam, maybe looking to boost his whole souvenir collection. But then the meeting an hour later in the hotel restaurant where Steve introduced him to the distributor and the initial payment was made. No scams came to mind where the victim got a bunch of cash.
The billfold went back in his pocket. From another pocket came a small, padded brown envelope. He glanced around: Where to hide it? Steve had given him a few ideas. Howard got up to check behind a mirror.
A sound at the door. A magnetic key. Howard turned.
The door opened. Two massive men with long, stringy hair.
“I think you have the wrong room.”
“We have the right room.”
VERO BEACH
The motel room’s decor was a bit on the blue side. The property sat, as it had for decades, just north of State Road 60 between the municipal airport and a configuration of manicured baseball fields.
When Coleman first stepped into the room a few hours earlier: “It’s kind of blue in here.”
Serge followed with a suitcase in each hands. “Because it’s Dodgertown! I’ve been waiting my whole life to stay here!” “Dodger-what?”
“You’ve got to get into sports more, even if just from the couch.” Serge dropped luggage and pressed the side of his face to a wall. “Brooklyn Dodgers began spring training here in 1948, one of the first teams to make Florida their preseason home. And one of the few to construct their own accommodations for the players.”
“That’s where we are?”
Serge ran and leaped onto one of the beds. “Yet another hidden jewel. Most people don’t know it, but after spring training ends, they rent out the players’ rooms, and you get to sleep in Brooklyn-blue history. No true Floridaphile can die before staying at Dodgertown.” He rolled onto his back, sweeping his arms and legs across the bed’s covers like he was making snow angels. “Wonder who slept in this room? Roy Campanella? Duke Snyder, Gil Hodges, maybe even Jackie Robinson!”
“Serge.” Coleman had picked something up from the dresser.
“Says in this pamphlet that players used to stay in a refurbished navy barracks until they built these villa-style quarters in 1974.”
Serge stopped and glared angrily at Coleman, then suddenly smiled and began swinging his arms and legs again. “Steve Garvey, Ron Gey, Don Sutton, Fernando Valenzuela …”
Hours passed. “… You know that tiny airport we saw on the way in? Filmed as a Nicaraguan airport during the Somoza overthrow in the 1983 Jan Michael Vincent classic Last Plane Out. The entire city was the star, townspeople flocking to be extras …”-Serge shook Coleman to stay awake-“… and they didn’t even have to film Latin American rebel scenes out-of-country; just shot the bad parts of Vero, jeeps full of guerrillas driving past American stop signs …”
Today became tomorrow. Dark in the room with the TV off. Coleman’s eyes were closed tight as he lay tucked snugly under a bedspread with a pattern that made people subconsciously want to buy baseball tickets.
As he slept, Coleman smiled the smile of children. A pleasant dream was playing. He was standing in a field of nachos. The smile grew bigger. His eyeballs moved back and forth, making his eyelids poke around disconcertingly like a small animal trying to find its way out from under a collapsed circus tent. Coleman’s smile fell, then an open-mouthed silent scream. He was being chased by the nacho monkeys. He ran as hard as he could, faster and faster, but his legs just spun in place like a cartoon. He suddenly sprang up in bed with a cold sweat.
Someone was standing over him.
“Oh, hi Serge.”
No answer.
“Serge?”
Still nothing.
Coleman noticed Serge’s right hand. “What’s the gun for?” Serge just stared down at him. “Serge! You’re scaring me!”
Serge blinked a few times. “Hey, Coleman.” He looked around. “What the hell am I doing here?”
“Must have been sleepwalking again.” “What do you mean ‘again’?”
“You’ve been doing it a lot lately.” “No, I haven’t.”
Coleman nodded. “Usually pacing and mumbling. Or tonight standing over me with a gun. I got the strange feeling you were going to kill me.”
“Not a chance.”
Coleman pointed.
Serge looked down at the pistol in his hand. “How’d that get there?” He tossed it on his own bed. “Have I been doing anything else while sleepwalking?”
“Yeah, but it’s kind of weird.”
“Coleman, we’re way past the turnstiles at that theme park.”
“You’ll be in the bathroom talking to yourself in the mirror.”
“What am I saying?”
“Hard to make out, but it sounds like you’re saying good-bye.”
“To whom?”
“Yourself.”
“Saying good-bye to myself? That’s weird.”
“Told you.”
“Did I mention why?”
“Just that you had a gnawing sixth sense your luck might be running out and wanted yourself to know there weren’t any regrets.”
