“My name’s Sh-teve. What’s yours?” Still staring down at the textbook. “Story.”
“Story? What kind of name is that?”
“Like Musgrave, the astronaut.”
“You have a man’s name?”
She highlighted something with a yellow marker.
“That’s okay,” said Steve. “Lots of two-way names now. Alex, Mickey …” He extended a hand to shake.
She gave it a look like it was covered with raw sewage.
Steve changed tactics and opened his wallet. “Let me buy you a drink.” He set a twenty on the counter and raised a finger. “Bartender!”
She grabbed the bill and stuck it in her pocket.
The barkeep came over. “What can I get you?”
“Uh, nothing.” Steve turned. “What brings you to town?”
“Meeting my brother.”
“What are you reading?”
She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.
“Something bothering you?”
“An asshole sat down next to me.”
“Look,” said Steve. “If you don’t want company, just say so.”
“I don’t want company.”
“That means you’re lonely.” He grinned. “And there’s only one cure for what ails you: Sh-teve!”
“Go away.”
“I got coke.”
“I’m not going to ask you again.”
“Can I have my twenty back?”
“No.”
Steve bit his lip in thought. Then under his breath: “Bitch.”
Story slowly raised her head, eyes boring holes in a blank spot on the wall. Blood pressure zoomed into the red zone. The bartender was looking at them. He smiled. She smiled back until he turned around to run an American Express card. Like lightning, her left hand shot out, seized the hair on the back of Steve’s head, and smashed his face down into the bar. It happened so fast, the guys in the cheap seats weren’t exactly sure what they’d seen. Then, just as quickly, her hand withdrew before the bartender could spin around at the sound of the attack.
“Good God!”
Story looked up from her textbook. “What?”
The bartender ran over with a thick stack of napkins and handed them to Steve, blood pouring from his nose all over the counter. “You okay, fella? What happened?”
Between booze and kissing the bar, Steve could only manage incomprehensible slurring.
“I think he’s drunk,” said Story, turning a page.
AN HOUR LATER
Two young men with shaved heads couldn’t move. They lay crammed in the trunk of a 1971 Javelin. The hood opened. Serge stood back-lit by an energy-saving streetlight. The pair glanced up with puzzled faces.
“You’ll absolutely love it!” said Serge, panning the camcorder from one skinhead to the other. “I’m filming the perfect ending to your movie.”
“What are you going to do with us?”
“First I’ll tape your mouths, because I don’t like interruptions when I’m teaching class.”
On the side of the road, Coleman pushed himself up from where he’d lost another dance with gravity. “Serge, what gave you this idea?”
“Back when we were renting on Triggerfish Lane.” Serge set the camcorder on the ground and tore off long stretches of duct tape. “Had that embarrassing near-fatal accident in the front yard performing my one-man interpretive dance honoring those natives in National Geographic with the big neck hoops.”
“That’s right. I saved your life with just seconds to go by turning off the hose.”
“And don’t think I haven’t forgotten,” said Serge. “Sixty more times and we’ll be even. After the blood returned to my brain, I said to myself, I may have just tripped over a major advancement in my chosen field. Let’s take it to the next level! But until today I never had the right dick-wads.”
Serge finished with the tape, stood back up and smiled proudly with arms outstretched in an encompassing gesture. “Welcome to the First Coast! The chambers of commerce name them all: Space Coast, Treasure Coast, Gold Coast, Nature Coast, Emerald Coast. But you’re at the First! Florida is a paradox that way, one of the youngest states, yet with some of the oldest European settlements. And this particular section of the northeast shore was home to a couple of the earliest sixteenth-century Spanish and French fortifications. You mentioned before your admirable devotion to pride, so I can tell by your buggy eyes that you’re overwhelmed being bound and gagged at a seminal site of Euro-centrism in the New World. I built that into tonight’s program just for you! … Coleman, give me a hand.”
Coleman grabbed a pair of wrists. “What about the neighbors?”
“What neighbors?” said Serge, gripping ankles. “It’s the only house at this end of the new development. And there’s extra newspapers in the driveway, which means they’re on vacation. That’s why I picked it.”
