“Keep your shit together,” said Serge. “I told you: I fix problems. If you go back to them with a new courier, it could go a long way toward smoothing ruffled feathers.”
“But I don’t have a new courier.”
“I do. The perfect guy.”
“Who?”
Serge beamed and thumped his chest. “Me!”
“You?”
“I know. Isn’t it great?” Serge slapped Steve on the back. “We’re going to be partners! Spending all kinds of time together, barbecuing in each other’s backyards …”
Tears returned. “I can’t take this anymore.”
“I’m afraid you’re between a rock and a hard place. Of course I’m the one who put you there. Sometimes I’m the rock, sometimes the hard place, sometimes both if there’s enough elbow room.”
“You’re insane.”
“Just plug me into your network, and I’ll handle the rest.”
“Can’t do that.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“No, I mean my distributor will never go for it. He’ll smell this a mile away.”
“Look, I’m not going to be a real courier. So there won’t be any gems to worry about.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m asking you to plug me into the gang, not your distributor,” said Serge.
“You just tell the crew I’m your new recruit.”
“Why on earth would you want me to do that?”
“It’s better you don’t know. I’m watching out for your safety. They can beat you stupid for days, and what can you tell them?”
Sobbing again.
Serge pulled a scrap of paper from his wallet and slid it along the bar. “Here’s where we’ll meet tomorrow night.”
Steve studied the address. “What’s this place?”
“Excellent joint. I’ve been dying to go there. If you survive long enough, we’ll get to see all kinds of Florida funk together. It’ll be a gas, right, Coleman?”
“All party, all the time … You do weed?”
“What?”
“Just meet us there at seven,” said Serge. “I’ll give you all the details to feed the gang so they can take me down.”
“Take you down?” said Steve. “You really are insane.”
“Going to play ball?”
“Forget it. Those guys will kill me for sure if they ever find out.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ll just have to go to the gang myself and tell them you’ve been blabbing. Sorry, I don’t make the rock-and-hard-place rules.”
“Dear God …”
“Let you in on the big secret,” said Serge. “They’re already going to kill you. My guess is sooner rather than later.”
“But we’re in business together.”
“You’re a tool. When you finally want out, you think they’re just going to let you walk away: ‘Hey guys, it’s been a load of yuks.’ Then you’ll go to another routine meeting to get your final cut, and the Coast Guard will find your torso in a shipping channel. Your torso doesn’t have any tattoos, does it?”
Steve shook his head.
“Then it’ll be your torso.”
“But why would they do that?”
“Because you’re a schmuck. One of the biggest risks they have right now is you eventually turning state’s evidence, and that’s a risk they’ll never take.”
“Dear Jesus, what am I going to do?”
“You’re in luck!” Serge grinned and put an arm around Steve’s quivering shoulders. “I’m your only hope.”
THE NEXT EVENING
Another multi-hued sunset over Okeechobee. An orange-and-green Javelin rolled slowly along the edge of the lake. It turned onto a gravel drive in front of a massive aluminum building with no doors or windows.
Coleman bent toward the windshield. “What in the hell is that?”
Half the letters were missing on the side of the structure, and passers-by had to play Wheel of Fortune to make out the name.
“Stardust Lanes!” said Serge, driving slowly around the west side of the building. “I love bowling alleys! Along with pool halls, they’re among the last museums of the old ways.”
“What’s it doing out here in the middle of the swamp?”
“That’s why I love this place so much,” said Serge. “Nobody expects it here. It’s a complete geographical non sequitur, like when that NASA probe beamed back photos of Elvis’s face on the surface of Mars.”
“We’re going to bowl?”
Serge shook his head. “You can, but my unorthodox style always invites conflict with the management.” “What’s your style?”
“You know when a bowler releases the ball, it travels a short distance before landing in the lane and rolling the rest of the way to the pins?”
“Yeah, that’s how everyone plays.”
“Because they don’t have the kind of imagination that gives me total advantage. I’ve never seen any rule that says how far down the lane the ball must land. My patented style exploits this loophole. I twirl three times like an Olympic hammer throw and release in a forty-degree arc. If the ceiling’s high enough, it hits the pins on the fly. Unbeatable technique. The rest of the competition weeps from inadequacy and pawns their equipment.”
“You can actually hit the pins on the fly?”
“In theory. But bowling balls are fucking heavy. Plus, with all my twirling, there’s no telling what direction the ball will go. I tried explaining to the last owners that this is precisely the kind of excitement the sport needs to fill those empty lanes, but they wouldn’t stop yelling.”
“Why were they yelling?”
