He looked back at the vibrating boxes. “We need to respect their privacy. No telling how people react under these circumstances. Probably be embarrassed if we saw them cry.”
Another dispenser squirted.
“That one’s already crying,” said Coleman.
“It’s our cue.” Serge leaned over the boxes a final time. “I’ll put out the do not disturb sign so the maid won’t see you. That would really be embarrassing. Women say it’s okay for men to cry, but forget any more nookie if you do. And forget any more nookie if you even use the word nookie. Except with hotel maids, because there’s often a language barrier. So, in summation, if for some reason the maid does come in here: A. Don’t cry. B. It’s your call whether to use the word nookie …” Serge patted down their pants pockets. The first guy only had a wallet, but the second produced a cell phone. “Excellent.”
They headed out the door.
Coleman suddenly turned and ran back inside.
“Coleman,” Serge yelled from the hall. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Forgot something.” He uncapped a Magic Marker and leaned toward the wall next to the TV cabinet. “Just be a sec.” “Come on!”
“Okay.” Coleman capped the marker and ran out of the room.
The door closed.
Squirt.
THE NEXT MORNING
A two-tone Javelin sat next to a boat ramp on the cause-(way over the Intracoastal. The day had that deep-purple overcast. Then lightning laced the sky, sending smaller fishing boats back to shore.
Serge was in the driver’s seat, messing with a pair of cell phones. Coleman poured from a pint of vodka with a vulture on the label. “Where are we?”
“Phil Foster Park,” said Serge, trial-and-erroring his way through the phones’ menus. “Between mainland Riviera Beach and Singer Island.” He looked across the water at a forty-foot sailboat cruising under the giant, modern bridge arcing high into the sky before sloping back to Blue Heron Boulevard. “I love this place! Spent many a childhood afternoon here. I hate that fucking bridge.”
“Why?”
“Horrible development of the New Sunshine State. Many barrier islands have replaced their gloriously historic drawbridges with these towering new spans so people don’t have wait for boats. But the old bridge still lives in my heart. I’d ride my banana bike out here with my fishing pole, a barefoot Florida Huck Finn, tackle-box-of-hope sitting in the handlebar basket, which I got for my newspaper route.”
“You were a paperboy?”
“Another tragic turn of culture: No more paperboys because it’s now too dangerous for kids to ride around throwing papers before dawn, or collect weekly payment after sunset…” Serge navigated the phones’ on-screen displays. “… I fondly recall delivering the awardwinning Palm Beach Post. Only lasted three days, even though you’re looking at one of the best paperboys who ever pedaled a Schwinn.”
Coleman stirred his drink with a finger. “What happened?”
“Should have seen me in action, zooming down the sidewalk as fast as my legs could churn, slinging papers like nobody’s business. I could hit nine out of ten roofs blindfolded. Then it turns out they didn’t want roofs. I said, what about doors? They said doors were good. And could I hit doors! Wham! Nobody had any doubt when their paper arrived. But as I said, this was all before sunrise. I figured they needed to start getting up earlier anyway. To compound the growing ungratefulness, I went for style points and tried throwing while doing a wheelie. You break one picture window, and that’s all they want to talk about.”
“So you used to fish around here?”
“I wasn’t fishing. I was playing with sharks.”
Coleman chugged half the drink and clenched his face. Then drank some more.
Serge punched phone buttons.
“What are you doing?”
“Steve was our only connection with the gang who attacked Howard. Since that’s off the table, I’m correlating recent calls made by the respective phones I took from Steve and the bandits in that room yesterday.”
Coleman finished the rest of his drink and involuntarily shivered from the aftertaste. “You said something about sharks?”
“Excellent topic retention, Coleman. People swim around here all the time with no clue. We’re at the mouth of Lake Worth Inlet, incredible tidal flows, all kinds of giant fish. I’d hang out at the base of the bridge by the Crab Pot, where my granddad always took me for fried catfish before it was torn down by heritage-phobes. That’s where older dudes cast-net and spilled junk fish all over the ground, then sliced ‘em up for bait, the bloodier the better. They knew me-was like their mascot-so I’d always get a chunk, which I hooked to my line, go out on the bridge and throw it over the side.”
“You caught sharks?”
