The emcee came up to the table and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “What’s going on here? We got an empty stage.”
Spider pointed at the new guy. “Looks like you’re up, Bob. Cherry-poppin’ time. Break a leg.”
Bob hurried off with his musical case.
Spider chain-lit a Viceroy. “I didn’t think it was possible, but Bob may just make us long for the days of Bad Company.”
Bob climbed onstage and pulled a stool up to the microphone.
The emcee motioned for a soft spotlight. “Ladies and gentlemen, Caesars Palace of Hoboken is proud to present Steppenwolf!”
Bob leaned to the microphone.
A cell phone rang in the corner booth. Spider answered. He mostly listened. He hung up.
“Who was it?” asked Preston.
“Our agent.”
“Jesus, Spider, you’re white as a sheet!”
“That was the call we’ve been waiting for our entire lives.”
“What call?”
“We’ve made it. No more playing dumps like this. We’re going right to the very top.”
“You don’t mean…”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
21
“They’re in a pink Cadillac, for Chrissake!” Ivan yelled into his cell phone. “How hard can it be to find?…Shut up! That was rhetorical!…Look, here’s what you’re going to do. Tell all your hookers and pimps on US 1 to keep their eyes open for a pink Eldorado. They’re out there twenty-four hours anyway. If the Caddy ends up anywhere on US 1 from West Palm to Miami, at least a dozen of your people will see it…. What do you mean, how do I know they’ll end up on US 1? They’re scumbags!”
Eyelids fluttered in morning sunlight.
Clang, clang.
Lenny sat up in the rigid motel bed and looked around.
Serge was at the sink, shaving, singing Estefan,
Lenny rubbed his eyes and went over to the window. He pulled back a burlap curtain. Cars raced by on US 1, past a big sign out front, SAHARA MOTEL. Someone had thrown a brick through the camel. He looked across the bent fence at the source of the clanging, the body shop next door.
“Where are we?”
“Riviera Beach,” said Serge. “My hometown.”
Clang, clang.
“This motel is on the skid,” said Lenny.
“I know. Isn’t it great?” Serge pointed at a wall. “And they still have the original cheesy beach painting from the sixties.” Serge grabbed one side of the frame and began pulling.
“You’re stealing the painting?”
“Yes, this is
Lenny came over and tugged from the other side, and the painting came down along with two drywall anchors and a tiny cloud of plaster dust. Serge reached in his shaving kit and pulled out a travel squeeze bottle and began squirting red liquid on the bedsheets.
“What’s that?” asked Lenny.
“Chicken blood.” Serge squirted the pillowcases and splattered the wall.
“It looks like someone got hacked up in here.”
“Exactly,” said Serge. “Takes their mind off the missing painting. Works every time.” He stuck the bottle back in his shaving kit. “C’mon, we have to check out.”
“I think I need a shower,” said Lenny. “I can smell myself.”
“No time,” said Serge. “We have to get to the hideout.”
“The what?”
“The hideout. We need to lay low until the heat is off.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re on US 1 and this is a very distinctive car. The network of hookers and other human cockroaches has no doubt already been alerted to be on the lookout.”
“So that’s why you covered it with that thing.”
Serge tucked the painting under an arm and picked up the silver briefcase. “Let’s rock.”
They went around behind the motel. Lenny pulled the beige tarp off the Cadillac, and they got in.
Serge made a quick left onto North Thirty-seventh Street and pulled up to the curb in front of a small clapboard house, number 28.
“Is this the hideout?”
“I wish!” said Serge, snapping pictures without getting out of the car. He lowered the camera to change the f-stop. “No, this is Burt Reynolds’s childhood home. His dad was police chief here, and the family used to have a restaurant on Blue Heron Boulevard by the old drawbridge.”
Lenny fired up the morning fat one. “Why are you so into Burt, anyway?”
“Because we’re homeboys. I grew up on Thirty-fifth Street, two blocks over.”
“Far out.”
“Think of it,” said Serge. “Just two streets. Do you have any idea what that means?”
Lenny shook his head.
Serge held his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “It means I was
A hooker approached the car. “Hey, sugar.”
Serge pointed at the house. “What time’s the next tour?”
“The what?”
He snapped a couple more quick pictures and looked around the yard, then back at the hooker. “Where’s the historic marker? They’ve put one up, haven’t they? Don’t tell me someone stole it!…Yeah, that has to be it. There’s no way they’d let Burt’s place go unmarked…” He raised the camera again. Click, click.
