Cid wiped his forehead. “I’d hate to see how you drive what you own.”
“What?” said Serge, pointing in the rearview. “You mean that thing?”
Cid twisted around and saw Coleman behind the wheel of the black Firebird, trailing a few lengths back. His head turned toward Serge. “What’s he doing following us?”
“I don’t understand,” said Serge. “We always do that.”
“You always have someone follow you when you’re taking a test drive?”
“No, when I’m kidnapping someone.” Serge conscientiously checked his side mirror and hit a signal for a lane change. “That way my car’s conveniently right there to throw the hostage in the trunk, eliminating the always annoying foot chases through backyard clotheslines.”
“Fuck you! Pull over right now!”
Serge drove into a boarded-up gas station on the corner that was usually occupied by someone selling velvet rugs of Elvis, Malcolm X and kittens. But the rug people had knocked off early. The Corvette parked next to rusty pumps, and Coleman stopped behind it.
Serge turned with a .45 automatic in his hand and a toothy grin. “Let’s take another test drive.”
Serge and Coleman sat on the ends of their motel beds, intently watching TV.
“That kid in the wheelchair is so cool,” said Coleman.
“And what a voice,” said Serge.
The show ended and Coleman packed a bong made from a motel room lamp. “Those
Serge grabbed the duct tape. “I already feel better as a human.”
“They’ve taught me so much about understanding people who are different.” Coleman leaned over the bong with a Bic lighter. “What’s the duct tape for? There’s already some on his mouth.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s working it loose with his tongue.” Serge walked over to the chair with the tied-up Corvette owner. “A lot of them do that. Just wastes tape.”
Coleman exhaled. “He’s not earth-friendly.”
Serge grabbed the edge of the gray strip and ripped it off.
“I let you watch
Coleman pointed with a beer bottle. “What are you doing now?”
Serge ran an electric jigsaw through a piece of wood molding. “My latest project,” he said from behind safety glasses. “You and our contestant will soon be amazed.”
He turned off the saw and smoothed his cut with eighty-grit sandpaper. Then he grabbed a portable drill and inserted one of those massive circular-boring attachments that they use on unfinished doors to create the hole for the knob.
Serge bored. Coleman scratched his butt. The captive’s eyes bugged out.
Then prying with a crowbar. Hammering nails. Slicing balsa wood with an X-Acto knife. Cutting string with scissors. Dipping a small brush in a bottle of model airplane paint. Opening a package of thumbtacks.
Coleman tossed the empty beer bottle toward the trash can in the corner, except it was the wrong corner.
Serge opened another package and looked up at the sound of breaking beer-bottle glass. “You’re cleaning that up.”
Coleman stared at Serge’s hand. “A piece of cheese?”
Serge set it in place. “The final step to make my project operational.”
“So now what?” asked Coleman.
“Where’s Skippy?”
“In my pocket.”
Serge held out a hand. “Give him to me.”
Coleman clutched his own hands over his right breast. “Stay away from Skippy! I know what you did last time I passed out and you took him in the pet store. That’s janitor interference.”
“Custodial interference.” Serge gestured with his hand for emphasis. “Now give!”
“No!”
They began wrestling. Serge got Coleman in a headlock.
“Let go of me!”
“Not until you give me Skippy!”
“Never!”
They tumbled off the bed, and Serge performed a wrestling spin maneuver, capturing Coleman in a half nelson.
“Stop it!” yelled Coleman. “My arms are breaking!”
Serge squeezed harder. “Then give me Skippy.”
“Okay! Okay!”
Serge released, and Coleman handed over the rodent.
Serge petted the animal on the head, then lowered him to the floor. Skippy grabbed the piece of cheese and disappeared inside one of the motel’s walls.
Coleman had a puzzled expression as he stared down at a perfectly rounded, semi-circular hole in the room’s baseboard that Serge had created. Over the hole, hanging by string from a thumbtack, was a tiny balsa-wood sign: HOME SWEET HOME.
Coleman looked up at Serge. “It’s like one of those mouse holes in the cartoons.”
“I know,” said Serge, placing the drill back in its carrying case. “Isn’t it great? When I was a kid I always wondered why I never saw one in real life. So I’ve wanted to make my own ever since but never got the chance because there wasn’t a mouse handy.”
Coleman remained confused. “That was your new project? How does it help kill our hostage?”
