Walter was directing a forensic photographer to a just-found pattern of blood spray on the side of the building. “Right over here.” Revolving blue and red lights swept across the dark wall. Gus walked up. “I think we have an ID on the victim.” Walter looked at his partner, then at the red splatter. A camera flash went off. Walter started laughing.
“You find this funny?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m still thinking about the Mr. Bill drawing on your dick. You’d laugh too if you saw the photos.”
“Photos?”
“The waitress at the café had printouts. Your wife took pictures while you were asleep.”
“Printouts?”
“From the Internet.”
HEADLIGHTS PIERCED THE fog and a salt mist that hung over the road under a harvest moon. The Buick Riviera sailed back up the Keys shortly before midnight.
Serge’s face glowed green from the instrument panel curled around the steering column in that vintage Buick design. He drove casually with one hand. His right arm was over the seat back, slowly inching toward Molly, who was bunched up against the opposite door. He addressed the passenger compartment in general: “Figured we’d top off this great evening with a nightcap at the No Name. What do you say?”
Nothing from Molly. Odd sounds from the backseat. Serge looked in the rearview, but didn’t see anyone. “Hey, what are you kids doing?” He turned and craned his neck for a look. “Uh-oh.”
Dark islands passed beneath. Serge kept glancing across the front seat at Molly. What an angel! Almost looked lifelike with that green instrument patina on her face. Serge pretended to yawn. He stretched and extended his arm farther across the seat back. Molly made herself as flat as possible against her door, like people in a prehistoric sci-fi movie when the T. Rex sticks its head in the cave but can’t quite reach them, and then, for some reason, one of the minor characters carelessly steps forward and the dinosaur bites him head first and drags him out kicking and screaming.
“I won’t bite,” said Serge. “Why don’t you come a little closer?” He patted the vinyl bench seating between them.
Molly stayed put.
“You’re going to fall out of the car like that,” said Serge. “This thing’s pretty old. I can’t vouch for the latches.”
She released her grip on the door and sat stiffly in the seat. Serge’s fingers tiptoed toward her. They both stared ahead, cresting another bridge with a rhapsodic view across the night water, twinkling lights from homes along the western bank of Ramrod. Serge’s hand slithered. Easy now, almost there. The sounds from the backseat grew louder. Serge peeked out the corner of his eye. His hand was now hovering over Molly’s shoulder, Neil Armstrong looking for a place to land on the Sea of Tranquility. The Buick started rocking on the springs. Serge eased his hand down. Two inches, one inch. Steadyyyyyyyy…
Molly flinched slightly but didn’t pull away when Serge’s hand gently settled onto her shoulder. He released a breath of relief.
Brenda erupted in the backseat: “Oh, my God! Oh yes! Fuck me!…”
“Yikes!” said Serge, snatching his arm back and lunging for the radio dial. “How about some music?”
Serge twisted the dial again.
Another station.
He turned the radio off and sat back with a nervous smile.
The Buick stopped rocking. It was quiet again. Not for long.
“Stop the car!” yelled Brenda. “Going to be sick!”
Serge skidded onto the shoulder as he’d done a hundred times for Coleman. Brenda’s door flew open.
Serge turned around in his seat. “Coleman! Be a gentleman! Hold her hair!”
THE SCREEN DOOR at the No Name Pub flew open.
“Serge!”
Serge ran down the line of stools high-fiving. He turned around at the end. “Molly, this is the gang. The gang, Molly. You already know Coleman. Not pictured is Brenda, who’s hanging out of the car.”
Coleman and Molly grabbed a table in the pool room. Balls clacked; the seven went in a side pocket. Pizzas came out of the kitchen.
