Nuclear Jellyfish

EXTENDED COMFORT EXPRESS SUITES USA

The hotel registration desk hit rush hour.

Lobby noise. Luggage carts. Lounge laughter. The automatic front doors never had a chance to fully close as a parade of off-the-clock business class rolled American Tourister over the threshold.

The spike began a half hour earlier when Jessica, the lone hotel greeter, held out as long as she could before calling in reinforcements.

Three more people in blazers emerged from a secret receptionist chamber behind the desk where, until then, they could be seen obliquely through an open door, chatting, chewing gum and ignoring the growing line at the front desk, with facial expressions suggesting brain injuries blocking the concept that they actually worked at the hotel.

Almost everyone checking in at this hour was a premium points member. Jessica staffed the last checkin station, roped off for platinum club. Gold and silver funneled into the rest of the desk. Everyone asked for drink coupons.

On the opposite side of the lobby, a statue of a dancing leprechaun held open the door to a lounge called Shenanigans.

Three tables had already been pushed together in the middle of the clover-green carpet. Cocktails, wadded-up napkins, PDAs, cell phones, business cards, sports talk. Salesmen for restaurant lighting, overstocked hair products and road-paving aggregate. A familiar face appeared in the doorway.

“What a bunch of degenerates!”

The table gang turned. “Sh-teve!” “Get over here you bastard!” Another table slid. “You got the nose bandage off.”

Steve grabbed a chair. “The cat is back in the hunt!”

“What happened last night?”

“Had to kick her out of the room. Guy’s got to get his sleep.”

“Wow, a stewardess.”

“Flight attendant,” said Steve. ” ‘Stewardess’ is insensitive.”

“Your pickup?”

“Told her I teach autistic children.”

“Someone get him a drink.” Fingers snapped for the waitress.

“Sh-teve, did you hear about Ralph?”

Steve lowered his head. “Terrible, just terrible.”

“We caught it on the news. Critical condition.”

“Told him not to stay at the same hotel,” said Steve. “Did he listen?”

“How many does that make now? Four?”

“Five.”

“TV said police are talking to him, but he didn’t see anything. Conked him on the head from behind as soon as he opened the door.”

“Must have been the hallway lookout,” said Steve. “That’s why I never turn my back on people using vending machines.”

Additional coin guys arrived. Ted, Henry. “Jesus, we just heard about Ralph!”

“It’s become an epidemic. First Buffalo Nickel Bill, now this.”

“But I don’t understand,” said a salesman named Jake, who moved a staggering amount of golf-course fertilizer. “No offense, but you guys just run hobby shows. Is there, really that much money in dimes and quarters?”

“Didn’t used to be,” said Steve. “Quiet life. Magnifying glasses. Proof sets. Then Floridachanged.”

“How’s that?”

“The value of our merch stayed the same, but the concentration of robbers in the state reached a tipping point. It was just a matter of time before they realized-like you said-it’s only a hobby show: all us middle-class suburbanites with silver dollars and no security. After that, bets were off. Now every coin expo has a shadowy band of predators hovering around the edge of the herd. They’re probably here right now.”

“Where?” Jake looked around, laughing. “Are they invisible?”

“Yes,” said Steve. “Those early bandits gave way to polished crews. You wouldn’t believe the extent of their preparations. Whose easel is this by my leg?…”

“Mine. I’ll move it.”

“… Start surveillance the day before, noting security cameras, highway exits, even visit the show to see who has the best stuff. Then hit us as we leave. One guy got jumped right in the valet line loading his trunk.”

“Don’t forget Vic,” said Ted.

“Vic.” Steve whistled. “Followed the poor guy a hundred miles back to his house and ambushed him in the driveway.”

“That’s why we take evasive maneuvers,” said Henry.

“You’re pulling my chain,” said Jake.

“All of us drive away in formation,” said Ted. “Take turns rotating in and out of lanes looking for tails …”

“… Get off the highway and immediately get back on at the same exit,” said Henry. “Before finally arriving at our safe-house hotel.”

Steve leaned back and inflated his chest. “Yes sir, the rare coin circuit is now one of the most hazardous occupations in the state. It takes a rare breed with nerves of steel.”

Jake broke out laughing. “You’re paranoid.”

“That’s what Ralph thought.”

“Speaking of which, I should call the hospital.” Henry opened his cell. “Uh-oh. Battery’s dead.”

“Use mine,” said Steve.

“No …” Henry pushed out his chair and threw a pair of tens on the table. “I’ll try my room phone. Behind on e-mail anyway. Better get back up there and check the ol’ laptop.”

Steve looked down at his own phone. “Reminds me, I need to make a call…”

He was interrupted by an elbow from Ted. “Whoa! Check that action at the bar!”

Three people sat at the bar. Coleman was on one side of Serge, and Story was on the other, sitting an extra stool down to leave an empty seat between them for peaceful textbook study.

Serge opened his laptop.

“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

“Finding a wi-fi hot spot.” Serge began tapping. “Need to check our online payment account the travel company set up to compensate us.”

“How does it work?”

“Every time we file a report…” -Serge waved his arms and wiggled his fingers-“… they magically zap money through the air and into our lives.” He stopped and rubbed his palms together. “Let’s see how rich we are!” A finger dramatically pressed a button.

Coleman leaned toward the screen. “Can we retire now?”

“Something’s wrong.” Serge sat back and scratched his head. “There’s no money. In fact it’s got a negative balance.”

“What’s going on?”

Serge pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched numbers. “I intend to find out. Probably just a clerical error. The astounding brilliance of my first report must have left them in such shock they couldn’t type straight. Can’t wait to find out how much extra they’re going to pay us …”

“I’m buying the biggest bong-“

“Shhhhh! They ‘re coming on the line now … Hello? …”

On the other side of Serge, a man stepped to the bar. He grinned at Story. She turned, giving him an exquisite view of the back of her head.

“… Bet you can’t find the words,” Serge said into the phone. “If my bonus is too large, we can work out an installment plan … What? … Could you repeat that? … There must be some kind of mistake …”

Story felt a tap on her shoulder. “My name’s Sh-teve. What’s yours?”

“Go away.”

“Let me buy you a drink … Bartender!” He placed a twenty on the counter. Story grabbed the bill and stuck it in her pocket.

Steve unconsciously felt his nose. “Have we met before?”

“I severely hope not.”

Steve climbed onto the empty stool between Serge and Story, invading her personal space with gin breath. “I have lots of rare coins in my room …”

Serge held the phone oddly in front of his face like it was an undiscovered swamp species with ten sphincters. He returned it to his ear. “Back up … What do you mean you’re not going to pay me a red cent? … Of course I got your checklists for hotel quality ť . . No, I didn’t forget to fill them out… Because I thought it was some kind of performance test, like: ‘Anyone with so little ambition as to use the checklist is not someone we want working for us.’ … Oh, it wasn’t a test? Well it should be. ‘Window treatment appeal, scale of one to five.’ I got a sixth square: ‘Who gives a shit?’ … I see …”

“Coin collecting is for wimps,” said Story.

“That’s just my hobby,” said Steve. “I teach autistic children.”

“How much extra are we getting?” asked Coleman.

Serge waved for him to pipe down. “… But I worked hard on that report. It goes on for pages. There must be something you can use … You’re kidding … What about the Elvis room? … Not even the Skynyrd bar? … I disagree … No, it’s got everything to do with travel. Don’t you want to be a Freebird? …”

The next stool: “… Bitch …”

Story’s head slowly rose, eyes boring another hole in the wall.

“Right,” said Serge. “I coined that phrase myself, Barracuda hookers …” His left arm shot out to the side, grabbed the hair on the back of Steve’s head and smashed his face down into the bar. “… Don’t take this the wrong way,” he continued into the phone, “but have you personally ever been to Florida?… Then that explains everything… Traveling down here demands an entirely different skill set … Yes, like backing into hotel parking slots … No, I don’t think you do know your customers aren’t fugitives … How’d you ever get your job? Sleep with someone?-“

Serge held the phone in front of his face again and slowly closed it.

“What happened?” asked Coleman.

“He hung up.”

“How much are we getting?”

“Coleman, he hung up. In business, that’s Morse code for zero.”

“But you worked hard on that report.”

“He said we won’t get paid unless we use their checklist.” Serge looked down and raised his elbows. His eyes followed a tiny river of approaching red liquid back up the bar toward the empty stool between him and Story. “Where’d all this blood come from?” He turned to his left. Story was looking back at him, but this time with a brand-new expression.

Coleman tapped Serge’s shoulder. “So we’re going to start using their checklist?”

“Absolutely not.” said Serge. “It’s a double test.”

A man in maintenance overalls stood in a hotel hallway, playing a brief game of charades with the maid.

“Oh, si, si.”

She produced a card and opened the door.

“Gracias.” He went inside and made the usual quick check in case someone was planted on the toilet with a loud exhaust fan. The walkie-talkie on his waist squawked: “Number two, we’re getting off the elevator. How’s dinner?”

He keyed the mike. “Ready to serve.”

Seconds later, a barely audible knock on the door. He checked the peephole and opened up. The rest of the team rushed inside. Three men in unmarked white jumpsuits slipped hands into thin gloves. One pulled the blinds shut; others turned on lamps and went to work with slot screwdrivers. Faceplates came off all the power switches.

“Find anything?”

“No, you?”

“Nothing. Sure we got the info right?”

” ‘Light switch.’ Couldn’t be more clear.”

“Maybe the guy varied his hiding routine like the one in Fort Walton …”

A secondary, wholesale search began. Dresser drawers, under mattresses, behind nightstands. Then into professional thoroughness: cover off the ironing board, taking apart the toilet-tank assembly. Someone stood on a chair and checked in the drop ceiling with a metal baton flashlight, which yielded three binders of nineteenth-century half-dollars and a few modest gold pieces.

The one with his head in the ceiling clicked off his flashlight and jumped down. “What do you think these are worth?”

“We’re supposed to be looking for stones.”

“But these look good …”-flipping plastic display pages- “… we could pawn them on the side.”

“Forget it,” said a colleague, checking behind paintings. “First, the Jellyfish would kill you for even saying that. Second, he might do us anyway if we don’t come up with the gems … Where the hell are they?”

A pillow unzipped. “What on earth were we thinking hooking up with that Jellyfish character anyway?”

“To make money.”

“I just signed up to boost gems; not roll with a sociopath.” The battery compartment came off the back of the TV remote. “We’re facing murder charges.”

“Not if we don’t get caught,” said the one with the coin binders. He set them aside, clicked the flashlight again and slid under the bed on his back like an auto mechanic. “Just keep looking-“

A cell phone rang. The lead maintenance man pulled it from his pocket. “Hello?… Oh no!” He clapped it shut.

“What is it?”

“The mark left the bar early. Everyone! Clear!” Before they could move: the sound of someone fumbling at the door.

“Kill those lights!”

The gang dashed around the near side of the bed and bunched together in a hiding spot created by the bathroom wall. The last one leaped from view just as the door opened.

Nonchalant footsteps and whistling indicated that the pulled blinds had prevented the room’s occupant from noticing the ransacked interior.

The whistling stopped. He just noticed. The two parties were still out of sight from each other, mere feet apart around respective sides of the bathroom’s corner. The burglar nearest the edge pressed himself as hard as he could against the wall and clutched the baton flashlight to his chest in a two-fisted baseball bat grip.

The unseen room occupant: “Oh my God!” He took a slow step forward. Into view.

The flashlight came down.

Stars.

The crew stood over him. Business clothes, tie askew, coin-show name tag: HENRY.

“Why’s he back from the bar so soon? Our guy was supposed to keep him there for at least another hour.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“Call it in.”

“Are you crazy?”

“You want to explain to the Jellyfish why we waited around doing nothing and not calling? Better to take our lumps now.”

“I’m not calling it in.”

“We can’t just stand here until he wakes up.”

“No, we can split…” And with that, one of the white jumpsuits ran out of the room, leaving an open door for all the world to see the gushing head wound of their prostrate victim.

“Get that fucking door before someone passes by-“

Someone passed by. A maid humming a merry tune. She stopped and looked with an initial smile at three rigid, surprised men staring back, one with a bloody flashlight by his side. The smile dissolved to terror as her eyes fell toward the unconscious man at their feet. She grabbed her head with both hands and became unhinged in Spanish, taking off down the hall.

“Shit!”

The one with the flashlight ran out the door.

The maid was already three rooms down, waddling rapidly for the elevators. She heard footsteps. “No! Por favor!-” She didn’t hear the flashlight.

The others rushed into the hall and helped drag the maid back to the room, where they dropped her across the coin dealer, forming an X. The door slammed shut.

“Now we definitely have to call this in.” The top maintenance man grabbed his walkie-talkie again. “Number one?”

“Copy. Dinner ready for takeout?”

“Negative. We need extra table settings. Two more guests

arrived.”

“Did you say ‘two’?” “Affirmative.” “We copy.”

The maintenance man quietly set his walkie-talkie on the bureau.

“What are we supposed to do?” “Wait.”

Six floors below, a white van remained backed into a parking slot behind the hotel. Two men in the front seat looked at each other. The one on the passenger side quietly set the walkie-talkie on the dash. “What do we do now?”

“Call it in.”

The passenger began to shake. “What are you waiting for?” “I can’t take this anymore.”

“Phil, what’s gotten into you? Make the goddamn call!” “Hell with it.” He jumped out the door and took off across the parking lot.

“Son of a bitch!” The driver ran around the van and closed the passenger door. Then he pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

OceanofPDF.com