Nuclear Jellyfish

TUESDAY

Sun baked.

Tall swamp grass. Dragonflies.

The Javelin sat at a rest stop off Interstate 95 along a wetland slough.

Serge distractedly unwrapped a Cuban sandwich while staring at Coleman. “You’re mixing tequila with Yoo-hoo?” “I’ll try anything once.”

Serge took a bite. “I absolutely love rest stops! Could stay here for days!”

“What’s so special about rest stops?”

“People! The entire spectrum of lives in motion. Vacation, business, ill intentions. Rest stops are the great equalizer, bringing together a population cross-section that would never otherwise allow themselves to be found in the same place.”

“Yuck.” Coleman poured his cup out the window. “How long is Story going to take?”

“Who knows what goes on in their bathrooms?”

“I heard they have meetings.”

“That would explain why us men think we’re in charge, but from time to time have a paranormal sensation that our free will is fatefully controlled by invisible puppet strings. Predestination is just another word for sex.”

“Wish she’d hurry.”

“No harm. The whole key to life is utilizing downtime, like envisioning a Utopia without downtime.”

Coleman pointed at the building. “The door’s opening. The meeting’s getting out.”

“Puppet time.”

Story walked toward the car. Serge pushed a last bite in his mouth and crumpled the sandwich wrapper.

She climbed in the backseat. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Not yet. My field study needs more data.”

“What kind of dumbness now?”

“Rest stops! I love them!” He opened his notebook. “Just a few more observations, like that amber warning sign by the picnic tables: VENOMOUS SNAKES IN AREA. Plus I haven’t found the felon yet.”

“Felon?”

“As I was telling Coleman: Rest stops are the great equalizer. All kinds of wanted felons and escaped cons traveling up and down the state-they have to go to the bathroom, too.” Serge scribbled on a page. “Most of these law-abiding travelers will never know it, but there’s always at least one dangerous criminal parked at each rest stop at the same time.”

“Start the car!”

Serge leaning toward the windshield. “I found him.”

“Who?”

“The felon. Over at the line of Winnebagos. Keep an eye on that last job with Minnesota plates where the retired couple is off-loading trash.”

“You’re insane,” said Story. “Those old people aren’t criminals.”

“Not them. That dude walking over from his pickup. He’s saying something and pointing under the RV. One of the oldest Florida scams in the book.”

Coleman popped a beer. “We know about the meetings.”

“It’s started,” said Serge. “He’s telling them they have a transmission leak. That’s what the pointing was about. Now he’s shaking his head: ‘Bad one. Probably won’t make it another fifty miles.’ They’re beginning to panic, asking if he’s sure. Says he could be wrong, so now he’s crawling under the Winnebago.” Serge opened the driver’s door and got down on the pavement for ground-level view. “He’s crawling back out, showing them a greasy, discolored hand. Leak’s worse than he thought. If the couple can get the RV back in gear, they must head straight to the nearest transmission shop. Luckily, he knows one back at the last exit that does excellent discount work. Most likely a seal that can be fixed for under a hundred bucks, which will turn into a complete rebuilding job for two thousand.”

“Dang,” said Coleman. “You can tell what’s wrong with the RV from way over here ?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the RV.”

“But what about the transmission fluid on the guy’s hands?”

“Bronze tanning lotion or some other gunk. Didn’t have a good line of sight, but he probably applied it from a tube while under the chassis. Now he’s wishing them good luck and says he has to get going the other way for Atlanta so they don’t suspect he’s connected to the shop.” He reached for the door handle. “Serge’s travel service to the rescue!”

Story grabbed his shoulder. “No! Don’t get out of the car!” “Society needs me.”

“For the sake of argument,” said Story. “What if they really have a leak and you get them stranded on the side of the highway?”

“Distinct possibility.” He grabbed a roll of duct tape from under the seat. “That’s why I need to run a blind test.”

“No!-“

But Serge was already running across the parking lot. The couple began climbing back into an RV with every factory option.

“Excuse me!”

They turned as Serge jogged up. “Did that guy just say you had a transmission leak?”

“Yeah,” said the man in bib overalls and a Korean vet baseball cap.

“That was awfully neighborly of him,” said Serge, “but these things can be tricky. Want a second opinion?”

“I-“

“Just be a second.” Serge dropped to the ground and scurried out of view. He popped back up a moment later.

“Well?” asked the man.

“Not sure. Thought I could save you some money, but it looks like the other guy might know more about these things. Wish you the best.”

“Thanks. Gee, so far we’ve only met two people in Florida. Is everyone down here this nice?”

“Pretty much.”

One bit of inside knowledge from the hospitality industry is that a certain percentage of guests don’t check out; they simply leave. This was a problem in the old days with brass room keys, but the new magnetic ones cost next to nothing. The front desk simply charges the remaining balance of phone calls, room service and pay-movies to the credit card-“signature on file”-that the occupant presented at checkin.

Just such a room in a south Jacksonville extended-stay was number 303. The third-floor maid got clearance to turn it around for the next guest.

Her housekeeping cart rolled up to the room later than usual because the other maid who worked the floor had failed to show without notice, and the overflow fell on her shoulders. Just after opening the door, she realized she’d caught a break with 303. The room looked hardly used, almost as if nobody had stayed there. The towel count in the bathroom matched her checklist-all hanging exactly as they’d been placed the day before by the other maid. Soap still in wrappers; tiny shampoo, conditioner and mouthwash unmoved from their perfect triangular formation on the little plastic tray. Even the end of the toilet paper retained its original folded point.

She left the bathroom to discover more non-use, everything in its proper spot, including the dresser lamp with a wiped-down base. The state of the unit lulled her into less scrutiny than normal: no notice of the few stray flecks of blood that had been missed when the tiled entryway was mopped. But most important of all to saving housekeeper time, the beds remained perfectly made, as if no one had slept in them. Because the guest, a coin-dealer-turned-diamond-courier, had never been on his bed. He was under it. The bodies of the missing maid and a man in maintenance overalls were beneath the other one.

The maid locked up the room and informed the front desk that 303 was ready for occupancy.

A two-tone Javelin sat across the street from a mechanic’s garage.

“Now what are we doing?” asked Story.

“Staking out a dishonest transmission shop.” Serge rocked enthusiastically like a child. “This is going to be the most excellent travel service ever!”

“Dammit! Take me to the hotel!”

“Please hang with us on this one,” said Serge. “This isn’t about me. It’s those poor folks from Minnesota.”

“I don’t even see their RV.”

“If it’s the scam I think, the Winnebago is behind one of those closed garage bay doors on the end, so nobody can see the expensive work not taking place.”

Story inhaled deeply for patience and looked back down at school work. “Okay, but only because I feel sorry for them, too. Just make it snappy.”

“It’ll be over before you know it.” Serge pointed. “See? Here they come now, walking back from the Intergalactic House of Pancakes.”

Fifteen minutes later, a 2005 Winnebago with blue trim eased down the driveway of the transmission shop and slowly accelerated up a service road parallel to the interstate. The Javelin fell in behind.

“Coleman, remember what I told you?”

“What?”

“Coleman!”

“Oh, that. Thought you were talking to Story.” She looked up from her reading. “You said this would be over soon.”

“Blink and you’ll miss it,” said Serge.

The RV approached the entrance ramp. The Javelin suddenly accelerated in fugitive-stop maneuver, whipping around the side of the Winnebago. Coleman waved urgently up at the driver. “Pull over! Now!”

The driver let off the gas and rolled down his window. “You guys cops?”

“No,” yelled Serge, leaning across his passenger. “But I work for the state. Just pull over-it’s very important.”

Soon, both vehicles sat quietly on the shoulder. Serge’s voice echoed from under the RV. “Just as I suspected!” He crawled out and held up a strip of duct tape.

INTERSTATE 95

The Winnebago reversed direction and sped north. A rest stop approached. A blinker went on. Serge handed Coleman the brown paper bag.

Coleman looked inside. “What are you doing with a sack of sugar?”

“Always keep a supply tucked in the trunk,” said Serge. “Part of my roadside emergency jerk kit. Now here’s what you’re going to do …”

The RV pulled into a generous parking space near the restrooms. Serge turned around in the driver’s seat and faced the huddled retired couple. “Remember to stay completely hidden. Any deviation from my plan and I can’t guarantee anything.”

“But-“

“Coleman, let’s rock!”

They jumped down from opposite sides of the RV and headed for the vending machines. Serge looked back at the vehicle. He stopped and scratched his head. He bent down.

A man from a nearby pickup truck ambled over. “Problem?”

“Think I’m dripping something.” Serge straightened and shrugged. “Probably just radiator fluid.”

“Maybe,” said the man. “But you don’t want to take chances with a leak. Not on these roads. Get stranded at night and, well, most likely nothing will happen.”

Serge placed a hand oh his heart. “Sex slaves? Heavens, what can I do?”

“I’m pretty good with vehicles. Want me to take a look?”

“You’d do something that kind for a complete stranger?”

“Bet you’ve never been to Florida before.” The man began walking toward the RV. “Extremely friendly state.”

“And I’d heard otherwise,” said Serge. “Here, come around the far side. Think you can see the leak better from there.” Serge turned and tugged his ear.

Coleman stared off with a paper sack hanging by his side.

Serge tugged his ear harder.

Coleman picked his nose.

“Coleman! I’m tugging my ear!”

“Oh! The signal! Right!”

“Signal?” said the pickup driver.

“Has the mind of a first-grader. It’s this eye-hand coordination game we play.”

The man crawled under the RV and reappeared a minute later. “Not good news.”

“Pray tell?”

The man stood and displayed a brown hand. “Transmission fluid. Real bad leak, probably won’t last another fifty miles.”

“Sounds expensive!”

The pickup driver shook his head. “Hundred bucks tops if it’s what I think. I know this garage …”

Coleman walked over to the pickup truck, glanced around and opened the gas cap.

“Gee mister,” said Serge. “Thanks a heap.”

“My pleasure.” He tipped his camo baseball cap. “Well, have to get a leg up on Atlanta.”

“Wait!” said Serge.

“What is it?”

“We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Serge!” He extended a hand.

“Elliot… Take it easy now.”

“Wait!”

Elliot sighed and forced himself to smile. “Yes?”

Coleman walked back around the RV with a crumpled paper bag in his hand. He nodded.

Serge turned toward the man. “Did I remember to say thanks?” Elliot laughed and headed for his pickup. “Good luck.” “You might need it more.”

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