Nuclear Jellyfish

WELCOME TO DAYTONA BEACH

Serge looked up the road and hit his blinker. “I have to make a stop.”

“No!” shouted Story.

“It’ll be lickety-split. Already know what I want.”

Just past the 7-Eleven stood a large building with racing flags. The Javelin pulled into the parking lot of a NASCAR souvenir superstore.

Serge worked quickly through the aisles, avoiding usual knick-knack distraction by holding palms to the sides of his eyes like blinders. He bypassed officially licensed key chains, bobble-heads and Zippo lighters, finally arriving at a giant display of full-size magnetic door signs with the stock-car numbers and fonts of all the most popular drivers. He grabbed a pair with the giant number “2.”

The cashier rang him up. “You’re a Kurt Busch fan?” i,

“No, I came twice.”

Serge returned to the parking lot and slapped his magnets on the sides of the Javelin. They continued down A1A.

“What’s that place over there?” asked Coleman. “Looks like a giant ship.”

“Supposed to.” Serge grabbed his camera. “The venerable Streamline Hotel, grande dame of old Daytona, where people lined the rooftop to watch auto races when they used to hold them down here on the beach.” Click, click, click. “I’ve often toyed with the idea of living there.”

“Don’t you mean ‘stay’?”

Serge shook his head. “I’m fascinated by the concept of people who live in hotels. Like Howard Hughes’s top-floor place in Vegas, or that rich old woman who spent years in a suite at The Breakers.”

They stopped at a red light. A carload of race fans pulled up beside them. Someone from the other vehicle noticed the magnetic sign on the Javelin and pumped a fist out the window. “Wooooooo! Kurt Busch!”

Serge pumped his own fist. “Wooooooo! I came twice!” Coleman looked back at the hotel. “What’s that smokestack-looking thing on top?” “The bar.” “Can we stop?” “No!” yelled Story.

Serge looked in the rearview at the hotel lobby’s original wraparound glass. “After the races moved out to the speedway on the other side of town, people forgot about the Streamline. Now the rooms are bargain rate, even though it’s a priceless opportunity to live in the magnificent 1940s.”

“Then why don’t they charge more?” asked Coleman.

“Because who besides me wants to live in the forties?”

In one of the Streamline’s upstairs windows, a guest stood with a coffee mug of Irish whiskey. He stared across the ocean with narrow eyes beneath the brim of a rumpled fedora. His tie had a pattern of dice and roulette wheels. Agent Mahoney’s gaze went from the sea down to traffic below on Al A. A two-tone Javelin sat at a traffic light. Mahoney looked back up at the Atlantic and raised his mug. “Where can he be?…”

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