Nuclear Jellyfish

AFTER MIDNIGHT

Mahoney was going with his instincts, playing a hunch, had a gut feeling. He squeezed his way through the crowd in a dark room. Dance beat throbbed. He arrived at a woman gyrating inside a shark cage.

“I’m playing a hunch.” The agent held a photo to the bars. “Seen this mug?”

“You some kind of cop?”

“Yes.”

She appraised the rumpled wardrobe. His necktie had a pattern of Route 66 signs. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“Seen him or not?”

She continued dancing to .38 Special. “Prove you’re a cop.”

“Doesn’t it usually work the other way in strip clubs?” He reached inside his coat pocket.

“… Wild-eyed southern boys! Wild-eyed boys!…”

A badge went through the bars.

She studied it, then resumed dancing, eyes turned defiantly in another direction that sent an economic telegram.

Mahoney passed an Andrew Jackson through the bars.

She stuck it in her garter. “Yeah, I saw him. Just this afternoon. No way you could miss that guy.”

“How so?”

“He took like a million photos. And we had to chase him off the aquarium.”

“Fink to his skip?”

“What?”

“Did he give any indication where he might be going?”

She grabbed the bars on the opposite side of the cage, bent over and wiggled her ass. Mahoney stuck another twenty in the crack. She turned back around. “Just that they were heading down the coast doing research.”

“They?”

“Traveling with a dancer friend of mine and some drunken idiot. That’s all I know.”

Mahoney began walking away. “Thanks Blondie.”

“I’m a brunette.”

Coleman had a laptop on his knees. Serge read a newspaper. They were driving.

“This is a pretty cool travel site you made.”

“Nothing but the best.” The Javelin blew south on U.S. 1. Serge checked his watch. Four a.m. “I love driving in the middle of the night! No traffic, the rhythm of the dotted fluorescent centerline, occasional diner with a guy alone in a corner booth, all the traffic lights set to flashing yellow, my heart charged with spiritual ecstasy from the approaching dawn! But the best part is the silence, especially with Story asleep in the backseat-a rare chance to take a break from the hectic modern world and relax alone with your thoughts … hmmm, hmm-hmm, hmmm … now my thoughts are too fucking loud. We need some noise in this car.” He reached for the radio.

“… Still time to save fifty! Sixty! Seventy percent at Mattress Warehouse!… Save a horse, ride a cowboy!… All weekend long at the monster truck rally!…”

Serge turned a page in the metro section.

“How can you read a newspaper in the dark?”

“Just a sentence at a time as each streetlight passes. But that only makes it better: Gives every story cliff-hangers, like this one …” He folded the paper over. A streetlight approached. “… About an eccentric dude who liked to drive around with pet snakes hanging over his shoulders …”

The light faded.

“What happened?”

“I can hardly wait to find out!”

Another streetlight.

“Ooooo, six-car pileup in Naples.”

Coleman returned to the laptop. “So we’re just going to keep driving around working on your travel stuff?”

“I’m also implementing a secret plan.”

“What plan?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Can’t you tell me?”

“No. You drink too much and blab in bars.” “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve worked that into the plan.”

“So I can keep doing it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Had me worried for a second.”

Serge reached in his pocket and pulled out a clear plastic tube that coin collectors use to store dimes.

“Isn’t that one of the things you filled with dirt at famous places?”

“Correct.”

Coleman looked closer. “Doesn’t look like dirt.”

“My toenail clippings.”

“What are you collecting those for?”

“Number twenty-three on my to-do list. I’ve been getting strange sensations from the universe, like, who knows how much longer I’ve got on this rock?”

“You’re not that old.”

“Pushing the edge of caveman life expectancy. Of course they didn’t have health insurance, but they also didn’t have my lifestyle, except the one at Kubrick’s monolith who figured out the club. Here …” Serge passed the tube to Coleman. “I want you to have this.”

“What for?”

“To bury at my funeral. I’m hedging bets with that tube in case the end leaves no recognizable remains. I want people to have a place to visit and picnic.”

“Serge, please stop talking like this.”

“I have no regrets. Life’s been good.” He slapped Coleman on the knee and gestured at the surrounding landscape in general. “Someday all this will be yours.”

“Cool.” Coleman hit the return key on the laptop. “Hey, Serge, your mailbox is completely full.”

“It’s all Mahoney.”

“Aren’t you at least going to read what he has to say?”

Serge shook his head. “My life is now completely dedicated to positive thoughts. Rainbows, unicorns, singing flowers, cheerful elves who grant wishes frowned on elsewhere. If I open even one of Mahoney’s e-mails, it could drop a turd on an elf.”

“… This is NPR. The life of a chimney sweep in nineteenth-century Liverpool might have seemed unglamorous … Rocky Mountain Way, couldn’t get much higher!… Tom Bodette here …”

“Serge, you accidentally set the radio on scan again.”

“That’s deliberate. I have to stay abreast of culture, and a few seconds on each station is all I need. It’s also all I can stand before I lose interest. Plus, scan mode gives you the added bonus of picking up pirate radio stations, like Da Streetz, whose signal was so strong it interfered with air traffic at Miami International. And if you’re really lucky, you might even pick up a numbers station.”

“Never heard of that.”

“Most people haven’t, but they’re all over the place in Florida, jumping around the dial, popping up at random times, only broadcasting a few minutes a day from a safe house with an illegally powerful shortwave.”

“What do they broadcast?”

“Numbers.”

“That’s it?”

“Coleman, it’s all code, most frequently used by the Castro regime communicating with agents stationed in Florida to keep tabs on exile dissidents. They found one guy transmitting from a grimy apartment on South Dale Mabry in Tampa. But they’re also used by coke smugglers and other nefarious enterprises.”

“Who runs the stations?”

“That’s the best part!” said Serge. “Almost always some chick with a super-sultry voice-probably to keep the spies’ attention. I’ve always wanted to hear a numbers station! That would be the best!”

“You mean you haven’t?”

“There’s always hope,” said Serge. “And that’s why I need scan mode. In the meantime, I must find contentment peppering myself with fractured Top Forty and advertising persuasion. I’d prefer the scan mode had shorter bursts, but the intervals are set at the factory.”

“I’ve seen you listen to music. Ten seconds a song max.”

“Because I love music so much and life is so short! That’s why the iPod is the invention of the century. I’ve tapped mine into the car radio with this special RF transmitting cradle. Let’s listen to the Stones!”

The opening hook of “Satisfaction” filled the car.

“I always listen to the Stones,” said Serge, spinning the click wheel. “What else is in here?… Springsteen!… New Jersey’s too depressing … Steely Dan! They rule! … I still don’t know what these fucking lyrics mean … Floyd! I love the Floyd! … But I don’t do drugs… . Creedence!… Bayou, bayou, swamp, bayou, I get it… What haven’t I heard in a while?… The Stones! …”

Their Javelin continued down the dark, pensive highway, through Edgewater, along the Canaveral National Seashore and into Mims, before the road zigged out to the rim of the mainland at Titusville. Serge unplugged the iPod, restoring standard radio broadcast. NASA’s mammoth Vehicle Assembly Building appeared in the distance, across the Indian River, and farther back on one of the pads, a tiny space shuttle glowing in a ring of spotlights.

“… No money down! No reasonable offer will be refused! . . , Like a Bridge over Troubled Water … And now, page two …”

Coleman tapped through the website’s mailbox. “You’re right. All the messages are from Mahoney.”

“That guy’s got obsession issues.”

A cell phone rang.

Coleman looked around. “That doesn’t sound like yours.” “Story’s purse,” said Serge. “Get it for me.” Coleman turned and reached in the backseat. He handed the phone to Serge, who flipped it open.

“Serge’s Florida Experience. How may I assist with your offbeat travel needs ?.. . Story’s asleep… Of course I remember you: that chick in the shark cage doing the Pythagorean Twist… Some cop was asking about us?… Wearing a rumpled fedora? Yeah, I have a good guess … No, you did the right thing… How are your classes coming?.. .”

“… Along with the Hooters girls, this Saturday under three big tents!… Take home a pound of Tennessee Bride … Buenos …”

“… Keep studying.” Serge closed the phone.

Coleman tapped some more. “What was that?”

“Mahoney’s hot on our tail. He was showing my picture around the Shark Lounge.”

“Maybe he’s just following the stuff you’ve been putting up on your website.”

“Not this time,” said Serge. “Haven’t posted the Shark yet, which is what really worries me.” “Why?”

“He’s the only person who comes anywhere near my passion for the state, and his instincts are getting sharper. There’s a good chance he could even show up ahead of us at our next stop. He’ll never rest until he catches me.”

They pushed on into the world of 5 a.m., now joined by a skeleton traffic of delivery trucks with fresh seafood, baked goods and celebrity magazines. Serge passed an off-brand convenience store, where a man yanked bundles of newspapers out the back of a panel van.

Coleman had a joint in his lips as he continued toying with the laptop. An ash fell onto the keyboard.

“I saw that.”

“Sorry.”

“Just watch your beer. It’s the natural enemy of the laptop.”

The Javelin rolled on. Bonaventure, Eau Gallie, Melbourne-sky slipping from black to dark blue, flashing traffic lights returning to standard green-yellow-red rotation-Malabar, Sebastian, Wabasso. Coleman tapped more keys and read the glowing screen.

“Hey, Serge, check this out: I don’t think Mahoney wants to catch you.”

“Of course he does.”

“I just opened his latest message.”

“Didn’t I say not to open his e-mail? Now you’ve done it! The hex is on. And you don’t trifle with a hex. It’s worse than a pox. Luckily I’m protected by my magic cloaking tropical shirt.”

“You mean like Harry Potter?”

“Coleman, don’t be a stooge,” said Serge. “That’s make-believe book fiction.”

“But Serge, the e-mail-“

“Don’t read it!”

“He’s trying to warn that someone’s after you.”

“Yeah, him.”

“No, it says a snitch told him some hit men have been sent to take you out.”

“It’s a trick.”

“What if it’s not?”

“… In the book of Deuteronomy the Lord smote …”

“Turn off the laptop before you further anger the gods.”

“If you say so.” He closed the lid and popped a beer. “Where are we heading?”

“I’m on the trail of the Highwaymen. The country needs to know.”

“Who are the highwaymen?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Serge grabbed a coffee-table book from under his seat and opened it in his lap. “The big problem is that Mahoney digs Florida almost as much as me. If he’s heard of the Highwaymen, we could be heading straight into an ambush. But wait, I’m needlessly worrying myself. There’s so much other history in the area. I mean, what are the odds Mahoney would pick the Highwaymen?”

Thirty miles farther south, Agent Mahoney sat in a parked Crown Vic, blowing steam off the top of a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

The car was the only one in the lot, two blocks east of U.S. 1 on Avenue D. Across the inlet, predawn activity aboard a few boats at a marina with Spanish barrel tiles. A verdigris statue of two entwined sailfish stood at the corner of the seawall. Mahoney looked toward the water and watched the sun peek over the horizon at Fort Pierce. The agent checked his Green Hornet watch and shifted his eyes to the front doors of a building, still hours from its 10 a.m. opening. The A.E. “Bean” Backus Gallery and Museum.

Mahoney was under strict orders to the contrary, but he had called in a marker and received the latest law enforcement dossier on Serge. It lay open in his lap. There was the cliched, long-as-your-arm rap sheet, plus copies of countless fan letters Serge had written to top political and cultural leaders. Mahoney glanced at an old letter to the president, which he now knew by heart, then flipped to a more recent correspondence to the administration that had been intercepted while Mahoney was officially off the case. He began reading:

Ex-Vice President Dick Cheney, aka the real 43RD president Washington, D.C. (Your initials!)

Dear Dick,

Go fuck yourself! Ha! Remember that one? And you said it on the floor of Congress no less. When I first heard about it, milk came out my nose-and I wasn’t even drinking milk! That’s how funny you are!

Yes, you’ve coined the catchphrase for the millennium. Pithy, introspective. Plus it translates well. Unfortunately all the president can manage is a hayseed “shit” at a summit lunch when he leaves the mike on, chews with his mouth open and makes Tony Blair hover obsequiously over his shoulder like a trained parakeet. Don’t get me wrong: George was an effective deterrent for a while, proclaiming America was on “a crusade,” like he missed school that day and didn’t realize it was the most brainless thing he could have said. Meanwhile, his finger’s on the button of the largest arsenal in the history of the world, and he pretends he can’t even fucking pronounce it. “Nucular.” Genius! (Your idea, right?) Because while George had his moments (“Mission Accomplished” pops to mind), you, on the other hand, understand real deterrence. I’ll never forget when insurgents were setting off all those car bombs, so you responded by outing one of our own CIA agents, and the insurgents went, “Not too shabby, but we’ve seen better,” and you said, “Oh yeah? Check this out, motherfuckers,” and then you shot your own friend in the face! And the insurgents went, “Goddamn!” Now that’s the Cheney magic I’m talking about! I say crank it all the way up! We’re facing an illogical foe, and you of all people appreciate the value of fighting crazy with crazy. So here’s my plan: Now that you’re out of office, move into a cave and start making underground videos, wearing a ski mask and carrying an RPG launcher. Maybe even fire the thing. (Just remember to yell “duck” this time.)

I’ve been your biggest fan ever since hearing you at a Tampa campaign rally in 2000. Maybe you remember me: I was the guy in back chanting “Hal-li-bur-ton! Hal-li-bur-ton!” until the Secret Service made me run. (Sorry, didn’t realize that was a secret.) The administration’s just drawn to a close, and history will judge harshly, but don’t think for a second that it applies to you. True Americans in the fly-over states appreciate your brilliance. I’ll bet you’ll even get a stamp! They’ve got antique sewing machines and “Lady and the Tramp,” so it’s only right. The post office could even hold a vote, like fat Elvis or thin Elvis (Cheney classic, or ski mask).

Now that’s a legacy! Of course, nothing like “Go fuck yourself.”

You crack me up! Serge A. Storms

Mahoney finished the letter and stuck the dossier back in his briefcase. Then he pulled a coffee-table book from under his seat.

The agent took a tentative sip of still-too-hot coffee and opened the book in his lap, refreshing himself on the history of the Highwaymen.

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