Nuclear Jellyfish

COCOA BEACH

Mahoney walked across a parking lot, unfolding a flyer and reading it for the tenth time: “Howard Enterprises. Floridiana from all eras. Estates appraised.” The agent returned it to his pocket and entered the only conference room in a modest beach motel.

Against the back wall, a young man boxed up pins and buttons and citrus-packing labels. It had been a slow day, as in nothing. Howard decided to bag it early.

“Excuse me.”

Howard looked up. “Yes.”

Mahoney pulled a brown leather holder from his tweed jacket and flashed a badge.

“Wow!” said Howard. “That’s a Dade sheriff, 1942. I’ll give you fifty.”

Mahoney turned the shield around. “Shoot, grabbed the wrong one.” He returned it to his jacket. “Genuine article’s back on my dresser.”

“You’re a cop?”

Mahoney answered by whipping out a mug shot. “Seen this man?”

Howard instantly recognized it. “Has he done something wrong?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I gave him a postcard the other day.”

Mahoney stuck a matchstick in his mouth. “Which way’d he hoof?”

“South, I think.”

“Anything else?”

“Seemed real nice.”

Mahoney pulled the matchstick out. “Fits his M.O.”

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