Nuclear Jellyfish

DANIA

Serge led the way across a debris-strewn parking lot toward the last room on the end of a budget motel. “Coleman, did the governor seem a little jumpy to you?”

“Maybe he’s on the pipe.”

“Probably the economy.”

“Hey, Serge, just had an idea. Can I help with your travel advice thing?”

“Dying to hear your insight.”

“Got a great one. Like, at every budget motel, there are at least three or four rooms where people are staying just to hole up and drug binge. Or deal.”

“That’s no tip-it’s just Florida.”

“But I can find them.”

“Are you already drunk?”

“Of course. Here’s the deal: Observe the parking lot, plug into its rhythms, and after a few minutes, you just know.”

“You’re wrecked.”

“Time me.”

Serge held up his wristwatch. Coleman squinted in concentration. People coming and going, crossing the parking lot, stopping to chat, walking dogs, getting ice, feeding quarters into vending machines, taking unbolted TVs from rooms, driving up in the kind of pitiful, hanging-together car that would soon be pulled with a rope by another car. Coleman pointed. “That room. One-forty-seven. How long?”

“Ninety seconds.” Serge looked up from his wrist. “But you just pointed at a room. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’ll prove it.” He took a step forward. Then stopped. “Oh my God.”

“What is it?”

Six police cars whipped up the motel’s drive and parked, hidden behind the office. “They’ve found us! We’re going to jail!”

“Not this time.”

“How do you know?”

Serge gestured at a red van with TV antennas following the police cars around the backside of the office. “That’s the film crew from COPS.”

“And?”

“It’s so widely known it’s a running joke: On COPS, they only arrest the guys not wearing shirts.”

Coleman looked down to make sure he was wearing one. “I’ll be right back.” He headed across the lot to room 147, then knocked three times in slow cadence. Someone with a mullet opened. They spoke briefly. The man glanced over Coleman’s shoulders and waved him in. The door closed.

Serge shook his head. “Unbelievable.” He went inside his own room. A cell rang. He flipped it open. “Serge here. Fulfill my dreams.”

“Still want to sell that information?”

“Hey, buddy, long time! Great to hear from you! Calm now?” “There’s no way we’ll go the extra ten percent.”

“That was just my initial offer. You have to open a business dialogue somewhere. Make me a counter.”

“My boss will cut your fucking head off.”

“See? We’ve established trust. How much to keep my head?”

“Five.”

“Done,” said Serge. “Let’s meet. I don’t like to conduct this kind of transaction over the phone.” “Where?” Serge told him.

“I know the place. Five o’clock.” “It’s a date.”

“How will I know you?”

“Trust me, you’ll know.” Serge hung up, then punched numbers.

Coleman came in the room. “Hey, Serge …”

“We got a meet at five.” Serge listened to the phone and jotted something. “I lucked out. Guy messed up and phoned from a landline instead of his cell. Called reverse directory and got the address.”

“We’re going to surprise him at that place and not make the meet?”

“No, we’re still going to the meet.” He closed the notebook. “This is for the post-meet follow-up sales call. In business it’s important to reinforce relationships.”

Coleman smiled and held up a Baggie. “They’re running an excellent deal on sensimilla. And I got a free bump of coke, just for being a member.”

“Of what?”

“The Partying Brotherhood.”

“But how did they, I mean, you’re a total stranger …”

“We can smell each other.” Coleman sat on the bed and sniffed a pungent bud.

“Stow that.” Serge pulled the strap of a canvas bag over his shoulder. “We’re rolling.”

They went out the door and headed for the Javelin. A film crew ran behind them as police pulled a shirtless man from room 147.

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