Nuclear Jellyfish

MIAMI

Rush-hour traffic on Biscayne Boulevard.

The downtown skyline had gone condo. But there were still enough office workers to jam the streets at five o’clock. BMWs and Jaguars racing for the suburbs and chain-store comfort. They sped past an old strip of retail shops tended by the faithful.

One particular enterprise had recently relocated from the beach, now occupying the slightly larger retail footage of Dade One-Hour Cleaners. It was run by a legend from the sixties that none of the current residents had ever heard of. Roy the Pawn King. The dry-cleaning sign over the door now read: Roy And Sons Diamonds For Less.

A Plymouth Fury skidded to a parking meter. Doorbells jingled.

Roy looked up from the Herald. “Serge!”

Big reunion hug. Serge held him out by the arms. “Still have that thick head of white hair.”

“Still a hyper son of a gun.” He looked around. “Thought Coleman was with you.”

“He’s busy passed out in the backseat.” Serge pulled a strap off his shoulder and set an aged leather case on the glass counter. From it came a vintage View-Master.

“I remember those when I was a kid,” said Roy.

“This was the original model, before there was even a slot to slip in reels. You had to open the back.”

Serge opened the back. No reel. Instead, a folded rectangle of slick white paper. He handed it to Roy, who peeled the edge and carefully poured the contents onto a small tray. The Pawn King bent over with a jeweler’s loupe in his eye.

“Well?” asked Serge.

Roy raised his head and slapped him on the shoulder. “Still my best courier.”

“Who would ever suspect someone chasing courier bandits?”

Roy removed the loupe from his eye. “You play the edges too close.” He reached under the counter and handed Serge an envelope.

Serge stuck it in his back pocket.

“Not going to count it?”

“Never have before.”

Roy noticed the wall clock over Serge’s shoulder. Big hand on the three, little on the six. “Excuse me a minute.” He reached for a small radio on the counter and tuned it between stations. Loud static. Roy watched the second hand on the clock reach twelve. Then a woman’s sultry voice: “One-fifty-two, nine, eighteen, forty …”

Roy jotted each number on a yellow legal pad until the broadcast was over. He ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Serge. “Maria has another delivery. Amelia Island. Tuesday.” A sly grin broke across his face. “Latin bombshell, eh?”

“That she is.”

“Great idea you had giving her a shortwave to direct shipments with all my couriers,” said Roy. “I’d heard about those coded numbers pirate stations, just never dawned on me to use-“

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“The radio station?”

“The courier gig.”

“Not paying enough?”

“Plenty. But I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’m retiring.”

“Anything wrong?”

“Too much structure in my life.”

“What am I going to do without you?”

Bells jingled again. They looked toward the front door. A man and a woman.

“Roy,” said Serge. “I’d like you to meet Howard and Story … Howard and Story, Roy the Pawn King. Last of the old gang.” Story shook his hand.

“Serge speaks very highly of you.”

“Me and his grandfather did great things back in the day. Rest in peace.” He turned to shake Howard’s hand. “Jesus, what happened to you, kid?”

“Cut himself shaving,” said Serge, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” asked Roy. “You just got here.”

“The three of you have a lot to talk about.”

“What do you mean?”

Serge continued walking. “Your new couriers. The best and the brightest.”

“But what about you?”

“Got plans.”

“What kind of plans?”

Bells jingled. Cars whipped by.

Serge turned around in the open doorway. “Florida, a full tank of gas and no appointments.”

The door closed. He climbed into the Fury.

A passing race fan noticed the magnetic sign on the Plymouth’s door. “Wooo! Kurt Busch!”

Serge flashed a peace sign out the window. “Wooo! I had two!” And he took off down Biscayne Boulevard.

OceanofPDF.com