“No, the reservation is for four. But we’re only staying three.”
“Why?”
Serge nodded toward a sign: Checkout 8 A.M.
“Eight?” said Coleman. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“Welcome to Give-Us-Your-Money Town. Population: You suck.”
They eventually reached the desk. “Reservation, Storms, Serge.” He winked at Coleman. “Eight A.M.? Is that sign correct?”
The receptionist relished firing another routine bow shot. “Look, I got two hundred rooms and it’s the only way we can turn them around in time.”
“Really?” said Serge. “I’ve stayed in five-hundred-room Marriotts, and they seem to manage. But you must know better, because the pay at a dump like this can only attract the best and brightest.” A grin.
Glare in return. “Fill out this form. And we need a twenty-dollar deposit for the phone.”
“But you have my credit card.”
“We need cash.”
“Can I get a receipt for the deposit?”
“Don’t have any.”
“What a shock.” Serge scribbled a false address, then tapped the desk with his pen. “I don’t remember my license plate. Sheraton lets me slide with just the make and model. Is it okay?”
“No.”
“That was a test.” Serge leaned over and scribbled. “I know my plate number.”
“Test?”
“Quality check to ensure no leaks in your exquisite business modeclass="underline" Making us feel like family… the Gambino family.” Another grin.
The receptionist’s face turned bright red. “Your keys!” Slapped on the counter.
Serge grabbed them and raised his video camera. “I’m shooting a documentary. May I capture the recreational rudeness that is the high-water mark of your existence?”
“No! Turn that off!”
“More!…” Serge beckoned with his free hand. “Give me more!”
“Turn that thing off right now!”
Serge raised a clenched fist. “Now with feeling!”
“I said turn that goddamn thing off!”
“Excellent!” Serge lowered the camera and gave her another iridescent grin. “You take the ‘service’ out of ‘customer service.’”
They hit their fifth-floor unit.
Coleman dropped bags. “It’s huge.”
“I got the one-bedroom suite. You snore… Here, take this.”
“Another video camera?”
“I picked up a second for you to film the ‘making of’ documentary. Can you handle that responsibility?”
“Which way does it point?”
Unloading routine: Serge with his usual electronic gadgets, souvenirs and weapons. Coleman’s paraphernalia: an endless assortment of clips, glass tubes, circular metal screens and hypodermic needles.
Serge stared at the last items. “Coleman, please tell me you’re not riding the white pony.”
“Heck no. That’s dangerous.” He pulled something else from his bag.
“Oven mitts?”
“Needles and oven mitts are the cornerstones of commercial-grade partying.”
Serge darted one way with a small zippered bag, and Coleman went another for the TV. He pointed the remote and channel-hopped, stopping on a beach backdrop.
“Hey, Serge, look! It’s that cool new show Ocean Cops.” Coleman got an odd sensation. He looked at the television, then off the balcony. “I think they’re filming here… Yeah, they’re definitely filming here. Just said on the screen, ‘Spring Break Special, Panama City Beach.’”
Serge hung a tri-fold toiletry bag in the bathroom. “What’s happening?”
“Some unconscious guy on a raft is drifting out to sea.”
“Sure it’s not you?”
Coleman looked down at the front of himself. “Pretty sure.” He wandered onto the balcony for a joint break. He raced back in. “Serge! Come quick! There’s so much tits and ass you can’t see the sand!”
“It’s spring break.” Serge organized dental-care products and plugged in his rechargeable razor.
“Something’s going on,” said Coleman. “They’re throwing this little guy around.”
“How little?”
“Pretty little.”
“Is he wearing a crash helmet?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the midget.”
“Midget?”
“High-society tradition that started in Australia.”
“Why do they throw midgets?”
“Sometimes for distance, sometimes style points, like when they’re covered with Velcro and stick to walls.“ Serge joined him on the balcony.”Or greased up for bowling lanes.”
Coleman leaned over the railing. “Looks like they’re just tossing him around the sand.”
“Because the legislature intervened.”
“Legislature? Are you just making up words now to fuck with me?”
“In 1989, we became the first state in the union to ban midget tossing.” Serge uncapped a water bottle. “Bunch of people thought, it’s about time. Finally, Florida’s forward-thinking…”
“Serge, cops are moving in with riot shields.”
“… But those of us who live here know the truth. It wasn’t legal foresight; they were simply forced to extinguish another wildfire weirdness outbreak.”
“What does it have to do with him being out on the beach?”
“Because of that law, he can’t work anymore except on the sly…”
“Ooooooh, the little dude just bounced off a shield.”
“… So he’s forced to strike out on his own in public venues like street musicians.”
“You don’t mean-”
“That’s right.” Serge nodded solemnly. “The Wildcat Midget.”
Down on the shore, a TV correspondent worked quickly with a brush. “How’s my hair?”
Thumbs-up from the cameraman. He gave a silent countdown with his fingers.
“Good afternoon. This is Meg Chambers, reporting live from spring break in Panama City Beach. Homelessness is a difficult life, particularly for dwarfs, who are often driven into the midget-tossing trade for spare change and leftover pizza. As you can see behind me, local police are continuing their crackdown on the controversial sport, which has drawn mixed reactions from the midget-advocate community…” The camera swung left, where a tiny person in a helmet was handcuffed, to loud jeers from students. “It looks like they’ve again arrested local favorite Huggy ‘Crash’ Munchausen… Let’s see if I can get a word…” She stepped forward as police led him by. “Crash, anything to say to our viewers?”
“It’s a victimless crime. Why not legalize and tax it?” Police hustled him into a squad car.
The reporter turned back to the camera. “Victimless crime? You be the judge!… This is Meg Chambers reporting for Eyewitness Close-Up Action News Seven.”
The cameraman signaled they were clear.
She threw the microphone down in the sand. “I got a master’s for this shit?”
The correspondent stormed past Serge and Coleman.
BOSTON
A United 737 from Miami landed in a light dusting of New England snow at Logan International.
Two case agents walked purposefully through the terminal.
“We’re all FBI,” said Ramirez. “Do we not talk to each other anymore?”
“How were they supposed to know who he was?” said his partner.
“What an unbelievable cluster-fuck,” said Ramirez.
A local junior agent met them at baggage claim. He went to shake hands but saw that wasn’t happening. “Awfully sorry. Just want you to know everything’s under control now.”
“Everything was under control.”
Their unmarked sedan sped south to Dorchester and pulled up in front of an older, two-story brick house surrounded by field agents, TV crews and satellite trucks. A sniper stood on the roof behind a chimney.
Ramirez took a deep breath and massaged his forehead. “Is this what goes for ‘under control’ up here?”
Sedan doors opened. An armored van screeched up. G-men sprinted across a brown lawn as TV lights came on. A correspondent broadcast live to lead the six o’clock.