Story inhaled deeply for patience and looked back down at school work. “Okay, but only because I feel sorry for them, too. Just make it snappy.”

  “It’ll be over before you know it.” Serge pointed. “See? Here they come now, walking back from the Intergalactic House of Pancakes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a 2005 Winnebago with blue trim eased down the driveway of the transmission shop and slowly accelerated up a service road parallel to the interstate. The Javelin fell in behind.

  “Coleman, remember what I told you?”

  “What?”

  “Coleman!”

  “Oh, that. Thought you were talking to Story.” She looked up from her reading. “You said this would be over soon.”

  “Blink and you’ll miss it,” said Serge.

  The RV approached the entrance ramp. The Javelin suddenly accelerated in fugitive-stop maneuver, whipping around the side of the Winnebago. Coleman waved urgently up at the driver. “Pull over! Now!”

  The driver let off the gas and rolled down his window. “You guys cops?”

  “No,” yelled Serge, leaning across his passenger. “But I work for the state. Just pull over-it’s very important.”

  Soon, both vehicles sat quietly on the shoulder. Serge’s voice echoed from under the RV. “Just as I suspected!” He crawled out and held up a strip of duct tape.

  INTERSTATE 95

  The Winnebago reversed direction and sped north. A rest stop approached. A blinker went on. Serge handed Coleman the brown paper bag.

  Coleman looked inside. “What are you doing with a sack of sugar?”

  “Always keep a supply tucked in the trunk,” said Serge. “Part of my roadside emergency jerk kit. Now here’s what you’re going to do …”

  The RV pulled into a generous parking space near the restrooms. Serge turned around in the driver’s seat and faced the huddled retired couple. “Remember to stay completely hidden. Any deviation from my plan and I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “But-“

  “Coleman, let’s rock!”

  They jumped down from opposite sides of the RV and headed for the vending machines. Serge looked back at the vehicle. He stopped and scratched his head. He bent down.

  A man from a nearby pickup truck ambled over. “Problem?”

  “Think I’m dripping something.” Serge straightened and shrugged. “Probably just radiator fluid.”

  “Maybe,” said the man. “But you don’t want to take chances with a leak. Not on these roads. Get stranded at night and, well, most likely nothing will happen.”

  Serge placed a hand oh his heart. “Sex slaves? Heavens, what can I do?”

  “I’m pretty good with vehicles. Want me to take a look?”

  “You’d do something that kind for a complete stranger?”

  “Bet you’ve never been to Florida before.” The man began walking toward the RV. “Extremely friendly state.”

  “And I’d heard otherwise,” said Serge. “Here, come around the far side. Think you can see the leak better from there.” Serge turned and tugged his ear.

  Coleman stared off with a paper sack hanging by his side.

  Serge tugged his ear harder.

  Coleman picked his nose.

  “Coleman! I’m tugging my ear!”

  “Oh! The signal! Right!”

  “Signal?” said the pickup driver.

  “Has the mind of a first-grader. It’s this eye-hand coordination game we play.”

  The man crawled under the RV and reappeared a minute later. “Not good news.”

  “Pray tell?”

  The man stood and displayed a brown hand. “Transmission fluid. Real bad leak, probably won’t last another fifty miles.”

  “Sounds expensive!”

  The pickup driver shook his head. “Hundred bucks tops if it’s what I think. I know this garage …”

  Coleman walked over to the pickup truck, glanced around and opened the gas cap.

  “Gee mister,” said Serge. “Thanks a heap.”

  “My pleasure.” He tipped his camo baseball cap. “Well, have to get a leg up on Atlanta.”

  “Wait!” said Serge.

  “What is it?”

  “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Serge!” He extended a hand.

  “Elliot… Take it easy now.”

  “Wait!”

  Elliot sighed and forced himself to smile. “Yes?”

  Coleman walked back around the RV with a crumpled paper bag in his hand. He nodded.

  Serge turned toward the man. “Did I remember to say thanks?” Elliot laughed and headed for his pickup. “Good luck.” “You might need it more.”

  SHENANIGANS LOUNGE

  Pushed-together tables ran the length of the room. A mechanical slot sucked in a dollar bill. Music began.

  “… Night moves …”

  A nutritional-supplement salesman walked back from the juke.

  “You always play this stupid song,” said Steve.

  “Thought you liked Seger.”

  “Until you came along.”

  “I know the real reason you’re sore.”

  Actually, just about everyone at the tables was sore. The reason sat at the bar, a dashing man in a tailored silk suit and thick, sexy black hair to the collar. On each side, flight attendants based out of Denver, over-laughing at his every remark. Two more attendants stood behind his stool, trying to wedge in on the hunk, who reeked of nonstop intercourse because of his aftershave, Nonstop Intercourse.

  The gang around the tables shook their heads.

  “What’s he got that I don’t?” asked self-esteem-seminar Ken.

  “You never seen Johnny?”

  Ken shook his head.

  “The guy’s practically a legend,” said Ted. “Seen him in action at least twenty times, always leaves with the hottest chick in the bar.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “Nothing but live off a trust fund, troll hotel bars and get laid like nobody’s business. More tail falls off his truck than we’ll ever see.”

  Steve took out his wallet and threw a ten-spot next to the beer pitcher. “Who’s in?”

  The pot grew as more bills landed in the middle of the table. “I say the blonde.” “Brunette for variety.” “Redhead.” “Asian fox …”

  Finally, the betting window closed. They turned toward the bar and waited. Every last one of the salesmen would have killed to be in Johnny’s shoes. But only because they’d never walked in them. The actual truth was something none of the gang would have imagined.

  Johnny attracted willing partners in such waves he had to fight them off. But sealing the deal was another matter entirely. Some calamity always interrupted the precise moment of penetration. Literally, his entire life. No possible way to overstate the phenomenon. It was such a numbing string of misfortune that General Custer, Al Gore and the captain of the Titanic would all have said the same thing. Man, have you got bad luck.

  He was Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.

  Back at the tables: “Looks like the blonde … no wait, he’s getting up. He’s turning to his right… Damn …”

  Three guys raked bills from the middle of the table as Johnny strolled for the elevators with an effervescent redhead in an airline scarf.

  A Winnebago with blue trim pulled into a transmission shop. The manager came out.

  Serge jumped down from the driver’s seat and gave him a giant hug, weeping on his shoulder. “Thank Jesus you’re so conveniently close to the rest stop and that nice man just happened to be there. I cringe to imagine breaking down after midnight between exits and living out my days wearing a dog collar in a sex dungeon …”

  “Easy now.” The manager gently grabbed Serge’s arms and calmly pushed him back. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Transmission leak! Geyser!”

  The manager rubbed his chin. “That’s the problem with this model. Seen quite a few lately, but it shouldn’t cost much. Why don’t we go-“

  “-write up a work order?” said Serge. The manager stopped. “Uh, exactly.”

  They went inside, and the manager grabbed a triplicate sheet with sprocket holes. He scribbled quickly and turned the paperwork around to face Serge. “Sign at the bottom.”

  Serge picked up a pen. “What am I signing?”

  “Just says you want us to check out your transmission.”

  “But that’s not what I want at all.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Not even close.” Serge set the pen down.

  “Then why’d you come here?”

  Serge held out his palm. “Three thousand dollars please.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how much you got from the retired couple who was just in here.”

  “Oh, them.”

  “I’m a close personal friend.”

  “I get it: You think we overcharged.” He nodded with practiced sympathy. “Most people have no idea what transmission work runs. Sticker shock. But three grand is the going rate to completely rebuild those giant gear boxes on the larger RVs.”

  “And zero is the going rate for hiding it behind a closed garage door and doing nothing.”

  “I don’t think I like what you’re implying.”

  “I don’t like that my hand doesn’t have three thousand dollars in it.”

  “Hey, asshole. They came to me.”

  “Because you had an accomplice at the rest stop.”

  “I don’t have no fucking accomplice! Get the hell off my property!”

  The phone beside the cash register rang. A mechanic answered. He covered the receiver and called to the manager. “Elliot needs a tow from the rest stop.”

  Serge placed the back of a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. “The spirits tell me that will be a highly profitable repair.”

  The manager stepped up nose to nose with Serge, deliberately underscoring his size advantage. “Deaf or something? I said get the fuck out!”

  Serge shook his head. “Can’t let you do this to yourself.”

  “Do what?”

  “Miss out on my ground-floor opportunity!” said Serge. “Three thousand is an absolute steal for us to go our separate ways.”

  “Out!”

  “It’s a win-win! You break even and live to enjoy a brighter tomorrow.”

  “Fuck you!” The manager gave Serge a hard, two-handed shove in the chest.

  Serge stumbled backward and caught his balance. “Investors are lining up fast! Price is now four thousand!”

  The manager shoved him again.

  Serge stumbled again. “You obviously don’t know what the price of regret is running these days. But because I like you, special new deal: five thousand!”

  The manager saved his most vicious shove for last. Serge crashed backward into the glass door and crumpled on the ground. The manager pointed threateningly in his face. “You’ve fucked with the wrong guy! Those friends with the RV? They just bought them a world of shit. I have their address on the work order. I know people in Minnesota. And when my associates pay a visit, they’re going to tell them it’s all because of you!”

  “Sorry,” said Serge. “Investment deadline just passed.” He stood and opened the door. Ting-a-ling.

  SERGE’S SUITE

  Frenetic tapping on a laptop keyboard.

  A beer can popped. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Uploading the daily addendum to my renegade travel website. Today’s nuggets: avoiding transmission ripoffs and the best place to spot John Travolta.”

  “Travolta?”

  “Coleman, you were with me there yesterday.” Typing rate increased. “That old Holiday Inn across from Silver Springs.”

  “Now I remember.”

  “Travolta’s an aviation fiend. Got a giant spread out in the country north of here, two jets in the driveway, including a Boeing 707, and his own airstrip, but I’m not going to reveal the location on my site because I respect his privacy.”

  “Is that why we kept circling his property?”

  “Those were public roads-plus I wanted to make sure no unstable people were bothering him.”

  “What’s Holiday Inn got to do with it?”

  “Staff told me he’s a night owl…” Tap, tap, tap, tap. “… In wee hours, he likes to eat at the Denny’s attached to the motel because it’s about the only thing still open in the middle of nowhere …” Tap, tap. “… Imagine that: The Pulp Fiction assassin frequenting this funky little place in our own fine state. Apparently a real nice guy, too. Next to the motel’s reception desk are some cool photos of him on the wall posing with staff and a night watchman.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I took photos of the Travolta photos, which I’m just about finished posting …” Tap, tap, tap. Serge stood. “There, done.” He looked around. “Where’s Story?”

  “Still down at the pool,” said Coleman, opening the suite’s refrigerator to store remaining beers dangling from their plastic six-pack ring.

  Serge began pacing. And pacing, wearing a rut in the motel carpet.

  “What’s the matter, buddy?”

  Serge reached a wall and paced back the other way. “Nothing on the to-do list until my project later tonight.” He came to another wall and turned. “You know how I can’t stand not to have a fixation target.” Another wall…

  Coleman idly looked around the room. “Is it my dope, or did we get a bigger place than usual?”

  “It’s a suite.” He spun at the windows. “What to do? What to do?…”

  Coleman investigated the kitchenette, opening and closing all the drawers. “It even has a dishwasher.”

  Serge trudged toward the window. “I usually have the opposite problem of choice shock. Too many diversions …”

  The microwave opened and closed. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever stayed.” Another drawer. “I remember loving to go to motels when I was a kid.”

  Serge stopped in his sneaker tracks. “Coleman! That’s it! You’re brilliant!”

  “I am?”

  “How could I be so stupid? I’ve been thinking like a middle-aged person.”

  “You are middle-aged.”

  “Of all people I should know better.” Serge ran into the kitchenette, rapidly opening and closing drawers. “Life was invented for kids. But then we all grow up, and society imposes filters that block the joy of silliness and sponging up pointless little things that make childhood the magic time for which it is widely known.” He stuck his face in an overhead cabinet.

  Coleman bent down and opened double doors. “Look at all this space under the sink.”

  “Much work at hand!” He dashed over to a bed and yanked off the sheets. “Coleman, grab those chairs.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”

  DOWN THE HALL

  Johnny Vegas couldn’t miss.

  The flight attendant had said she was hungry, so he’d bought her dinner and even dessert. Now, time to pay up. What’s fair was fair.

  The elevator opened on the third floor. The attendant had a little trouble holding her liquor. She began kissing Johnny and unbuttoning his shirt before he could get the magnetic card in the door. They tumbled inside.

  She began ripping off her clothes. Johnny hurried to keep up, breaking his zipper in the rush. She slammed into him for a sloppy kiss, still disrobing in a clumsy, stumbling march across the spacious room. Sensual moaning, items of apparel randomly jettisoned. They reached the back of the suite in front of a magnificent waterfront view from the giant, floor-to-ceiling windows. Night strollers on the beach stopped and pointed up at the northeast corner of the hotel.

  Johnny hopped past the TV, yanking off socks. She grabbed him around the neck, tripping backward with feet tangled in panties and pulling Johnny down on top of her. They landed hard on the carpet next to the bed.

  Beach strollers sagged as the show disappeared from view.

  The flight attendant closed her eyes and panted with shallow breaths. “Hurry …” -reaching down to help accelerate the process. Louder moaning. “Baby, now! …” Johnny positioned himself for the plunge. Finally! After all these years! Goodbye virginity!

  More moaning. “Put it in!” Her head fell to the side. She opened her eyes. Staring back from under the bed was the blue, lifeless face of a coin dealer named Henry.

  Beach people looked up again toward the source of hysterical shrieking from room 303..

  AN HOUR LATER

  Two men stood in front of a hotel room door. They whispered and glanced suspiciously up and down the hall.

  One opened a brown paper bag. “Hurry up! Before someone sees us!”

  The other reached in his fanny pack and removed a can of shaving cream. He squeezed the top, foaming the entire contents into the sack.

  The first one pressed the end of the bag flat, and quietly slipped it under the door.

  An elevator at the end of the hall opened. Story got off, wrapped in a towel from the pool. A dozen rooms ahead, two men seemed to be having trouble getting into their room. As she grew nearer, one leaned toward the door. “Stamp-collecting wussies!”

  The other stomped on the paper bag.

  They ran past her giggling.

  She reached her own room and opened the door. “I’m back …”

  No answer.

  “Anyone here?” She checked the bathroom. “That’s odd.”

  Then something odder caught her eye: on the other side of the room, an ad hoc tent fashioned from bedsheets and two chairs. She walked over and lifted the edge of a sheet. Souvenir matchbooks, pins and postcards scattered on the floor, next to a stack of hotel stationery covered with tic-tac-toes. And a scorecard: Serge 50, Coleman 0. Her face pinched with puzzlement.

  Story began walking back across the suite. She stopped. Some kind of faint noise, like people talking. Except it had a strange electronic sound like a police scanner. Where was it coming from? She resumed walking, more slowly this time, stopping by the dresser to reach silently into her purse. Out came a shiny .25-caliber chick gun. She held it outstretched in both hands, sliding her feet across the carpet. The voices grew louder. They were coming from the kitchenette.