“Recruit one.”

  “No, I mean, literally, I’ve gone through every last coin dealer,” said Steve. “When you took down Paul last night, that was it.”

  “So recruit one of the stamp guys.”

  Steve shook his head. “There’s a war on.”

  “Then come up with someone else.”

  “Aren’t you listening? There isn’t anybody.”

  “Then I guess I’ll just have to tell that to the Eel. Probably throw you a retirement party.”

  “No! Wait, I’ll come up with something.”

  “Great.” The bodyguard stood. “You can go back to your porn.”

  THE CROSSROADS

  Just south of where two rural routes met, a building that looked more like an abandoned farmhouse sat framed by oak and moss. Serge burst through double saloon doors. A man at the end of the bar jumped up and swallowed a deep breath. Serge nodded. The man exhaled.

  They both walked outside. Serge turned at the bottom of the steps and held out an expectant hand.

  “What?” said the man.

  “Where’s the back end?”

  “Vince said I don’t have to pay the rest until I get proof. You were supposed to take a picture.”

  “What picture?” Serge’s hand stayed out. “Vince didn’t say anything.”

  “Can I wait for the morning paper?”

  “You’re really starting to piss me off!”

  “Sorry, it’s just that Vince promised-“

  “Fuck Vince! And fuck you! I smell where this is going. I’m heading out of town, and on the way I’m dropping a little something in the mailbox to the police.”

  “No! Jesus! Don’t!”

  Serge swished the toe of a sneaker in the dirt. He looked up. “Sorry, got a little heated. If I was in your position, I’d demand proof, too. When you’re right, you’re right.” He opened the door of the Javelin. “Get in the car.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re driving to Proof City.”

  “I’ll take your word.” He reached for his wallet with a trembling hand.

  Serge grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into the backseat. “Wouldn’t hear of it.”

  They sped inland.

  The man recognized the way. “We’re not going back to the house, are we ?”

  “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” said Serge. “This other place is around the corner.”

  Cows watched through barbed wire. The Javelin continued across the hot, Florida pastureland and turned up an unmarked dirt road.

  “We are going to my house!”

  “Okay, I lied,” said Serge. “Because I can’t wait for the money. I doubled down on football last Sunday and have to meet these bookies by midnight or I’ll end up in more pieces than your wife.”

  “I told you, I’ll pay without proof!”

  “But not seeing the pieces wouldn’t be fair to you. Except I hope you don’t mind: Not all the pieces are still there. You never told me you have the new Brahman gas grill! Your tastebuds don’t know they’re alive until they’ve met a Brahman! … I got a great idea! We’ll celebrate over dinner!”

  The husband turned green and lunged for a door handle. Serge hit the brakes, cracking him across the face with his pistol. Then he jammed the barrel in a bloody ear. “You are going in the house.”

  MINUTES LATER

  The Javelin parked at the front porch, and the husband was forced into the house at gunpoint.

  The man clenched his eyes shut. “I can’t look.” Serge jabbed him in the back. “Look!”

  The man opened his eyes to a slit. Thoughts of dread turned to puzzlement. Eyelids went up the rest of the way. No trace of his wife, no expected blood trails, not the least sign of a struggle. In fact, the whole house looked in perfect order. The only thing out of place were two brand-name shopping bags on the coffee table. Hardware and toy store. “What’s going on?”

  Serge shoved him into the middle of the room. “I didn’t do your wife.”

  “Oh, so this was a ripoff … Well, that’s fine. I’ll give you the rest of the money. Just don’t hurt me.” “This isn’t a ripoff.”

  The man’s confusion returned. “Then what is it?” “I came to protect your wife.” Serge pulled handcuffs from his back pocket.

  The man’s legs began to buckle. “You’re an undercover cop?”

  “Worse,” said Serge, fastening the bracelets behind the man’s back. “Undercover citizen.”

  “Yeah,” said Coleman. “Like that song ‘Undercover Angel.’”

  “Not like that song,” said Serge. “I hate that song. And now it’s playing in my head.”

  “Sorry.”

  Serge seized the man by an arm and dragged him toward a spacious closet. “I took the liberty of doing a little remodeling while I was here.” He opened the door.

  The man looked inside. Now he was totally baffled. Two wooden chairs faced each other, both reinforced to the floor with aluminum bracket-straps used for roofing trusses. Must have been a hundred penny nails and galvanized screws. Atop the chair nearest the door was some kind of unidentifiable customized mount fashioned from a miter box and bench vise.

  “It was a tight fit, but I knew it would work,” said Serge. ‘“Measure twice, cut once,’ save yourself a world of headaches.” t

  “What’s it for?”

  “You!” said Serge. “I put in a lot of work, always treat my clients right…‘Undercover Angel’! Coleman, it’s still playing!”

  “Said I was sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just switch channels in my head to the Rock Vault.”

  “What’s the Rock Vault?” asked Coleman.

  “When most people don’t have a sound system, they go: ‘Shit, no sound system.’”

  “Not you?”

  Serge tapped his temple. “Every song already stored for easy access. Let’s listen to something!”

  The horn from a Florida East Coast locomotive blared in the distance as it clacked down tracks along the Old Dixie corridor.

  “I know,” said Coleman. “How about ‘Train, Train’?”

  “Blackfoot.” Serge nodded his approval. “Another excellent band of Florida’s native sons.”

  They began bobbing their heads in silence. The husband thrashed in wild panic as the extent of his captor’s insanity became clear. He was bound securely in the chair at the back of the closet.

  “And you have two kids!” Serge grabbed a thick roll of duct tape off the opposing seat. “You were going to take away their mom.”

  “I was just about to call it off. I swear! Praying at the bar that you’d come back and say something went wrong so I could-“

  Serge sealed yet another in a long career of taped mouths. It was a toss-up: whether the man was more or less terrified by not having any idea what was in store.

  “Here’s what’s in store…” Serge slowly pulled a long string from his hip pocket like a magician. “The gravy on my project is this special mount atop the other chair. That’s where the gun goes. I’ll tie this string to the trigger, then the other end goes around the closet’s inside doorknob, which I’ll tighten from the outside with the door a few inches ajar, giving it just enough slack for a quick, ten-pound pull when someone opens it. Hold still-be right back!” The door closed.

  The man desperately wiggled in the darkness, muted screams under the tape. Light hit his face as the door opened again. He got a brief glimpse of a black handgun before Serge leaned around the front of the opposing chair, blocking his view. Finally the pistol was clamped firmly in the vise, string around the trigger. Serge stepped back with a big smile. “What do you think?”

  The husband’s hysteria went off the scale, but the roof brackets more than held. Then he suddenly became still as he stared at the vise. It didn’t look like a regular gun. And it had an orange plastic safety tip, like a toy. He leaned for a closer view. It was a … cap gun} He stared up at Serge with knotted eyebrows.

  “What?” said Serge. “You didn’t think I was actually going to use a real gun? I just wanted to teach you a lesson …” He looked down at a puddle around the man’s feet.

  “… Which I believe you’ve learned in spades. Excellent student!” Serge grabbed the edge of the duct tape.

  The man yelled in brief pain as the strip ripped free. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Serge. “But those are the lessons that stick best …” He noticed his watch: 5:15. “Wow, that late? Don’t mean to be rude and dash off, but I have to get somewhere.” He tore another long stretch of tape and held it in front of the man’s mouth.

  “What are you doing? I learned my lesson.”

  “Remedial tutoring.” Serge wrapped the mouth again. “Be right back.” The door closed.

  The man listened. Quiet. Then heavy footsteps and Serge talking to himself: “Damn, this thing weighs more than it looks.”

  The door opened. “You’ve got great taste. I am definitely going to have to get me one of those Brahman grills first chance I get!” He reached down and hoisted a squat, roundish metal tank, placing it on the empty chair facing the man. “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow your propane. Hear they’re pretty cheap to refill.” Serge twisted the tank’s valve all the way open. A quiet hiss. He started closing the door, leaving a three-inch gap with the frame. He reached inside for the string hanging from the trigger of the cap gun and tied it around the inside doorknob.

  “Toodles!”

  The closet door closed.

  EXTENDED COMFORT EXPRESS SUITES USA

  Howard had called it another early day. He sat alone in the corner of the hotel bar, enjoying a dinner of free happy-hour finger food.

  “Howard! Old pal!”

  He turned around. “Steve?”

  Steve slapped him hard on the back. “How you doin’?”

  “Uh, fine?”

  “Mind if I join you?”-dragging a chair.

  “What do you want?”

  Steve grabbed a cheese cube off Howard’s plate and popped it in his mouth. “Have I ever mentioned how much I admire you?”

  “I thought you didn’t even like me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you said you didn’t like me. And you’re always making fun of me whenever we’re at the same hotel. And you tried to trip me in front of the guys. And-“

  “You got the wrong idea.”

  “I do?”

  “That’s how I treat all my friends.”

  “You don’t do it to anyone else.”

  “I don’t like them,” said Steve. “Plus, I’m completely blown away by this whole thing you’re doing with souvenirs. Total genius.”

  “I’m broke.”

  “Because you’re way out in front of the trend. Just wait ‘til the country wakes up!”

  “That’s what you came to tell me?”

  Steve took a hot wing from Howard’s plate. “Except you’ll never get the chance to succeed if you go under first from lack of funds. And I’m not about to let that happen!”

  “You’re giving me money?”

  “Even better.” He grabbed one of Howard’s napkins and dabbed mouth corners. “Great business proposition for you.”

  “I already have a business.”

  “And a fine business it is. But every venture needs capitalization, and that’s where I come in.”

  “What’s the proposition?”

  “Straight to the point! That’s what I like about you, kid.” He slid his chair closer for added privacy. “The other guys are okay, but not the sharpest knives in the drawer. That’s why I’ve come to you. This has to be just between us. Do I have your word?”

  “Okay.”

  Steve sat back smugly. “Diamonds.” He winked.

  “What about them?”

  “Big money as a courier. You’ll start tonight.”

  “Courier?”

  “Teach you everything you need to know.”

  “I don’t think so.” Howard’s fork speared a marinated meatball. “I’d have to give up the souvenir thing.”

  “No, you see that’s the beauty of it. You keep doing souvenirs. It’s the perfect cover. All couriers need one.”

  “Cover? Sounds dangerous.”

  “Absolutely not. You take a bigger risk every time you step in the shower.”

  “Your coins? Is that also a cover?”

  “About a year ago I was at this big show in Pensacola where a gem expo was also being held. And that night over drinks in the hotel bar, the top diamond guy at the place said he needed more couriers for his distributorship.” Steve left out the part where the distributor was in on the whole robbery thing with the gang, for the insurance and fencing angles.

  “Don’t they use armed guards and stuff?”

  “That’s what everyone assumes. But there’s over a thousand jewelry stores across the state, and nowhere near the available security. They have to get product from somewhere. So there’s a giant invisible army out there making deliveries, hiding in plain sight, some even carrying stones around in crumpled bags that look like trash they want to throw away.”

  “I don’t think I have the nerves.”

  “And that’s why you’ll be perfect.” Steve gestured up and down at Howard. “Who’d ever suspect someone like you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  PORT ORANGE

  Serge drove back down the dirt driveway and turned onto a country road. The Javelin made a skidding U-turn and pulled onto the shoulder next to flat pasture with a clear view of the house.

  “What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

  “Waiting for our surprise guest.”

  It was peaceful. Two cattle egrets picked at cows by the drinking hole.

  Coleman cracked a beer. “Sorry about ‘Undercover Angel.’”

  “Dang it. And I’d just gotten that out of my mind.”

  “See what else is in the Rock Vault.”

  Serge concentrated, then began tapping the steering wheel.

  “Can I listen?” asked Coleman.

  “Outlaws. ‘Green Grass and High Tides.’”

  Coleman swayed to the rhythm. “Another Florida band?”

  Serge nodded and tapped faster with the growing tempo. “Formed 1972 in Tampa.”

  One of the cows turned its head. A mile up the country road, an older-model Ford pickup with bad mufflers crested a low hill. It raced toward them, getting larger.

  “Duck,” said Serge.

  A roar passed. Serge slowly raised his head above the dash. The pickup turned at the dirt driveway and bounded toward the house. It parked sideways at the porch. A muscular man in a tropical shirt got out and circled the residence, scoping for anything that didn’t feel right.

  “Hey,” said Coleman. “That’s the other guy from the bar. Now I get it.”

  “Two for one,” said Serge. “Took me a while to think this up, because they’re equally wrong. And his wife would never be safe until both are out of the picture.”

  “You’re my hero.”

  “This is going to be so much fun!”

  They stopped talking and watched. Coleman noticed Serge had a rare frown.

  “What’s the matter, buddy?”

  “I thought this was going to be fun.”

  “I’m having fun.”

  “I’m not. Something’s wrong.” He opened a cell phone and punched buttons. On the other side of the state, a phone rang in a psychiatrist’s office. “Hello ? …”

  “It’s me, Serge … No, I’m out of town. That’s why I’m calling instead of just popping in … I’m sure you are busy … You have a patient waiting? But this is an emergency. I read where psychiatrists are always on call for clients in crisis … Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m not having fun … That is so an emergency … All right, I’m bored, too … You think I might be coming down with depression? … No, I don’t feel depressed, just not having fun …”

  “Serge …” Coleman pointed at the house. Scagnetti reappeared from the far side, satisfied that everything was in order. He trotted up the front steps and stuck a key in the door.

  “… Wait! Don’t hang up!” said Serge. “Listen, I read a psychiatric article: manically enthusiastic people like me burn twice as bright and half as long. The first symptom is uncontrolled rage, but who knows if it’s true since the article was written by that Mahoney shit-sucking asswipe should-have-cut-his-goddamn-head-off-when-I-had-the-chance motherfucker! The second symptom is disinterest, but what do I care? … No, see, that’s why I’m calling. I’ve been getting this weird feeling lately, like I’m reaching the end of the line and might do something crazy … Crazier than that … Crazier than that … You’ve made your point… But this time it’s different…”

  Scagnetti scanned the living room. His eyes locked on a door. He gently pulled the pistol from his waistband and screwed on a silencer.

  “… Plus, paranoia, just like in that article,” said Serge. “I’ve never been paranoid a day in my life … No, that time the Trilateral Commission really was trying to silence my international call to arms …”

  Scagnetti quietly stepped across the living room and up to the closet. He raised the pistol and grabbed the knob. The door quickly jerked open. Nothing. Unless he wanted to shoot winter coats and boots.

  “… Like right now,” said Serge. “I’m doing one of my absolute favorite things in the whole world … Can’t tell you that … Why would you think someone’s tied up? … The point is that I should be having the time of my life with a little snack tray. Instead, emptiness …”

  Scagnetti closed the door and looked around. Another closet. He headed across the room. Something stopped him. He sniffed the air. What was that funky smell? He looked at the bottom of the door, where a tiny trickle of urine rolled out. A wicked grin. “Yoo-hoo! Anyone in there ?”

  Muffled screams from the other side. Scagnetti grabbed the doorknob.

  “But Doc,” said Serge, “I really think there’s something wrong with me … You agree? Good … You know ‘Tears of a Clown’? … Because I’d always thought it was just a cleverly contrived song targeting the self-pity dork market…”