Hammerhead Ranch Motel

They were eight miles down the trail when the woman and Joh

Joh

She giggled and threw him a coy glance.

“You’re like a field of lilacs.”

She gave him another look. Was she touching her breast like that on purpose?

“You’re like little kittens and all-natural ice cream.”

She stopped on the trail and started taking off her backpack. At last he had arrived at Score City.

“You’re such a refreshing change from all those loser girls these days with tattoos…”

She froze in the trail. Oh no, thought Joh

“Yes, you did! And you’ll never see this one,” she said, slapping the right side of her ass. She reversed direction on the trail, angrily marching past Joh

“Poop!” Joh

A phone rang.

Joh

It was If. “Oh, hi there!” said Joh

They had a nice convivial confab. Turns out, If was just her nickname. Her real name was Inez Fawn Rawlings-I. F. Rawlings in her Tampa Tribune byline-a Vassar grad, Northeastern intelligentsia, rising reporter. She thought that Joh

I ’m up for the Toto!” If told Joh

The lights went down and the four-ounce portions of boneless glazed chicken were served. After di

In the late twentieth century, a new corporate philosophy to all but blow the shareholders had ravaged newspapers and TV stations, bleeding off staffing, experience and standards until what was left of the profession was a karaoke rendition of itself. The Old Guard of journalism came to the rescue by increasing the number of awards and self-congratulatory fetes until journalism officially passed bowling for most trophies per calorie burned.

Crease was deep into the “best lighting on a weekend anchor desk” stretch of the honor roll. An elegant woman came up to If and whispered, “You got the Toto! I was backstage. I saw the engraving in the trophy.”

Joh

Crease built his pace. Only one more category before the climax of the night, the Toto. If and Joh

Rookie copy editor Kirk Curtly heard his name called out and arose with his Montblanc graduation gift clipped securely in his jacket pocket. He walked up to shake Crease’s hand and accept the solid-gold-plated trophy.

Up in the closed-off balcony was recently terminated state safety officer Chester “Porkchop” Dole, a Remington.30-06 scoped rifle, and one of those bottles of Jack Daniel’s with a handle. He drank the bourbon out of a filthy coffee cup that read, “Ask someone who gives a shit!”

Everyone in the banquet hall heard a clear-as-day but enigmatic phrase yelled from the direction of the balcony. “Write this headline, motherfucker!”

Shots rang out and the podium was strafed. People screamed and scattered. Others dove under tables. Dole leaned over the railing to get a better angle on the fleeing Kirk Curtly, who was now three Kirks in Dole’s rifle scope, thanks to the miracle of modern alcohol. Dole leaned too far and went over the railing, doing a half-gainer onto Joh

Joh

An hour later he was in a bar on Zack Street drowning his sorrows. At 11:07 P.M.-seven minutes after the eleven-o’clock newscast began-a statuesque blonde came over to Joh

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked. “The movies?”

She smiled. “No, I’m not in movies, but I love to watch movies.”

Hubba-hubba, Joh

“So, what kind of movies do you like?” asked Joh

“You ever see The Crying Game?”

C C. Flag was never found. Neither was the mayor of Beverly Shores, and the crime scene tape remained across the door of his condominium at Calusa Pointe from when Mrs. Edna Ploomfield was blown up through his floor.

Neighbors began hearing movements and a voice from the unit-someone having one-sided conversations in the middle of the night. One of the bolder residents, a retiree named Cecil, knocked on the door.

A tall, lean man with dark sunglasses answered. He flipped open a billfold to display a gold police badge. Cecil leaned forward to read it, but the man flipped it closed. The man had a clipboard in his other hand, and he began writing on it without making an introduction.

“What is your name and address?” he asked Cecil, who stood nervously outside the door, trying to peek around the man into the condominium.

“Would you have any information we can use about the mayor or Mrs. Edna Ploomfield?”

Cecil shook his head.

“You wouldn’t be trying to obstruct this investigation, would you?”

Cecil shook his head again, more vigorously this time.

“Good. We’ll call you if we need you,” Serge said and closed the door, and Cecil walked away confused, glancing back at the unit a couple of times.

Serge tossed the badge on the dining-room table and flopped down on the couch. Florida Cable News was on the tube. Serge propped his feet up on the glass-top coffee table and resumed writing on the clipboard. The key to life, Serge knew, was the diligent keeping of lists. The clipboard was Serge’s newest tether to reality. There were so many loose ends in Serge’s life, relentless injustices, endless chores, unphotographed historic sites. He felt a sense of control over things he had no control over by listing them. At the top of the clipboard: “Find 5 million.” After that, in smaller letters, “Visit Fort DeSoto, buy batteries/film, Egmont Key (rent boat?)”