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New Hampshire’s trademark is the Old Man of the Mountain, an unca
Somewhere between the liquor stores and the collapsed head is Durham, home of the University of New Hampshire, where a team of FBI agents raced down dormitory steps.
It began to snow.
A phone rang.
An agent flipped it open on the run. “Oswalt here… No, still at the college… Not yet… Of course we checked the dorm… It’s spring break. Everyone’s either gone home or to Florida… I realize that… I know that… We did try his cell phone… Three times, no answer… You sure he wasn’t going back to Dorchester for the week?… I didn’t mean it that way… We’re headed to the student paper where he works… Right, I’ll call as soon as we learn something.”
The phone went back in a jacket.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Heavy foot traffic on the strip.
Everyone over thirty was ignored or insulted. There were always exceptions.
Young women’s heads universally turned as a suave Latin hulk strolled down the sidewalk. Ta
Two blondes wore long, wet Indiana State T-shirts over bikinis, giggling at suggestive boys in passing pickups. Then they saw him.
“Rrrrrrrrrrrow!”-double-taking as he went by.
“But he’s old enough to be your father.”
“So fucking what?”
“Good point.”
Two pairs of bare feet made a U-turn on the sidewalk.
Joh
The reaction of the opposite sex had been the same Joh
It wasn’t.
Despite appearances to the contrary, Joh
Oh, sure, with the least flirtatious glance from those smoldering dark eyes, he could form a rock-concert line of willing partners. But it was always something. Always Florida. Some kind of typical Sunshine State strangeness invariably erupted at the worst possible moment. Hurricanes, brushfires, wayward alligators, overboard passengers, meth freaks, bodies under hotel beds, Cuban exile unrest. The odds were off the charts. Then again, there are a lot of guys in the world, and someone’s chips had to be resting on the unluckiest roulette square.
That would be Joh
His body clock ticked deafeningly between his ears. How long could he count on his drop-dead looks? Time to go fishing with dynamite.
Joh
It wasn’t five minutes since he’d parked his Ferrari when the wolf whistles began.
“Hey, handsome.”
Joh
“I work for Girls Gone Haywire.”
“Let’s party.”
The roommates made the choice for him. “I think I’ll get some more sun on the beach. Behave yourself, Carrie.” Wink.
She took him by the arm.
“My name’s Joh
“Joh
Chapter Twelve
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Serge and Coleman wove up the sidewalk against the college tide. Standard mix of rolling luggage and coolers. Serge held his ru
The pair stepped into a beachwear shack to adopt the proper spirit and came out in new T-shirts reflecting their respective outlooks.
COLEMAN’S: ALCOHOL, TOBACCO AND FIREARMS SHOULD BE A CONVENIENCE STORE, NOT A GOVERNMENT AGENCY.
Serge’s: THERE ARE IO TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD: THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND BINARY, AND THOSE WHO DON’T.
The documentary continued.
Coleman drew a steady stream of insults. Frat boys noticed something on Serge’s ear, snickered and made sideways wisecracks to their buddies. Until Serge returned the look. They noticed something unfamiliar in his eyes and wanted to keep it that way.
“Serge,” said Coleman, “what’s that fu
“A Bluetooth.”
“I never figured you for the Bluetooth type.”
“That’s why it’s not a real Bluetooth. I hate Bluetooth types, walking around all self-important like they have to be plugged in every second of the day. Can’t tell you how many times I’m in a public place having a pleasant conversation like a normal human being, and one of these fuck-heads walks right between us talking at the top of his lungs.”
“If it’s not a real Bluetooth, then what is it?”
“A piece of plastic garbage I found on the street that I rigged with paper clips. Got the idea from the smash-hit HBO series Flight of the Conchords. Except that guy had a real Bluetooth, just no receiver. I decided to take it the rest of the way and go completely anti-Bluetooth.”
“Don’t those paper clips hurt?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“Why wear it?”
“Because, like Bluetooth people, I’m also constantly walking around talking to myself, but just because I don’t have that stupid crap on my ear, people give me a wide berth and jump to the mistaken conclusion that I’m simply another jabbering street loon. Yet ever since I attached this thing to my head, completely new attitude, no matter what I’m saying: ‘I’ll destroy that motherfucker for ten generations!’”
“People dig that?”
“No, they still recoil-but in admiration. Now they think I’m a killer in the boardroom.” He nodded and smiled to himself. “Yes, sir, total respect.”
Beach babes passed the other way, pointing and laughing.
Coleman tugged Serge’s shirt as they reached a makeshift liquor stand. “Hold up-”
“No! Told you we can’t stop. The documentary is practically filming itself.” He stepped in front of a sloshed brunette from Rutgers. “Excuse me, miss…”-raising the viewfinder to his right eye- “… mind if I ask you a few questions?”
She began pulling up her shirt.
“No, not your tits.” Serge reached and yanked it back down. “I want your soul.”
“Fuck off, weirdo.”
“Is that like your generation’s catchphrase?” asked Serge. “Because I’ve been getting it a lot lately.”
She brushed past him. “Blow me.”
“That’s a close second.” Serge turned off the camera.
Another tug on his shirt.
“Coleman, we don’t have time to stop for liquor.”
“Not booze. Look!”
Serge followed his pal’s gaze up toward the sky. Two massive steel towers rose like a giant V. Between them, even higher, distant screams from a tiny flying ball. The sphere had open-air seating for two students, who were held in place by a triple-reinforced roller-coaster harness. A pair of super bungee cords ran from the tops of the towers to the sides of the ball.