“He’ll buy that?”

“No, he’ll see right through it. But it’ll give him plausible deniability… Put out your hand.” The assistant did.

Rood tapped an ash into it. “Can’t fail.”

“But you don’t even know this guy.”

“He’s a lawyer.”

“What about the girl?”

“Fuck her.”

Squealing behind the suite’s door.

Rood grabbed the knob. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Filming continued as the bus pulled into the parking lot of a luxury resort.

“Here.” Rood handed the girls a presentation case. “Use the ben wa balls.”

Suddenly, a screeching of cars all around the bus. Loud voices.

“Cut!” yelled Rood. He left the suite and headed toward the front of the coach. “What the hell’s all that racket?”

“Sir,” said his assistant. “They’re here again.”

“Who is?”

They leaned toward side windows. Middle-aged women in the parking lot, waving picket signs and yelling.

“How’d they find us so fast?”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Son of a bitch.” He turned to the driver. “Keep going.”

The bus pulled away from the hotel and headed south.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

NEW SMYRNA BEACH

Twenty minutes south of Daytona, the Challenger turned west on State Road 44. Serge parked beneath a neon outline of Florida.

“Another biker bar,” said Coleman. “Cool!”

“Why are we stopping?” asked Andy.

“Because it’s Gilly’s Pub 44,” said Serge. “I love Gilly’s! ‘Where everyone is treated like a local.’”

“But I mean, aren’t we running for our lives?”

“Exactly.” Serge opened the driver’s-side door. “They’ll never expect this.”

Everyone grabbed stools. Coleman ordered four drinks.

“All right!” said Serge, looking at a TV on the wall. “A congressional hearing! Congressional hearings crack me up! Children argue better: I know you are, but what am I?…”

“What’s this one about?”

“Eeewwww.” Serge got a queasy feeling. “This one ain’t so funny. They’re questioning oil executives again, who continue bleeding my Florida travel budget. And if you know anything at all about Serge, you don’t want to go there.”

“Oh, gasoline,” said Coleman. “So that’s what everyone’s been talking about?”

Serge turned slowly. “Did you just arrive on Earth?”

Coleman tossed back a shot. “No, I’ve been here almost my whole life.”

“The part that kills me is their latest wave of commercials.” Serge tipped back his bottled water. “The message now is that they’re against oil. How stupid do they think we are? BP’s new slogan: ‘Beyond Petroleum.’ The name of the damn company is British fucking Petroleum. They’re not beyond petroleum; they’re waist-deep in North Sea crude with the gas pump up our ass…”

“Serge, your head’s turning that color again.”

“… Or the ones showing cute Alaskan wildlife, wheat fields and wind farms, with the voice-over from a woman who sounds like she’s ready to fuck: ‘Imagine an oil company that cares.’ Holy Orwell, why not ‘Marlboro: We’re in the business of helping you quit smoking, so buy a carton today! ’…”

Farther down the bar.

Four white-haired ladies in leather jackets watched TV. “I hate those oil company pricks.”

“Why doesn’t the government do something?” asked Edna.

“Are you listening to yourself?” said Edith. “The government?”

Back up the bar, Serge’s ears perked. “Those voices…”

“The ones in your head?” asked Coleman.

“No, those are just the backup singers.” He looked around. “Why does it sound so familiar?”

“Where are they coming from?”

Serge strained his neck. “Coleman! Over there! It’s our old friends!”

He jumped off his stool, ran over and spread his arms. “The G-Unit!”

“Shit.” Edith picked up her gin. “Another fan.”

Edna slipped on chic sunglasses. “No autographs.”

“I don’t want an autograph.” He hopped on the balls of his feet. “Don’t you recognize me?”

“Not really.”

“It’s me! Serge! From that crazy cruise to Cancun. And a decade back on Triggerfish Lane.”

“Dear God.”

“Glad to see me? What are you drinking? I got it.”

“Tanqueray.”

Serge raised a finger for the bartender and opened his wallet. “What’s with the leather getups?”

“We’re bad to the bone,” said Edith.

“So what have you been doing with yourselves these days?” asked Serge.

“Just ridin’ the big slab,” said Eunice.

“And hating this jackass,” said Edith, nodding up toward the TV.

“That oil guy?” said Serge. “Don’t get me started. Saying he’s just a regular Joe with money concerns like the rest of us.”

“Listen to that heartless fiction coming out of his mouth,” said Edna. “When gas went back down under two dollars a gallon, I thought we’d seen the last of it, but these snakes were just lying in wait.”

The TV switched to a correspondent standing outside the committee meeting room: “… Meanwhile, investors in the oil giant are elated with record profits, and CEO Riles ‘Scooter’ Highpockets III, who gave himself an eighty-million-dollar securities option this year, should receive a much more welcome reception when he appears at the company’s annual stockholders’ meeting at an Orlando resort tomorrow… Back to you, Blaine…”

“How can he lie so completely and get away with it?” asked Eunice.

“Maybe he won’t,” Serge said with a grin.

“What do you mean?”

“How’d you like to have some fun?”

“We ain’t never stopped havin’ fun.”

DAYTONA BEACH

Hotel business center.

Agent Ramirez tapped computer keys and opened his e-mail. An hour later, a cursor slid over “Serge Commencement #2.”

The video opened with a post-event interview of the principal at police headquarters:

“Said he was a children’s author?” asked a detective.

“That’s right.”

“And you didn’t sense anything was wrong?”

“Claimed to be an alumnus, even knew the old playground layout,” said the principal. “And that was years ago before it was replaced. There’s this advanced new safety padding under the teeter-totters in case someone plays a prank and jumps off-”

“I’m sure it’s a fine playground. What about his commencement address?”

“That’s why we started wondering. But whenever we thought, ‘Where the heck is he going with this?’ it snapped into place. By the time we finally caught on, he was already waving good-bye.”

“This is most important of all,” said the detective. “Any indication where he might have been going? Someplace we can pick up his trail?”

“When we ran outside to watch him drive away, I got the impression he was living out of his car.”

The detective massaged his forehead. “How are the kids holding up?”

“Not too good,” said the principal. “Most of them keep crying because he isn’t their first-grade teacher next year.”

The video became static, then flipping vertical lines, which soon cleared to reveal the view from a camera tripod in the back of a packed cafeteria. Drone of conversation. Hundreds of crowded parents taking snapshots from a sea of folding chairs. Up front, rows of cute tots in white caps and gowns. Serge pushed his way to the stage, where an active microphone picked up conversation.

The principal reviewed notes behind the podium. A tap on his shoulder. He looked up. “May I help you?”

“I’m the commencement speaker.”

“We don’t have a commencement speaker.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“Who are you?”

“Serge A. Storms, bestselling children’s author and legacy, Kinder Kollege class of ’67.” He extended a hand. “You must be the Principal Adams I read about in the paper. Great job you’ve done with the playground.”

“Who’s this guy with you?”

“My illustrator.”

“They didn’t tell me about a commencement speaker.”