“What do we do about it?” asked another agent.
“It’s gotten too risky now to hire Serge away from Oxnart,” said Lugar. “That might be exactly what Oxnart wants, to get Serge inside with us as a double agent. Or worse, Serge has done something rogue to embarrass the agency. Then it’s a game of hot potato: Whoever hires him last gets the blame. Either way, Oxnart’s setting a trap.”
“But what if it’s not a trap?”
“Then we definitely need to hire Serge.” Lugar picked up a lamp and threw it. Agents ducked; it smashed against a wall. “So we run a special ops to learn the angles and decide whether it’s in our best interest to recruit Serge.”
“What kind of special ops.”
“Find out where he’s staying. Which means we first need to find out where he is right now.”
“Where do you think that is?”
Lugar stared into space. “Probably somewhere on a mission.”
Midnight
“We’re on a mission!” said Serge. “Wake up!”
An orange-and-green Road Runner sat in the dark, just beyond the yellow lights of the turnpike’s toll plaza.
“Coleman, Coleman, Coleman… Wake up, up, up… We’re on a mission, mission, mission…”
Coleman remained motionless in the passenger seat, eyes frozen open.
“Coleman!” Serge violently shook his pal’s shoulders. “Shit, he’s dead! I knew he’d end up overdosing!”
Tears began rolling down Serge’s cheeks. His head sagged until it rested on the steering wheel. “Why!..”
In the passenger seat, eyes blinked.
Coleman turned slowly in a deep fog, staring curiously at Serge shaking with sobs: “Why! Why! Why!”- pounding the driver’s-side door with a fist-“My best friend’s dead!”
“Serge,” Coleman said with a slur. “I thought I was your best friend.”
Serge’s face snapped to the right. “Coleman! You’re alive!”
“More than ever.” Coleman came out of it much faster than usual. “That was freakin’ radical, man.”
“You gave me five heart attacks-I could have sworn you were dead!” said Serge. “Don’t ever do that again! I’d almost blame myself.”
“You mean just because you scored the drug, talked me into it, then injected my arm?”
“I’d still feel bad.”
“So what was that stuff?”
“You know how normally I’m against drugs, but that was special medicine for a higher purpose.”
Coleman grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Can I do it again?”
“No!” Serge declared. “This shit’s very expensive and hard to come by. We only have enough left for the mission.”
Coleman pouted.
“I only gave you some to gauge the correct dosage.” Serge folded a map. “So what’s the verdict?”
“Worked exactly like you told me, down to the last detail,” said Coleman. “I was awake but couldn’t move. Heard and saw everything.”
“Perfect, because I wouldn’t want my new star pupil to miss the show.” Serge looked at his wristwatch. “It’s time.” He grabbed the gearshift.
The Plymouth wound through a familiar neighborhood on the edge of the Everglades. It stopped in front of a dingy ranch house with empty beer cans framing the front steps. Another pyramid of cans in the living room window.
“Be extra quiet,” said Serge. “Grab those bags from the backseat. And don’t slam the doors.”
They lugged sacks up the front steps. “Serge, this is a whole lot more stuff that usual. What are you planning?”
“Child’s play.”
Serge set his bags on the ground and got out a lock-pick set. A few jiggles with the pair of steel tools. Then a few more. “It’s not working. Too rusty.”
Coleman reached and turned the knob. “It’s unlocked.”
They crept through the living room.
Crash.
“Coleman!” Serge whispered. “Quiet or you’ll wake him.”
“It’s too dark,” said Coleman. He stepped on something else, making a loud crunching noise. “There’s stuff all over the floor. This guy lives like a pig.”
Serge clicked on a flashlight. The beam swept an empty wall, then sports and swimsuit posters held up with tape. On the floor, more cans, pizza boxes. A coffee table made from produce crates supported a brimming ceramic novelty ashtray with a hardware ad and breasts.
“Leave the bags here. I’ll only need my small one right now.” He swung the flashlight. “There’s the bedroom.”
Serge turned the knob; hinges creaked. The beam hit a bearded face angled back over a pillow, mouth open, snoring like a car that wouldn’t start.
“Excellent. Still asleep.” Serge handed Coleman the flashlight. “Keep this on me. I need to see what I’m doing.”
Serge reached in the small sack and arranged supplies out on the night stand. A small bottle with hospital markings and milky liquid. Diprivan. The tip of a syringe went through the port in the lid. Serge drew back the plunger, carefully monitoring calibration marks.
“Why are you taking so long?” asked Coleman.
“Because you’re drifting with the flashlight.”
“Sorry.” Coleman re-aimed.
Serge was kneeling now, eyes close to the measuring stripes. “Have to make sure we get the same dosage I gave you. But he weighs more, so I’m recalculating in my head.”
“Is that really the same stuff the doctor gave Michael Jackson?”
“One and only.” Serge slowly extracted the needle from the bottle. “When I saw those news reports, I said to myself, ‘I know what I can use that for’…” He stood next to the bed, clutched the syringe in both hands, and raised it high over his head. “I also just saw Pulp Fiction again. I love that scene where they inject Uma Thurman in the heart!”
“Jesus, Serge. You’re going to stab him in the heart?”
“What? Not a good idea?”
“You’re the doctor.”
“Maybe you have a point. If I don’t get it just right, he’ll die immediately. And he’s just the kind of jerk who would do something mean like that to us.” Serge slid a half step toward the foot of the bed and raised the needle again. “One…”
“One,” said Coleman.
“Two…” The needle went higher.
“Two,” said Coleman.
“Three…”
“Three!”
Serge’s fists came down fast and hard. He jumped back.
“Yowwwwwwwwww!” A bearded face flew up from the pillow. “Motherfucker!”
Coleman crashed back into a wall.
Jethro Comstock stared down in bewilderment at a syringe buried to the hilt in the middle of his stomach. Then up at Coleman with the flashlight. “You’re so fucking dead!” He flung the needle from his gut and reached under the pillow.
“Serge!” yelled Coleman. “He’s got a big knife.”
The man leaped from the bed. He pinned Coleman to the wall with a burly forearm across the chest, and put
