by Tim Dorsey
“It’s just not done that way.”
“I’m stoked you picked a place on A1A,” said Coleman. “It’s twenty-four-hour, take-no-prisoners partying!”
“Coleman, we’re not here for your enjoyment.” Serge continued unpacking. “It was Mahoney’s idea. He wants us in position.”
“For what?”
“He hired this consulting company called Big Dipper, and they’ve been crunching some random data on one of the scams.”
“What have they found?”
“Nothing so far. But this area is the last place one of the scammers struck.”
“So now what?”
“Hole up and wait for more data.”
Coleman bent down and peeked inside the freezer. “It’s even got ice-cube trays!”
“Gifts keep raining from heaven.” Serge unrolled a thick electric cord.
Coleman went to the sink with the trays. “What’s that thing?”
Serge stuck a plug in the wall. “My power strip. The key to holing up in motels is bringing your own power strip and taking control of the situation.”
“But the room has plenty of electric sockets.”
“Except they’re strewn all over the place including behind the bed, which is fraught with the peril of forgetting the stuff you’re charging: camera, cell phone, iPod, electric razor, laptop, camcorder, bullhorn, and miscellaneous flashlights including my giant search beam.”
“Do you have a bullhorn and search beam?”
“Not since I forgot the last power strip and lost everything. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s how they get you.”
Serge stared at the sink a moment. “Coleman, what are you doing?”
“Making ice cubes.”
“But you’re only filling the trays halfway. Not even.”
“That’s the point.” He slipped the trays into the mini-fridge. “I let the first half freeze, then I’ll take them back out in a few hours, add the rest of the water and let that freeze.”
Serge went back to his power strip. “I guess I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself.” Coleman closed the freezer door. “You’re doing it the normal way, but I have to go half and half for this . . .” He held a tall round cylinder next to his head and smiled.
Serge rubbed his chin. “Am I missing something?”
Coleman pointed at his hand with the other hand. “It’s a roll of Mentos. You haven’t heard of them? They’re breath fresheners for kids who want to fuck like in the commercials.”
“That wasn’t my question,” said Serge. “I’m hip to what’s going on out there with the Mentos and fucking. I’m just not getting the ice-cube connection.”
“Ohhhhh . . .” Coleman nodded. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’ve seen what happens when you put Mentos in soda?”
“Yeah, it shoots an unbelievable geyser of foam because of a unique and unforeseen chemical reaction from a combination of polysaccharides, glycoproteins and potassium benzoate that generates a ferociously rapid release of carbon dioxide. The record eruption from a two-liter bottle is something like twenty feet.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Works much the same way when I was a kid and we’d launch toy rockets with baking soda and vinegar. And there are a bunch of viral Mentos-and-soda videos on the Internet.” Serge sat on the side of a bed and folded his arms. “Please continue, Professor Putz.”
“All right.” Coleman set the roll of candy down. “Here’s the part that’s off the hook! Say you’re at a bash, and some dude wants a drink, and you say, ‘I’ll get it. Is rum and Coke good?’ He says, ‘Goddamn right.’ And you go in the kitchen giggling and make the drink. And you drop these ice cubes in the glass, except they’re not normal ice cubes. They’re the ones where you froze half, stuck a Mentos in the middle, then froze the other half on top of it. But the guy’s not going to see the Mentos in the middle of the cubes because rum and Coke is dark, and you hand the drink to him while he’s talking up some chick. And a few minutes later when the cubes melt . . .” Coleman waved both arms in the air. “Bloooooshhhhhh! Foam exploding everywhere, all over the guy’s clothes, up his nose, in his eyes, and all over the pissed-off chick, who’s definitely not going to fuck him now.”
“So Mentos can also be used for birth control.”
“They should put that on the label,” said Coleman. “The whole thing’s priceless, everyone laughing their brains out. Except if it’s a really expensive house with nice carpeting and sofas, and then the owners are screaming maniacs, ‘What the fuck?’ Either way it turns out good for me.”
“Coleman, that actually took some advance thought,” said Serge. “We may have discovered an undetected lobe. I’m taking you in for a PET scan—”
A cell phone rang.
“Serge here . . . That’s great, I’ll do it right now.”
He hung up and plugged his laptop into the power strip.
Coleman lined up Mentos on the counter. “What was that about?”
“Mahoney just e-mailed me more crime data . . .”
PALM BEACH
The noon sun glinted off a hood ornament of a winged human.
Another Rolls-Royce rolled down pricey Worth Avenue. Then another.
But two Silver Clouds in a row didn’t turn any heads at the sidewalk cafés, because the island boasted the highest concentration of Rolls in the world.
At one of the outdoor tables, a fashion-plate couple leaned forward for private conversation. Gustave wore his yacht-club blazer and prepared to work his magic again. But not on the woman at his table, who was his latest partner in crime.
Sasha.
The two dating bandits had created a more than respectable revenue stream for their gang, but now it was time to raise the bar. It was South Philly Sal’s idea. If they teamed up, the pair could land some really big game.
Swingers.
The couples tended to be more affluent, especially in the jewelry department. And more secretive. The Palm Beach social register was invented for gossip. And this was tawdry stuff. Sal figured that when blue-blood swingers reported the burglaries, they’d become suspiciously vague when police inquired about their day’s activities. Not only would the couple provide ultra-vague descriptions of the suspects, but cops don’t like it when information is withheld. Even when it’s from victims. And the cases would fall to the lowest order of priority.
Another Rolls drove by the tables. Gustave suddenly noticed something over Sasha’s shoulder and stood up with an engaging smile. “You must be the Kensingtons.”
The couples exchanged introductions. The Kensingtons were at least fifteen years older with gray hair, and that was a critical part of the plan when Gustave had reeled them in with discreet e-mails through a special off-shore website that hooked up such like-minded adventuresome couples. Imagine the Kensingtons’ luck at finding such an attractive young pair who didn’t mind a little age difference. Mr. Kensington also wore a yachting jacket, but his sported an admiral’s insignia, because he had bought the insignia and told the maid to sew it on. He pretended to read the menu, instead guessing which positions Sasha might be into and if she’d mind wearing the admiral’s jacket to bed. He glanced up at her. “What looks good today?”
“Try the shrimp cocktail.”
Microscopes arrived, then four bites of food.
An hour later, the Kensingtons stood bewildered with the check in their hand, wondering where their lunch partners had disappeared to. A half hour after that, they stood in their living room, wondering where all their valuables had gone.
The police arrived.
A detective opened a notebook. “Have you seen anyone suspicious outside your home lately? Maybe in a utility truck?”
They shook their heads.
“What did you do earlier today?”
“We had lunch with some friends,” said Mrs. Kensington.
“What were their names?”
“Uh . . .” Mrs. Kensington turned to her husband.
The detective stopped writing and looked up. “You don’t know the names of the friends you just had lunch with?”
“They were strangers,” said Mr. Kensington.
“Strangers or friends, which is it?”
“Friendly strangers,” said Mrs. Kensington.
The pair began to wilt under the detective’s glare. “Look,” said Mr. Kensington. “The tables were pretty full and we met this nice-enough couple who offered their two empty chairs.”
“What did they look like?” asked the detective. “Start with the man.”
The Kensingtons answered simultaneously.
“Tall . . .”
“Short . . .”
They glanced at each other.
“Medium.”
The detective wrote swingers and closed his notebook. “Are you an admiral?”
“Not really.”
HIALEAH
A black Firebird cruised down the Palmetto Expressway.
Serge turned toward his passenger.
“What?” said Coleman. “Why are you looking at me in that creepy way?”
“Coleman, you’re a genius!”
“I am?”
Serge nodded hard. “You just gave me the perfect concept for my next science project.”
Coleman smiled confidently and hit a joint. “Never really thought about it, but I guess I am a little on the brainy side.” Another exhale. “So how am I smart?”
Serge waved for him to be quiet. He already had the phone to his head. “Alfonso, Serge here. I need a favor . . . What do you mean you don’t want that kind of trouble? . . . When has anything ever gone wrong? . . . That was just that one time . . . Okay, twice . . . Okay, now that time I did not burn down your warehouse . . . No, it was an electrical short from shoddy contractors . . . I did not overload the circuits making a Tesla arc transmitter to create artificial bursts of indoor lightning. Nikola Tesla won the Nobel Prize, so it had to be perfectly safe . . . Listen, I hate to remind someone when they owe me big-time . . . That’s better . . . Just a few things: a couple of fifty-five-gallon drums, arc-welding equipment and secure privacy. Got a pen? . . .”
Coleman noticed the Trans Am speeding up. “Where are we going?”
Serge still had the cell to his ear. “. . . And of course safety goggles.” He hung up. “Did you say something?”
“Where you driving to?”
“Alfonso’s Scrap Metal, Recycling and Lounge.”
“Lounge?”
“It’s on the edge of a weird municipal zoning thing, and Alfonso took advantage of it.” Serge hit his blinker for a Hialeah exit. “But he learned that after the lounge opens at night and drinking starts, it’s a good idea to turn off the hydraulic car-crusher and the big magnet that picks vehicles up. What were those people thinking?”
The Firebird rolled down an access road in an industrial district characterized by forklifts and Dobermans. They turned through a barbed-wire gate and into a cavernous sheet-metal building.
Serge zestfully jumped out of the car. “Alfonso!”
A lanky man in jeans raised the visor on his welding helmet and cut the gas to his torch. “Serge, it’s been three years.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Whatever happened to ‘You wanna get some lunch’?”
“Why? You hungry?”
“No,” said Alfonso. “It’s just that most people don’t call out of the blue and go, ‘I’m five minutes away, and I need all this crazy shit, and seal the building tight so police can’t get nosy. And why do you need three different types of fire extinguishers?”
“To cover all bases,” said Serge. “I wouldn’t want you yelling at me again: ‘What’s with all the fucking lightning in here?’ ”
“Forget it.” Alfonso made a casual wave. “All your stuff is over there.”
“Excellent!” Serge clasped his hands together. “First I’m going to weld—”
“Stop!” Alfonso held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. I’m going to lock the place up now, and if you’re interrogated, I was never here.”
Coleman suddenly gasped.
“What is it?” asked Serge.
He pointed in horror at a sign on the door to the adjacent building. LOUNGE CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
“Oh, that,” said Alfonso. “One of the bar customers figured out how to turn the big magnet back on. Made the papers.”
Serge walked over to his new toys and picked up a heavy black helmet. “I won’t forget this.”
“I wish you would.”
Serge lowered the visor on his helmet and ignited the torch.
Chapter Fourteen
PALM BEACH
Police had no leads on what they referred to in-house as the “Swinger Bandits.”
South Philly Sal had struck gold. And diamonds and artwork. It seemed Gustave and Sasha couldn’t fail. Until they did.
The de Gaulles owned the biggest mansion yet. And the grifters didn’t even have to detain them at lunch. The old farts just talked and talked. Usual stuff. Their vacation cottage on Nantucket, the chalet in Zurich, meeting the royals in Lisbon. Then, chaos. A cell phone vibrated in Mr. de Gaulle’s pocket.
The burglary crew had failed to detect the secondary alarm system, and a text alert had just been sent. But since the primary system hadn’t gone off, the couple figured their dog had probably gotten into mischief.
Mr. de Gaulle abruptly stood. “Sorry, but we have to go.”
“They’re bringing dessert!” said Gustave.
De Gaulle tossed a few hundreds on the table. “Our alarm went off. Probably nothing, but our dog is home.”
His wife grabbed her purse. “We just love Poopsie.”
They sped away in an Aston Martin.
Gustave fished out his own cell for the standard abort call. “Shit.”
“What is it?” asked Sasha.
“Battery’s dead. Give me your phone.”
“I didn’t bring it because you had yours. What are we going to do?”
What they did was race to the home. The Aston Martin was already in the driveway, but the couple was still on the footpath.
Gustave screeched up to the curb and yelled out the window. “Wait!”
Mr. de Gaulle’s face was a swirl of questions. “What are you doing here? . . . How’d you know our address? And why are you driving that crappy Datsun?”
Gustave jumped out and ran across the lawn, followed by Sasha. “Hold up! I have something important—”
“Just a second,” said de Gaulle. “Right after we check on our dog. Why isn’t she barking? That’s not like Poopsie.”
Gustave was almost there, ready to try anything. Seize the house keys and explain later.
Too late. He was already twisting in the knob and the door opened. The couple casually blustered inside. “Here, Poopsie, Poopsie— What in the hell?”
Four men with gloves froze where they stood in the dining room, literally holding the bag. Next to a dead dog. Everyone locked eyes.
The staring contest seemed like it lasted an hour, but was less than two seconds. The de Gaulles turned to run out the door for help and crashed straight into Gustave and Sasha, who beat their skulls in respectively with a sterling candelabra and a bronze statue of a little boy peeing.
Mr. de Gaulle was pronounced DOA, but his wife lay safely in a coma. Swingers or not, police closed ranks around the town and turned up the heat. Time for South Philly Sal to move south.
THAT EVENING
Coleman contentedly burned through an ever-dwindling twelve-pack suitca
se of Busch. A lawn chair in the back of the warehouse gave him a front-row seat to the fireworks show of sparks shooting toward the ceiling and bouncing benignly off Serge’s thick rubber apron.
Serge turned off the torch and walked over to a drill press. Even louder noise this time. When the metalwork was finished, he gathered all the machined parts in the middle of the building and banged them together with a mallet.
Serge stood and nodded to himself in approval. He dialed his cell phone again. “Crazy Legs? This is Serge. I need a huge favor immediately . . . Has it really already been five whole years? . . . Because I was in the neighborhood . . . But— . . . I thought— . . . Why? Are you hungry? . . .”
Serge eventually negotiated an end to the conversation. Then he grabbed a crowbar and began disassembling the apparatus.
Coleman raised his hand.
“Yes, the student in the back of the class.”
“Serge, you just put it together. Why are you taking it apart already?”
“You always do a test fit in the lab to avoid on-site glitches during final assembly and launch.” A round disk clanged to the floor. “I should have worked on the Hubble Telescope.”
Coleman cringed at the sound of heavy metal dragging on concrete.
Serge stopped and wiped his brow. “Are you going to just sit around or give me a hand?”
“I was hoping to just sit.”
“Shut up and get over here.”
Coleman shrugged and shuffled across the warehouse. “What are we doing?”
“Loading all this for transpo to the final destination.” Serge took another deep breath. “I forgot to tell Alfonso that I also needed his van. Oh, well, he’s not using it tonight . . . Grab here like I am and pull. On three . . .”
Three came and they pulled. They stopped. “This isn’t working,” said Serge. “Let’s roll it.”
They reached the rear of the van, and Serge tilted the main assembly upright. He opened the back doors. “Coleman, get inside. I’ll lean it against the bumper to boost it from this end, and you pull from the other . . .”
Success. Coleman jumped down from the vehicle, and the doors slammed shut.