16 Tiger Shrimp Tango

by Tim Dorsey

  “Where to now?” asked Coleman.

  “The biggest liquor store we can find.”

  “Wait.” Coleman looked up into the empty sky. “Do you hear angels?”

  “We’re not going for that reason,” said Serge. “It just happens to be the kind of place selling all the remaining requirements for my science project.”

  Moments later, the van sat in a crowded parking lot while the pair roamed the aisles.

  Coleman walked slowly, in awe. Arms outstretched religiously. “It’s as big as a department store.”

  Serge pushed the shopping cart. “That’s why they call it Liquor Universe.”

  “What are you shopping for?”

  “These.” Serge stopped in front of a shelf and began filling the cart.

  “Why do you need that stuff?”

  “Of all people, I thought you’d know.” He ventured to a different section of the store and filled the bottom part of the cart under the basket.

  “Are we finished?” asked Coleman.

  “Almost,” said Serge. “I’m depending on your expertise. Find me an ice pick.”

  Coleman closed his eyes, in a trance. He opened them. “Aisle six, middle shelf, halfway down on the left.”

  Serge stared inscrutably at his colleague, then walked to the appointed spot and immediately located a broad selection of ice picks. “Coleman, have you ever been in this place before?”

  “Never set foot.”

  “But then how—”

  “It just comes to me. I can’t explain it because it doesn’t happen anywhere else except head shops.”

  “Don’t turn around,” said Serge. “And cover your eyes. What’s directly behind you?”

  “Wild Turkey, in the seven-fifty-milliliter bottle.”

  “What’s next to it?”

  “Same brand, select barrel, full liter,” said Coleman. “Did I get it?”

  “You are the chosen one.” Serge wheeled toward the register.

  From halfway back up the aisle: “Can I uncover my eyes now?”

  “Yes, come on!”

  They loaded up the van, and Serge began stabbing away with the ice pick.

  “Just one question,” said Coleman. “How did you decide on the final destination to assemble this?”

  “The location picked itself. Remember I said we were waiting for data from Mahoney? He e-mailed me last night with more info from his latest clients, and I was able to make contact with prime suspects over the Internet.” Stab, stab, stab. “Criminals tend to operate in zones of comfort, but if all goes according to my plan, this will be the opposite of comfort.”

  A few last stabs. “There, all done.” Serge tossed the pick on the dashboard. “Coleman, pass me my bottle of drinking water. I need to fuse this internal component and let it cure.”

  Coleman handed it over and giggled like a five-year-old.

  Serge poured water into an old rag. “You’re stoned out of your freakin’ mind.”

  “No, I’m laughing because I finally get it.” More uncontrolled snickers.

  “Coleman, that’s a personal record. You’ve never figured out my projects this early.”

  He clutched another hit. “Definitely! I’ll bet I could even put it together all by myself.”

  “Grasshopper, your journey is almost complete.” He started up the van and reversed course on the Palmetto Expressway, heading east toward A1A. In the rearview, the sky over the Everglades glowed blood-red from a just-set sun. Ahead, over the Atlantic, deepening purple. “Excellent timing. We’ll arrive under cover of darkness, which is critical because we’ll be exposed.”

  They reached a causeway.

  “Hey, Serge,” said Coleman. “Weren’t we just here a week ago?”

  “Correct again, Mensa boy.”

  The van pulled off the road and into a small park where they weren’t supposed to be after sunset, but bolt cutters gave them an invitation.

  They stopped next to a small boat ramp, near a small vessel that was anchored out of sight around a bend in the mangroves. Serge removed his shoes and socks and began walking down the ramp’s incline.

  “What the heck are you doing?” yelled Coleman.

  Serge entered the water and was quickly up to his knees. “Called in a favor from Crazy Legs. He lent me the boat, but couldn’t leave it in a trailer in the parking lot because the county would tow at closing time . . . I’ll be right back.” He dove into the water and swam quickly around the bend.

  Coleman sat on the back bumper and urgently burned a jay to enhance the coming attractions. “I cannot wait for this!” He peered into the darkness as the nose of an eighteen-foot fly-fishing Carolina Skiff emerged from the edge of the mangroves. Then the whole boat came into view, riding silently because Serge was using an ultra-quiet electric trolling motor that fishermen favor when they don’t want to scatter their quarry on the flats.

  Next, Serge and Coleman rolled a giant metal tube down the ramp and strained to hoist it over the side of the craft. After that, the rest of the loading was chump work. Serge started the trolling motor again and sailed around the bend. This time he wedged the boat deep in the mangroves to avoid daylight detection. Then he swam back to the boat ramp.

  “That’s it?” said Coleman. “We’re not going to use it now? I hate waiting when I’m high.”

  “We don’t have any contestants yet.” Serge got out his keys. “Unless you want to volunteer.”

  “I’d rather wait.”

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON

  A van from the electric company rolled slowly through the finger canals off Las Olas Boulevard. Fort Lauderdale’s answer to Worth Avenue.

  Since Miami-Dade was now two-thirds Hispanic, much of the wealth had migrated north over the county line into Broward. They called it Anglo flight.

  The waterfront homes were getting ridiculous in scale. Thanks to building codes. Most ordinances in other cities limit the size of structures. Not here. In order to increase property values and the tax base, you could not purchase one of the older homes unless you agreed to bulldoze it and build something so big it would blot out the sun. Seriously.

  Wayne Huizenga, former owner of the Miami Dolphins, Florida Marlins and Blockbuster video, has a home there. It’s a short limo ride to the downtown offices, but he likes to take the chopper from his backyard helipad. Seriously.

  “There’s the house now.” Gustave pointed out the windshield. It wasn’t Huizenga’s place, but South Philly Sal was still impressed. “When are you supposed to meet this couple?”

  “Noon for lunch. Actually a picnic.”

  “What about the location?” said Sal. “That mess back in Palm Beach with the couple who came home early is still fresh. We need to watch our profile.”

  “Sasha personally picked the spot,” said Gustave. “She’s totally comfortable there.”

  “Okay, then.” Sal turned around to the rest of the gang in the back of the truck. “Everyone, we’re on at noon . . .”

  At twelve on the dot:

  Sasha merrily swung a wicker picnic basket as she strolled down a lush embankment of grass overlooking a mirror surface of water.

  Gustave was close behind with a large checkered blanket. “What’s with you and this place? I don’t see how special it is.”

  “Dumbfounding Bay?” said Sasha. “Are you joking? The history—”

  “I know, I know,” said Gustave. “You have this thing for dangerous types.” He spread out the blanket under a nest of palms.

  “Make sure none of those coconuts are over our heads,” said Sasha. “One knocked me out when I was a kid.”

  Gustave looked up and slid the blanket to the left.

  Sasha unpacked Evian, paper plates and pickles.

  “What have you got in there?” asked Gustave.

  The deli
sandwiches came out next. “Wasn’t sure what they’d like, so I got a little of everything. Egg, tuna and chicken salad.”

  Gustave checked his watch and looked around. A few cubicle people were enjoying lunch away from the office, but no couples. “Where are they? It’s already five past.”

  Sasha opened the coleslaw. “They’ll be here.”

  Two men walked up. “Are you Gustave and Sasha?”

  The question caught them off guard.

  “Why? Who are you?”

  “We’re the people you’re supposed to meet. You know, the e-mails.”

  “But . . . you’re two guys.”

  “Is that a problem?” asked the man. “Because I can perfectly understand. It’s just that it’s usually cool in the swinging community.”

  “No, we’re fine,” said Gustave. “It’s just that when you said your names were Nathan and Jamie, I naturally assumed—”

  “Is that tuna salad? I love tuna salad.”

  They all sat down for lunch and small talk.

  “This place sure is beautiful,” said Nathan.

  “Sasha picked it out,” said Gustave.

  “She must have a thing for Mob types.”

  “Why yes,” said Gustave. “But . . . I mean . . . How did you know?”

  “You kidding?” said Nathan. “The history of this place. They found Johnny Roselli bobbing in a drum right over there with his legs sawed off. That gives me an appetite.” He took a big bite of his tuna sandwich.

  Gustave and Sasha glanced warily at each other. “Uh, what exactly do you do for a living?”

  Nathan noshed another bite. “Consulting work mainly. Right now I’m getting a lot of action from a private investigator. He was just hired by the family of this couple that was attacked in Palm Beach . . .”

  A cell phone vibrated. Gustave flipped it open. Sal screamed so loud on the other end that everyone could hear: “Abort! Abort! The house is occupied! The people you’re meeting aren’t who they say they are—”

  The phone was snatched from Gustave’s hand and flung in the water. Then a gun barrel pressed between his eyes. “My name’s actually Serge. I thought you should know that since we’ll be spending some quality time together.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  MIDNIGHT

  Watch your footing,” said Serge, helping Sasha out of the trunk. “There’s a lot of algae on these ramps. Wouldn’t want you to slip and hurt yourself . . . Coleman, stop fooling around and assist that gentleman.”

  Coleman pushed himself up from the ground. “I slipped.”

  Serge had previously retrieved the hidden skiff from the mangroves, and it sat anchored in shallow water.

  “All aboard!”

  It took the persuasion of a pistol, but Gustave and Sasha settled in nicely. Serge worked the till of the trolling motor, backing the skiff away from the ramp.

  Coleman sat up on the bow with a joint for a running light. “So this really is where they found that chopped-up mobster?”

  “That’s right, Dumbfounding Bay.” Serge cut the rudder hard to starboard and switched the motor out of reverse. “They found Roselli right over there.”

  “But if you’re going to do what I think you are, we can’t be out in the water.”

  “We can if it’s a falling tide and there’s a shallow shoal that I personally know about.”

  Serge expertly navigated the channel, slipping clandestinely under the lights of waterfront homes backed up against their seawalls. One family was eating dinner, another watched a Harry Potter movie on a big screen. Someone else paced feverishly with a telephone, cigar and bitterness. Nobody was visible in the next house, but Serge recognized an oil painting in the living room from one of the founding Highwaymen.

  The skiff was almost there. Serge gently ran it aground on the submerged sandbar. He slipped over the side, which gave the craft more buoyancy, and pulled it farther onto the shoal. The only tricky part was getting the fifty-five-gallon drums over the side and wedged into the bottom muck without raising a ruckus. Especially since the barrels were welded together, end to end. Serge had cut the bottom out of the top barrel, creating one tall cylinder. It rested sideways on the edge of the skiff. “Ease it in gently.”

  “I’m losing my grip,” said Coleman.

  “Don’t drop it!”

  He dropped it.

  Splash.

  Serge and Coleman ducked in the boat and stared up at the mansions along the seawall. The man with the phone and cigar came to the window and glanced around, then went back to chewing someone out.

  “That was close,” said Serge.

  “Look, the barrels landed upright,” said Coleman. “Can I put the next part together?”

  “The floor is yours.”

  Coleman reached down into the bilge as Serge aimed his .45 back at the tied-up couple. He motioned for the woman to scoot away from her companion.

  “Okay, Sasha, here’s the deal: Your pal is going in that big tube I made—”

  Panicked screaming from under the man’s duct tape.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Serge cracked him in the forehead with the pistol’s butt. Then he scratched his own temple with the gun barrel. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, he’s going in the tube, and I’ll take your duct tape off, but if you make one peep or otherwise try to get the attention of the residents up along that seawall, then you’re the one who goes in the tube. Do we understand each other?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  “Good,” said Serge. “Coleman, give me a hand with Gustave.”

  Coleman grabbed the man’s bound feet. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

  “Don’t know why not,” said Serge, grabbing him under the arms. “I welded two barrels together instead of using just one and having to saw his legs off.”

  “You’re always courteous like that,” said Coleman.

  “And yet so few say thank you.”

  Coleman got Gustave’s feet through the opening of the tube, and the rest was only a matter of letting gravity slide him down. His feet touched bottom and his eyes barely peeked over the edge of the top barrel. He made whiny sounds under the tape.

  “I smell something,” said Coleman. “I think he just shit his pants something horrible.”

  “In the world of poker, that is what’s known as ‘a tell.’ ” Serge reached over with his right hand and knocked on the top of Gustave’s head. “Eyes up here. I’m the Man with the Plan, and I know what you’re thinking: ‘He’s going to put the lid on and I’ll suffocate.’ But that’s not how I roll, so you can relax.” He held up the lid and pointed at where he’d used the drill press to created a dozen half-dollar-size holes. “See? You can breathe. But the big question remains: What does ol’ Serge have in store for me?”

  “And Coleman,” added Coleman. “I thought of it.”

  “That’s right,” said Serge. “He did have this idea. And they don’t come around often, so you should savor it like a passing comet.” He reached down in the boat and held up another round piece of metal the same diameter as the lid. Except this one was made of steel mesh like the part of a barbecue that lets charcoal drop its ashes. “I machined this so it seats three inches below the lip of the top barrel, keeping your head pushed down slightly away from the lid, because you strike me as the kind of person who would cheat by putting his mouth right up to one of the air holes, and that would be such a disappointment for me.” Serge placed the mesh disk over Gustave’s head. “Okay, crouch down some more so I can wedge this into place.”

  Serge positioned the mesh, but Gustave fiercely resisted. “I said to crouch down. There’s not enough room with you standing up.”

  Serge pressed hard on the mesh, and Gustave strained to stand as tall as possible.

  Coleman tossed a roach over the side of the boat. “I don’t think he’s listening.�
�

  “That’s what the rubber mallet is for. I call it The Cooperator.”

  Wham, wham, wham, wham, wham . . .

  “His head doesn’t like the mallet,” said Coleman. “He’s crouching.”

  “And now I’ll use the mallet to give the mesh a snug fit . . .” Wham, wham, wham, wham. “. . . And next the lid.” Just before setting it in on top, Serge stuck his face over the barrels. “You’re about to become a science pioneer, and that’s something nobody can ever take away from you.” He gave Gustave a cheerful wave. “Well, toodles!” The lid went on.

  Wham, wham, wham, wham . . .

  Coleman reached into one of the liquor-store bags. “Is it time?”

  “Right-o. Uncap that sucker.” Serge stuck his hand in another shopping bag.

  The pair met at the side of the boat and began pouring the bottles of alcohol through the air holes. Then they tossed the empties in the bilge and reached into the bags again. More pouring. “Repeat as needed . . .” They made several more short trips until the bags were empty and the bilge was full of garbage.

  “Coleman, get the anchor.” Serge flicked on the electric motor and silently backed away from the shoal. He reached a range of a hundred yards and dropped anchor again.

  “Okay,” Serge told Coleman. “You’re on.”

  “Huh? What do you mean I’m on?”

  Serge aimed his thumb sideways. “Sasha. Check the expression on her face. I’m sure she’s dying to know.”

  “You want me to explain the experiment?”

  “It was your idea,” said Serge. He took a seat next to her. “Rock this joint.”

  “Wow, you’ve always been the one to explain before.” Coleman stopped and placed his palms on the sides of his face. “Okay, this is my big break. I don’t want to mess it up. I’ll tell that part, and that part, and, no, that other part comes first . . .”

  “Any day now,” said Serge.

  “Okay.” Coleman cleared his throat. “I’m a little nervous, so I’m probably not going to get any laughs. Here goes: It all started when me and the Buzzard were getting royally baked. We had this giant glass bong shaped like a T. Rex, and I mean we were just totally splattered, so freakin’ high that we spent an hour hung up on heavy philosophical Seinfeld questions like, What on earth are they planting to grow seedless dope? And then you wake up the next morning and swear someone must have broken in while you were asleep because all the furniture is rearranged and your shoes are in the microwave. You know what I mean? Those really great nights? And then the next morning me and Buzzard. Hold on, it wasn’t Buzzard. It was Taco Tommy. Was Buzzard there? That’s right, they were both there because we had this windowpane acid that we broke into four doses and there was one left over, so that’s how I remember, and we all dropped LSD for breakfast. And you know at the veterinary office how they sometimes have to put those plastic cones around a dog’s head so it won’t bite stitches or whatever? About halfway through the trip, Buzzard and Taco made me put on a plastic cone ‘for my own good,’ and I spent the rest of the trip wandering around the house wearing this cone like I’m a lamp, and only being able to see the top halves of the rooms . . .”