by Tim Dorsey
“Yeah, so?”
“So you shouldn’t have done that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s a sad commentary on the direction of society,” said the detective. “But we’ve begun distributing Crime Stopper tips to grieving relatives about what details to withhold from the newspapers.”
“What for?”
“Because most of the people reading funeral notices today in South Florida are criminals looking to burglarize the homes of survivors during the viewing. You may want to have someone watch this place.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes they come back during the burial.”
“What the hell is wrong with these people!”
The detective solemnly bowed his head. “They have no empathy.”
Soon, all the notebooks were closed. The police offered their condolences again and let themselves out.
Brook was left sitting alone in silence. The thunderstorm in her brain spun off downpours with hail.
Chapter Twenty-Three
MIAMI BEACH
Cigar smoke was thick, but an off-shore breeze quickly carried it off the patio.
Three cocky types with red ties and American-flag lapel pins puffed big Hondurans grown from Cuban seeds. A waitress came by with their drinks. The men tipped well, which entitled them to ask her to bed. The seafood restaurant was called Barnacle Buddy’s.
The trio blew smoke rings and faced the ocean.
Serge faced them.
Coleman sipped a rumrunner from a glass the size of a flower vase. “Serge, what are we doing here? Don’t get me wrong, I’m drinking.”
“Multi-tasking,” said Serge. “The Master Plan is hitting its stride and working on three different levels. First, we’re in position again because Mahoney gave me the last critical details on the next targets, but it’s not going down until tonight. Second, in the meantime I’m continuing to recharge my idea reservoir because it looks like there’ll be a lot more jerks than I originally anticipated. And third, I’m scouring for a political infiltration point to track my elusive main quarry and achieve closure.”
“Felicia?”
Serge flinched at the name. “The people at the hotel desk across the street said this is where a lot of political operatives hang out, so I’m studying them to learn how to blend in.”
“They’re just smoking fat cigars and trying to fuck the waitress.”
“To the untrained eye it might seem boorish, but since they’re always telling us how to live our lives, they must know what they’re doing. That’s why I need to observe their behavior in the wild. Then, after our mission tonight, we’ll use what we’ve learned to volunteer at local party headquarters.”
“I don’t know,” said Coleman. “I get the feeling they won’t like me.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” said Serge. “But that’s not your fault. I’ve been studying politics my whole life, so I know exactly how to get along. Right about the time that they throw you out of the office, they’ll probably be carrying me around on their shoulders and chanting my name. Just gather what intelligence you can before you’re ejected . . .”
Coleman pointed. “Looks like they’re getting up.”
The trio of operatives finally put out their cigars and went inside. The table was quickly taken over by three more guys with flag lapel pins. They fired up stogies and ordered drinks.
Serge opened a notebook. “This should be an interesting comparison.”
“But they’re the same as the other guys,” said Coleman.
“No, they’re different,” said Serge. “The first guys were Republicans; these are Democrats.”
“How do you know?”
“They didn’t tip as well before trying to screw the waitress.” Serge stood. “Get up.”
“But I haven’t finished my drink.”
“Bring it with you. We’re switching surveillance back to the first guys before they leave.”
The pair returned to air-conditioning. The restaurant was dim with dark mahogany walls covered in oars, life rings and antique harpoons.
“There they are,” said Serge.
“They seem to be having fun,” said Coleman. “Listen to them laugh.”
“That means the country’s on the right track.”
The pair walked over and leaned against the wall behind the trio, who were whooping it up and egging one another on in a spirited competition.
“Those things are so cool.” Coleman chugged his drink and wiped a spot on his shirt. “I used to love those crane games at carnivals where you tried to capture stuffed animals and hand grenades, but I could never win.”
“And now a bunch of seafood restaurants across the country have crane games with live lobsters in a tank,” said Serge. “And these guys are playing it. I think this is important.”
“What does it all mean?”
“When a country begins grabbing live lobsters with carnival cranes, it means capitalism has an insurmountable lead.” Serge nodded. “Forget oil pipelines and the space race. The Russians are watching this on YouTube and going, ‘Just fucking great.’ ”
“The winners are leaving,” said Coleman.
“And so are we,” said Serge. “I need to buy cigars and lobsters.”
“What for?”
“They just recharged my reservoir.”
AFTER MIDNIGHT
It was another upscale high-rise hotel overlooking Biscayne Bay.
They paid for the view. Down below, convertibles raced along the twisting waterfront like a grand prix. Fleets of taxis whisked away people who had enjoyed themselves over the legal limit. There was a party on one of the yachts anchored off the MacArthur Causeway.
Up in the rooms, some were asleep, some watched TV, others had sex with strangers they’d just met in a cab.
In one particular suite on the seventeenth floor, a fleshy man sat on the foot of a bed, working the remote control.
“Serge, check out the movies you can get in this place: Naughty Housewives, Naughty Housewives Volume Two, Backdoor Housewives, Kitchen Counter Housewives, Housewives and the Lawn Guy, Housewives and Rico from the Transmission Shop That Overcharges, Housewives and the Birthday Clown . . . That one looks interesting.” Coleman clicked the remote. “And it says the titles won’t appear on your bill.”
“What more could you ask from a classy joint?” Serge paced in front of the giant picture window.
“That’s weird,” said Coleman. “The clown’s there, but where are all the children? . . . Ohhhhh, I get it now . . . Hey, Serge, you have to see this. They’re playing pin the tail on the donkey, except with her snatch. Man, this really is an upscale hotel . . .”
“Coleman, just stay sharp.”
“And now he’s busting open the piñata with his cock.” Coleman killed a tiny bottle of Jack from the minibar. “I’m starting to get the idea this guy isn’t a legitimate clown.”
“Coleman! Turn that off!” said Serge. “We have to stay focused on our mission.”
“What’s the next step?”
“I told you: We wait for the phone call.” Serge glanced at a digital clock that read 1:58. “And it’s almost time . . .”
Two minutes later, the phone rang.
And rang.
Coleman polished off another miniature. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”
Serge continued staring out at the bay with hands on his hips. “You’re closer to the phone. Why don’t you answer it?”
“Because I don’t know everything that’s going on like you do.”
“In this phase of the plan, it doesn’t matter who answers the phone,” said Serge. “Just as long as someone does.”
“Cool.” Coleman got up. “I’ve always wanted to answer a phone but you never let me.” He grabbed the receiver o
ff the nightstand. “Hello, you got the one and only Coleman . . . Yes? . . . What? . . . Oh my God! . . . Holy shit! . . . Fuck me! . . . Appreciate you calling.”
Coleman hung up.
There was some background noise as Serge enjoyed the flickering lights of a cruise ship off the coast. Suddenly he noticed something alarming in the window’s reflection, coming up fast from behind. He spun and tackled Coleman.
Crash.
Porcelain exploded.
“Coleman, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“That phone call.” Coleman panted and pulled a sliver out of his palm. “The guy at the front desk said there was a gas leak and I had to immediately break out the big window with the toilet-tank lid.”
“That’s why I told you not to break the window with the toilet lid.”
“When?”
“When we first got in the room.”
“You were talking to me?”
A calamity of sound began coming through the door. Frantic voices in the hallway. Sprinkler heads snapping off. Fire extinguishers.
“Forget it.” He grabbed Coleman by his shirt. “We have to hurry!”
They ran to the front of the suite. Serge gently opened the door a foot. The crazed voices from the foam-soaked hallway were now but distant echoes as people galloped down the stairwell instead of taking the elevator. Serge left the door ajar, then hustled Coleman into the bathroom, cut the lights and hid.
The stairway echoes faded until the hallway was silent. Just Serge and Coleman breathing in the bathroom and trying to adjust their eyes to the dark.
“What are we waiting for?” whispered Coleman.
“Shhhh, I think I hear it.”
The hallway silence was broken by a herd of padding footsteps. Then doors creaking.
“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“They’re hitting the other rooms,” said Serge. Footsteps grew closer. “No more talking.”
Coleman’s heart pounded in the still bathroom. The door to their own room slowly began to creak.
“Hello? Anyone home? . . . Excellent. And they left their wallets right out on the dresser . . .”
Serge listened until he could tell by the sound that their new guest was sufficiently into the suite, then he tiptoed out of the bathroom to the room’s hallway door and pushed it shut behind him without concern for noise.
The intruder spun around in surprise.
“Actually someone is home,” Serge said with a big smile and bigger gun. “Now grab that chair and have a seat.”
Coleman climbed onto one of the beds with a sigh. He was bored. Coleman generally figured out what was coming next because he’d seen that show a hundred times. He clicked the TV on with the remote and searched for something to watch. He had known Serge for almost two decades, and their traveling hotel lifestyle had become so routine it was now utterly predictable: Serge tore off a generous length of duct tape. Coleman sucked a bong rigged from the room’s ice bucket. A clown put out birthday candles by beating off.
Fifteen minutes later, Serge gregariously slapped his lucky contestant on the shoulder. “That chair comfy? Didn’t tie you up too tight, did I? Good!” He dragged over a table, turned his back to the hostage and reached into a duffel bag. “Today we’re going to play show-and-tell. I loved show-and-tell as a kid, but I don’t think my teachers were really into it. Like if you’re doing the model volcano for science, and instead of following the directions with baking soda for a cute little milk shake of a volcano, you buy potassium nitrate at the drugstore and mix it with iron filings, which creates a spectacular nine-hundred-degree pyroclastic blast, which should get you to the top grade. Except they never mention that if you scorch the blackboard and melt the floor, it’s an F.”
He began laying out a variety of weapons on his show-and-tell table.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “I’m now going to watch Housewives and Rico.”
“You do that.” Serge continued arranging a switchblade, kung fu stars, a billy club, guns, a noose, and a bottle with a skull on the warning label.
“Rico just overcharged a housewife at his transmission shop, but she can’t afford the whole amount and asks if there’s any way they can work it out.” Coleman turned up the volume. “I wonder where they could possibly be going with this story.”
Serge stepped in front of his captive and formed an enchanting smile with a tube clenched in the corner of his mouth. Slurp, slurp, slurp. “Here’s the deal. I don’t like you and have uncontrollable urges to do something ghastly with my weapons . . .”
“Now they’re down in the lube bay,” said Coleman.
“. . . But I’m also open-minded and maybe misjudged you.”
The pupils of the hostage’s eyes darted back and forth between his clearly insane hosts.
Serge snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Don’t be distracted by Coleman. He’s got problems. Maybe I’ll try my hat again.” He reached in another duffel and donned a helmet with a red beacon on top.
“Hey, Serge, isn’t that the same helmet when we were here a couple years ago, and you had that superhero costume with a cape?”
“That’s correct.”
“But why don’t you wear the cape anymore?”
The beacon began revolving on top of Serge’s head. “Because I realized I looked ridiculous.”
Muted whining from under duct tape.
“Oh, sorry,” said Serge. “Back to the contest and the open-minded part. That’s why I always give my contestants a chance to win and go free. And here’s your big chance! Sometimes I’m unable to fight my urges, so I’m going to do something to you one way or another.” He shrugged. “I know, it’s a hang-up. But I’m also hung up on the bonus round because I’m a silver-lining kind of cat. I’ve laid out a variety of weapons to choose from. You got your automatic pistol, revolver, single- and double-edged knives, poison, hatchet, hand grenade. That’s just a drawing of a hand grenade, but I can lay my hands on a real one in Miami at any hour. And your ice picks, cattle prods, etcetera . . . It’s your choice.”
The captive looked up with a question in his eyes.
“That’s the contest,” said Serge. Slurp, slurp, slurp. “What will this maniac use on me? You make the call!”
The man’s eyes couldn’t have been wider.
“Don’t look at me,” said Serge. “The clock’s running. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Actually you can’t see the clock because I’m keeping time on the field. But if you haven’t chosen before time’s up, then I get to pick.”
The man’s eyes swung to the table. The item in the middle immediately jumped out. His face snapped back toward his captor.
“By that expression, I know what you’re thinking,” said Serge. “Is choosing my weapon a trick question? . . . Because you just noticed the cigars. And they’re a real prize, three authentic Cubans, the Cohiba, Partagás and El Rey del Mundo. Not cheap.”
The man nodded.
“You want the cigars?”
He nodded harder.
“The cigars it is! Excellent decision.” Serge lifted another duffel bag from beside the bed. “And I definitely appreciate the selection because Florida relevance always motivates my work. With the Cuban influxes of 1960 and ’80, these beauties are now ubiquitous in Miami, which has become the free-Cuba cigar capital of the world.” He unzipped the bag. “And now to prepare your selection . . .”
A number of benign and confusing items came out of the bag, plus an emergency travel tool kit. Serge smiled over his shoulder at yet another bewildered expression. “What? You didn’t think I was just going to let you smoke these? They’re bad for your health.”
He produced three small metal canisters. “Ever get a bunch of dust in your laptop’s keyboard? Drives me crazy!” said Serge. “But luckily most computer stores sell these cans that co
ntain compressed air to send those little dust bunnies scurrying.”
Into the bag again. This time three plastic containers came out. “And these are empty pump spray bottles that you can get at any drugstore. Mainly women use them to spray shit in their hair, so that’s why they’re foreign territory to us men. But if you’re a dude, simply remember they work just like perfume bottles: When you press the little pump button on top, the liquid inside is transformed to a fine mist in accordance with the Venturi effect, named after Italian physicist Giovanni Venturi, who derived complex equations for fluid transfer in different diameter channels. Who would have thought it would lead to spray-on butter? . . .”
Serge cut and snipped and taped and twisted for half an hour. Then a last tap with the butt of a screwdriver. “There.” He stood.
Coleman looked up from the moaning transmission shop. “You’re done? We’re leaving?”
“Yes and no,” said Serge. “We are leaving, but I have to come back later and activate this sucker.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We need to let it set and cure awhile until it’s ready. Like letting a fine brandy breathe.”
Coleman hopped off the bed. “Can we go to a bar?”
They headed down the elevators and Coleman popped a beer. “So did the guy guess right with the cigars? It’s what I would have picked.”
“So would most people, and that’s exactly why you don’t pick the cigars.”
“But, Serge, you always give someone a way out,” said Coleman. “And everything else on the table was a deadly weapon.”
“The revolver was unloaded.”
“Pretty clever.”
“I even had it turned toward him so he could see the empty chambers, but he was too busy freaking out.”
“Some people are just naturally nervous.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
FORT LAUDERDALE
The three A.M. repeat of the eleven o’clock news just closed with word of a strike by another dating bandit, this one a more mature woman going for the Hope Lange look from the sixties smash-hit television series The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. The news report noted that the show also starred Charles Nelson Reilly.