Pineapple grenade ss-15

by Tim Dorsey

“But how did you know?” asked their mass-mail manager.

  “There’s a new dawn in America! It isn’t enough just to disagree with your opponent anymore. True patriots hate their fucking guts!” Glide got up and kicked the chair out from under a speechwriter. “Anger is sweeping the country! Tea bags from sea to shining sea! Voters everywhere exploding from frustration!”

  “Why?”

  “Because the facts don’t support their beliefs. And we mean to fix that.”

  “But how?”

  “Talk in code.” Glide poured a glass of ice water from a sterling carafe. “From now on, the president is a socialist.”

  “He is?”

  “No, but he’s black.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Tons of people can’t stand that the president is the wrong flavor.”

  “That’s racism,” said a pollster.

  “And racism’s not cool anymore,” said Glide. “Even for racists. So we call him a socialist.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  “The people we’re trying to reach will get it,” said Glide. “ Socialist is the new ‘N-word.’ Have that imprinted on some stress balls.”

  Chapter Two

  Tampa International Airport

  A cab pulled into the departures lane outside Delta.

  Two passengers got out with luggage, and the taxi sped off before Serge had a chance to pay.

  Coleman jumped back to avoid getting a foot run over. “What the hell was that about?”

  “Beats me.” Serge clicked open the handle on his bag. “He was acting weird the whole way, ever since I hopped in the front seat with him.”

  “I think we’re supposed to sit in back.”

  “And that’s why I always sit up front.” They walked through automatic doors. “It’s about class struggle. You sit in back like King Tut, and you’re saying, ‘Dance, monkey.’ But if you jump up front like equals, it’s a bold statement that you’ll tolerate B.O. to pull our country together.”

  Coleman got on an escalator under a sign: ALL GATES. “Then maybe it was when you handed him your gun.”

  “Could be a new driver,” said Serge. “Anyone who works the airport knows you can’t take guns on a plane. I could have just thrown it away, but I figured he’s got a dangerous job and could use a piece. Even mentioned the serial number had already been filed off.”

  “You were being considerate.”

  “Plus I gave him an ammo box to get started and explained that those hollow-point bullets fragment and rattle around inside the body, so there’s no way ballistic tests can connect him to anything I might have done.”

  “That’s when he totally wigged,” said Coleman. “Shaking real bad, nearly hitting that family unloading their car.”

  “Must have been carrying some emotional baggage from a domestic fight at home this morning over mysterious phone numbers on the bill that his wife called, and somebody named Loretta answered.” Serge got off at the top of the escalator. “Hey, I’m not the one fucking Loretta, so he shouldn’t be dumping his wife’s shit on me.”

  “I heard you tell him that,” said Coleman.

  A bustle of people crisscrossed the hub of the main terminal. Others stared up at arrival and departure screens. Serge stopped for coffee. “… And a cup of ice on the side please.”

  “Iced coffee is more,” said the young clerk.

  “I didn’t order that,” said Serge. “Just regular coffee with ice on the side.”

  “That’s still considered iced coffee.”

  “I don’t want iced coffee. I want temperature control. I want a lot of other things, too, but I won’t burden you with my agenda because there’s a really long line behind me, except if you don’t vote, please consider your grandchildren, who could end up in a bizarre futurescape with thought police zipping around ten feet off the ground on antigravity platforms, using pocket brain-erasers to curb individuality and coffee-clerk annoyance. Ice please.”

  She warily handed him a small cup. Serge walked to the preparation area, counted six cubes into his beverage, then drained the whole thing in one guzzle.

  “I love airports!” Serge briskly rolled a suitcase toward the security checkpoint. “All the norms from the regular world are out the window.”

  “How so?”

  “Like that tavern between those gates. People drinking in the morning.” He looked at Coleman. “Okay, bad example. Let’s go in this gift shop. To enhance the airport gift-shop experience, I pretend I’m a historical figure who’s just been time-ported to the twenty-first century. I’m Leonardo da Vinci now. What would such a quotable Renaissance man say in a place like this? ‘Five dollars for water from an atoll in the Pacific? Fuck me in the ass!’ ”

  “Serge, people are staring.”

  The pair walked to the back of the security line. They produced authentic state driver’s licenses with fake names acquired from a street broker who hooked them up with a contact in the motor vehicle office. Then they entered the queue leading to the X-ray machines.

  “Coleman, here’s another example of airport world. See that sign with pictures of prohibited items? Power tools, can of gasoline, a big ax, and my favorite: the Rocky and Bullwinkle bomb shaped like a bowling ball with the fuse actually lit.”

  “It’s pretty funny.”

  “It’s pretty freaky,” said Serge. “They don’t put up signs before there’s a demonstrated need. Terrorists obviously ignore them, so they’re meant to solve a problem from the law-abiding public. I mean, who were all these people bringing hatchets and chain saws to the X-ray machine?”

  “Sir, excuse me.”

  Serge looked up at the next security guy checking boarding passes. “Yes?”

  “Sir, did you mention hatchets and chain saws?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I didn’t hear your full remarks,” said the guard. “But I must warn you, there are serious penalties for making jokes about airline safety.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t joking.” Serge pointed back down the line. “We were just discussing your sign. That’s the idea, right? You want people to pay attention to it. Most people walk right by, but not me. And I can’t get my head around those illustrations. But then I’ve never been to Denver, so I don’t know what’s required to survive at that altitude. Maybe everyone drinking for breakfast in the airport bar has a snow ax and private supply of gasoline. And what’s with that last item? Have you had to fire some X-ray people for letting cartoon bombs get through with lit fuses?”

  “Please, just no more remarks.”

  Serge took off his shoes. “It’s your sign.”

  Moments later, he stared up at a departure screen in Airside A. “Son of a bitch!”

  “What is it?” asked Coleman.

  “Our flight’s delayed!”

  “But only fifteen minutes,” said Coleman.

  “I’ve seen this movie before. ‘Fifteen minutes’ is code for ‘at least three to five hours.’ They know the plane’s stuck in Pittsburgh, where they wrestled another drunk pilot to the runway, but they don’t want an open passenger revolt, so they incrementally string us along fifteen minutes at a time, until you’re across the international date line.”

  Serge paced in front of the departure screen.

  Fifteen minutes later, Serge grabbed Coleman and pointed. “Sweet Jesus! They just added another fifteen minutes!”

  “Serge, your face is that color again.”

  “Can’t help it.” More pacing. “If I’m told to be somewhere important at a specific time, I’m there with an extra wristwatch and breathing exercises to enhance my cooperation. But then they do it to you again! Every fucking airport and doctor’s office teasing you along like strippers brushing your crotch with the back of their hand, because the back of the hand is the legal loophole. Probably learned that from airport security who pat you down that way so they can’t be accused of groping. There are meetings going on somewhere.”

  “You
might be getting worked up over nothing,” said Coleman. “For all we know, that could be the last fifteen-minute delay.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Serge. “Let’s find a seat and relax near screaming infants.”

  Two hours later. Serge sat near the gate with his head hanging back over the chair and his mouth open.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “They just added another fifteen minutes.”

  “I have to kill myself.”

  “Maybe another flight attendant grabbed some beers and jumped down the emergency chute.”

  “Please strangle me.”

  “You need to get your mind off it.”

  “You’re right.” Serge jumped up and ran to the gate desk. “Excuse me? Could you tell me the true departure time for this flight?”

  “It’s what’s on the screen.”

  “But it’s changed eight times already.”

  “Those were unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Can you see if there are any other flights?”

  “You’ll forfeit your fare.”

  “Why?”

  The gate attendant pointed at the departure board. “Your flight’s going to be here any minute.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Any minute,” said Serge. “Like seven thirty-two tomorrow morning.”

  She glared.

  Serge leaned over the desk and pointed down at her computer keyboard. “Could you please check for another flight? We have important business in Miami.”

  Another glare. She grudgingly addressed her computer.

  Serge turned around. “Hey Coleman, come over here. You absolutely have to see this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something I can’t get enough of.” Serge pointed over the top of the desk. “An employee with four-inch-long chartreuse fingernails in a job that requires lots of typing.” He looked up at the woman. “Better go for the five-inch nails, Lady Gaga. You’re about to fry that keyboard.”

  Steam came out her ears. “I don’t think I care for your attitude.”

  “Then my plan’s working.” Serge waved at the ceiling. “Fly me out of your life.”

  Gritted teeth. “All flights are full.”

  The departure board added fifteen minutes.

  Serge stepped away from the desk and huddled with Coleman. “I’m going to get some entertainment value out of this.”

  “What kind?”

  He approached the closed boarding door. “Not only are airlines cutting back on services and charging for bags, but they’ve begun treating their most valued customers like schmucks. The perks have become laughable.”

  “What kind of perks?”

  “See that six-foot-long velvet cord separating two lines to get on the plane?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The one on the left is for their special first-class club. They’re right next to each other, but there’s no difference.”

  “Except the one on the left has a red carpet,” said Coleman.

  “It’s supposed to be a red carpet,” said Serge. “But it’s just a red doormat. See? It’s just a little rectangle with rubber weather stripping around the edge.”

  “You’re right. It is a doormat.”

  “But not just any doormat.” He gestured back at the desk. “In order to complete the charade, they guard that mat like the Shroud of Turin. I once saw this guy running late, and he rushed up with his boarding pass. But he unknowingly stepped on the Red Doormat of Total Ecstasy. There were no other people in line, but they still made him walk back around the cord to the other lane.”

  Serge took a step sideways.

  “That’s really weird,” said Coleman.

  “A-hem!” The woman with the fingernails.

  “Yes?” said Serge. “How may I help you?”

  She looked down. “Your left foot is on the Star-Elite Club carpet.”

  “Really? Thanks for letting me know… So anyway, Coleman-”

  “Sir! You have to move your foot!”

  Serge moved his foot. “This other time I saw airport maintenance guys fixing something in the ceiling, and they set up their ladder on the doormat, and the gate crew went completely ape-shit.” Serge reached out with his leg and set a toe on the doormat, then quickly pulled it back.

  “Sir!”

  He looked over. “Yes?”

  She flared her nostrils.

  Serge faced Coleman again. “They started yelling at the maintenance workers: ‘Move the ladder! Move the ladder!’ ‘What?’ ‘We’re about to board a flight!’ ‘Can’t they go around?’ ‘But it’s the Elite carpet!..’ ” He set a toe on the doormat and withdrew it.

  “Sir!”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Teeth gnashed.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “She’s getting really pissed.”

  “This is priceless.” His toe touched the carpet again.

  “Mister!”

  Coleman looked out the window. “Our plane just pulled up. They’re not adding another fifteen minutes.”

  “We rock now.” Serge grabbed the handle of his suitcase and took a spot in the crowd.

  Finally, their row was called. Serge walked around the correct side of the cord and handed his boarding pass to the woman with the nails. She tore off his stub with open hostility.

  “Thanks.” Serge reached back and stomped his right foot on the doormat, then took off down the gangway.

  Miami Morgue

  The lieutenant burst through the lab doors. “What’s this nonsense you were babbling about on the phone?” He stopped to look around. “And what’s that god-awful smell?”

  “It’s a morgue.”

  “I mean more than usual.”

  Forceps clanged into a pan. “Wanted to give you a heads-up because I know how sensitive you are to weird headlines.”

  A deep sigh. “What now?”

  “Take a look at this.” The medical examiner hunched over his work on the table. Dabs of menthol Vaseline under his nostrils.

  The officer stepped closer. “The smell’s even worse!”

  A giggle. “Fish tend to do that.”

  The lieutenant studied the deceased on the steel table. “So what happened, pet detective? Someone murder a shark?”

  “Remember the dead shark in the middle of Flagler Street from the TV news shows?”

  “Which one? The guys keep throwing them around the city.”

  “Tuesday’s shark.” The examiner pointed toward a clear, sealed evidence bag. “That came from its stomach… Help yourself to some Vaseline.”

  The lieutenant dabbed his upper lip. “Looks like a mullet or something.”

  The M.E. used a pen to lift something from a metal tray. “Wearing a Timex?”

  “That’s an arm?”

  “Most of one. I know it’s hard to tell between the regular decomposition and digestion.”

  “Great. We got a shark attack.” The officer added more dabs. “Chamber of commerce will love this.”

  “I don’t think it was an attack.”

  “But you said it was in his stomach.”

  “Postmortem.”

  “The victim was already dead?”

  “That’s my bet.”

  “Okay, so he accidentally drowned somehow, and the shark came along later.”

  “Doubtful.”

  The lieutenant emitted a whine. “ Eeeeeeeee… It’s been a bad week. Can’t you just call it a shark attack?”

  The M.E. emptied the evidence bag into a tray and pointed with his pen. “This along the mid-forearm is the shark’s bite line. I pulled these teeth out.”

  “Sure sounds like a shark attack to me.”

  The pen pointed farther up. “And here is where they used the hacksaw.”

  Chapter Three

  Tampa International Airport

  The flight was full.

  Repeated intercom instructions about stowing luggage quickly and taking seats, but the aisle remained clogged by passengers struggling with overhea
d bins and non-bin-shaped bags.

  Serge led Coleman to row 27. “Here are our seats.”

  A businessman was already sitting in the middle. “Would you like me to move so you two can be together?”

  “No,” said Serge. “We deliberately got the window and aisle seats. I’m big on looking outside at tiny buildings and stuff, and Coleman needs the aisle for emergencies. But coffee makes me pee like a Chihuahua, so we’ll be switching seats a lot.” He slid by the man’s knees and plopped down. “Boy, there’s really no legroom anymore. You don’t mind if I stretch my leg out a little, or maybe a lot, to get around that partition and under the seat in front of you?”

  Coleman tapped the man’s right arm. “Do you know when they start serving alcohol?”

  Serge tapped his left arm. “Coleman and I have a bunch to discuss, but don’t feel like you’re imposing. We’ll just talk across the front of you, and you’re welcome to eavesdrop and join in.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “It can get pretty interesting! I was on a transcontinental flight with this one executive, having a great four-hour discussion on my favorite aviation disasters. Actually I was doing all the talking because I guess he was really interested in crashes, and then he couldn’t wait to look it up on the Internet because he was trampling people after we landed. Like this one plane exploded off San Diego. But just the front part with the pilots blew off, and the rest of the plane kept flying perfectly straight for almost a minute…” Serge made a downward gesture with his right hand. “… before slowwwwwwwwly nosing over into the sea. What would be going through your mind? ‘Hey, I can see the new mall from here.’

  … We’re going to Miami for the fabulous Summit of the Americas! Dignitaries and countless journalists from twenty Latin countries about to overwhelm the city, actually making Miami less diverse…”

  Coleman tapped the businessman’s right arm. “Going to be sick. My seat pocket doesn’t have a barf bag.”

  The man dove for his own pocket and handed a bag to Coleman.

  Serge tapped his left arm and stood up. “I have to pee. Excuse me.” He slid by the man’s knees.

  Coleman held up a bag. “Serge, could you take this for me.”

  Two hours later.

  Serge looked out the window.