16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (2 page)

“Then lower the bong.” Serge kept his eyes trained out the driver’s side.

The former prisoner reached the end of the jail’s driveway. They’d given him back his street clothes, but he still had the red plastic band around his wrist. Misdemeanors wore blue. He turned up the street, heading for the nearest bus stop, which wasn’t near.

Serge rolled down his window. “Roscoe! Roscoe Nash!”

The man on the edge of the road turned around. “Who the fuck are you?”

“The person that just bailed you out. Hop in.”

Roscoe was tall and lean, much like Serge, but a few years senior. Running down both arms were tattoos of defunct Roller Derby franchises. He approached the driver’s side and rested folded arms on the window ledge. “Why’d you bail me out?”

“Because I have a business proposition. We run a profitable little cottage industry, except we’re currently heavy on the muscle end and light on white-collar know-how.”

Roscoe grinned contemptuously. “And that’s where I come in?”

Serge opened his door and leaned his seat forward. “Climb in.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s hot and a long walk. I’ll flesh it out as we drive. You don’t like the sound of it, we shake hands and split. Worst case is you get a free ride home.”

Roscoe climbed in the backseat with a condescending smirk.

Serge closed the door and patched out.

Roscoe’s eye caught something. “What’s with the hamster?”

“His name’s Skippy,” said Coleman.

“He’s sliding off your shoulder.”

Coleman gently boosted Skippy back onto his perch. “He’s a little fucked up.”

“What?” said Roscoe.

Serge snapped his fingers in the air. “Eyes over here. Pay no attention to Coleman, or we’ll be talking in circles for days . . .” Serge drained a travel mug of coffee in one long guzzle and floored the gas. “Here’s my proposition . . .” He popped a Neil Diamond CD in the stereo.

“ . . . They’re coming to America! . . .”

Serge turned around and smiled huge at Roscoe. “You like this country? Good! I
love
this country! And the two sides are
so
close: scribbling on the president’s photo, wiping your ass with leaves, what’s the difference? That’s what I say. Get my drift? What’s Canada’s fuckin’ deal? . . .”

Roscoe’s eyes grew big as he grabbed his seat belt with white knuckles. “Jesus, you almost sideswiped that oncoming dump truck.”

“I did?”

“Turn around!” yelled Roscoe. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Absolutely not,” said Serge. “I drive like this all the time.”

Coleman exhaled a bong hit and petted the hamster. “He does.”

“That’s right,” said Serge. “I stay in my lane by watching out the back window to gauge my deviation from the center line. And Coleman lets me know when the intersections come up.”

“But—”

“Smile!” Serge snapped some photos of Roscoe, who blinked from the camera flashes.

“Intersection,” said Coleman.

Serge turned around and slammed on the brakes, skidding through another red light.

“Coleman, you were late again.”

“I was busy.”

“Busy packing a bong.” Serge shook his head. “Driving is an important responsibility. I’m becoming concerned about your recklessness.”

A hand was raised in the backseat. “I’d like to get out of the car now, please.”

“But you’re not home yet,” said Serge.

“Would you like to hold Skippy?” asked Coleman.

Roscoe bent forward. “This isn’t the way to my house.”

“Because I wanted to stop and show you something that will explain my proposition.” Serge pulled over on the side of a remote, wooded road. “What’s fair is fair: I’m giving you a lift, so you owe me a shot at my best sales pitch.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Serge opened his door. “Just follow me around to the back bumper.”

“Uh, this wouldn’t be some kind of trick, would it?”

“Trick? No, no, no, no, no!” Serge inserted the key. “It’s just the trunk of a car. What could possibly go wrong?”

Chapter Two

MEANWHILE . . .

A
nother typical sidewalk café in sunny Florida.

This one sat along tony Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, the non-working-capital
capital
of the United States.

A second round of mimosas arrived a few minutes before ten
A.M
. The bistro sat between two piano bars—and atop the world of international culinary acclaim. Although others had come close, the café had attained its rarefied reputation by pushing the edge further than anyone previously dared: a complete menu of entrées consisting entirely of a single bite of food standing upright in the middle of a large white plate. But on this particular morning, panic swept the restaurant as news reached the kitchen that two competing teams of master chefs in Paris and Berlin were secretly racing to develop the half bite of food.

Across the street, sidewalk people strolled with cashmere sweaters, purse dogs and wind-tunnel face-lifts. For the window-shopper-with-everything: perfume and crystal, Swiss watches and Persian rugs, Armani and Vuitton. Six galleries featured trending artists, two banks contained only oversize safety-deposit boxes and one place rented diamonds by the hour.

The mimosas were for a jet-setting young couple in aloof sunglasses. Actually, only he was a jet-setter, and she was just lucky. Courtney Styles had received her degree from Florida State a month earlier, and her wealthy uncle offered her use of their beach place since it was off-season. You know, to help her out while job-hunting after graduation. Except she was man-hunting. And what better place?

Courtney got her first strike within an hour. And she wasn’t even trying, just standing on the corner, idly gazing at pictures in the window of a yacht brokerage.

“You like ze boats?”

“What?” She hadn’t even seen him approach, but hot damn. His suit alone cost more than her car. Gold Rolex, heartthrob foreign accent and a long sexy mane like in those photos that they show you when you go to get a haircut but it never works out that way. Courtney gulped. “Why? Do you have a boat?”

“Oui.”
The man shrugged offhandedly. “A few.”

She gulped again and offered her hand. “My name’s Courtney.”

He leaned and kissed it. “I’m Gustave.”

She got the jelly legs, but recovered before toppling over.

“Is Courtney all right?”

She nodded with embarrassment. “Just a little hungry.”

“Zat is wonderful.” He placed his palms together in front of his chin like he was praying. “I know zis great little spot. Everyone is talking about their new menu.”

And that’s how they came to be sitting across from each other under an umbrella, plowing through mimosas in goldfish bowls. Courtney was still acclimating to Palm Beach. She looked up curiously at the royal-blue awning over the café’s facade, and the name, which was simply “.”.

Gustave saw the question in her look and smiled. “Ah, yes. Zee name of zee restaurant. Very hip, very now.”

“It’s just a period. How do you pronounce it?”

“You get ready to start a sentence. And then zee sentence is over.”

“You don’t say anything?” asked Courtney.

“And yet it says
everything,
” replied Gustave. “All zee right people will know exactly what you mean.”

Moments later, their meals arrived. Gustave placed a napkin in his lap. “What do you think?”

Courtney tilted her head at a small, vertical sprig of seared blowfish from the Azores. “They let us try a sample first?”

“No, zat is the meal.”

“Seriously?”

“Zee best on zee island.”

Courtney smiled with semi-acceptance and picked up a fork. “I’d love to see their appetizers.”

“Oh, you absolutely must try zee shrimp cocktail. It is zee best. Tiger shrimp.” Gustave turned and snapped his fingers.
“Garçon! . . .”

Soon, a waiter placed an appetizer in front of Courtney. “What’s this?”

“Your shrimp cocktail.”

“It’s a microscope,” said Courtney.

“Shrimp molecules.”

She sat back in puzzlement. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Gustave laughed heartily. “Yes, a joke. It is what you call . . . a gimmick. All fine restaurants must now have a delightful sense of whimsy. Not take themselves too seriously. Life is but a dream.” He waved a hand dismissively toward the waiter, who briskly removed the scientific instrument.

“So he’s bringing my shrimp cocktail now?”

Gustave shook his head. “There is no shrimp cocktail.”

“Oh, I’m starting to get it now. When you order a shrimp cocktail, they
don’t
bring you a shrimp cocktail.”

“Very chic.”

Courtney raised her eyebrows and grinned.
He better be loaded.
“I have much to learn about Palm Beach.”

“And Gustave will show you.” He picked up his fork for the first time and finished his meal. “Would you like to take a drive with me?”

Courtney finished her own meal. “You have a car nearby?”

Gustave glanced at the opposite curb.

She choked. “A Bentley.”

“We will drive south along the shore, like zee Côte d’Azur.”

“Uh, okay.”

A cell phone rang. Gustave checked the number and stood. “Pardon me while I take zis. It is Brussels.” He went inside the café to escape traffic noise.

Courtney picked up the most recent mimosa in both hands and gulped.

The bubbles started getting to her. The waiter strolled up with aplomb. “Would madam like another?”

She nodded with a crooked smile and handed him the empty glass orb.

Her next drink was half gone when she strained to peer inside the dark restaurant.
Why is that phone call taking so long?
She got up and tentatively stepped inside.

The waiter approached. “May I help you with something?”

She craned her neck to look past him into the narrow diner. “Have you seen Gustave?”

“You mean the gentleman you were dining with?”

She nodded and glanced around.

“Not since he was sitting with you out there,” said the waiter. “He isn’t inside the restaurant.”

“What?” said Courtney. “But I saw him come in here to take a call. And there’s no way he could have come out without me seeing him.”

The bartender overheard. “If you’re talking about the French guy with the cell phone, I saw him go in the restroom.”

“How long ago?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

Now the maître d’ overheard. He turned to the waiter. “Jerry, go check.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Courtney. The maître d’ smiled warmly, but she misread his intentions.

Jerry returned, shaking his head. “Empty.”

“But that’s not possible,” said Courtney.

The bartender wiped a glass. “There’s a back exit.”

“But he couldn’t have left,” said Courtney. “His car is still out front.”

“Which one?” asked the bartender.

“The Bentley.”

“That’s not his,” said the bartender.

“How do you know?”

“Because it belongs to the von Zurenburgs.” The bartender hung the dry glass in an overhead rack. “Old money. You’ve heard of shoelaces?”

Even the waiter was impressed. “You don’t mean
the
shoelaces.”

The bartender slowly picked up another wet glass and peered sideways with a glare that said,
You’re starting to ask some dangerous questions.

Courtney glanced back and forth with a near laugh. “What’s going on?”

Everyone stood silent.

She turned around. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

More quiet.

She closed her eyes a moment.
Oh, no.
Then opened them again.

“Ma’am,” said the maître d’. “There is still the matter of the check.”

Courtney sighed in resignation. “How much?”

It was not the Palm Beach Way to say such numbers aloud. He handed her a small leather folder and raised flared nostrils to deliberately expose unsettling dark bristles inside.

“Six hundred and ninety-three dollars!” she blurted. “For two bites of food and a few mimosas?”

“And a shrimp cocktail.”

TAMPA

A vintage Firebird rolled through noon sun on Busch Boulevard, named for the famous brewery that had since been shuttered. But still operating nearby was the theme park.

Serge stopped across the street and checked his watch to see how long until Busch Gardens closed for the night.

“Serge, I think the idea about Canada is good and all, but I don’t think it’s enough to stop all the fighting.”

“It’s not.” Serge stared across the street with binoculars. “The second part of my Master Plan to reinstate domestic peace is one simple word: Music!”

“Oh, yeah,” said Coleman. “That’s how they settle all serious shit on
Glee
.”

“The Tea Party and the Occupiers are simply different twists on Parrot Heads and Dead Heads. At first impression, the Parrot Heads see a bunch of filthy people with bare feet and think, ‘Get a job.’ And the Dead Heads see all these wacky tropical hats and Buffett-licensed apparel and think, ‘Get a life.’ But the overwhelming common ground is obvious.”

Coleman petted his hamster. “They both like music?”

“If we can just sit them down and listen to a mash-up of ‘Margaritaville’ and ‘Casey Jones,’ we’re halfway home.”

Coleman nodded. “Tequila and cocaine. I like it.”

“You’re missing the point. This is about uniting our fractured nation, and I’ve come up with a unifying theory to explain all human behavior and achieve this harmony: the Empathy Continuum.”

“What’s empathy?”

“The ability to feel others’ vibes and follow the Golden Rule—”

Banging from the trunk.

“Son of a bitch!” Serge jumped from the car and popped the rear hood—
“Shut the fuck up!”
—viciously striking the gagged-and-hog-tied Roscoe Nash in the skull with a tire iron, returning him to unconsciousness.

Serge slid back into the driver’s seat. “People who interrupt! Jesus! . . . Where was I?”

“Empathy.”

“Right. In order to treat people with the utmost sensitivity, you must become acutely in tune with their every emotion: happy, sad, anxious, melancholy, introspective, that awkward sensation in the grocery store when you see someone you know really well but you’re in a rush and don’t have time for the kind of chitchat that nobody knows how to end gracefully, but they haven’t seen you yet, so you quickly duck down an aisle.”

“Especially if you owe them weed money.”

“Which leads us to my Empathy Continuum,” said Serge. “At one end are the totally chill cats: Mother Teresa, Gandhi, the Salvation Army, and at the opposite, Stalin, Pol Pot, Son of Sam, Ike Turner.”

“But how does this unite everyone?”

“Noted psychotherapists claim empathy can’t be taught, but they’ve never tried with the level of zeal I apply when I put my mind to something.” He glanced over his seat as thumping resumed from the trunk. “And I’m going to launch my clinical trials with someone who could stand to learn empathy the most.”

The hamster twitched its whiskers and strained to reach the eyedropper in Coleman’s hand. “How did you find out about Roscoe in the first place?”

“It was in all the papers. Remember that rookie police officer in Manatee County who was brutally gunned down in the line of duty? Pulled over a carload of crack smugglers with UZIs on the Tamiami?”

“Sort of.”

“Roscoe must read the papers, too.” Serge got out of the car and walked toward the back bumper. “Because after the first of the year, Nash falsely filed the officer’s tax return and had the refund check diverted to a PO box.”

“How do you even figure out how to do that?” asked Coleman.

“I don’t know, but Roscoe must have because it actually happened.” Serge popped the trunk. “Just when you think you’ve seen all depravity, someone raises the bar again.”

“He’s another wiggler,” said Coleman.

Serge rolled Roscoe over and ripped the duct tape off his mouth.

“Ow! Shit!” The captive looked up. “Who the hell
are
you?”

“Your new empathy coach, and if you pass, it could go a long way to getting you out of this jam. Believe me, you won’t like my detention hall.” Serge pulled a square from his back pocket and unfolded it. “For our first day of class, you’re going to write a lot of apology letters. I took the liberty of composing a sample to get you started.” He held the letter down to Roscoe’s eyes. “I have you referring to yourself as ‘the biggest prick in the world,’ but if you’d like something stronger, feel free to substitute.”

Roscoe spit in Serge’s face.

Serge nonchalantly found a rag in the trunk and wiped it off. Then he cracked Roscoe in the head again with the iron rod and made his way back to the driver’s seat. He picked up the binoculars and stared across the street.

Coleman stuck the eyedropper in a can of Bud. “What now?”

“I love Busch Gardens! Especially after it’s empty at night when the staff doesn’t force you to limit the park’s possibilities with their rule-crazy narrowness.”

“No, I mean, that guy back there.”

“Roscoe?” The binoculars panned from the Montu to the Kumba roller coaster. “In his case, the psychologists were right: Empathy can’t be taught.”