16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (20 page)

When he was satisfied, he walked to the window and pulled open the curtains, revealing the twinkling edge of Miami overlooking Biscayne Bay. To the left, South Beach and all its urgent emptiness. To the right, the Rickenbacker Causeway and the Seaquarium. Straight ahead, cruise ships in the port. And right below, the bench at Bayfront Park where he had just been sitting.

He watched the pavilion’s eternal torch flicker, and he exhaled a rare sigh. The whole vista grew painfully familiar. Had it already been two whole years? What an omni-dimensional fiasco. If only they had hired him as the primary shooter, instead of making him play backup to that incompetent amateur they had stuck in the sniper’s perch. Not only had he been a bad shot, but even worse in the art of concealment. The idiot got discovered and was forced to kill two cops, which meant that
Enzo
had to silence the sniper and sanitize the nest. That really irked him. Enzo much preferred the solitary tranquillity of adjusting a rifle scope on a distant target than a close-quarters judo fight in a hotel room.

Enzo looked around. Was it this room? Hard to be sure after two years, but it could have been. He stared out the window again at the jetties flanking the Government Cut shipping channel at the end of Miami Beach. His mind drifted back to the added inconvenience from that last nightmare of a visit: creating a dead scapegoat to take the fall for the whole scandal.

Felicia.

A cell phone began vibrating next to the silencer.

He answered. It was the counter-intelligence electronics expert on call if he ever needed anything. And now he did. With the target at large, the best lead was the closest associate identified in the dossier. Recent calls from the associate to the target had already been confirmed. He ordered up a wireless phone tap that would be routed by satellite to a message app in his smartphone.

Then he tossed a few items from the dresser into a small leather satchel and headed out the door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

ORANGE BLOSSOM TRAIL

S
erge stuck the coffee tube back in his mouth and hustled Coleman down the hall. There was no specific beginning to the exhibit, but the building gradually changed.

“Freaky,” said Coleman. “There are no straight edges in the room. Everything curves and bends and is shiny.”

“And it’s all covered with retro circles and swirls and starbursts in colors only found on Jefferson Airplane’s tour bus.” Serge marveled as he slowly snaked through the winding displays. “Check out these lighted bubbles in the walls and domed pedestals with the funkiest Tupperware I haven’t seen since I was a kid. It isn’t just an homage to nostalgia. We’re actually
in
the sixties. This is like the last and greatest parts of the Carousel of Progress from the 1964 World’s Fair that Disney disassembled and rebuilt up the road at the Magic Kingdom. Then at some point they chucked the sixties diorama and ruined everything, but who knew it landed over here.”

“Trippy—” Coleman turned and rotated his head. “I hear God’s voice.”

Serge pointed up at flush-mounted speakers. “Piped-in narration.”

“ . . . Every one-point-seven seconds, a Tupperware party starts somewhere in the world . . .”

“I didn’t know the parties were still going on,” said Coleman. “And that they’re using stopwatches.”

“So that’s what those international plaques in the hallway were about,” said Serge. “The parties may be played out a little here in the States, but the rest of the world is just discovering that hand-to-hand gelatin-mold transactions are a joyous intermission between Greek austerity riots.”

They walked past a concave sequence of interlocking screens flashing historic Technicolor images, and approached a round column of pinwheel flowers.

Serge tucked the flex tube under his shirt. “I feel like I’m in one of John Lennon’s dreams.”

“Did his dreams have a dollar-bill slot?”

“What? . . . Oh my God!” Serge ran up and placed respectful hands against the column. “A vending machine for miniature Tupperware souvenirs on key chains . . .” Serge fumbled for his wallet again. “Someone must have been spying on me when they conceived this place.”

Moments later, Serge’s pockets bulged with key chains hanging out. He stared into the billfold. “No more singles. Just fives and tens . . .” He looked up. “Where’d you come from?”

The employee smiled. “Do you need change?”

“No, I better cut myself off,” said Serge. “But thanks.”

The person smiled again and dematerialized behind the column.

“That was weird,” said Coleman.

“I know.” Serge put his wallet away. “Again, behavioral quirks that are shunned everywhere else are aggressively nurtured here . . . And I think I’ve just received my inspiration for dealing with the next scam artist . . . To the gift shop!”

They strolled the aisles with gusto. Coleman poked Serge’s arm and glanced backward: “There’s somebody following us.”

“I’m aware. Just be cool and ignore her.” Serge mentally cataloged the inventory of passing shelves. “I knew this was too good to be true. I’ve pushed our visit into the annoyance zone, and now the hammer is about to come down. But it’s critical that I pick up a few things first before we hit the mailbox.”

Coleman glimpsed back again. “What are we going to do?”

“Stall her long enough before we hear the fatal words—”

From behind:
“Can I help you?”

Serge seized up and clenched his eyes. “Damn, so close.” He turned around with a guilty heart. “Why? I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You looked like you could use some assistance finding something.”

Serge glanced oddly at Coleman.

Coleman shrugged.

“Uh, I actually could use a tiny bit of help.”

“Sure, anything . . .”

Seconds later, Serge led the employee briskly down another aisle: “How much is this? . . . How much is this? . . . How much is this? . . . Is this in a different color? . . . Is this in a different size? . . . Can this withstand radiation? . . . How much is this? . . .”

“Serge,” whispered Coleman. “She’s answering every question. And she’s not getting pissed.”

“I know,” Serge whispered back, and headed for the cash register. “Now I get why they call it the Confidence Center: It’s an ethereal never-land of serenity that’s not as much a corporate headquarters as the meditation retreat of a controversial church. I feel such inner peace and unconditional acceptance that I never want to leave.”

They left the building by the giant dandelion.

Serge turned his cell phone back on, and it rang immediately. He began opening it.

“You’re actually going to answer this time?” said Coleman.

“Since I now have my inspiration, our appointment schedule just opened up.” He placed it to his ear. “Hey, Mahoney, what’s shaking? . . . I know you’ve been trying to call. My phone went dead and had to be recharged, and when I turned it back on I saw all the times you tried to reach me. Must be awfully important . . . Sure, we’re free to come back to Miami to get in position. Be there in a few hours. Later . . .”

Serge and Coleman walked off into the sunset with brimming Tupperware shopping bags in each hand.

FORT LAUDERDALE

Floral arrangements continued arriving.

All shapes. Ovals, horseshoes, a bunch of roses supposed to look like a fireman’s helmet.

They sat on easels along the front wall. The flowers kept coming because people didn’t. Couldn’t break away from New York or afford the trip in the economy.

Brook Campanella sat in the first row of a room full of empty folding Samsonite chairs. The casket was open for the viewing. The funeral director solemnly stood off to the left side near the door. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his face was a long, sad countenance of deepest empathy. He was thinking about an upcoming fishing trip.

Brook had set her cell phone on vibrate, but what did it matter?

It vibrated.

She flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Ms. Campanella, this is Ken Shapiro of Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious—”

“I know,” said Brook.

“I’m calling because I have great news. Upon further inquiry, I ultimately received a press release faxed from the DEA about a fraud alert on someone impersonating one of their agents in a phone scam. If your father had been present to answer the call, he would have been told of pending charges against him that could be dropped if a civil fine was immediately paid through Western Union. It was all a hoax.”

“What?”

“After getting the news release, I did an online search and found several chat rooms where all these furious people want to strangle the fake agent. Apparently the guy was good, and some victims paid up to six thousand dollars. The chat rooms tell almost identical stories of being on the phone with him, shaking uncontrollably and almost having heart attacks. One Internet bulletin board is even making progress tracking him. He’s hit Maryland, Tennessee and is now believed to be in Florida.”

“But—”

“I know your next question. The common denominator was that all his marks had recently had their credit-card data compromised. Did that happen to your father?”

“I . . . uh, have to go.”

“Okay, but I knew you’d want to know right away. Aren’t you happy?”

She hung up.

Brook sat quietly alone for the rest of the viewing.

At the end, she heard someone clear his throat. The funeral director.

“Yes.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Brook dabbed her eyes. “Thank you.”

The director smiled with practiced sympathy. “But you’ll have to move on.”

She nodded—“I know. My father would want me to”—and got out another tissue.

“No, I mean you have to go.” The director pointed toward the doorway and two employees standing in the hall. “They need to wheel in the next casket. The family’s already starting to arrive.”

Brook got up without reaction and drove home in a ten-year-old Ford Focus. If electrode pads had been attached to her head, they would have detected brain activity on the level of a major thunderstorm.

She pulled into the driveway, went up to the condo and opened the door.

Brook stopped with an open mouth.

On top of the TV stand was a lot of air. Her eyes went to an empty shelf where the stereo had been. She roamed room to room. The silverware stuck deep in the closet was gone, including the cake knife from her parents’ wedding. They’d gotten Ronald’s watch and favorite cuff links.

The police were exceptionally polite, taking notes and offering condolences. They had been encountering more and more burglary victims wearing black.

Brook fought tears at the kitchen table. “What are the odds my father died because of a scam . . . ?” She turned generally toward the living room. “. . . And then
this
.”

“I’m afraid it probably wasn’t a coincidence,” said the lead detective, still jotting on a pad.

Brook looked up quickly. “What do you mean, not a coincidence? Are you saying that the person who left the phone message also robbed us?”

The detective shook his head. “What I mean is you put a funeral notice in the newspaper, right?”

“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

C
igar 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 off 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.