16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

THE NEXT MORNING

T
wo men with dirty fingernails shoveled quickly, burying the body in an eight-foot hole.

A number of people saw them but didn’t pay attention because the body was in a casket, and the men wore the green work uniforms of the Fort Lauderdale cemetery.

In the background, a second casket rested on a series of straps above another hole. There was a tent and rows of folding white chairs. At one end of the casket, a preacher opened a Bible as his vestments began to blow. Black clouds rolled in from the Everglades. The tent had been meant for the sun, but now held back rain. Only three of the chairs were occupied, a young widow and her children. It was hard to hear the preacher because of the heavy traffic on the adjacent freeway. The widow had her own Bible in her lap, and restless fingers kept busy rubbing the crinkled, tearstained newspaper obituary in her hands. It mentioned her husband’s five tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.

The rain chased the gravediggers away from the other plot and back to the maintenance shed. Someone else who had been laying a bouquet on a grave took shelter under a royal poinciana. He had placed the bouquet at the tombstone of someone he never knew or cared about. Now he watched the preacher in the distance and held a cell phone to his head. “Yeah, it’s started. You’re on.”

Several miles away, a cable-TV van was parked at the curb of a residential street. It became un-parked. The truck rolled slowly and turned up the driveway at the appointed address.

The house was a turquoise bungalow with potted yellow-and-red crotons that are popular with local landscapers and as economical hospital gift plants for less serious ailments, like whooping cough. An American flag hung from the porch, and a swing set stood out back.

The cable workers exited the van and walked around to the side door for privacy. The first one glanced back a last time, then stuck a bump key in the lock. Another person twisted the knob as the rubber mallet struck. The door popped open with facility. They entered the laundry room, opened their burglary sacks and marched single file toward the kitchen. The living room was around the corner past the refrigerator, which created a blind spot. When the first in the crew reached it, the baseball bat caught him in the throat.

He promptly dropped to the tiles in writhing voicelessness. The others jolted to a surprised halt as Serge stepped out from behind the fridge with a Louisville Slugger and a .45 ACP. That was the official signal to run.

The cable van screeched out of the driveway just before Coleman screeched up in a Firebird.

S
ix hours later. Darkness and traffic and croaking frogs. All businesses along the industrial access road were shuttered for the night. A black Firebird sat in front of a warehouse. Serge had already slipped a damage deposit under the door of Alfonso’s office for having to use the bolt cutters on the entrance gate’s padlock—and a few more bucks for what would come later.

Coleman torched a fattie and smiled down at the man in the chair. The man’s eyes bulged with terror. But not from threats he understood. Because every element of his predicament was so weird and fresh that his brain hadn’t caught up yet.

First there were his captors, beginning with this Belushi character in front of him. During the ride over, Coleman had continually spilled vodka on himself and puffed nonstop on a bong made from a decorative aquarium treasure chest. Then there was the driver. Where to start?  . . .

How about
at
the start? . . . The Firebird pulled away from the nearly burglarized widow’s house and picked up the Palmetto Expressway. Serge turned around, slurping from a tube clenched in the corner of his mouth. “How you doing back there? I’m guessing you didn’t read the full obituary because it mentioned he was a war vet with a wife and kids, and even a burglar couldn’t be that low. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Actually there isn’t any benefit coming up; sorry, didn’t think that offer through. You comfy? Hope you are because we got a long wait for sunset. Personally, waiting drives me crazy, so I apologize in advance because I need the cover of darkness. You know the waiting that really drives me nuts? When you’re in a convenience store, and the checkout chick has no supervisor and she’s on her cell phone the whole time, ringing up my coffee and water distractedly with one hand. And I could cut her slack if it was an important call, like the lions grabbed her mother at the zoo. But surprisingly it’s never
that
call, just pointless chitchat: ‘I told the bitch to stay away from my Hector, and she always brings up that one little time I blew her boyfriend . . . Right, like that excuses everything.’ And even worse, convenience stores have started putting in glass countertops at the checkout, which display the rolls of scratch-off lottery tickets. So now the slowest shitheads in the community are
shopping
at the cash register, the most critical bottleneck you can’t shop at. The checkout is the Khyber Pass of convenience stores, and if history has taught us anything, it’s to keep the Khyber Pass moving and clear of shithead clogs or it becomes the opposite of convenience.”
Slurp, slurp, slurp.
“But what really burns my ass is when you’re checking into a motel, and the only guy at the front desk is tied up on the phone with some Walmart-cafeteria reject who’s going on and on . . .”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “You might want to watch the road.”

“
You
watch it. I’m talking here.” He released the steering wheel and Coleman grabbed it. Serge folded his arms atop the back of the driver’s seat. “I can at least cope if the guy on the phone to the motel is making a reservation. But no, I’m standing there waiting in person, and he’s asking a million questions about the place to decide if it’s the right fit for his lifestyle. How late is the pool open, do they have HBO, is it a hot complimentary breakfast or just those big clear dispensing vats of Froot Loops. You know what I did the last time it happened? I lunged over the counter and grabbed the phone and said, ‘Listen, fuck-stick, if you check into this motel, I’ll enter your room in the middle of the night and open your chest cavity with a concussion drill.’ Then I handed the phone back to the desk guy: ‘Funny, he hung up. I’d like a room, please . . .’ ”

And now, five hours later, the captive sat strapped in a chair, staring up at a comfortably numb Coleman.

A banging on the door of the warehouse.
“I’m baaaaaack!”

Coleman smiled down at the hostage. “That’s my buddy.”

Serge slid the door open and led two more people inside.

“Who’ve you got with you?” asked Coleman.

Serge held each one around the waist as they staggered forward. “You remember Roger from the Democratic Party, and this other guy is Jansen from the Republicans.”

“They look drunk.”

“Naw, I just gave them a shot of Sodium Pentothol in the parking lot when they were getting off work. Grab me a couple chairs . . .”

Coleman helped Serge get them seated. “But Roger was nice to me. Why do you have to kill him?”

“What are you talking about?” said Serge. “I’m not killing anybody—I mean not these two. I just need to explore the political terrain further, because after I was shunned and they embraced you, I realize I don’t know anything anymore. And since we still have a few hours until traffic clears off the industrial road, I thought I’d put it to use.” He looked around at the ceiling. “This warehouse reminds me of
Reservoir Dogs
. That whole movie was a bunch of conversations in a warehouse, with some torture and death in between, just like here.”

Serge tossed a wad of cloth, and Coleman caught it against his chest. “What’s this?”

“Just go in the bathroom and put that on.” Serge knelt in front of his two newest guests and tapped them lightly on the cheeks. “Anybody in there?”

Jansen’s head wobbled on his neck. “Wha—? Where am I?”

“A warehouse.”

Roger started coming around. “I feel funny.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Serge. “That’s just the truth serum I gave you.”

“Why’d you do that?” Roger asked in a dull monotone.

“Because I don’t know anything anymore. Our political process appears to be a toxic dance of mutually assured destruction that takes all the citizens down with you, and that can’t be right. So I’ve prepared a little experiment.”

“What kind of experiment?” slurred Roger.

“You’re positively going to love this!” Serge excitedly flapped his arms. “I’ve got the best candidate you could ever hope to recruit. Absolutely everyone will vote for him. He’s completely unselfish with a blemish-free record, and he loves all the people. But he’s not sure which party to join.”

Roger lolled his head. “And you want to know which one of us will pick him?”

“No,” said Serge. “He’s a no-brainer as the top candidate for either ticket. You’ll both fight like wild dingoes over him. That’s a given. But only one party can win. So here’s the experiment: After the election, can the other party unite behind him for the sake of the nation?”

“Depends on the candidate,” said Jansen.

“Like I told you, he’s an automatic,” said Serge. “It’s the one and only . . . Jesus Christ!”

“Jesus Christ?” said Bradley. “But he’s dead.”

“Well, he came back,” said Serge. “That possibility was always left open. I’m sure you heard the stories.”

Roger twisted his head around. “Where is he?”

Serge called toward the bathroom: “Jesus, can you come here a second?”

No response.

“Jesus, get out here!”

Roger and Jansen leaned in the direction of Serge’s gaze.

“Dang it!” Serge marched to the bathroom and banged on the door. “Jesus, what are you doing in there?”

From the other side of the door:
“Jesus? Oh, right.”
Coleman came out and smiled. “My children!”

“That’s not Jesus,” said Jansen.

“Yes, it is,” said Serge.

“He’s out of shape,” said Roger.

“Give him some slack,” said Serge. “It’s been two thousand years. And if you don’t believe it’s really him, check out the shirt.”

The pair looked in the middle of Coleman’s chest, where something had been written in Magic Marker:
W
HAT
W
OULD
I
D
O?

“I’m convinced,” said Roger.

“Me, too,” said Jansen.

“Then back to my main question,” said Serge. “He’s sure to win. I mean, even if you don’t believe he’s the son of God, you have to admit he’s a people person. And if he wins for the other side, could you support his administration? Jansen, you go first.”

“Wait a second.” Roger interrupted from the other chair. “I have some issues to go over first before I can accept him as our candidate.”

“Are you joking?” said Serge. “What’s not to like about this guy?”

“The conservatives have been eroding separation of church and state for years.”

“So?”

“Well, he’s a little on the religious side.”

“He’s Christ!”

“Exactly. And politicians often visit schools. Since he’s Jesus, anything he says will be the new gospel.”

“I’m not following.”

“Prayer in the classroom.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” said Serge.

“I agree it’s a quibble,” said Roger. “But we have to keep our base happy—”

“Shut up.” Serge grabbed his head and turned to Jansen. “Don’t tell me you also have a problem with him as a candidate.”

“Actually, yes.”

Serge’s jaw fell open. “What?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because we definitely respect all faiths. It’s just that our polling data right now shows that the only viable candidate needs to be a Christian.”

“Yeah?” said Serge. “Jesus, Christian, who better?”

Jansen shook his head. “He’s Jewish.”

“He’s Christ!” said Serge.

“It’s just that our pollsters—”

“Shut up.” Serge massaged his temples and turned back to Roger. “Hypothetically, let’s take the prayer thing off the table. Surely, he’s acceptable in every other way.”

“Not really.”

Serge needed a chair. “I don’t even want to ask.”

“Remember that talk about telling his followers to render unto Caesar?” said Roger. “That they’d be rewarded in heaven?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not sure he’d support shifting the tax burden to the rich.”

“Incredible.” Serge turned. “Jansen, can you help me here?”

“I’m afraid he scores very low on our Christian values test.”

“He’s Christ!”

“Associating with known prostitutes, creating a disturbance in a house of worship with that money-changers scene, the loaves and the fishes, which was a socialist food-redistribution program . . .”

“Stop talking.”

“. . . Mary was an unwed teen mom,” said Roger. “We’re concerned about his views on abortion . . .”

“. . . And we’re worried about His stance on capital punishment,” said Jansen. “Because of that incident . . .”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up! I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Serge stood behind the drugged political operatives next to the fat Jesus, who was petting a lobster in a tank filled with iron pellets, and glanced over at the duct-taped hostage. “What’s wrong with this picture?”