16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (9 page)

Finally, all clothes were off. The naked guests experienced a modicum of relief. Then they looked around. Where were the hazmat teams?

No chemical response was on the way, but multiple 9-1-1 calls brought six patrol cars screaming down the fashionable avenue with all lights flashing. The first officer got out in front of two dozen frothy, nude people. He’d seen almost everything working the South Beach beat. But . . .

“What in the hell is going on?”

Simultaneously, the staff from the hotel’s front desk emerged from the lobby. “What in the hell is going on?”

W
hat was going on:

One week earlier, somewhere in cyberspace, a chat room sat empty.

At precisely eleven
P.M.
, members began logging in with code names. More than a hundred people from Palm Beach to Monroe County turned up the volume on their computers’ speakers.

A silent, streaming feed from a telephone line. The quiet was broken by an Internet voice. “Two minutes to go . . .”

All the members opened a separate computer browser to a live webcam they had previously located on A1A.

That’s how they selected their missions. When the group first began operating, it was just audio from the phones. But then someone threw out the idea that webcams were now everywhere. Listening to the action was great, but actually seeing the fruits of their work would put it over the top.

“Thirty seconds . . .”

Anticipation built. Then they heard various pulse tones of a phone number being punched in. It belonged to a national fast-food burger franchise across the street from a beach webcam in South Florida.

Someone answered.

“Hello, this is ____. How can we help you today?”

“I’m District Manager Frank Daniels from the regional office. We’ve received multiple alarms from your location. You have a major gas leak.”

“What?”

“There’s no time. Just listen: We need to vent the entire restaurant before there’s an explosion. See the four giant plate-glass windows on the front of the building that look out toward the road? Break them.”

“Explosion?”

“Shut up and get moving! The gas levels are rising every second!”

“What do I break them out with?”

“Use the chairs! Don’t you remember anything from the safety drills?”

The restaurant employee couldn’t remember anything from the safety drills about breaking windows with chairs, but he didn’t want the district manager to know that. The people in the chat room heard the employee yell away from the phone:
“Guys! Grab the chairs . . .”

The group’s eyes went to the webcam feed on their monitors. The first chair crashed through the southernmost floor-to-ceiling pane. Then in quick succession, windows two, three and four. Customers and staff ran screaming out through the broken glass. Police arrived. Gas company trucks. Pandemonium.

All over the Gold Coast, fingers typed rapidly on keyboards.

“Excellent gig.”

“Top-notch.”

“Nice touch with the safety drill.”

“I concur. Puts him on the defensive so he’s not thinking straight and doesn’t question authority.”

And so on, through dozens of additional comment threads critiquing the mission.

Welcome to the modern Merry Pranksters. That was actually their name. They would have been anarchists and Luddites except they couldn’t imagine life without the power grid and social media.

Near midnight, the cyber-posts turned to a new subject. Next mission.

“Webcam thoughts?”

“I found one with a great panning view of a thirty-story hotel on Collins Avenue.”

“Perfect, but we’ll need to change the hotel game plan.”

Everyone knew why.

The hotel gig was otherwise excellent. It had been honed and improved through eight separate successful runs. Post-mission critiques added suggestions to make the prank calls more convincing. “Toss in a part about taking the stairs instead of the elevators. Everyone’s familiar with that, so it’s a legitimizing reference point.”

They continued refining the script until it couldn’t miss:

A hotel room phone rang on one of the upper floors.

“Hello, this is the front desk, and we have an emergency. There is a fire of unknown origin, and our sprinkler system is not responding even with manual override. We need you to evacuate immediately by the stairs. Do not take the elevators! Repeat, do not take the elevators! And on the way out, we need you to break off all the sprinkler heads in the hall with a shoe . . .”

But the hotel gig developed an obvious new problem. Since they were now using webcams, the entertainment value of the chaos in an internal hallway would be unseen. They put their heads together.

“We need to get them out of the hotel and onto the sidewalk in view of the cam.”

“But how?”

“What about chemical or biological contamination?”

“That’ll work.”

“Okay, so people are standing on a sidewalk. What’s funny about that?”

“It’ll be late. They’ll be drowsy in their pajamas.”

“I’m still not feeling it.”

“I got it. We tell them to spray one another with fire extinguishers to prevent chemical burns . . .”

That got the ideas flowing.

“. . . And once they’re on the sidewalk, we tell them to take off all their clothes.”

Perfection.

They came up with the place, time and date, and agreed to meet back online.

They began signing off. Until only a single person was left.

The Internet has what is known as lurkers. Means just about the same in real life. They sneak into various alleys of cyberspace and never post. Simply watch and listen, and you’d never know they were there.

The last person left alone in the Merry Pranksters’ chat room was one such lurker. He read down through the entire evening’s activities and printed out a complete transcript.

Then he logged off.

Chapter Nine

THE NEXT DAY

S
unset. A black Firebird Trans Am pulled up to a pancake house on U.S. 1 just north of Hollywood.

A lime neon sign said the establishment also made good pies. The tables in the windows were full of customers holding the kind of laminated menus that had big pictures of food to speed the process.

Coleman crumpled a beer can against the top of his head. “Look at all those people eating breakfast at night.”

“I love eating breakfast at night,” said Serge. “It means you’re calling the shots.”

“With me it means I passed out and lost my watch.”

“Coleman, you don’t wear a watch.”

“Right.”

The pair jumped out of their car.

“Oh my God!” Serge placed a hand over his heart. “It’s what I’ve dreamed of my whole life!”

A smiling man slapped the hood of a Corvette Stingray convertible. “You like?”

“Hell yes!” Serge ran over and extended a hand. “I’m Serge.”

“I’m Cid. Friends call me Uncle Cid, but I don’t know—”

“Can I drive!” Serge hopped up and down like a first grader. “Can I? Can I? Can I?”

Cid thinking,
This is too easy.
“Sure, get in.” He tossed the keys.

Serge caught them on the fly and vaulted the unopened driver’s door. The sports car roared to life and sped away from the restaurant, where someone else was hiding in the alley with a planted pickup truck.

“Uh, you might want to slow down a bit,” said Cid.

“No, I’m fine.” They screamed through a yellow light.

Cid gripped the dashboard. “Have you ever driven one of these before?”

“Oh, many, many, many— No. But I’ve watched other people.” Serge gripped the stick shift and got both feet ready on the pedals. “Here’s what’s really fun about these babies. I’m skipping a gear now.”

“What?”

Serge hit the clutch and jumped from second to fourth with a gnarling sound that repair shops love to hear. They were pasted back in their seats like the upper stage of a Saturn rocket igniting.

Serge tilted his head with a smile. “Ever seen
Scent of a Woman
? Al Pacino is this blind guy who doesn’t give a poo and bluffs his way into taking a sports car for a test drive. I love that movie!” He punched the gas. “Bet you never guessed I was blind. What color is this car anyway?”

“You’re blind!”

Serge wove back and forth over the center line.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh! Stop the car! Stop the car!”

“The car’s yellow.” Serge playfully punched Cid in the shoulder. “I was just joshin’. Don’t you remember I caught the keys when you tossed them? You should see someone about your nerves.” He floored the pedal, and they were flattened back again.

“Slow down!”

“I can’t hear!”

“Slow down!”

Serge skidded to a stop at a green light. Horns blared as speeding traffic swerved around. “I couldn’t hear with all the wind and the engine. What were you saying?”

“Good Lord! Do you always drive like this?”

“Of course not.” Serge accelerated again. “This isn’t my car, so it’s only proper respect to drive extra carefully.”

Cid wiped his forehead. “I’d hate to see how you drive what you own.”

“What?” said Serge, pointing in the rearview. “You mean that thing?”

Cid twisted around and saw Coleman behind the wheel of the black Firebird, trailing a few lengths back. His head turned toward Serge. “What’s he doing following us?”

“I don’t understand,” said Serge. “We always do that.”

“You always have someone follow you when you’re taking a test drive?”

“No, when I’m kidnapping someone.” Serge conscientiously checked his side mirror and hit a signal for a lane change. “That way my car’s conveniently right there to throw the hostage in the trunk, eliminating the always annoying foot chases through backyard clotheslines.”

“Fuck you! Pull over right now!”

Serge drove into a boarded-up gas station on the corner that was usually occupied by someone selling velvet rugs of Elvis, Malcolm X and kittens. But the rug people had knocked off early. The Corvette parked next to rusty pumps, and Coleman stopped behind it.

Serge turned with a .45 automatic in his hand and a toothy grin. “Let’s take another test drive.”

S
erge and Coleman sat on the ends of their motel beds, intently watching TV.

“That kid in the wheelchair is so cool,” said Coleman.

“And what a voice,” said Serge.

The show ended and Coleman packed a bong made from a motel room lamp. “Those
Glee
kids sure are something.”

Serge grabbed the duct tape. “I already feel better as a human.”

“They’ve taught me so much about understanding people who are different.” Coleman leaned over the bong with a Bic lighter. “What’s the duct tape for? There’s already some on his mouth.”

“Yeah, but this guy’s working it loose with his tongue.” Serge walked over to the chair with the tied-up Corvette owner. “A lot of them do that. Just wastes tape.”

Coleman exhaled. “He’s not earth-friendly.”

Serge grabbed the edge of the gray strip and ripped it off.

“Ahhhhhhh!”

“I let you watch
Glee
with us, and this is how you repay me?” Serge bashed him in the head with the big roll of tape. “You’re letting those kids down . . .” He tossed the tape aside and walked to the dresser.

Revvvvvvvvvvvvv . . .

Coleman pointed with a beer bottle. “What are you doing now?”

Serge ran an electric jigsaw through a piece of wood molding. “My latest project,” he said from behind safety glasses. “You and our contestant will soon be amazed.”

He turned off the saw and smoothed his cut with eighty-grit sandpaper. Then he grabbed a portable drill and inserted one of those massive circular-boring attachments that they use on unfinished doors to create the hole for the knob.

Revvvvvvvvvvvvv . . .

Serge bored. Coleman scratched his butt. The captive’s eyes bugged out.

Then prying with a crowbar. Hammering nails. Slicing balsa wood with an X-Acto knife. Cutting string with scissors. Dipping a small brush in a bottle of model airplane paint. Opening a package of thumbtacks.

Coleman tossed the empty beer bottle toward the trash can in the corner, except it was the wrong corner.

Serge opened another package and looked up at the sound of breaking beer-bottle glass. “You’re cleaning that up.”

Coleman stared at Serge’s hand. “A piece of cheese?”

Serge set it in place. “The final step to make my project operational.”

“So now what?” asked Coleman.

“Where’s Skippy?”

“In my pocket.”

Serge held out a hand. “Give him to me.”

Coleman clutched his own hands over his right breast. “Stay away from Skippy! I know what you did last time I passed out and you took him in the pet store. That’s janitor interference.”

“Custodial interference.” Serge gestured with his hand for emphasis. “Now give!”

“No!”

They began wrestling. Serge got Coleman in a headlock.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until you give me Skippy!”

“Never!”

They tumbled off the bed, and Serge performed a wrestling spin maneuver, capturing Coleman in a half nelson.

“Stop it!” yelled Coleman. “My arms are breaking!”

Serge squeezed harder. “Then give me Skippy.”

“Okay! Okay!”

Serge released, and Coleman handed over the rodent.

Serge petted the animal on the head, then lowered him to the floor. Skippy grabbed the piece of cheese and disappeared inside one of the motel’s walls.

Coleman had a puzzled expression as he stared down at a perfectly rounded, semi-circular hole in the room’s baseboard that Serge had created. Over the hole, hanging by string from a thumbtack, was a tiny balsa-wood sign: H
OME
S
WEET
H
OME.

Coleman looked up at Serge. “It’s like one of those mouse holes in the cartoons.”

“I know,” said Serge, placing the drill back in its carrying case. “Isn’t it great? When I was a kid I always wondered why I never saw one in real life. So I’ve wanted to make my own ever since but never got the chance because there wasn’t a mouse handy.”

Coleman remained confused. “That was your new project? How does it help kill our hostage?”

“It doesn’t.” Serge beamed with pride as he gazed down upon the hole, where Skippy stuck out his head and wiggled his whiskers. Serge tossed another chunk of cheese. The mouse grabbed it and disappeared again.

“But we did all that shopping,” said Coleman. “I thought you were coming up with another genius way to whack a dude.”

“Killing jerks isn’t the only reason for home-improvement stores.”

“It’s not?”

Serge resumed packing up his tools.

“So what’s going to happen to Skippy now?” asked Coleman.

“I’ve released him back into the wild,” said Serge. “He’s now a free-range mouse.”

Coleman pouted. “He was my pet.”

“Coleman, if you love something, set it free.” He turned to the captive. “You and I aren’t quite there yet.”

Coleman cracked another beer. “You’re not going to kill this asshole after all?”

“Didn’t say that.” Serge punched the captive with brass knuckles. “You stole from my client in your car-sale scam. Tell me where the money is!”

The man spit out a tooth. “Eat shit and die!”

“If that’s how you want to play it, Uncle Cid, if that’s really your name.” He wrapped his mouth in tape again.

“Serge, did you say ‘Uncle Cid’?”

“Yeah, some made-up name.” Another punch. “Who knows what it means?”

“I do,” said Coleman.

Serge turned. “What?”

“It’s code.” Coleman took another hit. “Uncle Cid. Cid. A-cid. Acid.”

“You’re higher than a bastard.”

“No really. All the heads know this.” Coleman exhaled again. “When you want to have a big LSD party with a giant bowl of spiked punch, you get on the phone. But because the fuzz might be listening, you say you’re having Uncle Cid over that night. And sometimes a bunch of college kids would hold an open LSD party for all who
knew
. They’d put a classified ad in the student paper with an address for Uncle Cid.”

“Since when do you read college papers?”

“Just the classifieds,” said Coleman. “For Cid parties.”

Serge turned around.
Punch
.

“Why are you still hitting him?” asked Coleman. “His mouth is taped and he can’t tell you where the money is.”

“To be honest, it’s now more about the hitting than the money.” Serge swung hard again with a meaty thud on skull. “But I just
know
I’ll get grief from Mahoney.”

“Why? You cracked this case for him.”

“Yeah, but in all the movies, you’re supposed to get the money back.” Serge rubbed his sore hand. “Except I’m fairly confident that his client will be equally satisfied with the results I have in mind . . .”
Punch, punch, punch
. “. . . But I have to at least go though the motions so next time Mahoney asks, I can honestly say I tried. You’re a witness.”
Punch, punch, punch.

“Serge, his face is a bloody mess. It’s making the duct tape peel off.”

“He’s abusing our landfills.” The tape removed much easier this time, and Serge crumpled it into a ball. “You ready to listen to reason? Tell us where the money is or else!”

“Or else what?”

Serge reached in the duffel bag. “Or else
this
!” He removed a giant iron corkscrew and slowly twisted it in front of the hostage with diabolical drama. Then raised his eyebrows. “Pretty scary, eh?”

“I have no idea what the hell you’re doing.”

“Oh,
realllllllllly
.” Serge paced methodically with hands behind his back. “Then how about . . .
this
!” He swiftly whipped out a small galvanized pipe and held it to Cid’s face.

“What’s that?”

Serge shrugged and tossed it on the bed next to the hurricane tie-down. “I think it’s used for showerheads.”

“You’re insane!”

“That’s the last straw,” said Serge. “I’m not letting you watch
Glee
anymore with us.”

He roughly blotted the blood on Cid’s face and wrapped more duct tape.

“Look!” said Coleman. “Skippy’s back! He’s running over to me and up my leg.”

“That’s the second half of ‘If you love something, set it free.’ ” Serge carefully examined the corkscrew. “If it comes back, you know it’s yours.”

“I can keep him?” Coleman hugged the mouse to his cheek. “Skippy!”

“And for his happiness, I now have the equipment and skill set to instantly whip up a custom mouse hole in any motel room. But be prepared: The day will finally come like in all those tearjerker animal movies when he won’t leave the mouse hole, and you’ll just have to let go as the credits roll.” Serge tucked the pipe and corkscrew back in his duffel bag. “Coleman, what do you think? Is it dark enough outside yet?”

“I’d say it’s pretty dark.”

Serge grabbed the bag’s handle. “Let’s rock.”