16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (13 page)

“No, we’re fine,” said Gustave. “It’s just that when you said your names were Nathan and Jamie, I naturally assumed—”

“Is that tuna salad? I love tuna salad.”

They all sat down for lunch and small talk.

“This place sure is beautiful,” said Nathan.

“Sasha picked it out,” said Gustave.

“She must have a thing for Mob types.”

“Why yes,” said Gustave. “But . . . I mean . . . How did you know?”

“You kidding?” said Nathan. “The history of this place. They found Johnny Roselli bobbing in a drum right over there with his legs sawed off. That gives me an appetite.” He took a big bite of his tuna sandwich.

Gustave and Sasha glanced warily at each other. “Uh, what exactly do you do for a living?”

Nathan noshed another bite. “Consulting work mainly. Right now I’m getting a lot of action from a private investigator. He was just hired by the family of this couple that was attacked in Palm Beach . . .”

A cell phone vibrated. Gustave flipped it open. Sal screamed so loud on the other end that everyone could hear:
“Abort! Abort! The house is occupied! The people you’re meeting aren’t who they say they are—”

The phone was snatched from Gustave’s hand and flung in the water. Then a gun barrel pressed between his eyes. “My name’s actually Serge. I thought you should know that since we’ll be spending some quality time together.”

Chapter Fifteen

MIDNIGHT

W
atch your footing,” said Serge, helping Sasha out of the trunk. “There’s a lot of algae on these ramps. Wouldn’t want you to slip and hurt yourself . . . Coleman, stop fooling around and assist that gentleman.”

Coleman pushed himself up from the ground. “I slipped.”

Serge had previously retrieved the hidden skiff from the mangroves, and it sat anchored in shallow water.

“All aboard!”

It took the persuasion of a pistol, but Gustave and Sasha settled in nicely. Serge worked the till of the trolling motor, backing the skiff away from the ramp.

Coleman sat up on the bow with a joint for a running light. “So this really is where they found that chopped-up mobster?”

“That’s right, Dumbfounding Bay.” Serge cut the rudder hard to starboard and switched the motor out of reverse. “They found Roselli right over there.”

“But if you’re going to do what I think you are, we can’t be out in the water.”

“We can if it’s a falling tide and there’s a shallow shoal that I personally know about.”

Serge expertly navigated the channel, slipping clandestinely under the lights of waterfront homes backed up against their seawalls. One family was eating dinner, another watched a Harry Potter movie on a big screen. Someone else paced feverishly with a telephone, cigar and bitterness. Nobody was visible in the next house, but Serge recognized an oil painting in the living room from one of the founding Highwaymen.

The skiff was almost there. Serge gently ran it aground on the submerged sandbar. He slipped over the side, which gave the craft more buoyancy, and pulled it farther onto the shoal. The only tricky part was getting the fifty-five-gallon drums over the side and wedged into the bottom muck without raising a ruckus. Especially since the barrels were welded together, end to end. Serge had cut the bottom out of the top barrel, creating one tall cylinder. It rested sideways on the edge of the skiff. “Ease it in gently.”

“I’m losing my grip,” said Coleman.

“Don’t drop it!”

He dropped it.

Splash
.

Serge and Coleman ducked in the boat and stared up at the mansions along the seawall. The man with the phone and cigar came to the window and glanced around, then went back to chewing someone out.

“That was close,” said Serge.

“Look, the barrels landed upright,” said Coleman. “Can I put the next part together?”

“The floor is yours.”

Coleman reached down into the bilge as Serge aimed his .45 back at the tied-up couple. He motioned for the woman to scoot away from her companion.

“Okay, Sasha, here’s the deal: Your pal is going in that big tube I made—”

Panicked screaming from under the man’s duct tape.

“Shut the fuck up!” Serge cracked him in the forehead with the pistol’s butt. Then he scratched his own temple with the gun barrel. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, he’s going in the tube, and I’ll take your duct tape off, but if you make one peep or otherwise try to get the attention of the residents up along that seawall, then you’re the one who goes in the tube. Do we understand each other?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Good,” said Serge. “Coleman, give me a hand with Gustave.”

Coleman grabbed the man’s bound feet. “He doesn’t look too happy.”

“Don’t know why not,” said Serge, grabbing him under the arms. “I welded two barrels together instead of using just one and having to saw his legs off.”

“You’re always courteous like that,” said Coleman.

“And yet so few say thank you.”

Coleman got Gustave’s feet through the opening of the tube, and the rest was only a matter of letting gravity slide him down. His feet touched bottom and his eyes barely peeked over the edge of the top barrel. He made whiny sounds under the tape.

“I smell something,” said Coleman. “I think he just shit his pants something horrible.”

“In the world of poker, that is what’s known as ‘a tell.’ ” Serge reached over with his right hand and knocked on the top of Gustave’s head. “Eyes up here. I’m the Man with the Plan, and I know what you’re thinking: ‘He’s going to put the lid on and I’ll suffocate.’ But that’s not how I roll, so you can relax.” He held up the lid and pointed at where he’d used the drill press to created a dozen half-dollar-size holes. “See? You can breathe. But the big question remains: What does ol’ Serge have in store for me?”

“And Coleman,” added Coleman. “I thought of it.”

“That’s right,” said Serge. “He did have this idea. And they don’t come around often, so you should savor it like a passing comet.” He reached down in the boat and held up another round piece of metal the same diameter as the lid. Except this one was made of steel mesh like the part of a barbecue that lets charcoal drop its ashes. “I machined this so it seats three inches below the lip of the top barrel, keeping your head pushed down slightly away from the lid, because you strike me as the kind of person who would cheat by putting his mouth right up to one of the air holes, and that would be such a disappointment for me.” Serge placed the mesh disk over Gustave’s head. “Okay, crouch down some more so I can wedge this into place.”

Serge positioned the mesh, but Gustave fiercely resisted. “I said to crouch down. There’s not enough room with you standing up.”

Serge pressed hard on the mesh, and Gustave strained to stand as tall as possible.

Coleman tossed a roach over the side of the boat. “I don’t think he’s listening.”

“That’s what the rubber mallet is for. I call it The Cooperator.”

Wham, wham, wham, wham, wham . . .

“His head doesn’t like the mallet,” said Coleman. “He’s crouching.”

“And now I’ll use the mallet to give the mesh a snug fit . . .”
Wham, wham, wham, wham
. “. . . And next the lid.” Just before setting it in on top, Serge stuck his face over the barrels. “You’re about to become a science pioneer, and that’s something nobody can ever take away from you.” He gave Gustave a cheerful wave. “Well, toodles!” The lid went on.

Wham, wham, wham, wham . . .

Coleman reached into one of the liquor-store bags. “Is it time?”

“Right-o. Uncap that sucker.” Serge stuck his hand in another shopping bag.

The pair met at the side of the boat and began pouring the bottles of alcohol through the air holes. Then they tossed the empties in the bilge and reached into the bags again. More pouring. “Repeat as needed . . .” They made several more short trips until the bags were empty and the bilge was full of garbage.

“Coleman, get the anchor.” Serge flicked on the electric motor and silently backed away from the shoal. He reached a range of a hundred yards and dropped anchor again.

“Okay,” Serge told Coleman. “You’re on.”

“Huh? What do you mean I’m on?”

Serge aimed his thumb sideways. “Sasha. Check the expression on her face. I’m sure she’s dying to know.”

“You want me to explain the experiment?”

“It was your idea,” said Serge. He took a seat next to her. “Rock this joint.”

“Wow, you’ve always been the one to explain before.” Coleman stopped and placed his palms on the sides of his face. “Okay, this is my big break. I don’t want to mess it up. I’ll tell that part, and that part, and, no, that other part comes first . . .”

“Any day now,” said Serge.

“Okay.” Coleman cleared his throat. “I’m a little nervous, so I’m probably not going to get any laughs. Here goes: It all started when me and the Buzzard were getting royally baked. We had this giant glass bong shaped like a T. Rex, and I mean we were just totally splattered, so freakin’ high that we spent an hour hung up on heavy philosophical
Seinfeld
questions like, What on earth are they planting to grow seedless dope? And then you wake up the next morning and swear someone must have broken in while you were asleep because all the furniture is rearranged and your shoes are in the microwave. You know what I mean? Those really great nights? And then the next morning me and Buzzard. Hold on, it wasn’t Buzzard. It was Taco Tommy. Was Buzzard there? That’s right, they were both there because we had this windowpane acid that we broke into four doses and there was one left over, so that’s how I remember, and we all dropped LSD for breakfast. And you know at the veterinary office how they sometimes have to put those plastic cones around a dog’s head so it won’t bite stitches or whatever? About halfway through the trip, Buzzard and Taco made me put on a plastic cone ‘for my own good,’ and I spent the rest of the trip wandering around the house wearing this cone like I’m a lamp, and only being able to see the top halves of the rooms . . .”

“Ahem,” said Serge.

“What?”

Serge made a twirling motion with his left hand. “You can fast-forward.”

“It’s my story.”

“It’s offtrack.”

“You get offtrack with your history.”

“But history is a key element of the death monologue.”

“Partying is just as important to me.”

Serge turned and smiled at Sasha. “Will you excuse me a moment?”

She watched Serge walk over to Coleman, and the two began arguing in brusque whispers that she couldn’t make out. They both stopped and smiled back at her like everything was cool, then more harsh whispering.

They began wrestling, mildly at first, then rolling violently on the deck. Serge’s legs got Coleman’s head in a scissor lock.

“Serge, stop. I can smell your butt.”

“Stick to the story. We have a guest.”

“I’ll grab your nuts.”

“You better not . . .
Ahhh,
let go!”

“You let go!”

“Okay, at the same time . . . Ready? Let go . . .”

They did. The pair stood and smiled at Sasha again. Except she couldn’t see Coleman’s smile because his T-shirt was pulled up over his face. “Everything’s cool.”

“Yeah, we’re good.”

Serge returned to his seat, and Coleman pulled his shirt back down. “So right now your friend Gustave is standing on a block of ice inside the barrels. Yesterday, Serge used a sharp pick to carve out a cavity in a block, which we got at the liquor store. Then he rubbed a wet rag over the top of the ice to get it slick and melty so it would fuse together with a second block that he placed on top of it and stored in a freezer back at the warehouse. Finally, after Gustave was sealed in the tube, Serge and I poured in a bunch of mixers that we also got at the liquor store.”

Serge looked at Sasha. “I see you have a question. You can go ahead and speak.”

“I don’t get it. What’s going on? What are we doing now?”

“Waiting for the ice to melt,” said Serge.

“Because the mixers were Coke,” said Coleman. “And inside the ice-block cavity are twenty rolls of Mentos.”

“Look,” said Serge. “The ice just melted.”

A dozen jets of soda foam shot high into the night.

“That’s got to be a record,” said Coleman.

“And it’s not stopping.”

“Must be hitting other rolls deeper in the ice,” said Coleman.

“Excuse me,” said Sasha. “So he’s going to drown?”

“No,” said Serge. “That’s why I drilled all those air holes. Otherwise the thing wouldn’t be safe.”

She watched the relentless fountain of suds form a pretty pattern over the water. “Then what will happen to him?”

“The real tragedy is that the carbon dioxide from the soda evacuates all the oxygen in the barrels, and of course you can’t breathe carbon dioxide because you’ll suffocate. It’s like committing suicide by putting a plastic bag over your head, except this . . .”—Serge looked toward the tube, where the fountains were subsiding and foam sheeted down over the sides.—“. . . is more like assisted suicide.”

Sasha began absorbing the full scope of Serge’s mental condition. Normally, one in her position would be shaking uncontrollably and stuttering: “W-w-w-what are you going to d-d-d-d-do to me?”

Instead, Sasha took measured breaths. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” said Serge. “In fact, I’m letting you go. It’s part of my plan . . .”

A deeper voice: “I said, ‘What are you going to do to me?’ ”

“I just told you—”

Coleman elbowed him. “Her hand is rubbing the side of her breast.”

“Oh, so that’s what it is?”

“Is what?”

“She’s into bad boys. It’s a sexual paraphilia.” Serge stood and began unhitching his shorts. “Would you like to see what I’m going to do to you?”

Coleman raised his hand. “I would.”

Without looking back, Serge put a foot in the middle of Coleman’s chest and shoved him backward into the water.

Coleman bobbed to the surface, “Serge!”

“Stay, Fido.” Serge dropped his pants to the deck and charged.

Sasha came at him with equal velocity. They crashed together in the middle of the boat and hit the hull hard. They smacked and kicked each other. Arousing profanity. Bruises, bloody lips. Their naked bodies slammed one side of the boat and then the other, over and over, fighting for the top position and making a racket like a flopping, just-caught marlin trying to get back in the sea.

It became so loud that lights came on in all the seawall mansions. But instead of grabbing the phone for the police, they grabbed binoculars and video equipment. The predatory lovers finally reached a quivering, simultaneous conclusion. Serge jumped up, grabbed his shorts and casually flicked a wrist as he walked away. “That’s what I’ll do to you.”