16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (29 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

T
he Firebird blew through traffic on the MacArthur Causeway back to the mainland from Miami Beach. It dodged and wove through slower-speeding sports cars screaming past celebrity homes on Palm and Star islands.

“Serge, you drive fast,” said Coleman. “But not this fast. What if a cop spots us?”

“Then we’ll be on live TV, because I’m not stopping.”

“Righteous.”

Serge flipped open his own cell and hit redial. “Brook? Serge. I’m sorry about this, but something’s come up, and I swear to be back as soon as possible.”

“What is it?” Brook asked from the back of a taxi.

“Once again, better you not know,” said Serge. “But trust me that I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Why? What can happen besides the police?” said Brook. “I’ve been thinking that a good lawyer can explain that.”

“It’s something else,” said Serge. “Just give me your word you won’t leave the room until I get back. You haven’t left the room, have you?”

“Uh, no,” said Brook, looking out the window at passing buildings. “Not for a second.”

“Good girl,” said Serge. “Now here’s the hard part. I’m going to have to stop taking calls soon because I don’t know what phones are tapped anymore. So you’ll just have to hang in there.”

“All right. When do you expect—”

“Got to go.”

He hung up and the cell rang again before it reached his pocket. Serge didn’t even look at the number.

“Mahoney, listen, I’m— . . . What? South Philly Sal is supposed to be where? The Tortugas Inn? Seven o’clock? . . . Who told you this? . . . They wouldn’t say? . . . Okay, thanks.” The phone clapped shut as Serge skidded over the line at minimum clearance between a Mitsubishi and a Pepsi truck, then whipped back into the fast lane.

Coleman made a rare check of his seat belt. “What was that about?”

“Mahoney got an anonymous tip. A room at the Tortugas Inn was registered to a customer named Enzo Tweel.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That Mahoney’s phone is tapped.”

“Just because someone called in a tip?”

“Enzo called in a tip on himself. Then listened when Mahoney forwarded it. He’s baiting me.” Serge nearly sideswiped a Gold Coast taxi skidding toward the exit ramp to Biscayne Boulevard. “What happened to Sasha back there. Same café, identical MO, even the same table. I’ll never forget that table as long as I live. He’s trying to provoke me into not thinking clearly.”

Coleman’s shaking hands prepared a drink. “What are you going to do?”

“Take the bait . . .”

Two miles south, a Cherokee was parked at a Citgo station. The driver had a telephoto camera aimed diagonally across the street at the Tortugas Inn. His other hand held a cell phone. “No, I don’t trust him one bit,” said South Philly Sal. “It’s definitely a trap. I’d bet anything that this character who calls himself Enzo Tweel is actually Serge . . . Because right now he has the edge since I have no idea what he looks like, and I mean to fix that. This Serge character is ruining our business.”

Two blocks in the other direction, binoculars aimed out the driver’s window of a parked Beemer. The Tortugas Inn filled the field of vision. Enzo was beginning to enjoy his role as puppet master in this demented marionette show. The binoculars swept the street, from the black-barreled barbecue stand three blocks north, then back to the Citgo station three streets the other way. All quiet on the western front.

A black Firebird turned off Biscayne a half mile south of the Tortugas Inn, and took a parallel road through a run-down neighborhood.

“Serge, if you know it’s a trap, why are we going?”

“Because he expects my anger to rush me into the web.” Serge checked all his mirrors during a prolonged pause at a stop sign. “Enzo is hanging back watching the motel for me to arrive. So, like a spider, we’re going to drive in tightening concentric circles from the perimeter because someone on surveillance isn’t looking backward . . .”

Over on the main drag, binoculars in the Beemer tightened again on the Tortugas Inn. A few hundred yards away, a telephoto lens snapped a rapid burst of room exterior photos from a Jeep Cherokee.

Serge explored the residential streets a block off U.S. 1 and turned into a trash pickup alley behind the storefronts facing Biscayne.

“I recognize that smell,” said Coleman.

“Just watch for anything odd.”

“Everything’s odd.” Coleman blazed a Thai stick. “Those chicks at the corner are dousing each other with spray paint.”

“That’s just huffing gone inaccurate.” The Firebird rolled up behind a gas station. “Coleman, how often do you see a telephoto lens sticking out a car window at a Citgo station?”

“Let me count . . .” Coleman strained mentally. “Uh, zero.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Serge parked out of sight behind the station’s car wash. High-pressure water jets and giant spinning brushes created a cover of sound. “Coleman, wait here and keep her running. He’s no doubt armed but riveted on the room, so I have a good chance to outflank him.”

Serge closed the driver’s door but let it stay unlatched. He moved slowly along the back wall of the car wash, sliding his right hand into the waistband of his shorts and feeling a familiar grip. He peeked around the edge of the car wash, but his view was blocked by a wet, gleaming Audi that emerged from the building and dripped water as it drove back to the highway.

The view was clear. There was the Jeep, its driver still preoccupied with his camera and phone. Serge retreated a step behind the building and rested the back of his head against the wall. He closed his eyes, flicking the safety off his pistol. He had ached two whole years for this moment, and now closure sat across the parking lot a few yards away.

Serge crept from behind the car wash and worked his way around the edge of the property, passing the fifty-cent tire inflater and a blue pay phone stand with the phone removed. He stopped and studied the Jeep’s mirrors and calculated the one, single straight line to the vehicle that would keep the mirrors blind to him. He began walking the asphalt tightrope.

The cell-phone conversation could be heard at a range of fifteen feet.

“. . . Yeah, he hasn’t shown yet. I think this is a big waste of time,” said Sal. “But you have to consider the source that vouched for this. Sasha can really be out to lunch sometimes . . .”

The phone was snatched from his left hand and smashed to the ground. His head spun. “What the fuck?”

Serge cracked him quickly in the side of the head with his pistol butt.

“You’re a dead man,” said Sal.

“Just set the camera down slowly on the dash.” Serge kept the .45 pressed to Sal’s temple and opened the door with his other hand. “Now get out.”

Sal eased himself from the driver’s seat. “Are you Serge?”

“That’s right, your new chauffeur.”

Moments later, behind the car wash, Sal lay in the bed of the Firebird’s trunk. Wrists and ankles bound with plastic ties. “You better make damn sure you kill me, or I’ll leave you in a million pieces.”

Serge tucked the gun behind his back and smiled. “I can work with that.”

The hood slammed.

A couple blocks south, binoculars lowered in a Beemer. Enzo Tweel checked his Rolex. What could be taking so long? One of his areas of expertise was human behavior, and provoking Serge with that Sasha business back at the beach was a can’t-miss.

And he was right.

The binoculars went to his eyes again just as a black Firebird sped south.

“Son of a bitch!”

The binoculars flew into the backseat as Enzo hit the gas to merge onto Biscayne.

And he merged T-bone-style into the side of a beer truck.

“You stupid fucking moron!” the beer-truck driver yelled down from his cab. “Look what you did to my truck!”

Enzo aimed a German pistol at the driver, who promptly raised his hands in silent surrender before diving across the front seat and scrambling out the passenger door.

The luxury sedan was crumpled to the side panels, and Enzo needed his shoulder to pop the door open. He crawled out of the car with a gash on his forehead and tiny pieces of windshield in his hair.

Enzo began limping away toward the camouflage of the adjoining neighborhood, looking up the highway as a southbound Firebird became a dot and disappeared.

Chapter Thirty-Five

BISCAYNE BOULEVARD

L
ights glowed through the curtains of the second-floor motel room. Water ran in the sink.

Serge whipped a spatula around the mixing bowl. He had tremendously thick rubber gloves and a welder’s apron. The gloves were orange.

“What’cha makin’?” asked Coleman.

“Don’t get so close,” said Serge. “You’re not wearing protective goggles.”

“Hey, that’s some of the stuff we picked up at Food King.”

“Right-o.” Stirring continued. “People have no idea what’s just sitting on grocery shelves if you know what you’re looking for.”

Serge decided the concoction needed more balance and grabbed another ten-pound sack off the counter.

“Sugar?” asked Coleman.

“Sugar leads a weird double life because of its unique molecular structure.” Serge set the sack down and poured more water. “Most people think it’s a benign and happy little compound because they free-associate it with candy, but there’s a dark side.”

“There is?” said Coleman. “I must know!”

“I’ll tell you!” Serge grabbed the spatula again. “Mix it with certain other materials and you get a less confectious result. For example, potassium nitrate is one of the three ingredients of gunpowder. By itself, it’s just saltpeter. But add some sugar—which has nothing to do with gunpowder—then toss a match and stand back. It doesn’t explode but instead slowly burns through the pile like white-hot phosphorus. Torches right through metal. So of my four ingredients, sugar is the kick start, and water is obviously for the suspension. Now, this stuff is the primary—”

“I recognize that,” said Coleman. “See it all the time at the store.”

“So does everyone else, and they just walk right by.” Serge tossed the can in the trash. “Homemakers use it every day without a second thought. But it’s the bitch of the bunch. I don’t want word getting out about what it is because everyone will start throwing this together. A lot of people don’t have impulse control.”

“The bunch?” asked Coleman. “You said four ingredients.”

“That’s correct.” Serge nodded toward the garbage pail.

Coleman pulled out an empty box. “Cornstarch? What’s that for?”

Serge pulled something from one of the shopping bags on the bed. “What else? The gelatin mold I got at Tupperware headquarters. I’ve been waiting to use this baby forever.”

“You had this all planned way back when you bought that?”

“You think I just bounce around through life?” He placed the mold on the counter and carefully poured in the contents of the mixing bowl. “All the necessary ingredients are already present, but cornstarch gives it certain properties to use it in creative ways . . . Open the door of the mini-fridge.”

Coleman pulled the handle, and Serge’s orange gloves slid the mold onto the bottom shelf. “The mixture would otherwise just be a thick liquid, but cornstarch lets you turn it into Jell-O. But unlike normal Jell-O—and this is the crowning touch—it makes it incredibly adhesive.” Serge stood back up. “And there you have it.”

Coleman scratched his stomach. “Have what?”

“Homemade napalm.”

“That Vietnam stuff that sticks and burns.”

“It burns all right.” Serge pulled off the gloves and threw them in the sink. “But not with fire, so it doesn’t need an ignition source.”

“Then how does it burn?”

“Chemical burn. Much, much worse than fire. Just keeps boring through the skin. I’ve been saving this project for when I needed serious closure.”

Coleman pointed back at a bottle next to the sink. “I didn’t notice that before. I thought I knew all the ingredients, but you didn’t say anything about vinegar.”

“It’s not an ingredient,” said Serge. “It’s the antidote. Because of its pH, vinegar is one of the few substances that can neutralize a chemical burn. A lot of people use water, which only makes it worse.”

“So what are you going to use it for?”

“What’s the only thing missing?”

Coleman stared at the floor, then the ceiling. He tapped his chin and suddenly raised a finger. “The famous bonus round! You’re holding another contest with that guy out in the trunk!” He clapped with good nature and took a seat on a bed. “Let’s get it on!”

Serge held up his hands. “Not so fast. We finally must surmount the greatest challenge of all to prepare the game show.”

“What’s that?”

“Wait for the Jell-O to harden.” Serge checked his wristwatch. “The stuff should take about four hours.”

“
That’s
the great challenge?”

“With your substance assistance, you have killing time down to an art form, but to me it’s Chinese water torture.”

Coleman shrugged. “Let’s get rockin’.” He grabbed a joint and a pint of vodka with a red-eyed crow on the label.

Serge grabbed a digital camera and notepad.

One hour went by. Coleman lay on a bed with a remote control, shot glass and bowl of chips on his stomach. Serge paced, ranting into a pocket recorder.

Two hours. Coleman slumped against a wall next to a broken lamp. Serge did a handstand in the corner.

Three hours. Coleman lay under the bed. Serge was down in the parking lot running high school suicide sprints.

Four hours. Serge ran in and urgently shook Coleman by the shoulder. “Wake up! Wake up! The gelatin’s ready!”

Coleman raised his head and bonked it on the bottom of the toilet tank. “Ow. How’d that get there?”

“Stop fooling around and meet me at the mini-fridge.”

Coleman employed his patented wedged-between-the-tub-and-toilet escape wiggle. “Wait for me! . . .”

Serge grabbed the door handle, then paused and looked over with a gleam in his eye. “This is going to be so excellent.”

Coleman knelt next to him. “Do it already!”

Serge opened the door, and their smiles fell with their jaws.

“It melted clean through the Tupperware,” said Coleman. “Only the ring around the edge is left.”

Serge’s eyes moved down. “And melted through the rack it was on. And through the bottom of the fridge . . .” He quickly pulled the appliance aside.

“And through the floor.” Coleman stuck his face in the dark hole. “How far do you think it goes?”

Serge’s face joined him. “The foundation of this second-floor room might have stopped it. Or they have the lights off in the room below.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Better call the front desk and tell them we don’t like this room. Or the room under us.”

A
police commando unit tossed flash-bang grenades and boarded a Guatemalan fishing boat full of marijuana. They led four handcuffed crew members onto the bank of the Miami River.

“Mahoney stood in his office window, watched the raid go down like Linda Lovelace . . .”

He observed the drawbridge go up and wondered where Serge was. “Mahoney was nines to the Brook Campanella case tanking sour, and he’d gone a little soft for the dame.”

It was unlike Serge not to call while on a case, but he didn’t dare to do so since realizing Mahoney’s line was tapped.

A rotary desk phone rang. Mahoney answered with uncharacteristic speed.

“Shaka-laka . . .”

“Yes, this is Wesley Chapel from Big Dipper Data Management. I’m calling because you asked me to keep an eye out for anything from an Enzo Tweel or a South Philly Sal. Couldn’t really do anything with the latter because I only have a first name, but I thought you’d want to know that an Enzo Tweel checked out of a resort on Biscayne Boulevard a half hour ago. We got lucky. He apparently has some third-party credit card that isn’t coming up, but he used a computer in the business center to print an airline boarding pass under his name, and I confirmed his departure with the front desk.”

“Mojo Dingus.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mahoney hung up and began dialing again. He listened to the rings, but Serge wasn’t answering. He tried several more times with the same non-luck. Mahoney wanted to leave a voice-mail message, but the rotary phone didn’t have any buttons for menu selection number two.

Mahoney got an idea. He reached in a case file and decided to try another number.

E
legant hands in long white gloves gestured confidently toward the product line on the table.

“. . . This functionally attractive ensemble is from our new Fridgesmart collection, featuring modular design to maximize your valuable storage space and preserve flavor . . . Next, a colorful assortment of summer-cool pitchers to please the entire family and keep those beverages—”

“Serge, do I have to wear the white gloves?”

“Yes!” Serge lowered the microphone attached to a miniature karaoke amplifier and barked in whispers: “Stop it! You’re ruining my presentation!” He raised the microphone and smiled again at the audience. “Sorry about that. Where were we? Oh, yes, and these Freezer Mate tubs are perfect for leftovers in a cost-conscious lifestyle . . .” Serge handed the microphone to Coleman.

“. . . And the vacuum-fresh burp seals make them perfect to store your dope for a potent, more satisfying smoke . . .”

The audience was wide-eyed.

It was an audience of one, gagged and tied to a chair between the beds of a flimsy motel room just north of the Miami airport.

Serge finished the presentation and entered the next phase . . .

A half hour later, they were both lying on their stomachs on opposite beds, watching TV.

Coleman stuck something in his mouth.
Munch, munch, munch.
“I love this episode. It’s the one with all Madonna songs.”

Serge stuck something in his own mouth.
Munch, munch, munch
. “But it’s not without a message. Take the song ‘Express Yourself,’ about self-empowerment in the world of men.”

“The music’s starting,” said Coleman.
Munch, munch, munch.

“I feel something coming on,” said Serge.
Munch, munch, munch.

“Me, too,” said Coleman.

One minute later, both were dancing on their beds.

Serge:
“Express yourself! . . .”

Coleman:
“Heyyyy, Heyyyy! . . .”

The music ended. Coleman grabbed something off a platter. “I love
Glee
.”

“Me, too,” said Serge. “Can I have a celery and cream cheese?”

“Trade you for a deviled egg.”

“Deal.” Two arms reached across the hostage’s lap between the beds and exchanged finger food.

“This is the best Tupperware party ever!” said Coleman.

“And my neck doesn’t itch!”

They high-fived in front of the captive’s face.

“But it seems like we’re forgetting something,” said Coleman.

“I know what you’re talking about,” said Serge. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”

They stared quizzically at each other, then at their captive, then at each other again. Eyebrows shot up in unison: “The fridge!”

They hopped off their beds and collided in their haste.

“Good thing they let us get another room,” said Coleman.

“It was only right,” said Serge. “The floor in the other one was unsafe.”

He opened the fridge and removed a ridiculously heavy cast-iron pot. “Lucky for us that they sold these more durable gelatin molds at the big-box store . . . You know what to do.”

Coleman knocked all the plastic tubs off the display table and dragged it in front of the captive. Then he laid a baking tray on top. It was also made of cast iron.

Serge strained against the weight of the iron pot as he waddled across the room and flipped it over.
“Carefulllllllll . . .”
He slowly lifted it, leaving a large, circular gelatin disk in the middle of the table.

“There!” Serge looked up at the guest and smiled. “Since you won all of our Tupperware parlor games—actually by forfeit since nobody else was here—you get the grand finale tribute celebration . . . That’s right, a Jell-O cake . . .”

Serge stuck a single birthday candle in the middle.

Coleman reached with his lighter.

“Not yet.” Serge’s hand explored the bottom of his hip pocket. “Here we go!”

“An M-80?”

“These were mythical to me as a kid. Way beyond cherry bombs in strength, and totally waterproof.” He squished it down into the center of the gelatin so that the only exposed part was the tip of the fuse, resting against the base of the candle. “Fire that fucker!”

Coleman flicked his Bic as Serge cut the room lights. The candle glowed in three faces.

Serge sat on the side of a bed. The hostage turned his head ninety degrees left to look at him. Serge grinned and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the guest’s shoulder. He moved his mouth to within inches of the man’s ear: “I know that South Philly Sal and Enzo are the same person, and have been searching for you for two long years. Well, now you’re here, and now I need closure. And I know what you’re thinking: You’re wondering what
I’m
thinking. But that snake could eat its own tail forever, so I’ll just tell you. That candle will burn down to the M-80, and then it’s every kid’s fantasy. Except yours. You’ll be covered with chemically burning Jell-O that will stick like napalm and hurt worse than your most horrible nightmares. But on the bright side! . . .” Serge reached behind his back and thrust a bottle in the man’s face. “You’ve entered the bonus round!” He slammed the bottle down next to the Jell-O cake with the ever-burning candle. “That vinegar is the platinum prize. It will stop the chemical reaction on your skin. As you’ve probably noticed, the chairs in this motel have arms, and your hands are tied to them instead of behind your back. But the ropes are nylon: normally strong but chemically cheesy. I did that as a favor to you. When the cake goes off, the nylon should melt away faster than your burns and allow you to reach the bottle. But remember, pain is an illusion: The first minute is insanely disorienting, but the wounds are still only superficial at that point. Later, it’s a disaster. So my parlor-party-game advice to you is keep your head and focus on that bottle. Got it?” Serge stood and slapped his guest on the back. “Let me know how it turns out.”