Electric Barracuda (27 page)

“By the way,” said Frenchy, “how’s Bugs these days?”

The brothers spun around. “Who?”

“Moran,” said the Swede. “Figured you’d met since you’ve been making extra deliveries to the North Side Gang.”

“Isn’t Al paying you enough?” asked Frenchy.

“Wait!” said Gino. The brothers raised their hands and began backing up at the sight of the guns now pointed at them. “We can explain.”

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

The brothers took bullets in both feet. They rolled in the muck, clutching bloody shoes.

“Figlio di puttana!”

“What’s he saying?” asked Frenchy.

“Your mom’s a bitch,” said the Swede.

“That’s not polite.”

Back in the lodge, guests heard the gunfire and stopped dancing.

Capone stood on the back porch, staring at a distant lantern that looked like a firefly. The bodyguard next to him lit a string of firecrackers and tossed it on the ground.

The crowd inside recognized the familiar Fourth of July noise, which only jump-started their frolic.

Out in the swamp, under a lantern’s glow, the Santini brothers pushed themselves up from the ground and stumbled on wounded feet. “Just hold on a minute!” They retreated more. “We supplied Al with all he could take. But we still had a few cases left over. What’s the harm?”

“Because Moran’s gang is trying to kill him,” said Frenchy.

“Listen, Mr. Capone still likes you,” said the Swede. “Even after you double-crossed him.”

Frenchy raised his pistol. “So he said no fatal shots.”

Bang, bang.

The Santini brothers each took a slug in the gut like a boxer’s punch. They hobbled backward from the force and splashed into the water.

The gunmen watched curiously. The surface of the gator hole remained quiet at first. Then the brothers surfaced and tried making it to the edge. Thrashing began. Their heads went back under. Then popped up again. The Santinis would have screamed, but were too busy getting a breath before going back down. It continued like this, more or less, for another minute. The water became still.

“Thought it would last longer,” said Frenchy.

The Swede started back toward the lodge, lantern leading the way. “Told you we don’t need no graves out here.”

Present

Toys “R” Them.

Serge walked down a bright, colorful aisle, holding a little boy by the hand. “What the hell is this stuff? All I see are galactic action figures and slimy eyeballs and video games to steal cars in the ghetto. Where are the toys?”

Coleman swung a plastic sword and broke something. “We better go to the next aisle.”

They turned the corner.

“This isn’t any better,” said Serge. “Here’s something called an X-Men Wolverine Claw.” He took it out of the package and slipped it on his hand. Three giant talons extended from the glove.

“That doesn’t look safe,” said Coleman.

“No kidding. What are they selling to our children these days?” He resumed walking and looked down. “Mikey, see anything you like? . . . Mikey, did you hear me?”

Coleman nudged Serge. “I think he sees something he likes.”

Serge looked up. A mother and daughter came toward them. The mother was a striking, statuesque blonde. The girl was Mikey’s age. Serge leaned down. “You think she’s cute?”

Mikey grinned and nodded.

Serge patted him on the shoulder: “Always remember, you can tell what a girl will eventually look like by checking out her mother. Hubba-hubba!”

Coleman put on his own claw hand and attacked an imaginary foe. “Take that! And that! . . . Serge, I don’t remember boys being attracted to girls until much later.”

Serge proudly thumped his own chest. “My son.”

The parents grew closer. They exchanged smiles.

“Excuse me,” said Serge. “Would you happen to know where the real toys are? They just have all these training instruments of torture and death, which he won’t need for a while.”

“I know what you mean,” said the woman. “It’s so hard to raise a child these days. All the bad influences—”

Behind them: “Ahhhh! My eye!” Coleman flung the X-Men glove off his hand and crashed into a bin of vaporizing plasma bazookas.

“Is he okay?” asked the mom.

“Not since 1973.”

She extended a hand. “My name’s Beth.”

“Serge.” He caught her briefly checking out his ringless ring finger. “Pleasure to meet.”

Beth appraised Coleman and considered the potential gay factor, but then Coleman got the robot helmet stuck on his head. Nope, definitely not gay.

“So is your wife with you?”

“Single parent,” said Serge.

“Really? Me, too.”

Then small talk. But no mistaking the body language, leaning intimately toward him against her shopping cart. One shoe had come off and she twirled it on the ground with her toes. Serge had heard about the phenomenon: a small child by your side is a major babe magnet.

“So what do you do?” asked Serge.

“Librarian.”

Serge gulped. Right in his wheelhouse. He’d given up the mating search since Molly, but this seemed too perfect to be true. What could go wrong?

Beth looked toward the side of the aisle and smiled. “They seem to be getting along.”

Two children took turns punching each other in the arms.

“Mikey,” said Serge. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay. We like it.” Punch.

“Could you please try to be more of a gentleman?” said Serge.

The kids drifted behind their folks.

Mikey punched the girl. “You like surprises?”

She punched back. “I love surprises.”

Mikey reached in his pocket. “Here, have a balloon.”

T
en minutes later.

Coleman walked across the parking lot. “That was awkward.”

“Gee, you think?” said Serge. “My son gives some kindergartner a rubber.”

“Still, her mom got way too hysterical, scooping up her daughter and running over my feet with the shopping cart,” said Coleman. “Like she’s never seen a condom before in her life.”

“At least not one being blown up in a store by her five-year-old daughter.”

“Children do the darnedest things,” said Coleman. “I remember when I was his age and saw some relatives I hadn’t met before at this cookout. Didn’t know one was missing a limb. Found the fake arm in the bedroom and got in the above-ground pool in a little boat and started paddling with the thing.”

“Maybe it was the type of condom,” said Serge. “Probably shouldn’t have given Mikey one from my novelty collection. When I get back to the room, I’m throwing the rest away in case he gets into them.”

“Novelty?”

“It had the head of Elvis.” Serge pointed between his own legs. “If you’re circumcised, that part at the end of your dick is Presley’s pompadour.”

“I noticed that when the little girl got it inflated.”

“But did you have to laugh so hard?”

“It was funny.”

“Then her mother became all huffy and swatted it out of her hand, and the thing goes flying through the air, zipping this way and that, and we’re like: I wonder where it’s going to land . . . Oooo, in that other mom’s baby stroller. But how is that automatically
my
fault?”

“Then the manager told us to get out and never come back.”

“I didn’t care for his tone one bit,” said Serge. “If you’re going to act like that in public, you shouldn’t be around kids.”

Chapter Twenty-four

One Hour Later

A
n electric blue ’69 Barracuda headed south on the Tamiami Trail.

“That’s three toy stores now we’ve been eighty-sixed from,” said Serge.

“No wonder retail is down.”

“Coleman, you broke everything you touched.”

“And you made all the children scream.”

“Not my fault. It was that monster mask with the hatchet through the forehead,” said Serge. “I was just taking a survey to see if it was an age-appropriate product. But after the first mom shrieked, I started running and forgot I still had it on.”

“And carrying the toy chain saw.”

“That didn’t help,” said Serge. “Where’s Mikey?”

Coleman turned around. “Lying up on the ledge by the rear window.”

“That takes me back,” said Serge.

“That takes me back to last week.”

“I’m hungry,” said Mikey.

Serge looked in the rearview. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast.”

“Coleman! My son hasn’t eaten all day!”

“I have a taco left from last night.”

“Where?”

“Back at the motel. Somewhere under the covers.”

“There’s a supermarket . . .”

Moments later, Mikey sat in the little child seat of a shopping cart. Serge had his feet up on the bar between the back wheels, zooming down the aisle. Coleman ran alongside.

“What do kids eat these days?” asked Serge.

“There’s the beer,” said Coleman. He grabbed two sixers.

“And here are the condoms,” said Serge.

Soon the cart was half full.

Serge took a foot off the shopping cart’s back bar for braking action to make a skidding U-turn at the end of the aisle. Then a quick push-start and off they went again, into the cereal section.

“Coleman,” said Serge. “You and I have everything we need in the cart but still not a single thing yet for Mikey.”

“Maybe you should ask another parent.”

“Good thinking,” said Serge. “Here comes one now.”

Serge jumped down off the bar. Mikey climbed over the back of the safety seat and into the shopping cart’s main bed.

“Uh-oh,” said Serge. “She’s one of those
new
moms, yapping away on a cell phone.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Cell phones are both a blessing and curse,” said Serge. “They have their place, like, ‘I’m locked in a truck and I think they just drove the car into a lake,’ but this woman’s only chatting away, ignoring her child and all rules of courtesy.”

The carts approached until they were side by side.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Serge. “I can tell that isn’t an important call, so hang up and talk to me. I need to know what to feed my child . . . You’re still on the phone. At that rate, the inattention to junior there will turn him into a scat-munching junkie, unless that’s your goal . . .”

Mikey held up a six-pack and box of Trojans. “Stupid Juice . . . balloons.”

The woman rushed off.

Serge turned to Coleman. “Now, what was
that
look?”

“Maybe we’ll just have to figure out the food thing ourselves.”

“They do say that parenting is on-the-job training.” Serge scanned a wall of cereal boxes. “The key to being responsible is reading all the nutritional contents so you know what’s going into your child.”

“What are you supposed to give kids?” asked Coleman.

“I think lots of sugar. They put it in almost everything kids eat, so they must know what they’re doing.” He picked up a box of Wheaties and read the contents. “This can’t be healthy.” He set it back. “Where’s the Quisp and Quake?”

“Remember Boo Berry?”

Serge kept working down the row. “All the best stuff is gone. Just fiber and nuts.”

“Here’s Frosted Flakes,” said Coleman.

“Tony the Tiger!” said Serge. “Grab eight of those. I’ll go look for the soda and candy bars. Then we’ll load up on stuff from the toy section.”

“Toys? But it’s a supermarket.”

“All supermarkets have a meager half-row toy section for kids to harass parents,” said Serge. “And they’re the best! Since parents are here for food, they’re not going to spend much to shut their brats up, which forces stores to only stock the cheap classics: plastic handcuffs, paddleballs, bags of green army men, suction-cup dart guns and—I pray—Silly Putty, so I can press it on a newspaper to copy editorials about Federal Reserve policy . . .”

Everglades 1929

“You’ve been skimming,” said the Swede.

“No! I swear!” yelled the accountant.

Bang.

Splash
.

“Feeding time,” said Frenchy.

“Funny,” said the Swede. “But this never seems to get old.”

They trudged back to the lodge. Lively piano music. Another Friday night in full swing. And getting more popular, barely room to move. Corrupt judges smoked cigars by the fishpond. The beautiful people danced and downed martinis. Blackjack tables full. Roulette spinning.