Pineapple Grenade (8 page)

“Serge,” said Coleman. “They just added another fifteen minutes.”

“I have to kill myself.”

“Maybe another flight attendant grabbed some beers and jumped down the emergency chute.”

“Please strangle me.”

“You need to get your mind off it.”

“You’re right.” Serge jumped up and ran to the gate desk. “Excuse me? Could you tell me the true departure time for this flight?”

“It’s what’s on the screen.”

“But it’s changed eight times already.”

“Those were unforeseen circumstances.”

“Can you see if there are any other flights?”

“You’ll forfeit your fare.”

“Why?”

The gate attendant pointed at the departure board. “Your flight’s going to be here any minute.”

“You’re absolutely right.
Any
minute,” said Serge. “Like seven thirty-two tomorrow morning.”

She glared.

Serge leaned over the desk and pointed down at her computer keyboard. “Could you please check for another flight? We have important business in Miami.”

Another glare. She grudgingly addressed her computer.

Serge turned around. “Hey Coleman, come over here. You absolutely have to see this.”

“What is it?”

“Something I can’t get enough of.” Serge pointed over the top of the desk. “An employee with four-inch-long chartreuse fingernails in a job that requires lots of typing.” He looked up at the woman. “Better go for the five-inch nails, Lady Gaga. You’re about to fry that keyboard.”

Steam came out her ears. “I don’t think I care for your attitude.”

“Then my plan’s working.” Serge waved at the ceiling. “Fly me out of your life.”

Gritted teeth. “All flights are full.”

The departure board added fifteen minutes.

Serge stepped away from the desk and huddled with Coleman. “I’m going to get some entertainment value out of this.”

“What kind?”

He approached the closed boarding door. “Not only are airlines cutting back on services and charging for bags, but they’ve begun treating their most valued customers like schmucks. The perks have become laughable.”

“What kind of perks?”

“See that six-foot-long velvet cord separating two lines to get on the plane?”

“Yeah?”

“The one on the left is for their special first-class club. They’re right next to each other, but there’s no difference.”

“Except the one on the left has a red carpet,” said Coleman.

“It’s
supposed
to be a red carpet,” said Serge. “But it’s just a red doormat. See? It’s just a little rectangle with rubber weather stripping around the edge.”

“You’re right. It is a doormat.”

“But not just any doormat.” He gestured back at the desk. “In order to complete the charade, they guard that mat like the Shroud of Turin. I once saw this guy running late, and he rushed up with his boarding pass. But he unknowingly stepped on the Red Doormat of Total Ecstasy. There were no other people in line, but they still made him walk back around the cord to the other lane.”

Serge took a step sideways.

“That’s really weird,” said Coleman.

“A-hem!”
The woman with the fingernails.

“Yes?” said Serge. “How may I help you?”

She looked down. “Your left foot is on the Star-Elite Club carpet.”

“Really? Thanks for letting me know . . . So anyway, Coleman—”

“Sir! You have to move your foot!”

Serge moved his foot. “This other time I saw airport maintenance guys fixing something in the ceiling, and they set up their ladder on the doormat, and the gate crew went completely ape-shit.” Serge reached out with his leg and set a toe on the doormat, then quickly pulled it back.

“Sir!”

He looked over. “Yes?”

She flared her nostrils.

Serge faced Coleman again. “They started yelling at the maintenance workers: ‘Move the ladder! Move the ladder!’ ‘What?’ ‘We’re about to board a flight!’ ‘Can’t they go around?’ ‘But it’s the Elite carpet! . . .’ ” He set a toe on the doormat and withdrew it.

“Sir!”

“Is there a problem?”

Teeth gnashed.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “She’s getting really pissed.”

“This is priceless.” His toe touched the carpet again.

“Mister!”

Coleman looked out the window. “Our plane just pulled up. They’re not adding another fifteen minutes.”

“We rock now.” Serge grabbed the handle of his suitcase and took a spot in the crowd.

Finally, their row was called. Serge walked around the correct side of the cord and handed his boarding pass to the woman with the nails. She tore off his stub with open hostility.

“Thanks.” Serge reached back and stomped his right foot on the doormat, then took off down the gangway.

Miami Morgue

The lieutenant burst through the lab doors. “What’s this nonsense you were babbling about on the phone?” He stopped to look around. “And what’s that god-awful smell?”

“It’s a morgue.”

“I mean more than usual.”

Forceps clanged into a pan. “Wanted to give you a heads-up because I know how sensitive you are to weird headlines.”

A deep sigh. “What now?”

“Take a look at this.” The medical examiner hunched over his work on the table. Dabs of menthol Vaseline under his nostrils.

The officer stepped closer. “The smell’s even worse!”

A giggle. “Fish tend to do that.”

The lieutenant studied the deceased on the steel table. “So what happened, pet detective? Someone murder a shark?”

“Remember the dead shark in the middle of Flagler Street from the TV news shows?”

“Which one? The guys keep throwing them around the city.”

“Tuesday’s shark.” The examiner pointed toward a clear, sealed evidence bag. “That came from its stomach . . . Help yourself to some Vaseline.”

The lieutenant dabbed his upper lip. “Looks like a mullet or something.”

The M.E. used a pen to lift something from a metal tray. “Wearing a Timex?”

“That’s an arm?”

“Most of one. I know it’s hard to tell between the regular decomposition and digestion.”

“Great. We got a shark attack.” The officer added more dabs. “Chamber of commerce will love this.”

“I don’t think it was an attack.”

“But you said it was in his stomach.”

“Postmortem.”

“The victim was already dead?”

“That’s my bet.”

“Okay, so he accidentally drowned somehow, and the shark came along later.”

“Doubtful.”

The lieutenant emitted a whine. “
Eeeeeeeee . . .
It’s been a bad week. Can’t you just call it a shark attack?”

The M.E. emptied the evidence bag into a tray and pointed with his pen. “This along the mid-forearm is the shark’s bite line. I pulled these teeth out.”

“Sure sounds like a shark attack to me.”

The pen pointed farther up. “And here is where they used the hacksaw.”

Chapter Three

Tampa International Airport

The flight was full.

Repeated intercom instructions about stowing luggage quickly and taking seats, but the aisle remained clogged by passengers struggling with overhead bins and non-bin-shaped bags.

Serge led Coleman to row 27. “Here are our seats.”

A businessman was already sitting in the middle. “Would you like me to move so you two can be together?”

“No,” said Serge. “We deliberately got the window and aisle seats. I’m big on looking outside at tiny buildings and stuff, and Coleman needs the aisle for emergencies. But coffee makes me pee like a Chihuahua, so we’ll be switching seats a lot.” He slid by the man’s knees and plopped down. “Boy, there’s really no legroom anymore. You don’t mind if I stretch my leg out a little, or maybe a lot, to get around that partition and under the seat in front of you?”

Coleman tapped the man’s right arm. “Do you know when they start serving alcohol?”

Serge tapped his left arm. “Coleman and I have a bunch to discuss, but don’t feel like you’re imposing. We’ll just talk across the front of you, and you’re welcome to eavesdrop and join in.” He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “It can get pretty interesting! I was on a transcontinental flight with this one executive, having a great four-hour discussion on my favorite aviation disasters. Actually I was doing all the talking because I guess he was really interested in crashes, and then he couldn’t wait to look it up on the Internet because he was trampling people after we landed. Like this one plane exploded off San Diego. But just the front part with the pilots blew off, and the rest of the plane kept flying perfectly straight for almost a minute . . .” Serge made a downward gesture with his right hand. “. . . before slowwwwwwwwly nosing over into the sea. What would be going through your mind? ‘Hey, I can see the new mall from here.’ . . . We’re going to Miami for the fabulous Summit of the Americas! Dignitaries and countless journalists from twenty Latin countries about to overwhelm the city, actually making Miami less diverse . . .”

Coleman tapped the businessman’s right arm. “Going to be sick. My seat pocket doesn’t have a barf bag.”

The man dove for his own pocket and handed a bag to Coleman.

Serge tapped his left arm and stood up. “I have to pee. Excuse me.” He slid by the man’s knees.

Coleman held up a bag. “Serge, could you take this for me.”

Two hours later.

Serge looked out the window.

At the Tampa Airport.

“Why the hell are we still on the runway?”

“They mentioned mechanical problems,” said Coleman.

“Ten times.”

“This is your captain from the flight deck. The replacement part just arrived and we should be in the air in about an hour . . .”

“Another hour!” said Serge.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “You’re grabbing his arm pretty tight. I don’t think he likes it.”

“Oops, sorry. I’ll cope instead with a time-killing technique.” He stood. “Excuse me, I have to get to the overhead bin.”

Minutes later, Serge had an open laptop on his lap. He tapped the arm next to him. “Oh, Mr. Businessman, do you have any pen pals? Of course you do. But I just got my first one. He’s from some wacky foreign country with exciting current events. And I think we’re really hitting it off. I can be totally open and say the kind of things that make others hide from me, but he keeps writing no matter what. In fact, he contacted me first.” Serge rotated the computer toward the middle seat. “I’ve scrolled back to the top of our message string. Check it out! . . . No, you’re still staring at me. Look at the screen.”

The businessman gave Serge a final glance, then turned toward the computer and began reading:

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is with great trust and confidence that I contact you concerning a business transaction of large urgency. I am the nephew of Ishtwanu Gabonilar, who recently became deposed as finance minister of eastern Nabibiwabba province, prior to consummation of mineral lease with Swiss consortium that transferred funds of $100 million U.S. dollars prior to rebel offensive on the capital. With sad mourning, my entire family is disappear and believe executed. I require your assistance as such funds remain concealed in capital and must dispatch with trust to America before rebels discover. I cannot reveal source, but your name was recommended as person of extreme trust and dependency. For your services, you will received half ($50 million U.S. dollars). Awaiting your immediate speed response.

With much God bless,

Bobonofassi Gabonilar