“So do I.” Serge briefly raised his tropical shirt, then lowered it. “See? We’re off to an excellent start! Show-and-tell, gun for gun. We’re bonding! That’s what dudes always do the first time they visit each other’s crib. ‘Let me see all your coolest shit.’ If you were at my place, right now we’d be looking at View-Masters and a prize collection of souvenir flattened pennies, but since it’s your pad, we could be heading to the garage and an industrial cooler full of do-it-yourself shrunken heads, because America was founded on the principle of never judging a hobby. In the idiom of the times, the Founding Fathers called it ‘the pursuit of happiness,’ but we all really know they were worried about Franklin’s big kite-flying drunk-fest coming up and wanted to give themselves some cover from the wives.” He walked toward the gunman until the end of the military rifle stuck in his gut. He extended a hand. “My name’s Serge.”
“Jesus! You really are crazy!”
“Come on!” Serge left his hand hanging in the air. “What’s your name?”
The man sighed extra hard. “Good grief.” He quickly shook. “Rogelio. They call me Rog. So will you finally leave?”
“We’re going backward now,” said Serge. “I thought we were hitting a groove comparing our toys. Plus, I already told you, I can’t leave. They’ve probably figured out my identity and are setting up the sniper nest as we speak.” He sat down on the sofa and grabbed the remote control. Coleman plopped next to him with a joint.
“Whoa! Wait, wait, wait! What are you doing?” Rog ran over to the couch. “You can’t stay! This isn’t how it works!”
“You’re acutely wound up.” Serge clicked the remote. “Have a seat and chill . . . Ooooo! The Road Runner! My favorite!”
Rog eased himself into a chair. “Okay, what is it you really want?”
“What? Oh, sorry, the coyote just put on that special helmet with the roller skate on top so he can do a headstand and zip across the canyon on that tightrope. Normally, I’m against hard drugs, but when it helps the writers create such masterpieces . . .”
“Excuse me . . .”
“. . . Like the time he painted a railroad tunnel on the side of a mountain and a locomotive comes out and runs over him. Clearly influenced by the 1903 Parisian Surrealist movement—”
“Excuse me!”
“You were saying something?”
“Yes!” said Rog. “What do you want?”
Serge leaned toward the television. “Just to continue my Route 66 pilgrimage through Florida. In this week’s episode, we’ve stumbled into your unassuming town and become hostage negotiators. That’s the formula: new city, new gigs, sex during commercials.” He suddenly pointed atop the TV. “Wow, you’ve got one of those cool new cable boxes that streams just about everything ever filmed. Let’s binge-watch Route 66!”
Rog grimaced with a whimpering sound. “What can I do to make you leave?”
“I don’t know,” said Serge, absentmindedly examining the sleeve of his Windbreaker. “Maybe release the hostage?”
The phone rang and Rog jumped.
Serge answered it. “Helllllloooo?”
“What’s going on in there?”
“Hey, boss, I’ve established a rapport, but it’s going to take some time.”
“We need the hostage out as soon as possible, for good faith, then you can continue working on him.”
“All right, boss.” He hung up.
Coleman tugged his pal’s arm. “Serge, why do you keep calling him ‘boss’?”
“I’ve been studying a cultural phenomenon lately. It’s another one of those little unofficial things that messes with people’s social equilibrium.”
“Like clipboards and orange cones?”
“Exactly,” said Serge. “Those are two things that inexplicably bend people to your will. Same with calling someone ‘boss.’ It’s like handing a little kid one of those giant swirly lollipops. The general public doesn’t even realize it’s happening, but on a subconscious leveclass="underline" ‘Why yes, I guess I am kind of like the boss. And I’ve only known this person a few seconds, but for some reason, I really like him.’ Then it completely flips the hierarchical paradigm. Once I saw these moving-company guys call their customers ‘boss,’ and after that they were just flinging credenzas into the truck while the homeowners happily served them cold drinks.”
The phone rang again.
“Yeah, boss?”
“We’re sending in the robot.”
“You got a robot? Cool! I’ll leave the front door open . . . Hey, Coleman, they got a robot!”
“Cool!”
Serge hung up and smiled at the armed resident. “Now, where were we?”
“You mentioned a hostage,” said Rog. “What hostage?”
“They told me you were holding your girlfriend.”
“Holding her?” said Rog. “I’m not holding anyone. In fact, I can’t get her to come out.”
“What are you talking about?” said Serge.
“Locked herself in the bedroom,” said Rog. “Totally pissed at me. Then she goes and makes a false 911 call to fuck with me.”
Serge whistled. “I’ll take decorative soap any day.”
Coleman got up on unsteady legs. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Last door on the right,” said Rog.
They heard a mechanical whirring sound as a small remote-controlled device rolled into the room on tiny tank treads. A fiber-optic antenna rotated.
“Serge, it’s the robot,” said Coleman. “Can I take it with me?”
“Knock yourself out.” Serge stood and turned to Rog. “Let me talk to her. I have a way with the ladies.”
“You don’t know my girlfriend.”
“You don’t know me.”
Rog shrugged. “Can’t get any worse. Her name’s Maria.” He led Serge down the hall . . .
. . . Meanwhile, outside. Officers filled the mobile command unit parked at the curb. The lighting was dim as they crowded around a flat-screen monitor.
“What am I looking at?” asked the sergeant.
“Not sure,” said the officer working a joystick. “I’ve lost orientation control on the robot . . . Hold it, what’s this?” Coleman giggled on the toilet, aiming the optic antenna inside the bowl. “It looks like— . . . No, it couldn’t be . . .”
“Something’s not right,” said the sergeant, picking up the phone for the local FBI office.
“Special Agent Braun here.”
“Agent Braun, this is Sergeant Duffy over in Sarasota County. We’ve got a tactical situation here and the hostage negotiators just went in.”
“How can I help you?”
“Did you send them?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” said Braun. “Are you telling me you let people inside the box without knowing who they are?”
“Oh no, we definitely know who they are. Obviously. They had Windbreakers. Just curious, uh, if they might be yours.”
“Did they say they were FBI?”
“Not in so many words. But they mentioned our guy was on a terrorist watch list.”
“We always want to cooperate any way we can,” said Braun. “But you know I can neither confirm nor deny any Homeland Security operation while it may still be ongoing.”
“Just thought I’d ask. Thanks.” The sheriff hung up.
“What did he say?” asked a nearby corporal.
“Could go either way,” said Duffy. “Get the SWAT team ready . . .”
. . . Inside the FBI office. “Someone’s running an operation right under our noses,” Braun told his assistant. “You know how I hate to be the last to find out. Call the other agencies . . .”
. . . Inside the house. Knocking on a bedroom door.
A female voice from the other side. “Go screw yourself!”