Jacinto did.
“They asked many prying questions about my livelihood,” said Rogan. “I do not regularly have people interrupt my lunch with such questions. Do you know why?”
Jacinto shook his head.
“Because I’m a careful man. I have a careful life. Such a thing requires much time and effort,” said Rogan. “And all that work was undone the minute you started scamming scratch-offs. They’ve identified most of our straw buyers and are attempting to connect them back to me. But in the end, they will have nothing. Do you know why they will have nothing?”
“Uh, because you’re a careful man?”
“Because they will no longer be able to locate any of the straw buyers.”
Gulp.
“You are beginning to understand,” said Rogan. “I simply asked that my instructions be followed, but you did not follow them, and now somewhere in some office, they have started a file with my name on it. I like that even less than interrupted lunch. From now on you will follow my instructions, and you will not be told again . . . You may nod now.”
Jacinto nodded fast.
“That is very good,” said Rogan. “You may stop nodding . . . Now then, I have another piece of business in which you might be useful. I have begun noticing a drop in brokered tickets, even before all these raids. Not much of a decrease, but enough that it’s no accident. And in my business experience, that usually means one thing. Someone is moving in on my territory. That is not a good thing. You wouldn’t happen to be involved, would you?”
“No! I swear!” Trembling again as Jacinto downed the rest of his drink. “I would never! . . .”
Time for one of Rogan’s dramatic pauses, which caused the old man to suddenly become verbally incontinent. “On my mother’s grave! I give you my word! Please! Listen! I heard some talk on the street! Some people are going elsewhere! I don’t know where! I didn’t know anything. You have to believe me!”
“Talk on the street?” Rogan said calmly. “That is very interesting. What else did this talk indicate?”
“Nothing!” said Jacinto. “All I heard is that some lawyer is supposedly behind it. Someone trusted in the Latin community. That’s it!”
“See how easy that was?” Rogan turned toward two of the goons. “Check out this talk on the street. I would like to have an appointment with this attorney.”
The pair raced out of the room.
“My day is improving,” Rogan told the old man. “That is a good thing . . . But you still seem to have a look on your face.”
Jacinto desperately tried to change the look on his face so that it was no look, but that just made it a bigger look.
“I think I get it now,” said Rogan. “You have one last question: Of all the stores that were raided, why did my nephew have to be the one to pay? . . . Go ahead, ask.”
“W-w-why did my nephew have to pay?”
“Because he was on TV.”
Chapter 25
One Hour Later
Coleman chugged. Serge scribbled on a clipboard. A boom box blared.
“. . . Get down tonight! Get down tonight! . . .”
Serge hopped up on a bed and fastened something to the drop ceiling with string and thumbtacks. “The Party Store has everything!” He jumped down as a small disco ball began to twirl, sending hundreds of flecks of light across the walls. Other parts of the room were decorated with balloons and crepe-paper streamers and a piñata. A box of cupcakes sat on the nightstand.
“. . . Do a little dance . . .”
Coleman gyrated off balance in a Chubby Checker twist, swinging a bottle of whiskey by the neck. Serge repeatedly sprang up and down around the room in a hyper-spastic version of the pogo.
The captive sat in motionless terror. Wide eyes swung back and forth—Coleman wearing only his undershorts and a panda head, boogying past the TV set; Serge with a beauty-contestant sash from the Party Store across his chest, jitterbugging the other way, waving a gleaming hatchet.
“This is some party!” said Coleman.
“Reminds me of my sixth birthday,” said Serge, attacking the piñata with the small ax. “Die, motherfucker!”
Candy scattered. Serge and Coleman dove on the floor and began wrestling. “I saw the Pez dispenser first!” “It’s mine!” “Give it to me!” “Ow, my hair!” “Ow, you’re bending my finger back!” “I’ll hit you with my whiskey bottle!” “I have a hatchet! . . .”
They released each other and sat on the carpet, gathering Milk Duds and Hershey’s Kisses. “That was fun,” said Coleman. “Can we do it again?”
“We still need to pace ourselves,” said Serge. “This is how Elvis went.”
The candy-collecting jamboree continued. A Baby Ruth stuck out of the panda’s mouth. “What a party!”
“It’s how we roll.”
“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm! . . .”
Coleman pointed. “Our guest doesn’t seem to be having fun. In fact, he looks scared shitless.”
“Probably worried about us because he’s not used to seeing people rock out with Roman warrior stamina.”
Serge walked over to the captive’s chair with the hatchet.
“MMM! MMM! MMM!”
“Oh, that. Sorry.” Serge tossed the ax aside. “Where are my manners! You’re the guest of honor, but we’ve been having all the fun.” He tore the duct tape off the man’s face, mashing a cupcake in his mouth and sticking something on his head like a hat. “That’s your celebration tiara.” Then he replaced the tape.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Someone’s at the door!” Coleman jumped back. “Who can it be?”
“Relax.” Serge unlocked the dead bolt. “We ordered a pizza. It’s automatic with a hostage, remember?”
The door opened and a man with a name tag stepped inside.
“Watch your step,” said Serge. “There’s candy everywhere.”
The delivery guy was about to place the pizza on the bed when he suddenly stopped. He looked Coleman over, then Serge, the disco ball, the hatchet, and finally a bound-and-gagged man with frosting up his nose and an orange traffic cone on his head like a high-visibility dunce cap.
Serge took the pizza and handed over some cash. “There’s a little extra for you in there.” Then he pointed at the candy-strewn floor. “The piñata was bigger than I thought. Need anything?”
“I’m good.”
“Mmm! Mmm! Mmm! . . .”
The delivery guy pointed at the chair. “What’s the deal with him?”
“Just getting his freak on,” said Serge, adjusting his beauty-contestant sash. “Why? Does something seem weird in here?”
“No, I deliver to Miami motel rooms all the time. Have a good one.”
“Thanks for the prompt response.”
The delivery guy was about to leave when he stopped again and looked back in the room. “Wait a second. Didn’t I deliver a pizza to you a few years ago on Collins Avenue?”
“I doubt it.”
“Yeah, you told me it was the Goldfinger Suite or something.”
“You must be thinking of another room where everything was completely okay.”
The pizza man shrugged. “It’s Miami.”
“Thanks for your service.”
The door closed.
Serge stared back at the hostage chair and rubbed his palms together. “Alone at last. And have I got the perfect lesson to help with your people skills. It just came to me . . . Which is why we didn’t only go to the Party Store. We also stopped at the Home Depot! You’re probably wondering why? Because Lowe’s has a color scheme to attract chicks, and that’s a slippery slope. Wait here . . .”