Giggles.
Rogan rolled his eyes. “I will take that as silence.”
They let themselves out.
Ziggy went to the front window and watched the Benz drive away. “Where’s that number for the weed guy?”
Biscayne Boulevard
The same perpetual rhythmic sound came from a dozen directions at two-second intervals. It filled the store. Chss-chss, chss-chss, chss-chss, chss-chss.
It was one of those new copy shops where you could do almost anything. Send faxes, mail overnight packages, buy colorful gift bags and greeting cards, order posters, connect to wireless Internet. You could even make copies.
Coleman was stoned and tipsy at a display for office supplies. He repeatedly discharged a staple gun into the air until an employee asked what he was doing.
“Nothin’.”
He wandered over to an unoccupied copy machine. There were buttons to press. He changed all the settings for the next customer—darkness, contrast, magnification. There were little organizers next to each printer with scissors and tape and complimentary paper clips. Coleman decided to load up on rubber bands.
Serge stood at the service counter, handing over cash and running a program on his phone. Someone bumped into him from behind.
“Coleman, there you are. What have you been doing?”
Coleman reached into his pocket, producing a wad of rubber circles, and put them back.
“Case solved,” said Serge.
“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.
“I explained back in the nail salon,” said Serge. “Working on that case for Mahoney.”
“But why a copy shop?”
“It’s the coolest thing ever!” Serge clasped his hands in effervescence. “This place has one of those new 3-D printers that I’ve been reading about. I found all kinds of tips online about what you can make with them. Shot glasses, birdhouses, clips to seal opened bags of pretzels, combs, Star Wars figures, dildos, and combinations of the last two. But I’m thinking, where’s the imagination? The possibilities are mind-numbing, so I decided to brainstorm and download some images to my phone, which I just sent to this store. For only a few bucks, that guy in the back room is whipping up my idea right now!”
“What is it?”
“A surprise,” said Serge. “But think historical significance.”
“Far out.”
“And I’m going to need some of your rubber bands.”
“But they’re mine.”
“What possible use could you have for that many?”
Coleman swayed and looked toward his pocket. “Play with ’em.”
“We’ll negotiate later.” Serge turned around and leaned with his back against the counter. “I love copy shops! Know why?”
“Paper?”
“Multi-cultural harmony.” Serge nodded to himself. “I might just be the first person to recognize it, but copy shops are the ultimate bellwether of ethnic relations. We may eat different food, wear different clothes, but every race and creed needs copies.”
“Never thought about it that way.”
“And that’s the mistake CNN makes. Every time there’s some civil unrest somewhere, reporters descend and visit all kinds of businesses for interviews with the common man—breakfast diners, Starbucks, massage parlors—but never a copy shop.” Serge waved an arm over the room. “Look at the arching bridge of humanity! Those Muslim women over there, that Asian guy, the African Americans, Latinos, whites and, not pictured, Eskimos. See, everyone receives shit in the mail that needs duplication, and we’re all bonding under that oppression together, brothers and sisters! At least until there aren’t enough available copy machines, then it could get tribal.”
“. . . Sir? . . . Sir! . . .”
Serge turned around. “What?”
“Here’s your purchase.”
“Oh, thank you.” Serge looked down into the bag. “Excellent work. May I ask you a question?”
“I guess.”
“What happens when there aren’t enough copy machines? What do the people do?”
“Uh, wait?”
“God bless America! . . . Come on, Coleman!”
They hopped back in the Corvette and headed south to Miami Beach as night fell. The lights of the Miami skyline filled the air with electricity as Serge picked up the MacArthur Causeway.
Coleman chugged a bottle of Mad Dog. “So that dude back at the self-defense class is really being stalked?”
Serge gritted his teeth. “I hate stalkers!”
Stretch limos jammed Collins Avenue all the way up nightclub row. Serge accepted a ticket from the valet and went inside a dinner-show lounge called Hips. They waited for their eyes to adjust in an ultra-dark room with a flickering array of candle lamps, martini glasses and lobster. Faces glowed with anticipation. Stage lights came on, curtains parted. Applause for the Barbra Streisand experience.
“Is that also a dude?” asked Coleman.
“You’ll get the Audubon field guide later.”
“. . . The way we were . . .”
The show swelled toward a highly anticipated climax. A brown-haired man sat quietly in the dark as a baby spotlight hit the curtains and a head of platinum-blond hair.
“. . . Diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . .”
Serge elbowed Coleman. “It’s time.”
The vocals dropped to a sensuous whisper. “. . . Happy birthday, Mr. President. Happy birrrrrrrrrthday to youuuuuuuu . . .”
The crowd was on its feet as Marilyn disappeared through the curtains, and the house lights came up.
The gals crowded around Chuck in the dressing room. “That was incredible.” “Honey, you keep getting better with age.” “You’re back to your old self!”
Knock, knock, knock.
One of the performers opened up. “Who are you?”
“I need to see Marilyn,” said the stranger. “She’s expecting us.”
From behind: “It’s okay, Liza,” said Chuck. “They’re friends.”
Serge strolled over. “Just remember what I told you. From this point forward, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I can’t thank you enough—”
Suddenly an explosive commotion at the door.
“I have to see Marilyn!”
“Hey, you can’t just barge in here like that.”
“Marilyn! I brought these roses for you.”
Streisand blocked his path. “Get out before you get hurt!”
Serge glanced down. “Coleman, quick, give me rubber bands.” Serge reached into the bag from the copy shop.
“So that’s what that thing is.”
“Marilyn, tell them it’s okay! You sang that song again for me! . . .”
The gals formed a protective phalanx. “We’ll call the police!”
Coleman laughed. “Serge, where did you get the idea?”
“Soon as I saw those three-D printers, I said to myself, ‘History has just come alive.’”
“Marilyn, I love you! . . .”
Serge approached the defensive formation from the back. “Girls, I’ve got it from here.” They parted and let him through, wearing a plastic Halloween-style mask held over his face with the skimpy rubber bands.
He stepped up to the man with the roses. “I’ve been looking all over for your presidential ass! Figured if I hung around Marilyn long enough, you were bound to show up.”