Coleman stopped at a vending machine for a rum mixer. “I still don’t understand what’s going on in there. You didn’t attach the twine to the other guy’s neck strap.”
“That’s right. I lied.” Serge fed quarters into the machine for his own bottle of spring water. “I looped each piece of twine through the other guy’s chair slat and back to his own neck cuff. So if he pulls to strangle his pal, he’s only tightening his own strap. Then, of course, he’ll think the other guy’s doing it, and he’ll pull harder to try to kill his friend before the guy can kill him first, and so forth. Whoever coined ‘vicious circle’ had no idea.”
“I’m still not getting it.”
“When I come back in an hour, the one who survives and gets to go free will actually be the guy who was loyal to his friend. I like to reward those who live by an ethical code.”
“You’re always helping people.”
“Yet for some reason they never say thank you.”
Coleman felt his pockets. “I forgot my lighter.”
“You’d forget your head …” They went back to the room and Serge opened the door.
Coleman grabbed his Bic off the dresser, next to a pair of blue heads slumped lifelessly to their chests. “That was fast.”
“Again, no thank-you.”
HOMESTEAD
Aerge squinted up as wispy clouds parted around a crescent moon. “Still more light than I’d like. But no going back now. We’ll wait for the next cloud.”
Coleman peered out from the edge of the palm tree farm. “Where’s Story?”
“Auditioning.”
“Another strip club ?”
“Not exactly.” Serge kept his eyes on the hacienda. “At least she’s out of our hair. Women don’t approve of guys’ habits.”
The pickup and van had returned to the driveway. Lamps glowed through slits in hurricane shutters on the back of the house.
Serge held a travel thermos that had risen above all others in function, value and personality statement. He clicked open the drip-proof sipping spout, raised it straight up and sucked a good fifteen seconds. Then he tucked the half-empty bottle into the shopping bag at his feet. Next to the bag were a pair of hefty black machines with molded rubber grips, the size of small suitcases. Serge reached down and grabbed one in each hand. “Here’s the next cloud. Coleman, get that shopping bag.”
“What’s in it?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. So will they. I love surprises! The expressions are priceless.”
They slipped quickly across the clearing.
“Hope we’re in time,” said Serge.
“For what?”
“If my suspicions are correct, once the Eel finds out ‘Dick’ hooked the gang up with a double-cross, he won’t have the life expectancy of a lottery-winning heroin addict.”
They slid along the side of the hacienda and reached a side door.
“You don’t want anything to happen to ‘Dick’?”
“Not before I get him.” Serge set his cargo on the ground and tried the knob. Locked. He pressed an ear to the door. Loud TV and louder voices. “Perfect.” He picked the lock with a pair of thin metal tools and slowly opened the jalousie door. A rusty creak. They tiptoed into a small utility hall with hooks for rain gear. Voices grew louder. Light in the next room. Serge pulled his pistol and peeked around the corner. The goons were rolling up a Persian rug, two feet sticking out the end. Serge stepped back.
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
” ‘Dick’ won the lottery.”
“What now?”
“They’re distracted.” Serge sprang from the hall and spread his legs in police academy shooting stance. The thugs looked up, unimpressed.
“Turn around!” yelled Serge. “Against the wall, hands high!”
They bitterly complied.
Serge ran over and pressed his pistol to the back of a skull.
The goon turned his head sideways. “You’ve just written your own death warrant. I can’t wait to be there. It won’t be quick-“
“Shut up!” Serge’s free hand slammed the man’s head, smashing his face into the wall. He jerked the goon’s right arm behind his back and pulled out the plastic wrist cuffs. “Coleman, coffee me!”
Coleman reached into the shopping bag, opened the thermos and held it to Serge’s mouth …
Moments later, another typical scene of increasing frequency. Two bound hostages. With one crucial distinction.
“Hey, Serge, how come you’re not using chairs this time. You don’t like them anymore?”
Serge looked down at the floor. “Chairs are out.”
“What about songs?”
“No more chair songs either. Especially instrumentals.”
On the side of the room lay Dick’s broken, lifeless body, where it had rolled to a stop against the baseboard after Serge had grabbed the edge of the Persian rug and unspooled him. Now in Dick’s place were his two killers, only their gagged heads visible, wrapped back-to-back in six layers of carpet that were secured with a hundred feet of thick hemp rope and almost as much reinforced packing tape.
Coleman fired up a joint. “You like that rug?”
Serge looked down at the wiggling hostages. “It brings the room together.”
“Rugs are now in?”
“And rug songs.”
Coleman took a deep hit. “Can we go to the Rock Vault?”
“Lead the way.”
‘“Magic Carpet Ride’?”
“Good choice.”
The goons looked up in terror as their clearly off-kilter captors swayed to silent music inside their heads.
The music ended. Swaying stopped. Serge stood directly over the captives. “And now we’ve come to the Q-and-A portion of the program. Most of the other guys have tons of questions when they reach this point. That’s why I like people: We’re adorably curious. So, what’s on your minds?”
Muted desperation under mouth tape.
“Oh, right. Your particular procedure means you can’t ask questions at this time. No problem. It’s come up before. We’ll just go to Serge’s Florida Experience F. A.Q. And if you don’t know what F.A.Q. stands for, that’s actually the first question in my F.A.Q. None of the other travel service F.A.Q.s think of that. Accept no substitutes!” Serge squatted low for intimate conversation. “Second question: What kind of incredible learning curve of jollies is old Serge about to take me on? The answer is in that shopping bag! Shall we go to the shopping bag?”
Coleman took a triple hit off his roach clip. “Whoa! Good weed! Serge, can we go over to the shopping bag with out-loud music this time?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Cool.” Coleman stubbed out the roach and joined Serge, singing and jitterbugging across the room: “Let’s go over to the shopping bag! Let’s go over to the shopping bag! Let’s go over to the shopping baaaaaaagggggggg!… And see what fun’s inside!”
Serge grabbed the sack, and they began dancing back across the room to piercing whines of desperation.
Serge: “And see what fun’s inside!”
Coleman: “And see what fun’s inside!”
Serge: “Ohhhhhhhhh! Let’s look into the shopping bag …”
Coleman: “Right on into the shopping bag …”
Serge: “What the fuck’s in our shopping baaaaaaagggggg? …”
Coleman: “Some crazy fuckin’ shit!”
Serge opened the top of the bag and began rummaging. “Let’s see what we got here …” He extracted items one by one. “Doorbell, extension cord, vegetable peeler, post office overnight express envelope …”
Coleman, pianissimo in the background: “… Some crazy fuckin shit, some crazy fuckin shit…”
“… Bicycle inner tubes, soldering iron, model railroad tracks, tiny envelope of fake diamonds. That’s about it … Oh, and those two other big things on the floor with the molded rubber grips. Travel tip two-fifty-four: Always have a portable, self-powered five-in-one roadside auto emergency center. Heavy as hell, but worth every ounce. That’s because of the giant internal electric cell you charge up at home. But you ask, Serge, what are the five uses? To the F.A.Q.! One, fluorescent lamp for engine work; two, cell-phone recharger; three, battery jump-starter; four, flashing highway-shoulder warning light; five, air compressor with over-pressure cutoff to fill tires after using Fix-a-Flat … And for today’s lucky contestants, a sixth additional use chosen especially for you!”