A BMW blew by in the breakdown lane and kept going, passing the entire line of cars and disappearing over a hill.
“That’s the fourth guy who’s done that since we’ve been here,” said Lenny.
“It’s just not right,” said Serge.
“We could do that, too, but we don’t,” said Lenny.
“Because rules are important,” said Serge. “Otherwise, everything starts breaking down.”
The backseat: “Um, do you think we could have, you know, another…”
Lenny passed a doobie back.
“If we’re going to be here much longer, I’ll have to occupy my mind,” said Serge. He turned off the Cadillac and walked to the rear of the car.
“What are you doing?” asked Lenny.
“Getting my toys.” He opened the trunk, removed a gym bag and got back in the driver’s seat. “I bought you a present.” Serge pulled something out of the bag. He could have easily handed it across the seat to Lenny, but he threw it, the way guys have to.
Lenny dropped it on the floorboard.
“Nice catch.”
Lenny picked up the red-and-white canister. “Cruex? What are you trying to tell me?”
“No, you dingleberry, unscrew the bottom.”
Lenny struggled to figure out the can, twisting with everything he had. “You know what a dingleberry actually is?”
“I’ve heard the rumors,” said Serge. He reached over. “Here, let me.”
Serge grabbed the can and twisted off the bottom, revealing a secret compartment.
“Cool,” said Lenny. “A stash safe.”
“I bought it at Spy vs. Spy.”
“What’s that?”
“A new chain that sells a bunch of espionage and counterespionage stuff, but it’s really a toy store for guys — useless gadgets men can’t resist. Night-vision scopes, walkie-talkie pens, voice-activated bomb-disposal robot/beer caddy…”
Lenny stuffed a baggie of pot up the bottom of the can. “Why’d you have to pick Cruex?”
“Had a friend who went to college in Boston. His roommate was from Colombia, and during spring break, the roommate says, ‘Hey, why don’t you come visit back home with me?’ My friend says sure. It’s a legitimate visit — no drugs or anything — and he’s coming back through Miami, and Customs goes ape. What’s an Anglo kid doing on vacation in Bogotá? They rip his luggage apart, make him take a laxative and shit on a clear toilet in front of all these people…”
“They actually have clear toilets?”
“The government does. But they seem to be the only ones who want them. I think that speaks volumes. Anyway, get this — they grabbed my friend’s can of shaving cream and sprayed some out and tested it.”
“That’s spooky,” said Lenny.
“Drugs are spooky,” said Serge. “But jail is spookier. That’s why I got you that can. Use it and stay free, my friend. Shaving cream is one thing, but nobody wants to mess with a guy’s Cruex. DEA, Customs — they don’t get paid enough.”
Serge removed another canister from his bag and began shaking it. A metal ball rattled inside.
“Spray paint?” asked Lenny.
“Spy spray paint.” Serge got out of the car and walked back to the rear bumper. He bent down and sprayed the license plate.
“What are you doing?” asked Lenny.
“The paint’s clear, reflective,” said Serge, rattling the can again. “Standard technique for operatives attending state dinners in case any spies try to photograph license plates in the parking lot of the embassy while you’re upstairs stealing files. The clear coating reflects any flash photography, and all the spy will see when he gets his pictures back from the drugstore will be a bright, all-white license plate, completely blank.”
Lenny rubbed his chin. “Is this a problem you anticipate us having?”
Serge climbed back in the car and pointed up the road toward Orlando. “It also works on those new cameras the state installed to catch people running tollbooths. I’m tired of paying these motherfuckers every time I want to go see a shuttle launch.”
Serge pulled something else from the gym bag. A few little poles covered with spikes.
“What are those?”
“Stop sticks,” said Serge. “Police use them at roadblocks to puncture the tires of fleeing suspects.”
“Why do you need them?”
“To throw out the window in case the police are chasing me,” said Serge. “Two can play this game.”
Serge casually tossed the sticks over Lenny’s head, out the right side of the car, and began rooting around again in his bag. “Let’s see — what else do I have in here?…”
Pow, pow, pow, pow.
A new set of Michelins blew out on a Corvette racing by in the breakdown lane, and it cascaded down the embankment.
“…Here we are.” Serge removed a heavy egg-shaped object wrapped in orange silk. “My ace in the hole.” He carefully folded back the silk to reveal a scored olive-green metal hulk — an antique hand grenade.
“Is it live?”
Serge nodded.
“Also get that at Spy versus Spy?”
Serge shook his head. “eBay.”
A chorus from the backseat: “We’re hungry.”
“Again?” said Serge.
“Why don’t you drive to a restaurant or something?” asked Country.
“Good idea,” said City. “Drive us to a restaurant.”
Serge turned around and pointed at the empty boxes in their laps. “You just ate. You both got the jumbo taco salad.”
They looked down at their shirts and hands covered with grease, shredded cheese and strands of lettuce. Country looked up. “We’re still hungry.”
“I’m feeling like barbecue,” said City.
Serge gestured around them at the sea of parked cars boxing them in, then searched for any hint of understanding in their bloodshot eyes. “Fuck it! Never mind!” He turned back around and sat silent a minute. He smacked the inside of the door. “What can be taking so long?”
“It’s funny how when you’re high, time seems to slow down,” City told Country.
“Absolutely,” said Country. “It just creeps. Everything takes forever. The least little thing becomes an eternity…Tick, tock, tick, tock…”
Serge slowly turned his head toward the passenger seat and glared.
“Don’t look at me,” said Lenny. “It was your idea to bring them.”
“…Tick, tock, tick, tock…”
“I thought it would be fun,” said Serge. “Get the women’s perspective for a change instead of the same old barbarian stuff I’m used to. But it’s gone horribly awry, and now I’m being held prisoner in a Cheech and Chong marathon.”
“I’m soooo hungry,” said City.
“Does this car have music?” asked Country. “Let’s play some music.”
“Yeah, crank up the tunes,” said City.
Lenny reached for the radio.
“Only classic album rock,” said Serge. “It’s all I can handle right now.”
The car began to throb with bass.
“What about contemporary urban?” asked Lenny.
Serge shook his head. “I respect the rapper, but I need to be in the proper mood to appreciate social and economic polemics about who can play a turntable better.”
Lenny twisted the dial to another station. The Beatles came on, “All You Need Is Love.”
Serge nodded his approval. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to relax with the soothing music.
“You know, they’re absolutely right,” said Country. “All you do need is love. It’s the most profound thing I’ve ever heard in my life…”
“They get straight to the heart of the matter,” said City. “You’ve got love, what else do you need?…”
“Think about it, one small word, just four little letters, yet they make all the difference…”
Serge turned around and faced them again.
“What?” said City.
6
A weather-beaten seventeen-foot flats skiff motored slowly through the first light of day in the upper Florida Keys. It was a falling tide, and orange and pink and green Styrofoam balls dotted the water. Flocks of spoonbills glided low over the shallows, timing the tide to the minute, heading for feeding grounds as they had for thousands of years. Tiny, low mangrove islands punctuated the horizon, which disappeared toward Cape Sable and the Everglades.