“But the room has plenty of electric sockets.”
“Except they’re strewn all over the place including behind the bed, which is fraught with the peril of forgetting the stuff you’re charging: camera, cell phone, iPod, electric razor, laptop, camcorder, bullhorn, and miscellaneous flashlights including my giant search beam.”
“Do you have a bullhorn and search beam?”
“Not since I forgot the last power strip and lost everything. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s how they get you.”
Serge stared at the sink a moment. “Coleman, what are you doing?”
“Making ice cubes.”
“But you’re only filling the trays halfway. Not even.”
“That’s the point.” He slipped the trays into the mini-fridge. “I let the first half freeze, then I’ll take them back out in a few hours, add the rest of the water and let that freeze.”
Serge went back to his power strip. “I guess I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself.” Coleman closed the freezer door. “You’re doing it the normal way, but I have to go half and half for this . . .” He held a tall round cylinder next to his head and smiled.
Serge rubbed his chin. “Am I missing something?”
Coleman pointed at his hand with the other hand. “It’s a roll of Mentos. You haven’t heard of them? They’re breath fresheners for kids who want to fuck like in the commercials.”
“That wasn’t my question,” said Serge. “I’m hip to what’s going on out there with the Mentos and fucking. I’m just not getting the ice-cube connection.”
“Ohhhhh . . .” Coleman nodded. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’ve seen what happens when you put Mentos in soda?”
“Yeah, it shoots an unbelievable geyser of foam because of a unique and unforeseen chemical reaction from a combination of polysaccharides, glycoproteins and potassium benzoate that generates a ferociously rapid release of carbon dioxide. The record eruption from a two-liter bottle is something like twenty feet.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Works much the same way when I was a kid and we’d launch toy rockets with baking soda and vinegar. And there are a bunch of viral Mentos-and-soda videos on the Internet.” Serge sat on the side of a bed and folded his arms. “Please continue, Professor Putz.”
“All right.” Coleman set the roll of candy down. “Here’s the part that’s off the hook! Say you’re at a bash, and some dude wants a drink, and you say, ‘I’ll get it. Is rum and Coke good?’ He says, ‘Goddamn right.’ And you go in the kitchen giggling and make the drink. And you drop these ice cubes in the glass, except they’re not normal ice cubes. They’re the ones where you froze half, stuck a Mentos in the middle, then froze the other half on top of it. But the guy’s not going to see the Mentos in the middle of the cubes because rum and Coke is dark, and you hand the drink to him while he’s talking up some chick. And a few minutes later when the cubes melt . . .” Coleman waved both arms in the air. “Bloooooshhhhhh! Foam exploding everywhere, all over the guy’s clothes, up his nose, in his eyes, and all over the pissed-off chick, who’s definitely not going to fuck him now.”
“So Mentos can also be used for birth control.”
“They should put that on the label,” said Coleman. “The whole thing’s priceless, everyone laughing their brains out. Except if it’s a really expensive house with nice carpeting and sofas, and then the owners are screaming maniacs, ‘What the fuck?’ Either way it turns out good for me.”
“Coleman, that actually took some advance thought,” said Serge. “We may have discovered an undetected lobe. I’m taking you in for a PET scan—”
A cell phone rang.
“Serge here . . . That’s great, I’ll do it right now.”
He hung up and plugged his laptop into the power strip.
Coleman lined up Mentos on the counter. “What was that about?”
“Mahoney just e-mailed me more crime data . . .”
PALM BEACH
The noon sun glinted off a hood ornament of a winged human.
Another Rolls-Royce rolled down pricey Worth Avenue. Then another.
But two Silver Clouds in a row didn’t turn any heads at the sidewalk cafés, because the island boasted the highest concentration of Rolls in the world.
At one of the outdoor tables, a fashion-plate couple leaned forward for private conversation. Gustave wore his yacht-club blazer and prepared to work his magic again. But not on the woman at his table, who was his latest partner in crime.
Sasha.
The two dating bandits had created a more than respectable revenue stream for their gang, but now it was time to raise the bar. It was South Philly Sal’s idea. If they teamed up, the pair could land some really big game.
Swingers.
The couples tended to be more affluent, especially in the jewelry department. And more secretive. The Palm Beach social register was invented for gossip. And this was tawdry stuff. Sal figured that when blue-blood swingers reported the burglaries, they’d become suspiciously vague when police inquired about their day’s activities. Not only would the couple provide ultra-vague descriptions of the suspects, but cops don’t like it when information is withheld. Even when it’s from victims. And the cases would fall to the lowest order of priority.
Another Rolls drove by the tables. Gustave suddenly noticed something over Sasha’s shoulder and stood up with an engaging smile. “You must be the Kensingtons.”
The couples exchanged introductions. The Kensingtons were at least fifteen years older with gray hair, and that was a critical part of the plan when Gustave had reeled them in with discreet e-mails through a special off-shore website that hooked up such like-minded adventuresome couples. Imagine the Kensingtons’ luck at finding such an attractive young pair who didn’t mind a little age difference. Mr. Kensington also wore a yachting jacket, but his sported an admiral’s insignia, because he had bought the insignia and told the maid to sew it on. He pretended to read the menu, instead guessing which positions Sasha might be into and if she’d mind wearing the admiral’s jacket to bed. He glanced up at her. “What looks good today?”
“Try the shrimp cocktail.”
Microscopes arrived, then four bites of food.
An hour later, the Kensingtons stood bewildered with the check in their hand, wondering where their lunch partners had disappeared to. A half hour after that, they stood in their living room, wondering where all their valuables had gone.
The police arrived.
A detective opened a notebook. “Have you seen anyone suspicious outside your home lately? Maybe in a utility truck?”
They shook their heads.
“What did you do earlier today?”
“We had lunch with some friends,” said Mrs. Kensington.
“What were their names?”
“Uh . . .” Mrs. Kensington turned to her husband.
The detective stopped writing and looked up. “You don’t know the names of the friends you just had lunch with?”
“They were strangers,” said Mr. Kensington.
“Strangers or friends, which is it?”
“Friendly strangers,” said Mrs. Kensington.
The pair began to wilt under the detective’s glare. “Look,” said Mr. Kensington. “The tables were pretty full and we met this nice-enough couple who offered their two empty chairs.”
“What did they look like?” asked the detective. “Start with the man.”
The Kensingtons answered simultaneously.
“Tall . . .”
“Short . . .”
They glanced at each other.
“Medium.”
The detective wrote swingers and closed his notebook. “Are you an admiral?”
“Not really.”
HIALEAH
A black Firebird cruised down the Palmetto Expressway.