Coleman inspected a fingertip for something that had come out of his nose. “Does this mean you’re not going to have any more Secret Master Plans?”
“Au contraire,” said Serge. “This detective business is part of the biggest Secret Master Plan yet. That’s why we’ve driven back to Tampa. We have to attend the Republican National Convention.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Except it’s anything but,” said Serge. “Especially with Tropical Storm Isaac bearing down with gale-force situation comedy. And if I’m really lucky, I might run into Sarah Palin so I can help her out.”
“Why?”
“Because the woman of my dreams has fallen on hard times,” said Serge. “Last time I saw her, it was at a distance on TV in a department store, and she apparently has been reduced to working behind the counter at a Chick-fil-A.”
“But how does the convention fit in with your private-detective Master Plan?”
“If you’re going to do something, do it big! Be the best in your field!” said Serge. “And some of the highest-paid private eyes are political investigators. They come in two types: campaign detectives that dig up dirt on candidates, and stock-market detectives who try to figure out how an upcoming congressional vote is going to swing before it’s cast.”
“So you’re just in it for the money?”
“That’s gravy,” said Serge, sticking a CD in the stereo. “People in this country are at one another’s throats like no time since the Vietnam War. Which brings up the main objective of my new Master Plan: to reunite the country.”
The radio: “ . . . O beautiful for spacious skies . . .”
“I don’t know about that.” Coleman exhaled another hit. “People are getting pretty crazy out there.”
“Only because they haven’t heard my solutions.” Serge waved his left hand around like he was writing on an invisible blackboard. “The current political climate has become psychotically polarized and nobody can figure it out . . .”
“ . . . God shed his grace on thee . . .”
“. . . But it’s as simple as choosing up teams in a school yard. You want to be on the side with your friends. It’s the most basic human emotion, to be accepted and loved. I just have to convince the country we’re all on the same side, then we all hug and begin spreading brotherhood . . .”
“And sisterhood,” said Coleman.
“Right. I need to watch more Glee,” said Serge. “And spread sisterhood . . .”
“ . . . From sea to shining sea! . . .”
“But how do you plan to convince everyone we’re on the same side?”
“Instead of being slaves to our toxic emotional times, we harness that outrage,” said Serge. “So we just change the national slogan from ‘Land of the Free’ to ‘Fuck Canada.’ ”
Coleman nodded. “I think everyone can get behind that.”
“Because it’s the American way.”
Coleman cracked a beer, then inserted an eyedropper and drew ale up into the bulb. “What gave you this whole idea?”
“TV.” The Trans Am turned sharply onto Orient Road. “I was watching the Tea Party and the Occupiers on the news and I said to myself, ‘Serge, you can bring these people together, no problem.’ ”
Coleman held the eyedropper down toward the floor. “They hate each other’s guts.”
“That’s just frustration talking.” Serge pulled the Firebird up to a compound of buildings with vertical slit windows and spooled razor wire. “Take the Tea Party. I get it. They’re a playground team with staunch work ethics and sincere values, and they’re sick of watching all these lazy, political clowns throw away their hard-earned tax dollars. On the other hand are the Occupiers, the other playground team who’s furious that the top one percent hire a bunch of lobbyists to bribe those same clowns and tilt the chessboard.”
Coleman squeezed drops into the hamster’s mouth. “Please continue.”
“The two groups should be ultimate allies.” Serge raised binoculars toward a back gate where an electric signal snapped a sequence of locks open. “It just gets lost in the slight nuance between how the two groups deliver their respective messages.”
“How’s that?”
“The Tea Party draws Hitler mustaches on pictures of the president.”
“And the Occupiers?”
“They shit in public parks,” said Serge. “It’s such a fine line.”
“I could join that last group,” said Coleman.
“You’re already an honorary member.”
Serge continued his surveillance. A just-released prisoner signed some paperwork at the gates and began walking away from the Hillsborough Correctional Center.
Coleman leaned out the window. “Is this the county jail?”
“Yes, next question.”
“Can we leave?” Coleman placed the hamster on his shoulder and glanced around. “I’m getting paranoid parked outside this place.”
“Then lower the bong.” Serge kept his eyes trained out the driver’s side.
The former prisoner reached the end of the jail’s driveway. They’d given him back his street clothes, but he still had the red plastic band around his wrist. Misdemeanors wore blue. He turned up the street, heading for the nearest bus stop, which wasn’t near.
Serge rolled down his window. “Roscoe! Roscoe Nash!”
The man on the edge of the road turned around. “Who the fuck are you?”
“The person that just bailed you out. Hop in.”
Roscoe was tall and lean, much like Serge, but a few years senior. Running down both arms were tattoos of defunct Roller Derby franchises. He approached the driver’s side and rested folded arms on the window ledge. “Why’d you bail me out?”
“Because I have a business proposition. We run a profitable little cottage industry, except we’re currently heavy on the muscle end and light on white-collar know-how.”
Roscoe grinned contemptuously. “And that’s where I come in?”
Serge opened his door and leaned his seat forward. “Climb in.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s hot and a long walk. I’ll flesh it out as we drive. You don’t like the sound of it, we shake hands and split. Worst case is you get a free ride home.”
Roscoe climbed in the backseat with a condescending smirk.
Serge closed the door and patched out.
Roscoe’s eye caught something. “What’s with the hamster?”
“His name’s Skippy,” said Coleman.
“He’s sliding off your shoulder.”
Coleman gently boosted Skippy back onto his perch. “He’s a little fucked up.”
“What?” said Roscoe.
Serge snapped his fingers in the air. “Eyes over here. Pay no attention to Coleman, or we’ll be talking in circles for days . . .” Serge drained a travel mug of coffee in one long guzzle and floored the gas. “Here’s my proposition . . .” He popped a Neil Diamond CD in the stereo.
“ . . . They’re coming to America! . . .”
Serge turned around and smiled huge at Roscoe. “You like this country? Good! I love this country! And the two sides are so close: scribbling on the president’s photo, wiping your ass with leaves, what’s the difference? That’s what I say. Get my drift? What’s Canada’s fuckin’ deal? . . .”
Roscoe’s eyes grew big as he grabbed his seat belt with white knuckles. “Jesus, you almost sideswiped that oncoming dump truck.”
“I did?”
“Turn around!” yelled Roscoe. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Absolutely not,” said Serge. “I drive like this all the time.”
Coleman exhaled a bong hit and petted the hamster. “He does.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “I stay in my lane by watching out the back window to gauge my deviation from the center line. And Coleman lets me know when the intersections come up.”
“But—”
“Smile!” Serge snapped some photos of Roscoe, who blinked from the camera flashes.