“Intersection,” said Coleman.
Serge turned around and slammed on the brakes, skidding through another red light.
“Coleman, you were late again.”
“I was busy.”
“Busy packing a bong.” Serge shook his head. “Driving is an important responsibility. I’m becoming concerned about your recklessness.”
A hand was raised in the backseat. “I’d like to get out of the car now, please.”
“But you’re not home yet,” said Serge.
“Would you like to hold Skippy?” asked Coleman.
Roscoe bent forward. “This isn’t the way to my house.”
“Because I wanted to stop and show you something that will explain my proposition.” Serge pulled over on the side of a remote, wooded road. “What’s fair is fair: I’m giving you a lift, so you owe me a shot at my best sales pitch.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Serge opened his door. “Just follow me around to the back bumper.”
“Uh, this wouldn’t be some kind of trick, would it?”
“Trick? No, no, no, no, no!” Serge inserted the key. “It’s just the trunk of a car. What could possibly go wrong?”
Chapter Two
MEANWHILE . . .
Another typical sidewalk café in sunny Florida.
This one sat along tony Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, the non-working-capital capital of the United States.
A second round of mimosas arrived a few minutes before ten A.M. The bistro sat between two piano bars—and atop the world of international culinary acclaim. Although others had come close, the café had attained its rarefied reputation by pushing the edge further than anyone previously dared: a complete menu of entrées consisting entirely of a single bite of food standing upright in the middle of a large white plate. But on this particular morning, panic swept the restaurant as news reached the kitchen that two competing teams of master chefs in Paris and Berlin were secretly racing to develop the half bite of food.
Across the street, sidewalk people strolled with cashmere sweaters, purse dogs and wind-tunnel face-lifts. For the window-shopper-with-everything: perfume and crystal, Swiss watches and Persian rugs, Armani and Vuitton. Six galleries featured trending artists, two banks contained only oversize safety-deposit boxes and one place rented diamonds by the hour.
The mimosas were for a jet-setting young couple in aloof sunglasses. Actually, only he was a jet-setter, and she was just lucky. Courtney Styles had received her degree from Florida State a month earlier, and her wealthy uncle offered her use of their beach place since it was off-season. You know, to help her out while job-hunting after graduation. Except she was man-hunting. And what better place?
Courtney got her first strike within an hour. And she wasn’t even trying, just standing on the corner, idly gazing at pictures in the window of a yacht brokerage.
“You like ze boats?”
“What?” She hadn’t even seen him approach, but hot damn. His suit alone cost more than her car. Gold Rolex, heartthrob foreign accent and a long sexy mane like in those photos that they show you when you go to get a haircut but it never works out that way. Courtney gulped. “Why? Do you have a boat?”
“Oui.” The man shrugged offhandedly. “A few.”
She gulped again and offered her hand. “My name’s Courtney.”
He leaned and kissed it. “I’m Gustave.”
She got the jelly legs, but recovered before toppling over.
“Is Courtney all right?”
She nodded with embarrassment. “Just a little hungry.”
“Zat is wonderful.” He placed his palms together in front of his chin like he was praying. “I know zis great little spot. Everyone is talking about their new menu.”
And that’s how they came to be sitting across from each other under an umbrella, plowing through mimosas in goldfish bowls. Courtney was still acclimating to Palm Beach. She looked up curiously at the royal-blue awning over the café’s facade, and the name, which was simply “.”.
Gustave saw the question in her look and smiled. “Ah, yes. Zee name of zee restaurant. Very hip, very now.”
“It’s just a period. How do you pronounce it?”
“You get ready to start a sentence. And then zee sentence is over.”
“You don’t say anything?” asked Courtney.
“And yet it says everything,” replied Gustave. “All zee right people will know exactly what you mean.”
Moments later, their meals arrived. Gustave placed a napkin in his lap. “What do you think?”
Courtney tilted her head at a small, vertical sprig of seared blowfish from the Azores. “They let us try a sample first?”
“No, zat is the meal.”
“Seriously?”
“Zee best on zee island.”
Courtney smiled with semi-acceptance and picked up a fork. “I’d love to see their appetizers.”
“Oh, you absolutely must try zee shrimp cocktail. It is zee best. Tiger shrimp.” Gustave turned and snapped his fingers. “Garçon! . . .”
Soon, a waiter placed an appetizer in front of Courtney. “What’s this?”
“Your shrimp cocktail.”
“It’s a microscope,” said Courtney.
“Shrimp molecules.”
She sat back in puzzlement. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Gustave laughed heartily. “Yes, a joke. It is what you call . . . a gimmick. All fine restaurants must now have a delightful sense of whimsy. Not take themselves too seriously. Life is but a dream.” He waved a hand dismissively toward the waiter, who briskly removed the scientific instrument.
“So he’s bringing my shrimp cocktail now?”
Gustave shook his head. “There is no shrimp cocktail.”
“Oh, I’m starting to get it now. When you order a shrimp cocktail, they don’t bring you a shrimp cocktail.”
“Very chic.”
Courtney raised her eyebrows and grinned. He better be loaded. “I have much to learn about Palm Beach.”
“And Gustave will show you.” He picked up his fork for the first time and finished his meal. “Would you like to take a drive with me?”
Courtney finished her own meal. “You have a car nearby?”
Gustave glanced at the opposite curb.
She choked. “A Bentley.”
“We will drive south along the shore, like zee Côte d’Azur.”
“Uh, okay.”
A cell phone rang. Gustave checked the number and stood. “Pardon me while I take zis. It is Brussels.” He went inside the café to escape traffic noise.
Courtney picked up the most recent mimosa in both hands and gulped.
The bubbles started getting to her. The waiter strolled up with aplomb. “Would madam like another?”
She nodded with a crooked smile and handed him the empty glass orb.
Her next drink was half gone when she strained to peer inside the dark restaurant. Why is that phone call taking so long? She got up and tentatively stepped inside.
The waiter approached. “May I help you with something?”
She craned her neck to look past him into the narrow diner. “Have you seen Gustave?”
“You mean the gentleman you were dining with?”
She nodded and glanced around.
“Not since he was sitting with you out there,” said the waiter. “He isn’t inside the restaurant.”
“What?” said Courtney. “But I saw him come in here to take a call. And there’s no way he could have come out without me seeing him.”
The bartender overheard. “If you’re talking about the French guy with the cell phone, I saw him go in the restroom.”
“How long ago?”
“Fifteen minutes, give or take.”
Now the maître d’ overheard. He turned to the waiter. “Jerry, go check.”