“I didn’t say you wanted one. I said you need one.” She went to the cabinet for a bottle of Scotch. Her cell phone rang. Brook made a detour for her purse.
“Hello?”
“This is Ken Shapiro, from Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious and Blatt. Sorry for calling so late, but we have some preliminary good news that I thought you’d like to hear.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing confirmed, but based on our experience, we don’t think your father is a very high-value target.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The number you were given to call back turns out to be the main DEA line in Washington, which indicates a certain lack of urgency. After some more calls, we learned there is no agent by the name of Rick Maddox in that office, but there is one in Miami. And he’s a polygraph examiner.”
“That’s weird,” said Brook.
“That’s what we thought. It’s not the kind of position dealing with heavy trafficking enforcement, so that should lower your stress level.”
“Really appreciate you calling.”
She hung up and headed back to the living room. “Dad, I have some good news.”
Ronald stood up, grabbed the center of his chest and, without a word, toppled forward on his face.
“Dad! No!”
ORANGE BLOSSOM TRAIL
A cell phone rang. And rang.
Serge checked the display. It kept ringing.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Coleman.
“Mahoney again, probably ungrateful that we didn’t get the money back from those scam artists with the medical donations.”
“Bus accidents rule.”
“Or he wants us to jump right on another case,” said Serge. “But you have to pace yourself. If we actually are dealing with an organized gang, that means recharging my idea reservoir for unique ways to dispatch them.”
“Why?”
“To maintain a quality standard. Unlike you, I have a reputation to uphold.” Serge sucked the coffee tube but only got air. “You start phoning in your murders and people talk.”
“Where are you going to get new ideas?”
“A special place of inspiration.” Serge handed his bladder tube to Coleman. “Coffee me.”
Coleman grabbed a thermos and watched as the Firebird turned onto a long, stately-looking road with sprawling, professionally maintained lawns on both sides. They drove toward a massive, low-slung building in the distance. Straight ahead at the end of the road—in the building’s courtyard—stood a giant metal sculpture that looked like a dandelion. It sprayed water from the ends of hundreds of prongs into a fountain pool.
Coleman stuck his head out the window and gazed up at rows of countless flags on each side of the building. “What is this place? It looks like the United Nations.”
“It sort of is,” said Serge. “Florida-style.”
They parked and climbed the steps to the courtyard, heading for the main entrance, but Serge had to go back and retrieve Coleman, who was trying to climb into the fountain and stick his head in the giant dandelion. “No more hallucinogens for you.”
“Serge, the building says ‘Tupperware.’ ”
“Correct again.” He pulled the tube from his mouth. “World headquarters built on the site selected by Brownie Wise, who envisioned a utopian Shangri-la of togetherness and keeping food fresh. She was a pioneer, way before any of the theme-park honchos saw the potential of all the available sun-blessed land south of Orlando. I’m guessing the Disney advance scout team flew in from Los Angeles, took a drive down Orange Blossom Trail, then immediately rushed back with wax alligators and burp lids and said, ‘Look no further.’ ”
They entered the building and approached the front desk. Serge stopped to stare down the hallways running off the sides of the lobby toward the management offices. It was pretty far away, but he could make out extensive displays of plaques with photos and more international flags.
Serge gave a slight elbow jab and whispered: “Coleman, I need to check out something. And take photos. Those plaques are calling me. But it’s another one of those employees-only areas where they unfairly don’t want strangers popping in off the street and wandering the halls of private offices, just because it’s their building and they’re trying to run a business.”
“Stop the oppression.”
“They force you to be sneaky when you want to burrow deep inside corporate sanctums and take candid pictures. Sure, they claim that capitalism is opportunity for all, but how else can you learn to join the club if they don’t let you watch how they do it? And then some guy blocks my path and asks, ‘Can I help you?’ which really means, ‘What’s your fucking problem?’ Another nuance game. But the first time it happened, I thought they were sincere and responded, ‘Yes, you can help me. I want to join the club. And you’re the company to watch! Outsourced boiler rooms, raided pensions, securities violations. What’s the secret handshake?’ And then I thought they were taking me to the clubhouse, but it was just an exit door to the street, and they threw me really hard against the mailbox on the corner . . . Spin it any way you want, but that’s not help.”
“I remember that mailbox,” said Coleman. “I was tripping on ’shrooms and accidentally got away from you and used the Xerox machine to make five hundred copies of my nipples.”
“So now when they ask if they can help, I hold up an official-looking blue document with notary stamps and say, ‘I’m here to serve a subpoena but can’t tell you who because I have to physically hand it to the person, and if they get advance notice, the guy usually ducks out a fire door or sits on a toilet and pulls his feet up.’ Then I flash the document again, prominently showing the word fraud—which covers everyone in the building on the DNA level—and the guy bugging me usually says he has to use the restroom, and I follow him in a minute later and bend down, but I can’t see feet . . .”
A voice from behind: “Those are the walls of fame.”
“What?” Serge turned.
The receptionist smiled. “They honor the top representatives from each country.” A bigger smile. “Please take a look.”
Serge did look. At Coleman. “Sounds like a trick.”
“She seems nice enough.”
“Until I ask to join the club. Then it’s mailbox time again.” Serge checked his camera settings. “But I have to see those plaques. Cover my flank and stand back to back against me as we walk down the hall so you can see if anything is coming up on us from the rear.”
“Is this some kind of sobriety test?”
“Just do it!” The pair crept down the hall, flash, flash, flash . . .
They returned to the desk.
“Serge, nothing happened.”
“Something’s definitely fishy. Let me see if I’m right—”
“Welcome to Tupperware!” said the receptionist.
“We just popped in off the street and wanted to wander around.”
“That’s great . . .” said their greeter.
Serge raised an eyebrow at Coleman.
“. . . Have you ever been here before?” continued the receptionist.
“Driven by hundreds of times and wanted to stop, but it was always something, and it was usually banging in the trunk . . .”
Her smile remained.
“I remember my mom having Tupperware parties as a kid.” Serge’s hands swiftly sliced the air, stacking invisible objects. “I loved those parties, the whole neighborhood hanging out in our backyard by the mosquito torches in an iconic sixties experience.”
“Cream cheese and celery,” said Coleman.
“The curtains had fiberglass,” said Serge.
“Deviled eggs,” said Coleman.
Serge frantically scratched his neck.
Coleman slowly moved his hands in front of his face. “Whoa!”
Her smile never wavered.
Serge uneasily grinned back.
Coleman tugged his sleeve. “Isn’t this the part where they usually ask if they can help you?”
“That’s the problem,” Serge said out the side of his mouth. “Her game is to deliberately throw me off-balance.”