Everyone nodded with bright smiles.
“So what is this?” asked Serge. “Some kind of afternoon break?”
“No, we’re working,” said Roger.
“Working?” Serge looked around an office of abandoned desks and ringing phones.
“We work in theory,” said another staffer. “Very high-concept stuff, such as what wind farms will look like in the twenty-third century.”
“Serge, this kind of work is cool!” Coleman threw a pencil that stuck in the ceiling.
Someone else nudged Coleman. “Tell us again about the chicken bong.”
“Okay, I opened the fridge . . .”
“Excuse me,” said Serge, working his way into the circle and taking Coleman by the arm. “We have to be somewhere.”
The disappointed staff: “Auuuuuuuuu . . .”
One of them suddenly pointed at Serge’s chest. “What’s that?”
“What?” said Serge, opening his tropical shirt and looking down. “This?”
I LOVE MY OPPONENTS.
“What’s that bullshit supposed to mean?”
“Are you some kind of troublemaker!”
“Nazi!”
Coleman raised his hands to the group. “Everyone mellow out. Serge is cool.”
“If you say so, Coleman.”
“Take care, Coleman.”
“Hurry back . . .”
ACROSS TOWN
A load of untaxed cigarettes sailed up the Miami River.
A man in a porkpie hat watched from a second-story window of an all-but-abandoned office building. He tossed the hat on an antique rack in the corner and propped his feet up on the desk next to three fingers of rye in a dirty glass.
A rotary phone rang.
The man glared at it. Possibilities rattled his noggin: a busty divorcée with a framed brother in Sing Sing, another floater in the bay, or—dare he hope—a break in the 1947 Black Dahlia case?
He grabbed the receiver on the ninth ring. “Mahoney here. Gargle in the soup can.”
“What?”
“Talk in the phone.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Mahoney, my name is Brook Campanella, and I want to hire you to find who tried to scam my father—”
“Where’d you scarf my digits?”
“What?”
“How’d you get my number?”
“You came highly recommended from an Internet chat room,” said Brook. “Some people hired you to track down a fake DEA agent who swindled them.”
“Itchin’ to parlay your chips straight to the hard eight?”
“Uh . . . huh?”
Mahoney sighed. “You want to team up?”
“No, I don’t want to go in with the other people,” said Brook. “In fact, I’d rather they not know I’m involved at all.”
“Dangle the angle.”
“Whatever information you’re reporting to them, I also want you to give to me,” said Brook. “I’ll pay double.”
“Deuces wild.”
HIALEAH
Tiny white rocks rumbled under the tires of a black Firebird as it drove down an industrial road next to the expressway.
“Shouldn’t take it so bad,” said Coleman. “At least the Democrats dug me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Coleman looked over into the backseat. “I get what you did with the cigars, but how can that other thing you just bought possibly fit in?”
“Watch and learn.” Serge cut the steering wheel.
A cell phone rang. Serge sagged. “I wish Mahoney would get off my back.” He checked the display and looked at Coleman.
“What is it?”
“Not Mahoney. And I don’t recognize the number.” He put it to his ear. “Hello? . . . Oh, Sasha, how’s it going? . . .” He rolled his eyes at Coleman. “. . . Of course I was going to call you back . . .” Coleman began giggling uncontrollably, and Serge punched him in the arm. “. . . No, that was the radio . . . Listen, I’m kind of busy right now and— . . . What? Where’d you hear this? . . . Yeah, I got a pen. Go ahead and give me the address . . . Thanks . . . I am not trying to avoid you. I haven’t been answering my phone because I’m in and out of a lot of places where there’s no signal . . . Of course I’ll call . . . I got to run . . . I really got to run . . .” Serge looked over at Coleman in exasperation and stuck a finger in his mouth like a gun, then pretended to blow his brains out. “. . . No, it wasn’t just physical . . . Of course I’ll call . . . I don’t know when . . . I promise . . . I said I promised . . . Something’s on fire!” He hung up.
Coleman looked around. “There’s nothing burning.”
“I know. It’s an efficient way to end a call with a woman. Another is to yell, ‘Snakes!’ ”
“What was her problem?” asked Coleman.
“It’s a delicate battle that’s going on right now all over the world,” said Serge. “Women have sex control; guys have phone control.”
“I never knew this.”
“But there’s an upside.” Serge hit the gas to make a yellow light. “She just gave me a lead on the next scam. And perfect timing, too. A chance to test out my newest inspiration.”
The Trans Am turned through the gate of a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. It proceeded across a parking lot of disabled vehicles and stopped outside a metal warehouse with a faded wooden sign: ALFONSO’S SCRAP METAL, RECYCLING & LOUNGE.
Alfonso emerged from an aluminum door, wearing a hard hat and an incredulous expression. “You didn’t even call this time!”
“Hey, Alfonso,” said Serge, jumping down from the driver’s seat. “What’s shaking?”
“What’s shaking is that I’m out of the favor business.”
Serge placed a hand over his heart. “That hurts. You think the only time I want to see you is when I need a favor?”
“Yes!”
“Fine, then.” Serge slid his driver’s seat forward and reached in back. “I’ll just set it up myself.”
“Set what up?”
“No, I don’t want to bother you.” Serge grabbed an industrial handcart leaning against the outside of the warehouse. “Never mind me. Because friendship is my number one priority, and I’m not about to do anything that would seem presumptuous. I’ll just find an empty spot in the warehouse and mind my own business.”
“But it’s my warehouse!”
“And a great warehouse it is. You wouldn’t guess from the outside, but it’s got tons of room.” Serge grunted as he slid a recent purchase out the back of the Firebird and onto the handcart. “I’ll just take up a little corner and be quiet as a church mouse.”
Alfonso stared at the handcart as Serge wheeled it toward him. “What the hell are you going to do with that big aquarium?”
“Put water in it.” Serge set the cart down horizontally and grabbed a hose off the side of the building. “I got it super cheap with all the trappings. See how it came totally ready?” He placed his thumb partially over the hose nozzle to create a high-pressure stream.
“What are you doing?” said Alfonso. “You’re blasting all the gravel out of the bottom.”
“It came totally ready, just not ready for my purpose.” Serge tilted the tank up as he sprayed, draining the gravel-mud onto the ground at Alfonso’s feet. Then he reached down into the muck and looked up. “You want the plastic treasure chest with the skeleton that pops out?”
“Not really,” said Alfonso.
Serge raised one eyebrow. “You sure? It’s brand-new.”
“I’ll take it,” said Coleman.
“What are you going to use it for?”
“I can bore a hole on top for the stem and use the keyhole as a carburetor—”
“I get the picture.” Serge tossed the tiny plastic chest to his buddy and began wheeling the glass tank into the building. He found a sturdy machinist table in back. “Coleman, help me.”
It was touch and go at Coleman’s end of the aquarium, but they eventually got it safely atop the metal platform. Serge turned around. “Ah, you startled me. What are you doing back here with us. I told you I wouldn’t be a bother.”