Serge crept from behind the car wash and worked his way around the edge of the property, passing the fifty-cent tire inflater and a blue pay phone stand with the phone removed. He stopped and studied the Jeep’s mirrors and calculated the one, single straight line to the vehicle that would keep the mirrors blind to him. He began walking the asphalt tightrope.
The cell-phone conversation could be heard at a range of fifteen feet.
“. . . Yeah, he hasn’t shown yet. I think this is a big waste of time,” said Sal. “But you have to consider the source that vouched for this. Sasha can really be out to lunch sometimes . . .”
The phone was snatched from his left hand and smashed to the ground. His head spun. “What the fuck?”
Serge cracked him quickly in the side of the head with his pistol butt.
“You’re a dead man,” said Sal.
“Just set the camera down slowly on the dash.” Serge kept the .45 pressed to Sal’s temple and opened the door with his other hand. “Now get out.”
Sal eased himself from the driver’s seat. “Are you Serge?”
“That’s right, your new chauffeur.”
Moments later, behind the car wash, Sal lay in the bed of the Firebird’s trunk. Wrists and ankles bound with plastic ties. “You better make damn sure you kill me, or I’ll leave you in a million pieces.”
Serge tucked the gun behind his back and smiled. “I can work with that.”
The hood slammed.
A couple blocks south, binoculars lowered in a Beemer. Enzo Tweel checked his Rolex. What could be taking so long? One of his areas of expertise was human behavior, and provoking Serge with that Sasha business back at the beach was a can’t-miss.
And he was right.
The binoculars went to his eyes again just as a black Firebird sped south.
“Son of a bitch!”
The binoculars flew into the backseat as Enzo hit the gas to merge onto Biscayne.
And he merged T-bone-style into the side of a beer truck.
“You stupid fucking moron!” the beer-truck driver yelled down from his cab. “Look what you did to my truck!”
Enzo aimed a German pistol at the driver, who promptly raised his hands in silent surrender before diving across the front seat and scrambling out the passenger door.
The luxury sedan was crumpled to the side panels, and Enzo needed his shoulder to pop the door open. He crawled out of the car with a gash on his forehead and tiny pieces of windshield in his hair.
Enzo began limping away toward the camouflage of the adjoining neighborhood, looking up the highway as a southbound Firebird became a dot and disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-Five
BISCAYNE BOULEVARD
Lights glowed through the curtains of the second-floor motel room. Water ran in the sink.
Serge whipped a spatula around the mixing bowl. He had tremendously thick rubber gloves and a welder’s apron. The gloves were orange.
“What’cha makin’?” asked Coleman.
“Don’t get so close,” said Serge. “You’re not wearing protective goggles.”
“Hey, that’s some of the stuff we picked up at Food King.”
“Right-o.” Stirring continued. “People have no idea what’s just sitting on grocery shelves if you know what you’re looking for.”
Serge decided the concoction needed more balance and grabbed another ten-pound sack off the counter.
“Sugar?” asked Coleman.
“Sugar leads a weird double life because of its unique molecular structure.” Serge set the sack down and poured more water. “Most people think it’s a benign and happy little compound because they free-associate it with candy, but there’s a dark side.”
“There is?” said Coleman. “I must know!”
“I’ll tell you!” Serge grabbed the spatula again. “Mix it with certain other materials and you get a less confectious result. For example, potassium nitrate is one of the three ingredients of gunpowder. By itself, it’s just saltpeter. But add some sugar—which has nothing to do with gunpowder—then toss a match and stand back. It doesn’t explode but instead slowly burns through the pile like white-hot phosphorus. Torches right through metal. So of my four ingredients, sugar is the kick start, and water is obviously for the suspension. Now, this stuff is the primary—”
“I recognize that,” said Coleman. “See it all the time at the store.”
“So does everyone else, and they just walk right by.” Serge tossed the can in the trash. “Homemakers use it every day without a second thought. But it’s the bitch of the bunch. I don’t want word getting out about what it is because everyone will start throwing this together. A lot of people don’t have impulse control.”
“The bunch?” asked Coleman. “You said four ingredients.”
“That’s correct.” Serge nodded toward the garbage pail.
Coleman pulled out an empty box. “Cornstarch? What’s that for?”
Serge pulled something from one of the shopping bags on the bed. “What else? The gelatin mold I got at Tupperware headquarters. I’ve been waiting to use this baby forever.”
“You had this all planned way back when you bought that?”
“You think I just bounce around through life?” He placed the mold on the counter and carefully poured in the contents of the mixing bowl. “All the necessary ingredients are already present, but cornstarch gives it certain properties to use it in creative ways . . . Open the door of the mini-fridge.”
Coleman pulled the handle, and Serge’s orange gloves slid the mold onto the bottom shelf. “The mixture would otherwise just be a thick liquid, but cornstarch lets you turn it into Jell-O. But unlike normal Jell-O—and this is the crowning touch—it makes it incredibly adhesive.” Serge stood back up. “And there you have it.”
Coleman scratched his stomach. “Have what?”
“Homemade napalm.”
“That Vietnam stuff that sticks and burns.”
“It burns all right.” Serge pulled off the gloves and threw them in the sink. “But not with fire, so it doesn’t need an ignition source.”
“Then how does it burn?”
“Chemical burn. Much, much worse than fire. Just keeps boring through the skin. I’ve been saving this project for when I needed serious closure.”
Coleman pointed back at a bottle next to the sink. “I didn’t notice that before. I thought I knew all the ingredients, but you didn’t say anything about vinegar.”
“It’s not an ingredient,” said Serge. “It’s the antidote. Because of its pH, vinegar is one of the few substances that can neutralize a chemical burn. A lot of people use water, which only makes it worse.”
“So what are you going to use it for?”
“What’s the only thing missing?”
Coleman stared at the floor, then the ceiling. He tapped his chin and suddenly raised a finger. “The famous bonus round! You’re holding another contest with that guy out in the trunk!” He clapped with good nature and took a seat on a bed. “Let’s get it on!”
Serge held up his hands. “Not so fast. We finally must surmount the greatest challenge of all to prepare the game show.”
“What’s that?”
“Wait for the Jell-O to harden.” Serge checked his wristwatch. “The stuff should take about four hours.”
“That’s the great challenge?”
“With your substance assistance, you have killing time down to an art form, but to me it’s Chinese water torture.”
Coleman shrugged. “Let’s get rockin’.” He grabbed a joint and a pint of vodka with a red-eyed crow on the label.
Serge grabbed a digital camera and notepad.
One hour went by. Coleman lay on a bed with a remote control, shot glass and bowl of chips on his stomach. Serge paced, ranting into a pocket recorder.
Two hours. Coleman slumped against a wall next to a broken lamp. Serge did a handstand in the corner.