Three hours. Coleman lay under the bed. Serge was down in the parking lot running high school suicide sprints.
Four hours. Serge ran in and urgently shook Coleman by the shoulder. “Wake up! Wake up! The gelatin’s ready!”
Coleman raised his head and bonked it on the bottom of the toilet tank. “Ow. How’d that get there?”
“Stop fooling around and meet me at the mini-fridge.”
Coleman employed his patented wedged-between-the-tub-and-toilet escape wiggle. “Wait for me! . . .”
Serge grabbed the door handle, then paused and looked over with a gleam in his eye. “This is going to be so excellent.”
Coleman knelt next to him. “Do it already!”
Serge opened the door, and their smiles fell with their jaws.
“It melted clean through the Tupperware,” said Coleman. “Only the ring around the edge is left.”
Serge’s eyes moved down. “And melted through the rack it was on. And through the bottom of the fridge . . .” He quickly pulled the appliance aside.
“And through the floor.” Coleman stuck his face in the dark hole. “How far do you think it goes?”
Serge’s face joined him. “The foundation of this second-floor room might have stopped it. Or they have the lights off in the room below.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Better call the front desk and tell them we don’t like this room. Or the room under us.”
A police commando unit tossed flash-bang grenades and boarded a Guatemalan fishing boat full of marijuana. They led four handcuffed crew members onto the bank of the Miami River.
“Mahoney stood in his office window, watched the raid go down like Linda Lovelace . . .”
He observed the drawbridge go up and wondered where Serge was. “Mahoney was nines to the Brook Campanella case tanking sour, and he’d gone a little soft for the dame.”
It was unlike Serge not to call while on a case, but he didn’t dare to do so since realizing Mahoney’s line was tapped.
A rotary desk phone rang. Mahoney answered with uncharacteristic speed.
“Shaka-laka . . .”
“Yes, this is Wesley Chapel from Big Dipper Data Management. I’m calling because you asked me to keep an eye out for anything from an Enzo Tweel or a South Philly Sal. Couldn’t really do anything with the latter because I only have a first name, but I thought you’d want to know that an Enzo Tweel checked out of a resort on Biscayne Boulevard a half hour ago. We got lucky. He apparently has some third-party credit card that isn’t coming up, but he used a computer in the business center to print an airline boarding pass under his name, and I confirmed his departure with the front desk.”
“Mojo Dingus.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mahoney hung up and began dialing again. He listened to the rings, but Serge wasn’t answering. He tried several more times with the same non-luck. Mahoney wanted to leave a voice-mail message, but the rotary phone didn’t have any buttons for menu selection number two.
Mahoney got an idea. He reached in a case file and decided to try another number.
Elegant hands in long white gloves gestured confidently toward the product line on the table.
“. . . This functionally attractive ensemble is from our new Fridgesmart collection, featuring modular design to maximize your valuable storage space and preserve flavor . . . Next, a colorful assortment of summer-cool pitchers to please the entire family and keep those beverages—”
“Serge, do I have to wear the white gloves?”
“Yes!” Serge lowered the microphone attached to a miniature karaoke amplifier and barked in whispers: “Stop it! You’re ruining my presentation!” He raised the microphone and smiled again at the audience. “Sorry about that. Where were we? Oh, yes, and these Freezer Mate tubs are perfect for leftovers in a cost-conscious lifestyle . . .” Serge handed the microphone to Coleman.
“. . . And the vacuum-fresh burp seals make them perfect to store your dope for a potent, more satisfying smoke . . .”
The audience was wide-eyed.
It was an audience of one, gagged and tied to a chair between the beds of a flimsy motel room just north of the Miami airport.
Serge finished the presentation and entered the next phase . . .
A half hour later, they were both lying on their stomachs on opposite beds, watching TV.
Coleman stuck something in his mouth. Munch, munch, munch. “I love this episode. It’s the one with all Madonna songs.”
Serge stuck something in his own mouth. Munch, munch, munch. “But it’s not without a message. Take the song ‘Express Yourself,’ about self-empowerment in the world of men.”
“The music’s starting,” said Coleman. Munch, munch, munch.
“I feel something coming on,” said Serge. Munch, munch, munch.
“Me, too,” said Coleman.
One minute later, both were dancing on their beds.
Serge: “Express yourself! . . .”
Coleman: “Heyyyy, Heyyyy! . . .”
The music ended. Coleman grabbed something off a platter. “I love Glee.”
“Me, too,” said Serge. “Can I have a celery and cream cheese?”
“Trade you for a deviled egg.”
“Deal.” Two arms reached across the hostage’s lap between the beds and exchanged finger food.
“This is the best Tupperware party ever!” said Coleman.
“And my neck doesn’t itch!”
They high-fived in front of the captive’s face.
“But it seems like we’re forgetting something,” said Coleman.
“I know what you’re talking about,” said Serge. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”
They stared quizzically at each other, then at their captive, then at each other again. Eyebrows shot up in unison: “The fridge!”
They hopped off their beds and collided in their haste.
“Good thing they let us get another room,” said Coleman.
“It was only right,” said Serge. “The floor in the other one was unsafe.”
He opened the fridge and removed a ridiculously heavy cast-iron pot. “Lucky for us that they sold these more durable gelatin molds at the big-box store . . . You know what to do.”
Coleman knocked all the plastic tubs off the display table and dragged it in front of the captive. Then he laid a baking tray on top. It was also made of cast iron.
Serge strained against the weight of the iron pot as he waddled across the room and flipped it over. “Carefulllllllll . . .” He slowly lifted it, leaving a large, circular gelatin disk in the middle of the table.
“There!” Serge looked up at the guest and smiled. “Since you won all of our Tupperware parlor games—actually by forfeit since nobody else was here—you get the grand finale tribute celebration . . . That’s right, a Jell-O cake . . .”
Serge stuck a single birthday candle in the middle.
Coleman reached with his lighter.
“Not yet.” Serge’s hand explored the bottom of his hip pocket. “Here we go!”
“An M-80?”
“These were mythical to me as a kid. Way beyond cherry bombs in strength, and totally waterproof.” He squished it down into the center of the gelatin so that the only exposed part was the tip of the fuse, resting against the base of the candle. “Fire that fucker!”
Coleman flicked his Bic as Serge cut the room lights. The candle glowed in three faces.
Serge sat on the side of a bed. The hostage turned his head ninety degrees left to look at him. Serge grinned and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the guest’s shoulder. He moved his mouth to within inches of the man’s ear: “I know that South Philly Sal and Enzo are the same person, and have been searching for you for two long years. Well, now you’re here, and now I need closure. And I know what you’re thinking: You’re wondering what I’m thinking. But that snake could eat its own tail forever, so I’ll just tell you. That candle will burn down to the M-80, and then it’s every kid’s fantasy. Except yours. You’ll be covered with chemically burning Jell-O that will stick like napalm and hurt worse than your most horrible nightmares. But on the bright side! . . .” Serge reached behind his back and thrust a bottle in the man’s face. “You’ve entered the bonus round!” He slammed the bottle down next to the Jell-O cake with the ever-burning candle. “That vinegar is the platinum prize. It will stop the chemical reaction on your skin. As you’ve probably noticed, the chairs in this motel have arms, and your hands are tied to them instead of behind your back. But the ropes are nylon: normally strong but chemically cheesy. I did that as a favor to you. When the cake goes off, the nylon should melt away faster than your burns and allow you to reach the bottle. But remember, pain is an illusion: The first minute is insanely disorienting, but the wounds are still only superficial at that point. Later, it’s a disaster. So my parlor-party-game advice to you is keep your head and focus on that bottle. Got it?” Serge stood and slapped his guest on the back. “Let me know how it turns out.”