They headed for the door.
“Express yourself! . . .”
“Heyyy! Heyyy! . . .”
Chapter Thirty-Six
THE NEXT DAY
Ocean Drive.
Coleman held up a newspaper. “I see what you mean about the joy of reading. There’s this story about a chemically scarred body found in a motel room.”
“That’s unusual.”
“Says he was found lying in shattered glass with the label from a vinegar bottle in his hand.”
“Ouch. Someone must have placed the vinegar bottle too close to the M-80,” said Serge. “But I never shirk responsibility. My bad.”
Coleman flipped over to the comics.
“Listen, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” said Serge. “But it’s almost noon. Can you make yourself scarce?”
Coleman looked around the sidewalk café. “But I thought we were going to eat.”
“When I said ‘we,’ that didn’t mean us.”
“Oh, I get it now. Brook’s meeting you for lunch.” Coleman stood and stuck the paper under his arm. “Say no more. I don’t want to be a fifth wheel.” He looked inside the restaurant. “There’s the bar! . . .”
Serge watched Coleman depart with his trademark swerve. Then he looked back down Ocean Drive. The café was much like the Fandango, but there was no way he could ever digest food there again. For several blocks north of the Colony Hotel, the beach had no shortage of top-shelf alfresco diners. Many featured wooden stands strategically placed for passersby to be tempted by plates of lobster, filet mignon and iced-down stone crabs.
Serge stared at the empty seat on the other side of his intimate table. He checked his watch, then looked up again.
There she was, all smiles, waving to him a block away and carrying a designer shopping bag. So that’s why she was late. Well, good for her, starting to bounce back from everything.
Serge was about to stand when an unexpected guest pulled up a chair.
“Excuse me,” said Serge. “This table’s taken.”
“I know.” The man smiled. “Just like the table was taken two years ago.”
The words punched him in the gut. Serge whipped his hand behind his back.
The man continued smiling and pressed a pistol under the table against Serge’s crotch. He shook his head. “You’re not that fast. Now put your hands where I can see them.”
Serge did as told.
“Remember I still have the gun pointed and it’s a light trigger pull.” The guest leaned back in his chair like he didn’t have a concern. “So we finally meet.”
“So South Philly Sal was a red herring.” Serge shook his head. “You’re the real Enzo Tweel.”
“At least that’s what my passport says this week.”
“You’ve got me, okay?” said Serge. “Leave Brook out of it. She’s an innocent bystander.”
“That’s an interesting idea,” said Enzo. “Except I love sequels.”
Serge scanned the surroundings with peripheral vision, trying not to allow his pupils to move and give him away as he sought possibilities.
“I know what you’re doing,” said Enzo. “There are no possibilities. Why don’t you just accept your fate with dignity?”
Brook reached the edge of the café, smiling even more buoyantly with a cheerful hop in her step. At the other end of the dynamic, all the rage in Serge’s life had just been eclipsed by what he felt now. He wanted to sound the warning, but correctly assumed Enzo’s training. She could be taken out the second he tried anything.
Brook finally reached the table. “Hey, Serge, I didn’t know you were bringing a friend.” She took a seat on the other side and placed the shopping bag in her lap. “My name’s Brook.” She extended a hand.
“Enzo.” He switched the pistol under the table to his left and shook. “Pleasure to meet.”
Brook looked down and reached into her shopping bag. “Serge, I found these great new shoes that were on sale. Only two hundred dollars. Want to see them? . . . Serge? Is something the matter?”
Enzo put his free hand on hers. “It’s nothing. We were just remembering a mutual friend who isn’t with us anymore.”
“Oh, that’s sad.” Brook turned to her new beau. “Were you close?”
“That was a long time ago,” said Serge. “Enzo’s right—it’s nothing.”
Enzo looked at each in turn. “How do we want to order? Serge, you want to order first? Or how about Brook?”
“But we don’t have any menus yet,” said Brook.
Serge was well aware of this. It was code.
“I think Serge should go first this time,” said Enzo. “That way Brook can see what’s on the menu for her.”
Serge had made his decision. When the moment came, he would simply upend the table and dive into the gun. Of course Enzo was a pro and would be able to get several shots off; Serge would take the bullets but knock him down in the process, giving Brook a chance to escape.
“Okay, enough games,” said Enzo. “You’ve been a thorn for far too long, and I have a plane to catch.”
Brook looked around the table. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
The countdown clock reached zero.
Serge began to spring, but the shot was too fast.
Bang.
Serge jolted back in his chair.
The next second seemed an eternity. Serge’s head fell toward his chest. Checking for blood that wasn’t there. Then he noticed only two of them were left at the table. He looked toward the ground and saw Enzo on his back, eyes surprisingly wide, with a softball-size hole in his chest.
Patrons began to scream and stampede.
Serge turned with an open mouth toward Brook, who was holding a designer shopping bag. Smoke drifted out through a burn hole in the bottom of the bag, near the end of a concealed sawed-off shotgun.
Serge blinked hard. “Something tells me you didn’t buy shoes.”
She reached across the table and seized his hand. “We need to get the hell out of here. I’ll fill you in . . .”
They took off running down Ocean Drive.
Epilogue
A cardboard sign hung from the doorknob of Mahoney’s office on the Miami River:
GONE FISSING.
Fifty miles south, a black Firebird with a Florida-winged skull on the hood crossed the bridge from the mainland to Key Largo.