Coleman was grabbing a bookcase for equilibrium. “Jesus, Serge. If you don’t want her, I do.”
“She’d rip you apart.”
“Hopefully.”
Serge raised the Xerox’s cover and flattened the deed book on the glass.
Coleman finished his beer and threw it in the trash. He pulled another off the plastic ring. “Ever Xerox your balls?”
“Let me think a second,” said Serge. “Uh… no.”
He turned the deed book over and reached in his pocket. “I’m out of change.”
“I’ll be at the computers,” said Coleman.
Serge went to the research desk and pulled a one from his wallet. “Excuse me…”
He hadn’t noticed her before. The demure little woman. Thick glasses, hair pulled back, wrong clothes buttoned to the neck.
“What is it?” — not looking up from the novel she was reading.
“Uh… Xerox… dollar…”
She made change with one hand, never taking her eyes off the book.
Serge floated back across the library to the main desk, little cartoon hearts in a conga line around his head.
“Brenda…”
“Hellllloooo there, stranger.” She leaned practically close enough to kiss.
“Who’s that over there?”
Brenda tilted her head to look around Serge’s. “Molly? She’s new. Just started this week.”
“What do you know about her?”
“As much as you.”
“Think she’d go out with me?”
Brenda involuntarily giggled. She covered her mouth. “I’m sorry. I just don’t see the two of you…”
“She’s the one.”
Brenda covered her mouth again.
“No, really. I think she’s crazy about me.”
Brenda composed herself. “Did she even look at you?”
“Not exactly.”
“She doesn’t look at anyone. Barely talks.”
“I sense something. A soul-mate connection.”
Coleman came over from the computers. “They blocked the porn on those things.”
Brenda pointed across the room. “Coleman, what do you think of her?”
“Who? That goofy chick?”
“Serge thinks he’s found his soul mate.”
“I’m going to ask her out.”
Brenda and Coleman watched Serge stiffly approach the reference desk. Coleman popped another beer. Brenda checked her watch. Ten minutes till closing. “Can I have one of those?”
It was a short, one-sided conversation on the other side of the room. Molly kept reading her book. The discussion ended without her ever making eye contact. Serge came back to the front desk.
They were prepared to console him.
“She said yes.”
“You’re kidding,” said Brenda.
“I pick her up Saturday at seven.”
Serge and Coleman left the library and headed toward the Buick. Coleman stopped and whispered something to Serge.
Brenda flicked off the lights and went to lock up the front. Serge and Coleman were waiting outside. She opened one of the doors. “Yes?”
“Coleman has something he’d like to ask.” Serge poked him in the ribs.
Brenda waited.
Coleman looked at the ground and played with his belt buckle. “I was sort of wondering if you maybe, you know, might want to go on kind of a” — his voice dropped to inaudible — “double date?”
“I couldn’t hear you,” said Brenda.
“He wants to double-date,” said Serge.
Brenda suppressed the gag reflex. Then she thought quickly. It was one step closer to Serge. “Sure.”
“Really?” said Coleman. “I mean, great! Pick you up at seven!”
19
THIS IS EYEWITNESS FIVE correspondent Maria Rojas outside the Miami courthouse, where we’ve just received word that the jury has reached a verdict in the infamous airbag-murder case…”
The courtroom was hushed. The jury foreman stood.
“As to the single count of negligent homicide in the first degree, we find the defendants… not guilty.”
Yahoo!
People jumped up from the defense table. Hugs and high-fives. Prosecutors quietly filled briefcases with papers. Someone jumped up in the audience. “You call this justice!” Bailiffs grabbed the man, the father of the Margate woman who hit a retaining wall on I-95 and went headfirst into the undeployed airbag full of sand.
Pristine Used Motors made a killing fixing up totaled cars and not telling. They bought the wrecks at auction. Head-ons, T-bones, cars sheared in two. Sometimes they welded together halves of different cars. The junks were practically free, the bodywork done by underpaid wizards with no green cards. They replaced grills, straightened fenders, somehow got them running and, most crucial of all, a nice wash and wax. Out on the lot they went, under the balloons and strings of flapping pennants, big orange numbers on the windshields: $3999!
One of the biggest profit zones was the airbags that had opened in the wrecks and were required by law to be replaced. But that was hundreds of dollars. Sand was free. Other dealerships moved more cars, but Pristine Used Motors was all about the margin. The owners had become quite wealthy and now drove fancy luxury vehicles purchased from reputable dealers because they wanted to make sure the airbags worked.
The odds began to hit. One fatal head-on, then a second, paramedics peeling open cars with hydraulic jaws. Prosecutors took it to the grand jury. The owners were a step ahead. They had compartmentalized the operation, assigning only one mechanic to airbag duty in a locked garage after hours. Then, every other month, an anonymous tip to immigration, and the mechanics were somewhere in Tijuana when the D.A. came looking for witnesses.
The defense: Hey, we’re as outraged as you are! The mechanics were working on commission and did this without our knowledge. They skated on the first case. Prosecutors weren’t allowed to introduce the acquittal at the second.
The postverdict celebration spilled down the courthouse steps, where a red BMW full of scuba gear was waiting at the curb. The three defendants had decided in advance that they were going to let off some serious steam if they got out of this one. They jogged to the street and piled in the car.
A reporter ran after them with a microphone.
“Are you guilty anyway?…”
The BMW headed south.
THE ’71 BUICK RIVIERA neared the eastern end of the Seven-Mile Bridge. It had a newly installed trailer hitch.
Coleman fired a doobie. “Where are we going?”
“Have to start preparing for the wedding.”
“You mean the date.”
“That’s just a formality,” said Serge. “We’re meant to be together.”
“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”
“That’s the best place. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Coleman took a big hit. “Can’t believe I’m actually going on a date tomorrow.”
“Weddings are incredibly complicated,” said Serge. “A million arrangements to be made. That’s why you have to get a huge jump.”
“I thought the women took care of everything.”
“Are you kidding? The guy has all kinds of responsibilities leading up to the big day.”
“Like what?”
“Like you need to hurry up and buy all the shit your wife would never let you get after you’re married. I’ve always wanted an airboat.”
“Hey, look!” said Coleman. “A waterspout!”
“I see it,” said Serge. “Out by the Sombrero Key light. It’s a big one.”
“Whenever I spot one, I feel special.”
“Me, too,” said Serge. “I’m going to make a wish.”
“You can’t make a wish on a waterspout. Only shooting stars and magic wells.”
“That’s just politics.”
“The spout’s gone,” said Coleman. He took a big hit. “Now I’m bored.”