“Why don’t you get up?”
“We don’t want to.”
“Come on, get up! I got it pointed in the air. The safety’s on.”
The remaining two crew members peeked over the edge of the desk.
Woosh.
A second rocket took off toward the ceiling, blowing a massive hole in the roof of the stilt house. The crew ducked again as debris fell. Scarface looked up at open sky. “How’d that happen?” He shrugged and dumped out more coke.
Finally, Scarface told the two remaining crew members to go get something to clean up the mess. Thank God. They hurried for the door.
“No, wait. Except you,” said Scarface. “I want you to stay behind.”
The pair turned around to see which of them he meant. The one Scarface was looking at pointed reluctantly at his own chest. “M-m-me?”
“Yes, you.”
“W-w-what do you want?”
“Relax. You didn’t do anything. I just want to talk.”
The selected crew member gulped and walked back across the room. Scarface got up from his butterfly chair and came around the front of the desk. Both turned and watched until the other crew member had left and closed the door. They faced each other again. Scarface broke into a wicked grin.
The other man reached back and slapped Scarface as hard as he could.
“Ow!” Scarface grabbed his cheek. “Why’d you do that?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve lost your fuckin’ mind!”
“What” — pointing at the ceiling — “the rocket launcher?”
“All of it! You’re out of control!”
Scarface continued rubbing his cheek. “But I thought this is what you wanted. You told me to pose as the head of your organization. To draw attention away from you.”
“Draw attention, not go on a publicity tour. You cut Billy’s head off, then posed it in front of a mirror!”
“That was wrong?”
Slap.
“Do you have any idea how much media that’s getting? I tell you to take care of a guy, and I expect two in the back of the head. Instead you give me a horror show.”
“You told me I was doing a good job.”
“Five years ago! Before the coke started eating through your brain like termites. Your judgment’s fucked. Like the upside-down crucifixion at the bat tower. What the hell was that about?”
“I was sending a message,” said Scarface.
“What kind of message?”
“I don’t remember the message code, but it was a strong one. Especially the upside-down part. That’s never good.”
Slap.
“And you’re paying for my roof! I’m not standing for this—” His expression suddenly changed. He looked oddly at Scarface’s left cheek. “Your scar…”
Scarface smiled proudly. “You like it?”
“It’s peeling.”
“It is?” Scarface urgently felt his cheek and pressed it back in place. “There. How’s that?”
Slap.
The scar went flying.
Scarface ran across the room and picked it up off the floor.
The other crew member returned with the cleaning supplies.
Scarface pressed the scar back on and turned toward the door. “What the hell are you looking at!”
The crew member didn’t want to say anything, but he could have sworn the scar used to be on the other cheek.
31
DURING THE FIRST few weeks of wedded bliss, Molly asked more and more questions about Serge’s job. His answers became increasingly vague.
“I understand about the confidentiality,” said Molly. “And it’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just all these strange hours and phone calls, running into the house and locking the door, then peeking out windows. If only I could see something concrete for peace of mind….”
“Okay,” Serge relented. “You’ve been very supportive of my career. I couldn’t do half of this without you standing behind me. If it’ll help you sleep, you can come with me next time.”
“Really?”
Monday night, Sugarloaf Key Community Center
EACH WEEK, THE crowd had grown, drawing on audiences from other meetings as word spread. They had to move to one of the double rooms and push back the partition, and still it was standing-room-only. Serge had a particular ability to connect with youth, siphoning down the juvenile-intervention class until it was now empty. At first, the deputies were going to report the absences to the court, but Gus suggested they sit in on one of Serge’s talks to see if they could pick up techniques to help the kids.
Five till seven. The seats almost full. The deputies stood in the back of the room by the punch bowl. Serge, Molly and Coleman arrived. Molly had a serving tray. She smiled at the deputies and peeled back cellophane. “Cookie?”
Gus took two.
Serge marched to the front of the room and grabbed chalk. He wrote across the blackboard in big letters. He set the chalk back in the tray and faced the class. Everyone became quiet. Over his head was the title of tonight’s lesson: TWELVE STEPS IN REVERSE: GETTING THE MOST FROM YOUR INNER MANIAC.
This time Serge didn’t start talking right away. He paced with hands behind his back, staring in accusation. Some in the audience fidgeted and averted their eyes.
“Why do you come to these meetings?” He let the question hang as he moved across the front of the room. Suddenly, he fell to the floor, flopping around and whining in a loud voice. “Because I’m a victim! Oh, please help me! I’m so fucked up!…”
A young girl in the front row giggled.
Serge jumped to his feet. “Did I say you could laugh?” He ran up fast until he was right in her face. “Shut the hell up! You’re a child. You don’t know shit! You think adults with problems are funny? You know how they get that way? They start like you, a smart-ass punk disrespecting underpaid teachers who are trying to hand you the keys to the world, thinking life’s going to bloom all by itself and wipe your ass with roses! You have no idea where you’re headed. But I do…” He began moving his hands over an imaginary crystal ball. “…I’m getting a picture now. A middle-aged woman with thirty-inch thighs and no health insurance working entry-level checkout, going home to a run-down rabbit warren full of TV Guides, pregnant offspring, paint-ball guns and a slob of a husband who can’t go look for another job just yet because he has to hurry up and finish these beers before the police drop by to break up your weekly slap-dance in the front-yard, dog-shit orchard. And you go back to that cash register, year after year, your anger growing in proportion to the success of the people coming through your line. Why are they so happy? Because they’re screwing you, that’s why! You can’t say exactly how they’re doing it because that’s part of the conspiracy. More years pass. You’re switching channels after dinner and happen to hear something that finally explains how none of this is your fault. You see, you’re a victim. You did nothing to deserve this. And you know what? They’re right. You did absolutely nothing. And one day you wake up and find yourself in one of these meetings you find so hilarious.”
The girl was quaking. Serge saw some of the adults nodding and whispering. “Tough love.” “The boot camp method.”
Serge erupted. “No! No! No! I hate tough love! Screw the boot camp! Are you crazy? That’s the last thing you should do to children! They need love! As much as you can give!” He walked over to the girl he’d just been yelling at. “You look like you could use a hug.”
She nodded with glassy eyes.
He helped her up by the hand and gave her a big squeeze. She sat back down with a quivering smile, wiping her eyes.
“There,” said Serge. “Now go forth and be a nuclear physicist.”
He faced the room as a whole and spread his arms. “The entire problem is this victim mentality. When did that start? Life’s not turning out the way they said it would when you were in first grade. You’re not the president or a movie star or playing center field for the Yankees. Guess what? They lied! Move on! You come from incredible stock! Immigrants who chewed through it all and spit it out with thanks: Ellis Island, Manifest Destiny, the dust bowls, Normandy, and for what? For a society that now encourages everyone to choose up excuse teams: My attention span’s a little off, sometimes I’m nervous, sometimes I’m tired, insults make me sad, I was unfairly labeled slow in school when I really just didn’t want to do any work, a diet of super-size French fries turned me into a human zeppelin, your honor, so I need to be given a lot of money….”