16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (22 page)

“No,” said Johnny.

Perfect,
thought the manager. Those who already had reservations would keep; some were even non-refundable. But a walk-up was one more room in the occupied column.

The manager typed rapidly and grabbed a walkie-talkie. “How’s it coming up there on seventeen?”

“The cops have only released four rooms, and the glass guys just got started.”

“You have to give me something.”

“Well, there’s one room where they didn’t break the window, and I think I see the cops leaving now.”

“Excellent. I want it cleaned and ready in ten.”

“It’ll take a lot longer. There’s quite a mess.”

“Ten minutes! Just make the beds and grab the trash.”

“What about everything else?”

“Trust me,” said the manager, watching Fawn tonguing Johnny’s neck. “They’re not going to mind.”

“You got it.”

The manager completed the paperwork with cloned pleasantness. “Here are your room keys. Hope you enjoy your stay.”

Johnny snatched the magnetic cards and dashed for the elevator, dragging a now-shoeless Fawn. They reached seventeen. The hallway was still half full of remaining investigators. Johnny swerved and dodged with Fawn in hand. Her high heels were back in the lobby under a baby grand.

“Watch it!” yelled a police photographer.

“Sorry.” Johnny reached the door and led her into the suite.

The staff actually hadn’t done a bad job. The only noticeable issue was three brown circles on the rug.

Fawn threw open the curtains. “Look at that great view! You can see the Pacific Ocean!” Then she threw off her top.

Johnny gulped as she turned around and he saw the kind of perfectly formed breasts usually found only in artwork. She took a running start—“Yippee!”—and jumped on the bed with a bounce.

She rolled over and squirmed out of her jeans, then twirled them on her foot before flinging them aside. Next, the black panties . . .

Johnny fell back against a wall, the only thing now holding him up.

Fawn rolled over on her stomach, idly kicking one leg up and down and tossing her blond locks in abandon. If Johnny’s eyes were lasers, her ass would have burst into flames. She grabbed the remote control that was sitting in front of the alarm clock. “You like porn? I love porn! Let’s watch some porn.”

“Uh, okay.”

She clicked on the set. “What have we got here? . . .
Naughty Housewives
. . . Seen that, seen that, seen that twice, seen that, seen that . . . haven’t seen that.” She made the selection on the remote, triggering 1970s porn music with a bass guitar and moog organ.

“Cool,” said Fawn. “Pin the tail on the donkey.”

The quickest way for Johnny to get out of his clothes was the epileptic floor-flop method. He jumped up in his birthday suit.

“Wow!” said Fawn. “They weren’t kidding about the finger-size thing. Be careful not to knock over any lamps.”

“What?”

“That was a joke.” She ran a hand slowly around her left breast. “I could really use another drink. And why don’t you make one for yourself, too. I like a drinking man.”

Johnny almost somersaulted to the minibar. He mixed up the simplest cocktails and raced back to the bed.

Fawn took the cold glass and pressed it against her cheek. “That feels sooooo good.” Then she placed it farther south . . .

Johnny knocked over a lamp.

“Easy there, fella,” said Fawn. “Let’s watch what this clown’s doing on TV. I want to be
your
piñata.”

Johnny crawled into bed. Literally. His legs were shot.

Fawn took a big sip of the drink. “That doesn’t taste bad, considering you weren’t measuring and just splashing everything all over the table and furniture.”

“Thanks.”

“Ooooo, I want you so bad. I want you in me right now.”

“Me, too. I mean you. I mean—”

“Wait, what’s this?” asked Fawn.

“What?”

“Did you get an unwashed glass?”

“No, why?”

“It looks like there’s something in the ice cubes—”

Blooooosh!

A geyser of foam gushed out of the glass. Up her nose and in her eyes.

“You son of a bitch! Is that your idea of a joke?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You put Mentos in the ice cubes and made me a rum and Coke. I know that prank.”

“I swear I didn’t.”

Fawn was already halfway back in her clothes, sliding the top over her head. “And you wouldn’t believe what I was thinking of doing to you! Now you’ll just have to imagine.”

“But, baby, the people who stayed here before us must have made the ice cubes . . .”

Fawn slowed on her way out of the room. She turned around. “You know, you’re right. We just checked in. You wouldn’t have had time.”

“Exactly,” said Johnny.

“Maybe I was a little hasty.” A mischievous grin returned to her face.

Johnny sat up with renewed optimism.

Fawn began a slow, sexy grind dance in place where she stood. She tucked a finger in her mouth and sucked it as her hips swayed to the music in her head.

Johnny gulped:
Yes! My luck has finally changed, especially since the streak ends with one that I was sure had gotten away. The floodgates will now open and I’ll probably score twenty times by Sunday.

Fawn continued grinding as she slowly pulled the moist finger from her mouth and put it . . .

Johnny practically choked on his tongue.

“Oh, you like that?” she said with a husky bedroom voice.

Johnny concentrated to remember how to nod.

Another wicked smile crossed Fawn’s face as her other hand slid lower. Her eyes and mouth formed an expression of pure lust.

Then her face changed. She felt something tickling the back of her bare feet. Whiskers.

“Eeeeeeeek!”

Fawn ran out the door.

Johnny looked down. A small mouse disappeared though a perfectly semi-circular hole in the baseboard. H
OME
S
WEET
H
OME.

The weeping started as barely audible peeps, then rose up through his chest in loud, body-racking sobs as Johnny cried into his own drink.

Blooooosh!

Chapter Twenty-Five

STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

S
erge sat and smiled.

The man on the other side of the desk smiled back. He wore a white dress shirt and red tie. His jacket was over the back of his chair. Twenty-nine years old, tops. He tapped the eraser end of a pencil to indicate he was a man of action.

“So you want to volunteer?”

“Absolutely,” said Serge.

“That’s great,” said the man. “We can always use more good people.”

“More is good.”

“But you didn’t bring a résumé?”

“Résumés can come back to bite you,” said Serge. “Paper trails and all.”

“Ahhh, yes.” The staffer nodded with understanding. “By that comment, I see you must have had a lot of experience.”

“Definitely,” said Serge. “I’ve been an American my whole life, and I’m ready to get to it!”

“No, I mean working on political campaigns.”

“I once beat up a flag burner.”

“Well, we don’t actually condone that, but nobody here is going to hold it against you,” said the staffer. “You were provoked . . . So tell me, what makes you want to volunteer for the Miami Republican Party?”

“I’m tired of activist judges.”

The staffer nodded. “Couldn’t agree more. Un-elected, activist judges are always overturning the will of the people.”

“Like the ones who elected George W. Bush,” said Serge.

The staffer stopped and stared. “No, activism became wrong
after
that.”

“It was a joke,” said Serge.

“Oh.” He leaned over a printed form. “So back to what you mentioned earlier. You’re in favor of our proposal to ban flag burning?”

“Thousands of patriots died to defend that flag.”

“Great. I’ll mark the ‘yes’ box in the litmus test.”

“No,” said Serge. “The flag stands for freedom of speech.”

The staffer raised his pencil in puzzlement. “Are you saying you wouldn’t attack the flag burner if you had it to do over again?”

“Actually I’d probably beat the piss out of him even harder.” Serge sat back and crossed his legs. “The flag also stands for my freedom of expression.”

The staffer leaned back in his own chair. “I’m getting a half-and-half take from you.”

“Good,” said Serge. “I hate to be predictable. Next question?”

The staffer appraised Serge for a moment, then leaned over his form again. “How do you feel about guns?”

“Love ’em! Can’t get enough.” Serge formed his index finger and thumb into a pistol and fired at the ceiling. “It’s like my hand isn’t complete without a pistol in it.”

“Excellent, that’s an easy one.” He hunched over the page. “I’ll mark the box that you’re against handgun control.”

“No, I’m for it,” said Serge, blowing invisible smoke off the end of his finger. “There’s a massive handgun epidemic in America. You’d be blind not to see it.”

“That’s contradictory. What about
your
guns?”

“I’m part of the problem.”

“So your guns should be taken away?”

“Fuck no! From my cold, dead hands! . . .”

. . . Across the street stood another office. Red-white-and-blue banners strung over the parking lot. On the reception desk were help-yourself baskets of American-flag lapel pins and candidate buttons.

Like Serge, Coleman was sitting across the desk from another partisan staffer.

A pencil tapped impatiently.

Coleman fidgeted and stared at the ceiling with his mouth open.

“Am I boring you?”

“Starting to,” said Coleman.

“I thought you wanted to volunteer for the Miami Democratic Party.”

“That was my friend’s idea,” said Coleman. “He’s across the street volunteering right now.”

“He’s volunteering with the
Republicans
but sent you here? That makes no sense.”

“Says he wants to stop all this bickering in America and unite the red and blue states so it’s purple mountain majesty.”

The staffer went into we’ll-get-back-to-you mode and shuffled papers. “I’m not sure we have something for you today, but appreciate you dropping in.”

“Great, I was afraid I’d have to do some work.” Coleman glanced around. “Want to burn one?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know . . .” Coleman held a thumb and index finger to his mouth in the international toking sign.

“Well . . .” The staffer checked his watch. “It is almost lunch.”

“Excellent. Let’s rock.”

They ended up sitting on the ground with their backs against the rear of the building just behind the Dumpsters.

Coleman passed the nub of a joint. “The Democratic Party is cool! You guys do weed!”

“Just some of us younger ones.”

“So what happens after lunch?” said Coleman. “Let’s get abortions and give a bunch of condoms to some kids. They’ll think we’re cool!”

“That’s not exactly what our party—”

“Can I meet some hot chicks on the pill?”

“I don’t think you understand—”

“Want to burn another?”

“Sure.”

The metal loading door opened into the alley with a loud grinding noise.

Coleman and the staffer whispered back and forth to each other.

“Shhh!”

“Put it out!”

“I’m putting it out!”

A young woman stepped into the alley and sniffed the air. “I recognize that smell . . . Roger? Are you out here?”

“Oh, hey, Susan. We’re behind the Dumpsters.”

She walked around the bins and smiled coyly. “I know what you guys are doing.”

“Hubba, hubba,” said Coleman. “Are you on the pill?”

“What?”

“Coleman’s a little unpolished, but he’s got some killer weed. Want to join us?”

“Sure.” She took a seat on the ground . . .

. . . Back across the street, the staffer named Jansen leaned over a litmus test with a freshly sharpened pencil. “Death penalty?”

“Love it in theory; hate it in practice,” said Serge. “Screws the poor.”

Jansen set his pencil down again for the last time. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure you have the right place?”

Serge pointed at a sign out in the hall. “ ‘Republican Party Headquarters’? Hell yes! You don’t think I’d go across the street where I sent my friend to volunteer?”

“You sent your friend to the Democrats? Why would you do that?”

“Because he’s more their flavor. And I’m more Libertarian, so I’m in line with your platform of a smaller government that needs to get its nose out of our bedrooms, except that’s the opposite of what you actually do. And since I’m sure those are typographical errors, I thought I’d help proofread.”

Jansen shook his head. “We always need extra hands on our campaigns, but I have no idea how to use you.”

“Why?”

“We’ve had a lot of people volunteer over the years, but I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Half the time you’re enthusiastically in favor of what we stand for, and half the time you’re not. And often on the very same issue.” Jansen crumpled the hopelessly inconclusive litmus test. “In fact, just about everything you’ve said contradicts itself. There’s nothing consistent.”

“That’s no accident,” said Serge. “Consistency is the natural enemy of compromise.”

“Whoa, back up. Did you say ‘compromise’?”

Serge smiled and unbuttoned his tropical shirt to reveal the custom-made T-shirt underneath:

I
L
OVE
M
Y
O
PPONENTS.

Jansen’s eyes bugged in alarm. “What in the hell’s the meaning of that?”

“It’s obvious,” said Serge. “I’ve got lots of friends who think I’m Satan’s elf and will burn in hell. In turn I make wisecracks like ‘Gay marriage threatens the sanctity of Newt Gingrich divorcing his next bedridden wife,’ and yet we still all get along and have lots of chuckles over Bloomin’ Onions at Outback . . . See, the brilliance of my plan is its simplicity. There’s only one thing holding America back from realizing her full glory. Ready? You want to write this down? No? Okay, here it is: We need to stop taking ourselves so seriously.”

“Uh, why don’t you leave your phone number and we’ll get back to you when something comes up. My assistant will lead you out.”

“Sounds great.” Serge stood and shook hands and was escorted through an office floor that was a hive of industrious activity. Staffers feverishly worked the phones and computers and practically crashed into one another running to and from the copy machine.

Serge crossed the street and entered another building. He looked around the empty reception desk. “Hello? Anyone here? . . .” He banged the little bell. “Helloooooo? . . .” Leaning over the desk: “Anyone behind there . . . ?”

Serge bypassed the reception area and opened a door to the main office. He stopped and surveyed dozens of neglected phones and computers. Everyone was clustered in a circle in the center of the room. Serge approached with curiosity. There was laughter and people throwing pencils into the ceiling.

Serge drew closer, but stopped in surprise when he noticed who had their attention in the middle of the group.

“Coleman?”

“Oh, hey, Serge . . . Everybody, this is my friend Serge that I was telling you about . . . So how’d it go across the street with the other party?”

“Not so good.” Serge pulled up a chair. “They said they would call me back, which means they’ll never call back.”

“Really?” said Coleman. “They all love me here!”

Everyone nodded with bright smiles.

“So what is this?” asked Serge. “Some kind of afternoon break?”

“No, we’re working,” said Roger.

“Working?” Serge looked around an office of abandoned desks and ringing phones.

“We work in theory,” said another staffer. “Very high-concept stuff, such as what wind farms will look like in the twenty-third century.”

“Serge, this kind of work is cool!” Coleman threw a pencil that stuck in the ceiling.

Someone else nudged Coleman. “Tell us again about the chicken bong.”

“Okay, I opened the fridge . . .”

“Excuse me,” said Serge, working his way into the circle and taking Coleman by the arm. “We have to be somewhere.”

The disappointed staff:
“Auuuuuuuuu . . .”

One of them suddenly pointed at Serge’s chest.
“What’s that?”

“What?” said Serge, opening his tropical shirt and looking down. “This?”

I
L
OVE
M
Y
O
PPONENTS.

“What’s that bullshit supposed to mean?”

“Are you some kind of troublemaker!”

“Nazi!”

Coleman raised his hands to the group. “Everyone mellow out. Serge is cool.”

“If you say so, Coleman.”

“Take care, Coleman.”

“Hurry back . . .”

ACROSS TOWN

A load of untaxed cigarettes sailed up the Miami River.

A man in a porkpie hat watched from a second-story window of an all-but-abandoned office building. He tossed the hat on an antique rack in the corner and propped his feet up on the desk next to three fingers of rye in a dirty glass.

A rotary phone rang.

The man glared at it. Possibilities rattled his noggin: a busty divorcée with a framed brother in Sing Sing, another floater in the bay, or—dare he hope—a break in the 1947 Black Dahlia case?

He grabbed the receiver on the ninth ring. “Mahoney here. Gargle in the soup can.”

“What?”

“Talk in the phone.”

“Oh, well, Mr. Mahoney, my name is Brook Campanella, and I want to hire you to find who tried to scam my father—”

“Where’d you scarf my digits?”

“What?”

“How’d you get my number?”

“You came highly recommended from an Internet chat room,” said Brook. “Some people hired you to track down a fake DEA agent who swindled them.”

“Itchin’ to parlay your chips straight to the hard eight?”

“Uh . . . huh?”

Mahoney sighed. “You want to team up?”

“No, I don’t want to go in with the other people,” said Brook. “In fact, I’d rather they not know I’m involved at all.”

“Dangle the angle.”

“Whatever information you’re reporting to them, I also want you to give to me,” said Brook. “I’ll pay double.”

“Deuces wild.”

HIALEAH

Tiny white rocks rumbled under the tires of a black Firebird as it drove down an industrial road next to the expressway.

“Shouldn’t take it so bad,” said Coleman. “At least the Democrats dug me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Coleman looked over into the backseat. “I get what you did with the cigars, but how can that other thing you just bought possibly fit in?”

“Watch and learn.” Serge cut the steering wheel.

A cell phone rang. Serge sagged. “I wish Mahoney would get off my back.” He checked the display and looked at Coleman.

“What is it?”

“Not Mahoney. And I don’t recognize the number.” He put it to his ear. “Hello? . . . Oh, Sasha, how’s it going? . . .” He rolled his eyes at Coleman. “. . . Of course I was going to call you back . . .” Coleman began giggling uncontrollably, and Serge punched him in the arm. “. . . No, that was the radio . . . Listen, I’m kind of busy right now and— . . . What? Where’d you hear this? . . . Yeah, I got a pen. Go ahead and give me the address . . . Thanks . . . I am not trying to avoid you. I haven’t been answering my phone because I’m in and out of a lot of places where there’s no signal . . . Of course I’ll call . . . I got to run . . . I really got to run . . .” Serge looked over at Coleman in exasperation and stuck a finger in his mouth like a gun, then pretended to blow his brains out. “. . . No, it wasn’t just physical . . . Of course I’ll call . . . I don’t know when . . . I promise . . . I said I promised . . . Something’s on fire!” He hung up.