On West Fifty-third Street, at a sidewalk restaurant of obscure nationality and no prices, a man and a woman sat across from each other in identical business suits. A waiter in a red turban set a plate in front of each of them. They had ordered the same, pan-seared sponge on a bed of pollen.
“Pepper?” asked the waiter.
They nodded. The waiter twisted a metal tube over their plates.
“Sir,” said the woman. “We have a sleeper on our hands. Just got the sales report yesterday. Red-hot — might even crack the
“Whose book? Allister? Byron? Sir Dennis?”
She shook her head. “Ralph.”
“Ralph!”
The waiter held a pump bottle. “Moisture?”
They nodded.
“I didn’t know Ralph was even still alive.”
“We’re trying to confirm that.”
“When did we publish a new title?”
“We didn’t. This is his last one.”
The waiter put on safety goggles. “Blowtorch?”
They nodded.
“But his last book was ten years ago.”
“Eleven.”
The man shook his head. “This is a crazy business.”
“No crazier than any other.”
A troupe of midgets surrounded the table, Cossack dancing.
“I just can’t get over it. I mean, Ralph! How did this start?”
“A sales fluke out of Miami Beach. A bookstore called The Palm Reader, then it snowballed.”
“The Palm Reader?”
“One of those new crime and mystery specialty shops. A local wholesaler got wind of it and spread the word…”
The waiter clapped his hands twice, and the midgets dispersed. “Dessert?”
They nodded.
“Okay, throw some money at promotions,” said the man, jabbing his sponge with a fork. “And find Ralph. We need to get him back on tour. Talk to his agent.”
“He isn’t represented anymore, not that we know of.”
“Try the last one.”
The dessert hovercraft arrived.
5
The day Paul and Jethro found the five million dollars and took off across the state had started out pleasant enough. No rain in the forecast, the mercury hovering under eighty at the Lakeland airport, halfway between Tampa and Orlando. Two long lines of cars sat stationary in the eastbound lanes of Interstate 4, hundreds of traffic-jammed vehicles stretching endlessly over the gentle central Florida hills, all the way to the horizon.
In the middle of the right lane was a blue ’74 Malibu. Jethro was driving, Paul in the passenger seat with an open briefcase in his lap, counting wads.
“How much farther to the cruise ships?” asked Paul.
“Eighty miles,” said Jethro. “How much money?”
“Three million. A lot left. Hope there’s a ship leaving today.”
“We can always put up in a motel. Nobody’s going to find us that fast. It’ll be weeks before they even realize anyone has found the money, and longer, if ever, before they connect it to us.”
Five miles behind the Malibu, a pink Cadillac Eldorado was stuck in the same lane.
“What’s the global-positioning tracker say?” asked Lenny.
Serge looked down at the beeping box on the seat beside him. “The briefcase is stuck in traffic, too. About five miles ahead.”
The Cadillac held four people, two men in front, two women in back. Airbrushing down the side of the convertible: LENNY LIPPOWICZ — THE DON JOHNSON EXPERIENCE. One bumper sticker: REHAB IS FOR QUITTERS.
“What’s the delay?” said Serge, grabbing the top of the windshield and standing up on the driver’s seat to see as far as he could. He plopped back down and punched the steering wheel.
“Maybe a wreck?” said Lenny in the passenger seat, wearing a pastel T-shirt and white Versace jacket.
“Should have known better,” said Serge. “Never take I-4 when you have to get anywhere.”
A female voice from the backseat: “Can we have another joint?”
“No!” snapped Serge. “No more dope for you!”
Lenny passed a joint back.
Serge threw up his hands. “I just told them they couldn’t have any more.”
“Doper etiquette,” said Lenny. “Mellow out.”
“You know my personality type,” said Serge. “I can’t take boredom. And I especially can’t take some kind of huge holdup where you don’t know what’s going on!”
One of the women offered the lit joint over Serge’s shoulder. He pushed it away. “Just give me a ballpark of how long the wait is! I don’t care if it’s four hours — I need something I can mentally whittle on, compartmentalize, break down and digest. Or give the reason. Let me know what the hell’s going on! This out-of-the-loop, can’t-seethe-front-of-the-line shit is making me crazy!” He punched the steering wheel again.
“Look,” said Lenny. “I think they’re starting to move up there.”
They both leaned forward and watched closely. They sat back again.
“Sorry. Just an illusion,” said Lenny. “Heat waves from the road.”
The backseat: “Ahem…can we have, like, another joint? It’ll be the last one. Promise.”
“See what you started?” said Serge. “They’re hooked.”
“How was I to know?”
Serge turned around and put his arm over the back of the driver’s seat and stared at the women, City and Country, college-age babes from Alabama. “You say you never got high in your life until last week? Not a single time until Lenny turned you on back at Hammerhead Ranch?”
The women nodded, one hitting a roach clip, the other holding her smoke.
