The Stingray Shuffle полностью

They ran back to the boat. The brothers always took baseball bats with them in case they came across someone in traffic who needed a licking, but they also brought gloves and balls, on the advice of their attorney father, to disprove premeditation.

They found some more Budweiser and decided it would be a good idea to bring that, too. Soon they had returned with the bats and beer, ready for a successful future.

“Hold it,” Cameron said in the middle of the train car. He stopped and peed on something.

“That was great! Watch this!” Brandon dropped his trousers.

“You’re going to pinch a loaf?”

Brandon nodded.

“Radical!”

Brandon finished his business and pulled up his pants.

Cameron raised the baseball bat and smashed the arm off an Elizabethan chair.

“Let me see that.” Brandon shattered the cherry top of a library cabinet, gold-edged books spilling. The end of the bat got stuck in the hole through the busted-up wood. He braced his left arm against the cabinet to free the bat. “Hold it a second. There’s something shiny in here.”

He swept the rest of the books off the shelves, and Cameron helped him pull the shelving out. In back was a silver briefcase. They opened it up.

“Holy God!”

They picked up the briefcase and headed out of the train car.

Brandon spun around. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I heard something.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Up there.”

They were in the sleeping compartment. The top bunk was down, holding a big pile of blankets.

“I saw it move!”

“I did, too!”

The blankets shifted some more and a sleepy head finally poked out and looked around.

“Dig it!” said Cameron. “Some old bum is sleeping in here!”

“I hate bums!”

“Get a job, bum!”

Movement in a second bunk. Another head poked out. Then a whisper: “Serge, someone’s in the hideout.”

“Look! There’s two of ’em!” said Brandon.

“You know,” said Cameron, picking up his baseball bat and slapping it in an open palm, “they’re trespassing.”

“That’s right,” nodded Brandon, slapping his own bat in his hand.

“We’re going to teach you bums a lesson!”

Serge raised his hand. “Pardon me, but I think you’re making a mistake—”

“Shut up, bum! If you don’t have any respect for yourself, why should we?”

“Yeah! You make us want to puke with your laziness, your begging on street corners…”

“Your rude, unambitious, filthy lifestyle and your disgusting habits…”

“Time out,” said Serge, sitting up and making a T with his hands. He pointed out in the hall. “Which one of you brought the dog in here?”

“What dog? There is no dog,” said Brandon.

“But there’s a big pile of shit on the floor,” said Serge.

“Oh, that’s Brandon’s,” said Cameron.

“Will you shut up, bum?” yelled Brandon. “You interrupted me! Now I can’t even remember what I was saying!”

“You were talking about my disgusting habits,” said Serge.

“Right!” said Brandon. “You sicken us! We don’t want your kind near our island!”

“We’re going to make sure you two think twice before you ever break in here again!”

The pair advanced and raised their bats.

“Don’t even think of asking for mercy, bum!”

They stopped. Brandon tapped Cameron. “Is that a gun in his hand?”

Serge had their undivided attention. Brandon’s and Cameron’s eyes were open as far as they would go, their mouths taped. They were tied to straight-back chairs, wondering what all the pails were for — dozens of open buckets around their feet, filled with some kind of granular material.

Serge sat on the other side of the room, legs crossed, reading a copy of Historic Railroader Monthly. He was a lot more clean-shaven and fit — and armed — than they had expected a bum to be.

Serge looked up. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

They nodded quickly and hard.

“And that lesson,” said Serge, “is that you never really know whom you’re fucking with, so best not to do it at all.”

More nodding in agreement.

Serge patted the briefcase on the floor next to his chair. “And thanks for returning this. The little sucker almost got away from me again.”

He got up and walked over to one of the brick walls, gently touching the surface. “This is a pretty historic place itself. We’re out by the switching yards near the old West Palm depot. The mainland — I’m the local now. This used to be a major warehouse until they boarded it up twenty-five years ago. This room here was a giant humidor used to store cases of cigars that were boxcarred over from the factories in Tampa.” Serge ran his fingers along the doorframe. “It’s held up pretty well. The seals are in good shape. Except we’re not going to keep anything humid. We’re going to do the opposite.”

He picked up one of the granule-filled pails so they could read the side: “DampRid.”

“This stuff is incredible,” said Serge. “Sucks all the damn moisture out of the air. I mean all. If you reside in Florida, you can’t live without it. Until I found this stuff, my shower curtains were mildewed, the cabinets full of mold, all my album covers warped. But no more!”