The Stingray Shuffle полностью

The briefcase kept moving, rotating past the legs of unsuspecting customers. Table after table, typical south Florida hotel bar culture, three airline pilots from Ithaca, pharmaceutical salesmen hooked on their own samples, a Dutch tour group, headhunters, plastic surgeons, food photographers, four motivational speakers in town for a seminar on how to make one hundred thousand dollars a year repairing cracks in windshields with a simple tube of adhesive. The briefcase kept going, past the legs of two men sipping goblets of vodka and grapefruit juice.

“You’ve gone into another printing!” Tanner Lebos told Ralph Krunkleton. “Have you seen the new cover?”

Tanner passed the glossy prototype across the table to Ralph, who noticed some additional words across the top: New York Times Bestseller!

“It made the bestseller list?” asked Ralph.

“Haven’t you heard?”

“I didn’t see anything in the papers.”

“That’s because they only print the top ten or fifteen titles.”

“What number am I?”

“One hundred ninety-four.”

“That’s on the list?”

“The list is actually thousands long. Theoretically, every book is on the list, but for the sake of integrity, we cut it off at five hundred….”

“We have honor.”

“You know, I just reread the book,” said Tanner. “I’d forgotten a lot of it. It’s even better than I remembered.”

“Thanks.”

“Like that character the urinal guy. How’d you think that up? What an imagination!”

“Imagination nothing. I did that. I was on a roadtrip in college. This was before credit cards. I ran out of money and couldn’t get back….”

The briefcase kept going, more legs. Conventioning oncologists, conventioning lapidaries, conventioning Mary Kay sales leaders with pink cars in the garage. Another quarter of the way around the bar, under another table, a heated discussion, Russian accents.

“Dammit!” said Ivan. “We were this close to that money! This close!…”

Still rotating, more legs. Diamond dealers on sabbatical, gigolos on the make, Panamanian strongmen, Brazilian bombshells, American tragedies. The briefcase went past the legs of five women with five glasses of Sex on the Beach.

“I can’t believe you haven’t finished The Stingray Shuffle,” said Rebecca.

“I’ve been busy,” said Sam.

“You won’t believe what happens to the five million dollars.”

“Don’t give it away!”

Teresa stood and took a snapshot out the window. “So this is Travis McGee’s old stomping ground.” Another snapshot. “Let’s read a Travis book next.”

“Let’s not and say we did,” said Sam.

“What are you talking about?” said Maria. “They’re great!”

“The women are always objects,” said Sam. “In fact, the more I read, I’m not even sure I like Travis.”

That rocked the whole table.

“What?” said Maria. “You mean, you wouldn’t have slept with Travis?”

“Are you kidding?”

“I would have,” said Paige.

“I’d have slept with Meyer,” said Rebecca.

“Ewwwwww!” said the other four.

The briefcase kept going, more legs, litterbugs, bookworms, social butterflies, midlife counselors, postmodern sculptors, premature ejaculators.

Serge looked up. “Oh no.”

Two large-chested men in black suits, black shirts and pointy shoes. They walked quickly toward Serge’s table, coats over their arms concealing something.

Serge’s eyes locked on the men. His right hand slowly reached for the pistol in his waistband, his left felt blindly under the table and grabbed the handle of the briefcase as it came rotating by. “I knew this would happen,” he whispered to himself. “I knew they were bound to send someone sooner or later.”

The men were twenty feet away, then ten. Serge cocked the pistol under the table. The men turned and climbed onto the musicians’ bandstand. They pulled a flute and a mandolin from under their coats and began playing Kenny G.

Serge fell back in his chair with a breath of relief. He set the briefcase back down, not on the ledge this time.

“…We meet back here in an hour, okay?” asked Lenny.

“How will I know who you are?” asked the drummer.

“I’ll be wearing this shirt.”

Serge smacked his forehead again.

“What’s the matter with your friend?” asked the drummer.

“I need some air,” said Serge. He picked up the briefcase and headed around the curved side of the bar and pressed the elevator button. He overheard conversation fragments behind him. “…Nyet!” “Vladimir!”

Hmmm, Serge thought, Russian mob….

He walked back to his table and handed Lenny the briefcase. “I need you to hide in one of the stalls with this and wait for me.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Ivan.

“What is it?” asked Dmitri.

“I think it’s him. Dummy up!”

Serge approached the table. “Hi guys. You the Russian mob?”

The Russians reached under the table for ankle holsters. Ivan discreetly waved them off. He turned to Serge. “No, we’re with Amway.”

“Right,” said Serge, winking. He pointed. “What happened to your feet?”

“Amway accident.”

“Mind if I join you?” Serge pulled up a chair before they could object. “I have a proposition for Amway.”