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Serge sat on the side of a bed. The hostage turned his head ninety degrees left to look at him. Serge grinned and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the guest’s shoulder. He moved his mouth to within inches of the man’s ear: “I know that South Philly Sal and Enzo are the same person, and have been searching for you for two long years. Well, now you’re here, and now I need closure. And I know what you’re thinking: You’re wondering what I’m thinking. But that snake could eat its own tail forever, so I’ll just tell you. That candle will burn down to the M-80, and then it’s every kid’s fantasy. Except yours. You’ll be covered with chemically burning Jell-O that will stick like napalm and hurt worse than your most horrible nightmares. But on the bright side! . . .” Serge reached behind his back and thrust a bottle in the man’s face. “You’ve entered the bonus round!” He slammed the bottle down next to the Jell-O cake with the ever-burning candle. “That vinegar is the platinum prize. It will stop the chemical reaction on your skin. As you’ve probably noticed, the chairs in this motel have arms, and your hands are tied to them instead of behind your back. But the ropes are nylon: normally strong but chemically cheesy. I did that as a favor to you. When the cake goes off, the nylon should melt away faster than your burns and allow you to reach the bottle. But remember, pain is an illusion: The first minute is insanely disorienting, but the wounds are still only superficial at that point. Later, it’s a disaster. So my parlor-party-game advice to you is keep your head and focus on that bottle. Got it?” Serge stood and slapped his guest on the back. “Let me know how it turns out.”

They headed for the door.

“Express yourself! . . .”

“Heyyy! Heyyy! . . .”

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Chapter Thirty-Six

THE NEXT DAY

Ocean Drive.

Coleman held up a newspaper. “I see what you mean about the joy of reading. There’s this story about a chemically scarred body found in a motel room.”

“That’s unusual.”

“Says he was found lying in shattered glass with the label from a vinegar bottle in his hand.”

“Ouch. Someone must have placed the vinegar bottle too close to the M-80,” said Serge. “But I never shirk responsibility. My bad.”

Coleman flipped over to the comics.

“Listen, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” said Serge. “But it’s almost noon. Can you make yourself scarce?”

Coleman looked around the sidewalk café. “But I thought we were going to eat.”

“When I said ‘we,’ that didn’t mean us.”

“Oh, I get it now. Brook’s meeting you for lunch.” Coleman stood and stuck the paper under his arm. “Say no more. I don’t want to be a fifth wheel.” He looked inside the restaurant. “There’s the bar! . . .”

Serge watched Coleman depart with his trademark swerve. Then he looked back down Ocean Drive. The café was much like the Fandango, but there was no way he could ever digest food there again. For several blocks north of the Colony Hotel, the beach had no shortage of top-shelf alfresco diners. Many featured wooden stands strategically placed for passersby to be tempted by plates of lobster, filet mignon and iced-down stone crabs.

Serge stared at the empty seat on the other side of his intimate table. He checked his watch, then looked up again.

There she was, all smiles, waving to him a block away and carrying a designer shopping bag. So that’s why she was late. Well, good for her, starting to bounce back from everything.

Serge was about to stand when an unexpected guest pulled up a chair.

“Excuse me,” said Serge. “This table’s taken.”

“I know.” The man smiled. “Just like the table was taken two years ago.”

The words punched him in the gut. Serge whipped his hand behind his back.

The man continued smiling and pressed a pistol under the table against Serge’s crotch. He shook his head. “You’re not that fast. Now put your hands where I can see them.”

Serge did as told.

“Remember I still have the gun pointed and it’s a light trigger pull.” The guest leaned back in his chair like he didn’t have a concern. “So we finally meet.”

“So South Philly Sal was a red herring.” Serge shook his head. “You’re the real Enzo Tweel.”

“At least that’s what my passport says this week.”

“You’ve got me, okay?” said Serge. “Leave Brook out of it. She’s an innocent bystander.”

“That’s an interesting idea,” said Enzo. “Except I love sequels.”

Serge scanned the surroundings with peripheral vision, trying not to allow his pupils to move and give him away as he sought possibilities.

“I know what you’re doing,” said Enzo. “There are no possibilities. Why don’t you just accept your fate with dignity?”

Brook reached the edge of the café, smiling even more buoyantly with a cheerful hop in her step. At the other end of the dynamic, all the rage in Serge’s life had just been eclipsed by what he felt now. He wanted to sound the warning, but correctly assumed Enzo’s training. She could be taken out the second he tried anything.