Brook finally reached the table. “Hey, Serge, I didn’t know you were bringing a friend.” She took a seat on the other side and placed the shopping bag in her lap. “My name’s Brook.” She extended a hand.
“Enzo.” He switched the pistol under the table to his left and shook. “Pleasure to meet.”
Brook looked down and reached into her shopping bag. “Serge, I found these great new shoes that were on sale. Only two hundred dollars. Want to see them? . . . Serge? Is something the matter?”
Enzo put his free hand on hers. “It’s nothing. We were just remembering a mutual friend who isn’t with us anymore.”
“Oh, that’s sad.” Brook turned to her new beau. “Were you close?”
“That was a long time ago,” said Serge. “Enzo’s right—it’s nothing.”
Enzo looked at each in turn. “How do we want to order? Serge, you want to order first? Or how about Brook?”
“But we don’t have any menus yet,” said Brook.
Serge was well aware of this. It was code.
“I think Serge should go first this time,” said Enzo. “That way Brook can see what’s on the menu for her.”
Serge had made his decision. When the moment came, he would simply upend the table and dive into the gun. Of course Enzo was a pro and would be able to get several shots off; Serge would take the bullets but knock him down in the process, giving Brook a chance to escape.
“Okay, enough games,” said Enzo. “You’ve been a thorn for far too long, and I have a plane to catch.”
Brook looked around the table. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
The countdown clock reached zero.
Serge began to spring, but the shot was too fast.
Serge jolted back in his chair.
The next second seemed an eternity. Serge’s head fell toward his chest. Checking for blood that wasn’t there. Then he noticed only two of them were left at the table. He looked toward the ground and saw Enzo on his back, eyes surprisingly wide, with a softball-size hole in his chest.
Patrons began to scream and stampede.
Serge turned with an open mouth toward Brook, who was holding a designer shopping bag. Smoke drifted out through a burn hole in the bottom of the bag, near the end of a concealed sawed-off shotgun.
Serge blinked hard. “Something tells me you didn’t buy shoes.”
She reached across the table and seized his hand. “We need to get the hell out of here. I’ll fill you in . . .”
They took off running down Ocean Drive.
Epilogue
A cardboard sign hung from the doorknob of Mahoney’s office on the Miami River:
GONE FISSING.
Fifty miles south, a black Firebird with a Florida-winged skull on the hood crossed the bridge from the mainland to Key Largo.
“That was some adventure, eh?” said Serge.
Brook was sitting up front with him. Her hand out the window, catching the wind like a kid. “Is this how you always live?”
“Most of the time.”
One of the passengers in the backseat had a porkpie hat and the other a joint. Coleman turned to Mahoney and offered the doobie. “Wanna toke?”
“Hophead.”
Coleman shrugged and took the hit himself.
They passed a fake conch shell, as tall as a building, where tourists were snapping photos. Then a giant lobster and a giant mermaid.
“It still hasn’t sunk in,” said Serge. “I’ve never had such a close one.”
“You can thank Mahoney,” said Brook.
Serge looked up in the rearview. A hand tipped the porkpie.
Brook cracked open a wine cooler and smiled as they crossed a bridge with emerald-and-turquoise water all around.
Serge smiled as well and stuck his own hand out into the wind. “I just can’t believe how it all came together.”
“The last piece was the call from Big Dipper that Enzo had printed his boarding pass at a resort,” said Brook. “Which meant he wasn’t at the Tortugas Inn.”
“And wasn’t South Philly Sal,” said Serge.
“Except Mahoney couldn’t get the word to you because you had stopped taking calls. So he tried my number from his client files. And used a different phone because of the tap on his.”
“And after I thought I’d killed Enzo and started taking calls again . . .”
“You didn’t know he was still alive,” said Brook. “So I told Mahoney to call you and set up lunch. But we couldn’t let you in on it because Enzo was still listening. We
“But your shotgun was empty,” said Serge. “Personally checked it twice.”
“I took a cab from the motel to get some ammo.”
“You left the room after I told you not to?”
Brook opened another wine cooler. “We’re still breathing, aren’t we?”
“Can’t argue with that . . .”
MIAMI REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
Roger sat on the opposite side of the desk from Jansen.
“I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I had the weirdest dream a couple nights ago and haven’t stopped freaking out. You were in it.”
“Were we in a warehouse?” asked Jansen. “With Serge, Jesus, a hostage and a lobster?”
“How’d you know?”
“I’ve been freaking out, too.” Jansen uncapped a prescription bottle. “Doctor has me on sedatives.”
