TV correspondents looked over their shoulders. Cameras and lights swung.
Protesters began pouring into the street, tying up traffic and screaming outrage. The rest of the barricades fell as people darted between limos, running faster and faster, waving their own signs.
The first tear-gas canister flew as the two sides merged into a single, full-scale stampede, chasing Serge and Coleman past the arena.
One of the TV correspondents looked up at the amorphous, symmetrical pattern on Serge’s sign as the pair ran by. He raised his microphone.
Another reporter raised his mike as the two dashed behind him.
Coleman panted hard, but fear made him keep up with Serge. “Man, the country’s so pissed off, they’ll automatically disagree with anything.” He glanced back up the street. “Sorry your plan failed.”
“Just the reverse,” said Serge. “It was a complete success!”
“How is this a success?” said Coleman. “Just listen to that yelling.”
“I finally united them.”
A few drops of water hit them in the face. “And just in time,” said Coleman. “It starting to rain.”
“Rain? It’s going to be a deluge,” said Serge. “The feeder bands are cutting loose.”
A sudden gust of wind whipped Coleman’s hair as he looked back over his shoulder. “The mob’s gaining on us. There’s no way we can escape.”
As Serge had predicted, a torrential downpour erupted. Lightning sliced the sky.
Coleman looked back again, and Serge looked at Coleman. “Why are you slowing down?”
“Because the mob is,” said Coleman. “In fact, they’ve come to a complete stop.”
The pair ceased running and turned around, watching curiously at the reason for their reprieve.
Shouting within the crowd, then fists flew. Someone got tackled; a protest sign was bashed over a head.
“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“The rain has smeared all their signs into inkblots.” Serge momentarily covered his eyes. “It’s even worse than before. Democrat on Democrat, Republican on Republican.”
“At least we got away,” said Coleman.
Serge sighed and threw his inkblot sign in a trash can as they disappeared into the darkness under an overpass. “Crap.”
Chapter Five
DANIA
The police expressed sympathy and thought Jim Townsend was an idiot.
Jim waved excitedly in several directions. “And then Cid took off chasing the thief.”
A detective wrote in a notebook. “Didn’t you wonder where he got the pickup truck?”
“He, uh, well . . .”
“It was planted ahead of time behind the restaurant, probably by the accomplice who stole the convertible.”
“Cid was in on it?”
“You say you found the Corvette in a classified ad?” asked the detective.
“Yes, you can trace the phone number, right?” said Jim. “You can track down Cid?”
“We’ll give it a try, but it was probably a disposable cell.”
“Then what should I do?” asked Jim.
“Count your blessings.”
“But I just got ripped off!”
The detective closed his notebook. “It’s a common scam, but this one was more elaborate than most. I’m guessing they picked a public location so it wouldn’t raise your suspicions with the amount of money involved. You’re lucky.”
“How is any of this lucky?”
“Usually it’s an older car they’re selling for three or four grand, and they give you an address that’s at the end of an empty road and simply stick a gun in your face.”
“This happens a lot?”
“That’s why we keep telling the public never to meet a private seller with cash.” The detective opened his wallet. “Here’s my business card. Give me a call if you can think of anything else.”
Jim now felt as stupid as the police already knew he was. He drove home in a slow funk, getting honked at when he didn’t realize the light had turned green.
The accountant listlessly walked up the path to his front door and went inside. He took out the business card and walked even more slowly to the phone and dialed.
“Detective Green here.”
“This is Jim Townsend. Remember? The stolen Corvette at the pancake house.”
“Oh, hey. Think of anything else?”
“No.”
“They why are you calling me?”
“Someone robbed my house.”
MEANWHILE . . .
She was the classic Latin bombshell.
