Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

“Coleman, stop fooling around! Stand up and get into the moment. I remember it all like it was just yesterday. They opened the steel drum and there was the legendary Johnny Roselli, who worked for Capone and Sam Giancana. Everything about his murder pointed to another legendary moment from Miami’s historic nexus of organized crime and the espionage community, which began when the CIA christened Operation Mongoose during the early sixties. In 1976, Roselli was called to testify before a Senate select committee investigating Mongoose’s alleged cooperation with the Mob to assassinate Cuban dictator Fidel Castro. But he never got the chance. It’s long been rumored that my homey Tampa godfather, Santos Trafficante, made the call. They sawed off Roselli’s legs and jammed them in the drum beside him. That’s why I can’t resist coming here—it’s such a happy place! . . .”

Across the bay, Johnny and Sasha watched the odd couple on the other side.

“The tall one’s jumping up and down.” Sasha cupped a hand to her ear. “What’s he saying?”

“I can’t quite make it out,” said Johnny. “But he sure is drinking a lot of coffee—” He cut himself off and strained for a closer look. “It couldn’t possibly be them . . . Oh, no, this isn’t happening.”

“What isn’t happening?” asked Sasha. Then she turned toward the opposite bank. “Dear Jesus, the fat one’s peeing in the water. J.R.’s water!” This time she cupped her hands around her mouth. “You son of a bitch! . . .”

On the other side of the bay: “Serge, I think that woman is yelling at us.”

“Probably one of your fans.”

“Now she’s throwing rocks,” said Coleman. “I think they’re meant for us, but her arm’s way too weak.”

“Do you know her?” Serge reached down and grabbed a handful of wildflowers.

“I don’t think so,” said Coleman. “But the guy looks familiar . . . What are you doing?”

“A historic place requires proper respect.” Serge cast the flowers upon the water. “For Johnny. Let’s bow our heads . . . That’s enough.” He sprinted up the bank to the car.

Back across the water, Sasha threw a final rock, then collapsed onto the grass in a sitting position, covered her eyes and began crying.

Johnny collapsed next to her and began crying, too.

His unlucky streak was intact.

Johnny was still covering his face when he felt something. A hand caressing his cheek.

“You’re crying,” said Sasha, snuggling into his shoulder. “That’s so sensitive.”

They sat still together. Eventually she raised her head. “I’m okay now.”

She stuck the J.R. handkerchief back in her purse. Sasha never knew Roselli, or any of the others. Way before her time. But she had this quirk. Sexual. One of those rare, unhealthy paraphilias where she needed to be in danger from the man she was with. At the top of her fantasy list was mobsters. She watched the movies and read the books and visited the sites. Just standing on the edge of Dumbfounding Bay set off a joy buzzer between her legs. In another era, she’d have been a gun mol, but she was born too late. Instead she was forced to run with today’s crop of low-level punks and wannabe gangsters. She was unsatisfied.

Sasha stood up and smiled.

Vegas followed suit and held out his hand. “My name’s Johnny, too.”

“Wow, this must be fate. Pleasure to meet you, Johnny.” She shook his hand. “My name’s Ssssssssaaa-shhhhhh . . . ahhhh.”

Sasha had been able to throw a bit of ventriloquism into the delivery, and Johnny glanced behind him like her name was being announced in Dolby Surround Sound.

“Johnny,” she said, putting his arm in hers. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Inside his head: You have no idea how much I hope so. “Uh, let me check my planner.”

“Because if you’re free, I know the hottest new place on the beach . . .”

And that’s how Johnny Vegas came to find himself at three A.M. on the dance floor of the club called Liquid Plasma in the middle of a breast buffet.

Soon, a ripple through the crowd as it parted for Sasha. She presented herself in front of Johnny and launched into one of the sultriest grinds anyone had ever seen outside a gentlemen’s club. The performance climaxed with hands sliding down in her signature move that was almost illegal. No, it was illegal. Others took photos and videos with cell phones.

Sasha finished her routine and threw her arms around Johnny’s neck. And her tongue inside his shirt. The crowd congealed back around them and resumed hopping again as a single organism. It went on like this for hours, Johnny and Sasha tripping the light fantastic with the aid of the new ultra-strength energy drink, Tripping the Light Fantastic. They waved glow sticks and did cocaine bullet-snorts offered by fellow dancers, and Sasha sucked a glow-in-the-dark, amphetamine-laced baby pacifier.

Pouty lips went to Johnny’s ear. “It’s getting late,” she said just before noon. “Let’s go back to your place.”

Johnny practically knocked people over dragging her by the hand for the nearest emergency exit.