Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

“It doesn’t.” Serge beamed with pride as he gazed down upon the hole, where Skippy stuck out his head and wiggled his whiskers. Serge tossed another chunk of cheese. The mouse grabbed it and disappeared again.

“But we did all that shopping,” said Coleman. “I thought you were coming up with another genius way to whack a dude.”

“Killing jerks isn’t the only reason for home-improvement stores.”

“It’s not?”

Serge resumed packing up his tools.

“So what’s going to happen to Skippy now?” asked Coleman.

“I’ve released him back into the wild,” said Serge. “He’s now a free-range mouse.”

Coleman pouted. “He was my pet.”

“Coleman, if you love something, set it free.” He turned to the captive. “You and I aren’t quite there yet.”

Coleman cracked another beer. “You’re not going to kill this asshole after all?”

“Didn’t say that.” Serge punched the captive with brass knuckles. “You stole from my client in your car-sale scam. Tell me where the money is!”

The man spit out a tooth. “Eat shit and die!”

“If that’s how you want to play it, Uncle Cid, if that’s really your name.” He wrapped his mouth in tape again.

“Serge, did you say ‘Uncle Cid’?”

“Yeah, some made-up name.” Another punch. “Who knows what it means?”

“I do,” said Coleman.

Serge turned. “What?”

“It’s code.” Coleman took another hit. “Uncle Cid. Cid. A-cid. Acid.”

“You’re higher than a bastard.”

“No really. All the heads know this.” Coleman exhaled again. “When you want to have a big LSD party with a giant bowl of spiked punch, you get on the phone. But because the fuzz might be listening, you say you’re having Uncle Cid over that night. And sometimes a bunch of college kids would hold an open LSD party for all who knew. They’d put a classified ad in the student paper with an address for Uncle Cid.”

“Since when do you read college papers?”

“Just the classifieds,” said Coleman. “For Cid parties.”

Serge turned around. Punch.

“Why are you still hitting him?” asked Coleman. “His mouth is taped and he can’t tell you where the money is.”

“To be honest, it’s now more about the hitting than the money.” Serge swung hard again with a meaty thud on skull. “But I just know I’ll get grief from Mahoney.”

“Why? You cracked this case for him.”

“Yeah, but in all the movies, you’re supposed to get the money back.” Serge rubbed his sore hand. “Except I’m fairly confident that his client will be equally satisfied with the results I have in mind . . .” Punch, punch, punch. “. . . But I have to at least go though the motions so next time Mahoney asks, I can honestly say I tried. You’re a witness.” Punch, punch, punch.

“Serge, his face is a bloody mess. It’s making the duct tape peel off.”

“He’s abusing our landfills.” The tape removed much easier this time, and Serge crumpled it into a ball. “You ready to listen to reason? Tell us where the money is or else!”

“Or else what?”

Serge reached in the duffel bag. “Or else this!” He removed a giant iron corkscrew and slowly twisted it in front of the hostage with diabolical drama. Then raised his eyebrows. “Pretty scary, eh?”

“I have no idea what the hell you’re doing.”

“Oh, realllllllllly.” Serge paced methodically with hands behind his back. “Then how about . . . this!” He swiftly whipped out a small galvanized pipe and held it to Cid’s face.

“What’s that?”

Serge shrugged and tossed it on the bed next to the hurricane tie-down. “I think it’s used for showerheads.”

“You’re insane!”

“That’s the last straw,” said Serge. “I’m not letting you watch Glee anymore with us.”

He roughly blotted the blood on Cid’s face and wrapped more duct tape.

“Look!” said Coleman. “Skippy’s back! He’s running over to me and up my leg.”

“That’s the second half of ‘If you love something, set it free.’ ” Serge carefully examined the corkscrew. “If it comes back, you know it’s yours.”

“I can keep him?” Coleman hugged the mouse to his cheek. “Skippy!”

“And for his happiness, I now have the equipment and skill set to instantly whip up a custom mouse hole in any motel room. But be prepared: The day will finally come like in all those tearjerker animal movies when he won’t leave the mouse hole, and you’ll just have to let go as the credits roll.” Serge tucked the pipe and corkscrew back in his duffel bag. “Coleman, what do you think? Is it dark enough outside yet?”

“I’d say it’s pretty dark.”

Serge grabbed the bag’s handle. “Let’s rock.”

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Chapter Ten

MIAMI BEACH

All quiet on the nineteenth floor of a luxury resort hotel on Collins Avenue.

Three A.M.

People spoke in whispers and hushed tones inside suite number 1901. All eight of them. It was the gang’s first team effort. Up until now, they had always worked solo, receiving assignments from their leader. Totally firewalled. Nobody knew anyone else’s action, to minimize damage in the event someone was captured and flipped for the prosecution.