“Hold on! And every weed guy is the same. A disgrace to the drug community. And I’m arguing back and forth with this guy, and it’s like talking to a mirror.”
“You mean ‘brick wall,’ ” said Serge. “Correction: You do mean a mirror.”
“And I say, ‘You pull this same bullshit every time.’ He says, ‘Bullshit on you.’ ‘Well, fuck you.’ ‘Fuck you, too.’ ‘I hate your guts.’ ‘Don’t talk to me for the rest of your life.’ ‘You’re dead to me.’ ‘I screwed your mother last night.’ ‘I boned your sister up the ass.’ And people separate you before the punches fly, and you walk into the next room of the party and walk back five minutes later: ‘You still got that weed?’ ‘Yeah, man, you got the money?’ ‘Here it is.’ ‘Here’s your dope.’ ‘Cool.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘Same time next week?’ ‘We’re on’ . . .”
Serge stared speechless at Coleman.
“What?”
A banging sound from the trunk of the car. Coleman twisted rolling papers in his lap. “I think the hostage came to again.”
“And just in time,” said Serge. “I hate carrying them unconscious into a remote field.”
Coleman licked a gummed edge. “Walking them at gunpoint is better.”
They parked next to just such a remote field and walked the hostage out with a .45 barrel in his back. Serge forced him to the ground and bound his ankles with plastic fasteners meant for electric cables in underground conduits. He handed Coleman the gun. “Just keep your finger off the trigger.”
“How am I supposed to shoot?” asked Coleman.
“You’re not,” said Serge. “He isn’t going anywhere with those fasteners, but you never know. The threat of that gun alone should be enough.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to the car for the hurricane corkscrews and shovels.”
Coleman scratched his hip with the end of the gun. “Don’t tell me I have to dig again.”
“We’re not digging a hole. We’re filling one.”
Coleman stretched his neck in a straining attempt to see in the dark. “What’s that big thing over there?”
“Another recent purchase that I dropped off earlier.”
Serge reached the Firebird and was on his way back. Suddenly a distant flash. Followed by the delayed sound.
Coleman slowly toppled over. Serge dropped the shovels and went running. “Coleman! . . . Coleman! . . . Please, God! No!”
He arrived and fell to his knees next to a face-in-the-dirt, motionless buddy. Tears welled in his eyes. “Coleman . . .”
Coleman turned his head. “Serge, get down. Somebody’s shooting. I hit the ground when I heard the first shot.”
“Coleman, what’s that next to your hand?”
“Cool, a gun.” He grabbed it. “We can shoot back.”
“Coleman, I saw the flash from back there. You fired the shot.”
“No, I didn’t. I was just scratching my . . . Ohhhh, that’s what happened.” He stood and looked down at his right side. “The shot went through my pocket.” He stuck the gun barrel through the hole. “And I liked these shorts.”
Serge swiped the gun away. “No more bullets for you.”
“Good. Less to stay on top of.”
“Now grab the shovels and my duffel with the hardware.”
“Crap.”
“Hey, I have to drag this guy by the ankles.”
Coleman perched the spades on his left shoulder and grabbed a canvas strap. “Where are we going?”
“Over there.”
“You mean toward that thing I saw earlier.”
“Just don’t fall behind like the other times.” Serge tucked the ankles under his armpit and hiked forward, dragging the scam artist across the rocky terrain like he was hauling out a bag of trash, which he was.
“Hey, Serge, now I recognize what that is. I remember when you bought it earlier.”
Serge stopped and released the captive’s legs. He dialed his cell phone. “Hello, I’d like to get some work done in the morning . . . Yes, I have a credit card . . .”
MIAMI BEACH
Five A.M.
Paramedics wrapped blankets around naked foamy people while police took statements.
Other detectives confirmed the coordinated wave of incoming “front-desk” calls and traced them all to a proxy Internet server that disguised their true origin. Uniformed officers swept the nineteenth floor. They chalked up the smashed surveillance camera at the end of the hall to more mayhem from the Pranksters.
The authorities gave the okay for the guests to return to their rooms. The police left.
Thirty minutes later, they were back.
Another burst of 9-1-1 calls. They met the irate guests in the hallway of the nineteenth floor. Seems every one of the twenty-two evacuated rooms had been hit hard. Jewelry, laptops, cameras, expensive video stuff—all the things you’d expect from tourists in high-end resorts.
