Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

“To return to the previous menu, press pound . . .”

Mahoney began banging the phone on the side of his desk. “No-good bottom-deck-dealing riverboat guttersnipe . . .”

“I still cannot understand your request. I will now put you through to a representative . . .”

Mahoney stopped with a curious look and silently placed the phone to his ear.

“This is Calista with National City Group Banc Corp. How may I help you today? . . .”

And that’s how Mahoney got approval to take credit cards. Almost. Only one last step.

Applying for a card is one thing, but accepting them is an entirely different level of background vetting. Anyone can now set up shop with a phone and start churning pilfered plastic. So the companies hire outside firms who contact the applicant with a series of challenge questions that, in theory, should stump anyone who had stolen an identity. Always multiple choice, like: Have you attended any of the following schools? Which, if any, of these cars have you owned? In what state were you issued your Social Security card?

Mahoney was passing his challenges with flying colors. Until the last question. It came to a screeching halt.

“Hello?” asked the questioner. “Are you still there?”

“Yaza.”

“Would you like me to repeat the question?”

No, Mahoney remembered it all right. “In which of the following towns is Blue Heron Boulevard located?” Jesus, Mahoney thought, I haven’t lived there in thirty years. Who the hell knows all this about me?

“Sir,” said the phone. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to answer the last question or—”

“Riviera Beach.”

“Excellent,” said the phone. “You are now officially approved by the National City Group Banc—”

Mahoney hung up. It got him to thinking. Who was collecting all this information? Since he was a private eye, he found out. He picked up the phone again.

Another phone rang at Big Dipper Data Management.

“This is Wesley Chapel.”

“Chapel-de-dapple, Mahoney here. Low-down sling on the dry-gulch dust-’n-rust.”

“What?”

Mahoney worded it a different way. “. . . with the rhino spondulix.”

“What?”

Still another way. “. . . on a Dutch flogger.”

“I’m not understanding a word you’re saying.”

Mahoney sighed and took a deep breath. “I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to hire you to gather information on some people I’m tracking.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” said Wesley. “We do that all the time. You got a credit card?”

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirteen

FORT LAUDERDALE

Two men burst into the room and slammed the door. Weapons came out.

“Cool,” said Coleman, grabbing an appliance handle. “This is one of those motels that has a microwave and a mini-fridge and you didn’t even expect it.”

“It’s always more excellent when you don’t expect it.” Serge unzipped his gear bag. “It’s a sign that God accepts you as one of His children. And I never take it for granted because I’m otherwise perfectly content making grilled cheese sandwiches on the ironing board and filling the sink with ice for a cooler and then having to wash my hands in the shower the entire stay. But the surprise micro-fridge is God’s way of saying, ‘I like the cut of your jib. This one’s on Me.’ ”

“But, Serge, why don’t you just use the regular cooler we have out in the car?”

“It’s just not done that way.”

“I’m stoked you picked a place on A1A,” said Coleman. “It’s twenty-four-hour, take-no-prisoners partying!”

“Coleman, we’re not here for your enjoyment.” Serge continued unpacking. “It was Mahoney’s idea. He wants us in position.”

“For what?”

“He hired this consulting company called Big Dipper, and they’ve been crunching some random data on one of the scams.”

“What have they found?”

“Nothing so far. But this area is the last place one of the scammers struck.”

“So now what?”

“Hole up and wait for more data.”

Coleman bent down and peeked inside the freezer. “It’s even got ice-cube trays!”

“Gifts keep raining from heaven.” Serge unrolled a thick electric cord.

Coleman went to the sink with the trays. “What’s that thing?”

Serge stuck a plug in the wall. “My power strip. The key to holing up in motels is bringing your own power strip and taking control of the situation.”

“But the room has plenty of electric sockets.”

“Except they’re strewn all over the place including behind the bed, which is fraught with the peril of forgetting the stuff you’re charging: camera, cell phone, iPod, electric razor, laptop, camcorder, bullhorn, and miscellaneous flashlights including my giant search beam.”

“Do you have a bullhorn and search beam?”

“Not since I forgot the last power strip and lost everything. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s how they get you.”

Serge stared at the sink a moment. “Coleman, what are you doing?”

“Making ice cubes.”

“But you’re only filling the trays halfway. Not even.”