“That’s the point.” He slipped the trays into the mini-fridge. “I let the first half freeze, then I’ll take them back out in a few hours, add the rest of the water and let that freeze.”
Serge went back to his power strip. “I guess I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself.” Coleman closed the freezer door. “You’re doing it the normal way, but I have to go half and half for this . . .” He held a tall round cylinder next to his head and smiled.
Serge rubbed his chin. “Am I missing something?”
Coleman pointed at his hand with the other hand. “It’s a roll of Mentos. You haven’t heard of them? They’re breath fresheners for kids who want to fuck like in the commercials.”
“That wasn’t my question,” said Serge. “I’m hip to what’s going on out there with the Mentos and fucking. I’m just not getting the ice-cube connection.”
“Yeah, it shoots an unbelievable geyser of foam because of a unique and unforeseen chemical reaction from a combination of polysaccharides, glycoproteins and potassium benzoate that generates a ferociously rapid release of carbon dioxide. The record eruption from a two-liter bottle is something like twenty feet.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Works much the same way when I was a kid and we’d launch toy rockets with baking soda and vinegar. And there are a bunch of viral Mentos-and-soda videos on the Internet.” Serge sat on the side of a bed and folded his arms. “Please continue, Professor Putz.”
“All right.” Coleman set the roll of candy down. “Here’s the part that’s off the hook! Say you’re at a bash, and some dude wants a drink, and you say, ‘I’ll get it. Is rum and Coke good?’ He says, ‘Goddamn right.’ And you go in the kitchen giggling and make the drink. And you drop these ice cubes in the glass, except they’re not
“So Mentos can also be used for birth control.”
“They should put that on the label,” said Coleman. “The whole thing’s priceless, everyone laughing their brains out. Except if it’s a really expensive house with nice carpeting and sofas, and then the owners are screaming maniacs, ‘What the fuck?’ Either way it turns out good for me.”
“Coleman, that actually took some advance thought,” said Serge. “We may have discovered an undetected lobe. I’m taking you in for a PET scan—”
A cell phone rang.
“Serge here . . . That’s great, I’ll do it right now.”
He hung up and plugged his laptop into the power strip.
Coleman lined up Mentos on the counter. “What was that about?”
“Mahoney just e-mailed me more crime data . . .”
PALM BEACH
The noon sun glinted off a hood ornament of a winged human.
Another Rolls-Royce rolled down pricey Worth Avenue. Then another.
But two Silver Clouds in a row didn’t turn any heads at the sidewalk cafés, because the island boasted the highest concentration of Rolls in the world.
At one of the outdoor tables, a fashion-plate couple leaned forward for private conversation. Gustave wore his yacht-club blazer and prepared to work his magic again. But not on the woman at his table, who was his latest partner in crime.
Sasha.
The two dating bandits had created a more than respectable revenue stream for their gang, but now it was time to raise the bar. It was South Philly Sal’s idea. If they teamed up, the pair could land some really big game.
Swingers.
The couples tended to be more affluent, especially in the jewelry department. And more secretive. The Palm Beach social register was invented for gossip. And this was tawdry stuff. Sal figured that when blue-blood swingers reported the burglaries, they’d become suspiciously vague when police inquired about their day’s activities. Not only would the couple provide ultra-vague descriptions of the suspects, but cops don’t like it when information is withheld. Even when it’s from victims. And the cases would fall to the lowest order of priority.
Another Rolls drove by the tables. Gustave suddenly noticed something over Sasha’s shoulder and stood up with an engaging smile. “You must be the Kensingtons.”
