The couples exchanged introductions. The Kensingtons were at least fifteen years older with gray hair, and that was a critical part of the plan when Gustave had reeled them in with discreet e-mails through a special off-shore website that hooked up such like-minded adventuresome couples. Imagine the Kensingtons’ luck at finding such an attractive young pair who didn’t mind a little age difference. Mr. Kensington also wore a yachting jacket, but his sported an admiral’s insignia, because he had bought the insignia and told the maid to sew it on. He pretended to read the menu, instead guessing which positions Sasha might be into and if she’d mind wearing the admiral’s jacket to bed. He glanced up at her. “What looks good today?”
“Try the shrimp cocktail.”
Microscopes arrived, then four bites of food.
An hour later, the Kensingtons stood bewildered with the check in their hand, wondering where their lunch partners had disappeared to. A half hour after that, they stood in their living room, wondering where all their valuables had gone.
The police arrived.
A detective opened a notebook. “Have you seen anyone suspicious outside your home lately? Maybe in a utility truck?”
They shook their heads.
“What did you do earlier today?”
“We had lunch with some friends,” said Mrs. Kensington.
“What were their names?”
“Uh . . .” Mrs. Kensington turned to her husband.
The detective stopped writing and looked up. “You don’t know the names of the friends you just had lunch with?”
“They were strangers,” said Mr. Kensington.
“Strangers or friends, which is it?”
“Friendly strangers,” said Mrs. Kensington.
The pair began to wilt under the detective’s glare. “Look,” said Mr. Kensington. “The tables were pretty full and we met this nice-enough couple who offered their two empty chairs.”
“What did they look like?” asked the detective. “Start with the man.”
The Kensingtons answered simultaneously.
“Tall . . .”
“Short . . .”
They glanced at each other.
“Medium.”
The detective wrote
“Not really.”
HIALEAH
A black Firebird cruised down the Palmetto Expressway.
Serge turned toward his passenger.
“What?” said Coleman. “Why are you looking at me in that creepy way?”
“Coleman, you’re a genius!”
“I am?”
Serge nodded hard. “You just gave me the perfect concept for my next science project.”
Coleman smiled confidently and hit a joint. “Never really thought about it, but I guess I am a little on the brainy side.” Another exhale. “So how am I smart?”
Serge waved for him to be quiet. He already had the phone to his head. “Alfonso, Serge here. I need a favor . . . What do you mean you don’t want that kind of trouble? . . . When has anything ever gone wrong? . . . That was just that one time . . . Okay, twice . . . Okay, now that time I did not burn down your warehouse . . . No, it was an electrical short from shoddy contractors . . . I did not overload the circuits making a Tesla arc transmitter to create artificial bursts of indoor lightning. Nikola Tesla won the Nobel Prize, so it had to be perfectly safe . . . Listen, I hate to remind someone when they owe me big-time . . . That’s better . . . Just a few things: a couple of fifty-five-gallon drums, arc-welding equipment and secure privacy. Got a pen? . . .”
Coleman noticed the Trans Am speeding up. “Where are we going?”
Serge still had the cell to his ear. “. . . And of course safety goggles.” He hung up. “Did you say something?”
“Where you driving to?”
“Alfonso’s Scrap Metal, Recycling and Lounge.”
“Lounge?”
“It’s on the edge of a weird municipal zoning thing, and Alfonso took advantage of it.” Serge hit his blinker for a Hialeah exit. “But he learned that after the lounge opens at night and drinking starts, it’s a good idea to turn off the hydraulic car-crusher and the big magnet that picks vehicles up. What were those people thinking?”
The Firebird rolled down an access road in an industrial district characterized by forklifts and Dobermans. They turned through a barbed-wire gate and into a cavernous sheet-metal building.
Serge zestfully jumped out of the car. “Alfonso!”
A lanky man in jeans raised the visor on his welding helmet and cut the gas to his torch. “Serge, it’s been three years.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Whatever happened to ‘You wanna get some lunch’?”
“Why? You hungry?”
“No,” said Alfonso. “It’s just that most people don’t call out of the blue and go, ‘I’m five minutes away, and I need all this crazy shit, and seal the building tight so police can’t get nosy. And why do you need three different types of fire extinguishers?”
“To cover all bases,” said Serge. “I wouldn’t want you yelling at me again: ‘What’s with all the fucking lightning in here?’ ”
“Forget it.” Alfonso made a casual wave. “All your stuff is over there.”
“Excellent!” Serge clasped his hands together. “First I’m going to weld—”
“Stop!” Alfonso held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. I’m going to lock the place up now, and if you’re interrogated, I was never here.”
Coleman suddenly gasped.
