Watch your footing,” said Serge, helping Sasha out of the trunk. “There’s a lot of algae on these ramps. Wouldn’t want you to slip and hurt yourself . . . Coleman, stop fooling around and assist that gentleman.”
Coleman pushed himself up from the ground. “I slipped.”
Serge had previously retrieved the hidden skiff from the mangroves, and it sat anchored in shallow water.
“All aboard!”
It took the persuasion of a pistol, but Gustave and Sasha settled in nicely. Serge worked the till of the trolling motor, backing the skiff away from the ramp.
Coleman sat up on the bow with a joint for a running light. “So this really is where they found that chopped-up mobster?”
“That’s right, Dumbfounding Bay.” Serge cut the rudder hard to starboard and switched the motor out of reverse. “They found Roselli right over there.”
“But if you’re going to do what I think you are, we can’t be out in the water.”
“We can if it’s a falling tide and there’s a shallow shoal that I personally know about.”
Serge expertly navigated the channel, slipping clandestinely under the lights of waterfront homes backed up against their seawalls. One family was eating dinner, another watched a Harry Potter movie on a big screen. Someone else paced feverishly with a telephone, cigar and bitterness. Nobody was visible in the next house, but Serge recognized an oil painting in the living room from one of the founding Highwaymen.
The skiff was almost there. Serge gently ran it aground on the submerged sandbar. He slipped over the side, which gave the craft more buoyancy, and pulled it farther onto the shoal. The only tricky part was getting the fifty-five-gallon drums over the side and wedged into the bottom muck without raising a ruckus. Especially since the barrels were welded together, end to end. Serge had cut the bottom out of the top barrel, creating one tall cylinder. It rested sideways on the edge of the skiff. “Ease it in gently.”
“I’m losing my grip,” said Coleman.
“Don’t drop it!”
He dropped it.
Serge and Coleman ducked in the boat and stared up at the mansions along the seawall. The man with the phone and cigar came to the window and glanced around, then went back to chewing someone out.
“That was close,” said Serge.
“Look, the barrels landed upright,” said Coleman. “Can I put the next part together?”
“The floor is yours.”
Coleman reached down into the bilge as Serge aimed his .45 back at the tied-up couple. He motioned for the woman to scoot away from her companion.
“Okay, Sasha, here’s the deal: Your pal is going in that big tube I made—”
Panicked screaming from under the man’s duct tape.
“Shut the fuck up!” Serge cracked him in the forehead with the pistol’s butt. Then he scratched his own temple with the gun barrel. “Where was I? Oh, yeah, he’s going in the tube, and I’ll take your duct tape off, but if you make one peep or otherwise try to get the attention of the residents up along that seawall, then you’re the one who goes in the tube. Do we understand each other?”
She nodded eagerly.
“Good,” said Serge. “Coleman, give me a hand with Gustave.”
Coleman grabbed the man’s bound feet. “He doesn’t look too happy.”
“Don’t know why not,” said Serge, grabbing him under the arms. “I welded two barrels together instead of using just one and having to saw his legs off.”
“You’re always courteous like that,” said Coleman.
“And yet so few say thank you.”
Coleman got Gustave’s feet through the opening of the tube, and the rest was only a matter of letting gravity slide him down. His feet touched bottom and his eyes barely peeked over the edge of the top barrel. He made whiny sounds under the tape.
“I smell something,” said Coleman. “I think he just shit his pants something horrible.”
“In the world of poker, that is what’s known as ‘a tell.’ ” Serge reached over with his right hand and knocked on the top of Gustave’s head. “Eyes up here. I’m the Man with the Plan, and I know what you’re thinking: ‘He’s going to put the lid on and I’ll suffocate.’ But that’s not how I roll, so you can relax.” He held up the lid and pointed at where he’d used the drill press to created a dozen half-dollar-size holes. “See? You can breathe. But the big question remains: What does ol’ Serge have in store for me?”
“And Coleman,” added Coleman. “I thought of it.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “He did have this idea. And they don’t come around often, so you should savor it like a passing comet.” He reached down in the boat and held up another round piece of metal the same diameter as the lid. Except this one was made of steel mesh like the part of a barbecue that lets charcoal drop its ashes. “I machined this so it seats three inches below the lip of the top barrel, keeping your head pushed down slightly away from the lid, because you strike me as the kind of person who would cheat by putting his mouth right up to one of the air holes, and that would be such a disappointment for me.” Serge placed the mesh disk over Gustave’s head. “Okay, crouch down some more so I can wedge this into place.”
