“I know exactly what you mean.” Serge tucked the picture in his pocket and handed the man another dollar. “What’s the word on the street?”
“They just caught another monkey.”
“It’s getting embarrassing.”
“No kidding.” The man stuck the dollar in his pocket. “Busting up mailboxes and lawn statues all the way to Altamonte Springs. It just wasn’t right.”
“Like the famous Tampa Bay monkey,” said Serge. “He was becoming a regular D. B. Cooper.”
“I read about him,” said the bum. “Sightings all the way west to the St. Petersburg exercise trail, but police think that was just a copycat in a monkey costume, jumping out and dancing in front of Rollerbladers before darting back into the woods.”
Serge stared at the ceiling and scratched his chin.
“Serge.” Coleman peeked out one half-open eye. “Is that why you made me wear that outfit?”
“It was you guys?” said the bearded man.
“Why text when you have imagination?” said Serge. “What about Casey Anthony?”
“Just scraps of rumors and dubious innuendo. Harder to find than the monkey.” He pointed north. “She’s been reported everywhere from a Magic basketball game to a Ruby Tuesday’s . . .” His arm swung south. “And someone swears they spotted her at the Tupperware Museum.”
“Wait a sec,” said Coleman. “You’re pulling my leg. There’s no such thing as a Tupperware Museum.”
“Oh, but there most certainly is,” said Serge. “From the old days. Roadside-attraction gold.”
“You’re really serious?” said Coleman. “Tupperware?”
“Not only that, but the histories of Orlando and Tupperware are intertwined farther back than Disney.” Serge turned to the homeless man. “What was Casey supposedly doing there?”
“In the gift shop buying a gelatin mold.”
“Must be a false sighting,” said Serge. “From all reports, Tupperware isn’t how she likes to get her freak on.”
“My thinking, too,” said the man. “Unless she’s into something so twisted we have yet to fathom.”
Serge began rolling up the window. “Still, all leads must be followed.” The light turned green again. He switched off his emergency flashers and sped south.
Coleman sagged in his passenger seat with his head lying atop the window frame. “I don’t see hookers anymore.”
“Because we crossed the skank equator back into family land,” said Serge.
“The places with baby strollers where you don’t let me smoke dope?”
“Until I say otherwise.”
“This sucks.” Coleman idly flicked his lighter. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Can’t,” said Serge. “Mahoney’s idea. Wants us in position again. He’s trying to track another scammer with that Big Dipper company. Credit-card receipts, turnpike cameras, crime reports. Then they did a geographical probability cone like a hurricane chart pointed at Orlando. But like a hurricane, it’s a cone of uncertainty.”
“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Sit on standby and wait for his call like a nuclear submarine.”
Coleman flicked the lighter again and waved it in front of his eyes. “So what’s all that jazz about Florida and Tupperware?”
“Some of our richest heritage unknown to the general public.” Serge grabbed the coffee tube under his shirt. “Remember the home parties when you were a kid?”
“Those seriously rocked!” said Coleman. “Outrageously huge celebrations . . .”
“. . . Neighbors descended from all over in reverent awe like someone had discovered a glowing meteorite in their backyard,” said Serge. “But what got lost in that Tupperware gold rush were some of the earliest shots in a watershed social movement.”
“I crawled under a table and stole all the deviled eggs . . .”
“Women’s lib!” said Serge. “Except they didn’t realize it at the time, so they still wore long, elegant white gloves.”
“. . . Got a tummy ache.”
“Who were these pioneers? you ask. Why, Brownie Wise and her troops,” said Serge. “Earl Tupper invented the product but had trouble moving it in department stores. Then he noticed all these huge sales orders coming in from a single person in Florida, and he’s, like, what incredible store is this? And Brownie says, ‘No store. I hold parties in homes.’ What? Just one woman roaming the Orlando area and chatting in living rooms? That’s impossible. But then all the top executives triple-checked her sales figures, which surpassed some of the largest department stores in the country, and they practically shit in every piece of Tupperware in the office.”
Coleman giggled. “The gelatin mold.”
“Let’s not push the metaphor too far,” said Serge. “Anyway, here’s the key part: Back then, a lot of men would condescend to women and say, ‘Don’t hurt your pretty little heads thinking about business stuff. That’s our work.’ But Brownie had already recruited a multi-tiered marketing force of latter-day Rosie the Riveters. They went wildcat around the male world, creating their own business model, ordering the product under the radar, and just did it. By the time everyone noticed, it was a stunning success that couldn’t be denied.”
“Serge, you don’t mean to say . . .”
