Roscoe was tall and lean, much like Serge, but a few years senior. Running down both arms were tattoos of defunct Roller Derby franchises. He approached the driver’s side and rested folded arms on the window ledge. “Why’d you bail me out?”
“Because I have a business proposition. We run a profitable little cottage industry, except we’re currently heavy on the muscle end and light on white-collar know-how.”
Roscoe grinned contemptuously. “And that’s where I come in?”
Serge opened his door and leaned his seat forward. “Climb in.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s hot and a long walk. I’ll flesh it out as we drive. You don’t like the sound of it, we shake hands and split. Worst case is you get a free ride home.”
Roscoe climbed in the backseat with a condescending smirk.
Serge closed the door and patched out.
Roscoe’s eye caught something. “What’s with the hamster?”
“His name’s Skippy,” said Coleman.
“He’s sliding off your shoulder.”
Coleman gently boosted Skippy back onto his perch. “He’s a little fucked up.”
“What?” said Roscoe.
Serge snapped his fingers in the air. “Eyes over here. Pay no attention to Coleman, or we’ll be talking in circles for days . . .” Serge drained a travel mug of coffee in one long guzzle and floored the gas. “Here’s my proposition . . .” He popped a Neil Diamond CD in the stereo.
Serge turned around and smiled huge at Roscoe. “You like this country? Good! I
Roscoe’s eyes grew big as he grabbed his seat belt with white knuckles. “Jesus, you almost sideswiped that oncoming dump truck.”
“I did?”
“Turn around!” yelled Roscoe. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Absolutely not,” said Serge. “I drive like this all the time.”
Coleman exhaled a bong hit and petted the hamster. “He does.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “I stay in my lane by watching out the back window to gauge my deviation from the center line. And Coleman lets me know when the intersections come up.”
“But—”
“Smile!” Serge snapped some photos of Roscoe, who blinked from the camera flashes.
“Intersection,” said Coleman.
Serge turned around and slammed on the brakes, skidding through another red light.
“Coleman, you were late again.”
“I was busy.”
“Busy packing a bong.” Serge shook his head. “Driving is an important responsibility. I’m becoming concerned about your recklessness.”
A hand was raised in the backseat. “I’d like to get out of the car now, please.”
“But you’re not home yet,” said Serge.
“Would you like to hold Skippy?” asked Coleman.
Roscoe bent forward. “This isn’t the way to my house.”
“Because I wanted to stop and show you something that will explain my proposition.” Serge pulled over on the side of a remote, wooded road. “What’s fair is fair: I’m giving you a lift, so you owe me a shot at my best sales pitch.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Serge opened his door. “Just follow me around to the back bumper.”
“Uh, this wouldn’t be some kind of trick, would it?”
“Trick? No, no, no, no, no!” Serge inserted the key. “It’s just the trunk of a car. What could possibly go wrong?”
Chapter Two
MEANWHILE . . .
Another typical sidewalk café in sunny Florida.
This one sat along tony Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, the non-working-capital
A second round of mimosas arrived a few minutes before ten A.M. The bistro sat between two piano bars—and atop the world of international culinary acclaim. Although others had come close, the café had attained its rarefied reputation by pushing the edge further than anyone previously dared: a complete menu of entrées consisting entirely of a single bite of food standing upright in the middle of a large white plate. But on this particular morning, panic swept the restaurant as news reached the kitchen that two competing teams of master chefs in Paris and Berlin were secretly racing to develop the half bite of food.
Across the street, sidewalk people strolled with cashmere sweaters, purse dogs and wind-tunnel face-lifts. For the window-shopper-with-everything: perfume and crystal, Swiss watches and Persian rugs, Armani and Vuitton. Six galleries featured trending artists, two banks contained only oversize safety-deposit boxes and one place rented diamonds by the hour.
The mimosas were for a jet-setting young couple in aloof sunglasses. Actually, only he was a jet-setter, and she was just lucky. Courtney Styles had received her degree from Florida State a month earlier, and her wealthy uncle offered her use of their beach place since it was off-season. You know, to help her out while job-hunting after graduation. Except she was man-hunting. And what better place?
