Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

“I’d bet almost anything that, like your daughter suspects, their real target is a doctor. I think they’re fishing for witnesses and got your name from a patient list. But here’s where you have to be careful and let us handle it. Sometimes, instead of asking for a witness’s help, they prefer to go through the witness.”

“Through?” asked Brook.

“Indict as a co-conspirator, then deal down with a plea bargain in exchange for testimony.”

“But he didn’t do anything,” said the daughter.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s simply a game of leverage. I know a lot of people over at the agency, and every one of them is a total professional. But occasionally you’ll get someone who’s played the game so long that they’ve lost empathy and don’t realize the havoc it plays on people who aren’t part of their world.”

Ronald took a deep breath. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Hold on,” said Ken. “Our colleague just returned to the conference room and said he couldn’t reach the agent. But he left a message, so we’re covered on that front. Just relax and let us run it from here. We’ll call as soon as we hear something.”

“Thank you for helping us so quickly,” said Brook.

“Take care,” said Ken.

ORLANDO

A black Firebird sat on the corner of a motel parking lot with the radio on.

“ . . . Happiness is a warm gun . . .”

“Cool,” said Coleman. “The White Album.”

They were on stakeout, which meant coffee and bottled water on the driver’s side; joints and Jäger shots for the passenger.

“ . . . Bang, bang, shoot, shoot . . .”

Serge grooved to the classic Beatles cut. “I just realized something about the sixties. Because dope came along, comic books went out, so there were never any hippie superheroes.”

“Yes, there were,” said Coleman. “The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers. They had their own underground comic books.”

“But they weren’t superheroes.” Serge raised his binoculars toward a particular motel room. “They didn’t have any superpowers.”

“Yes, they did,” said Coleman. “They had the power to score weed under any circumstance.”

“That’s not a superpower.”

Coleman raised an eyebrow at Serge. “My friends would beg to differ.”

“ . . . Happiness . . .”

“The motel room door’s opening.” Serge tossed the binoculars in the backseat. “We’re on.”

The Trans Am raced across the parking lot and screeched up in front of a tall man and a petite woman.

The surprised couple jumped back. “Watch where you’re going! You almost hit us!”

Serge jumped out. “Everything’s under control. I’m a political detective, and this is my associate, Coleman. He has superpowers.”

“I can score dope at will.”

The man glanced toward his female companion—“street loons”—and began walking around the pair. Serge sidestepped to block their path.

“Is there a problem?” the man said menacingly.

“I was hoping we could get together and form a flash mob. Check out our moves.”

Serge and Coleman began doing the robot.

“Get the fuck out of our way!” The man started pushing past.

Serge blocked him again and squinted at the pair. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Move or get hurt.”

“No, I definitely remember you but can’t put my finger on it.” Serge looked closer, then raised a finger in epiphany. “I got it now! You’re the people from the TV shows! You’re famous . . . Hey, Coleman, we have a couple of celebrities here.”

“I can make a bong from the contents of any kitchen.”

“Man, I can’t believe the things they’re reporting about you,” said Serge. “Faking that whole terminal-disease thing and ripping off the compassionate. How does it feel to be the most hated people in South Florida? At least for this week?”

“Okay, fella, I warned you!”

Then the guy felt the gun in his ribs.

“Why walk?” said Serge. “When there’s plenty of room in my trunk?”

Another dingy motel room.

Serge marched them inside at gunpoint.

“Okay, you sit here, and you sit here . . . and it’s pointless to resist. I don’t know why I always say that, but I hear it on TV and wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

Soon they were both tied up with sailor knots.

The couple’s eyes weren’t blinking.

Serge tugged the ropes behind their chairs to make sure they were snug, then circled back around.

“W-w-what are you going to do to us?”

“You tell me,” said Serge. “What should I do to you? I mean, how does someone get their head around such a disgraceful level of predation? There’s low and then there’s sick. On the other hand, up to two percent of the population are psychopaths, so you can’t help it if you have no empathy for others. They say empathy can’t be taught, but I don’t buy that for a minute! I’ve got a great lesson planned for you, and then we can have recess and milk.”

He tore off two sections of duct tape and roughly strapped them around their heads. Then he flicked open a switchblade and held it to the man’s mouth.

Curiously, eyes went wide again. “Hold still,” said Serge. “I wouldn’t want to cut your lips . . .”

Then he was done. The couple didn’t know what to make of it.