Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

“So now when they ask if they can help, I hold up an official-looking blue document with notary stamps and say, ‘I’m here to serve a subpoena but can’t tell you who because I have to physically hand it to the person, and if they get advance notice, the guy usually ducks out a fire door or sits on a toilet and pulls his feet up.’ Then I flash the document again, prominently showing the word fraud—which covers everyone in the building on the DNA level—and the guy bugging me usually says he has to use the restroom, and I follow him in a minute later and bend down, but I can’t see feet . . .”

A voice from behind: “Those are the walls of fame.”

“What?” Serge turned.

The receptionist smiled. “They honor the top representatives from each country.” A bigger smile. “Please take a look.”

Serge did look. At Coleman. “Sounds like a trick.”

“She seems nice enough.”

“Until I ask to join the club. Then it’s mailbox time again.” Serge checked his camera settings. “But I have to see those plaques. Cover my flank and stand back to back against me as we walk down the hall so you can see if anything is coming up on us from the rear.”

“Is this some kind of sobriety test?”

“Just do it!” The pair crept down the hall, flash, flash, flash . . .

They returned to the desk.

“Serge, nothing happened.”

“Something’s definitely fishy. Let me see if I’m right—”

“Welcome to Tupperware!” said the receptionist.

“We just popped in off the street and wanted to wander around.”

“That’s great . . .” said their greeter.

Serge raised an eyebrow at Coleman.

“. . . Have you ever been here before?” continued the receptionist.

“Driven by hundreds of times and wanted to stop, but it was always something, and it was usually banging in the trunk . . .”

Her smile remained.

“I remember my mom having Tupperware parties as a kid.” Serge’s hands swiftly sliced the air, stacking invisible objects. “I loved those parties, the whole neighborhood hanging out in our backyard by the mosquito torches in an iconic sixties experience.”

“Cream cheese and celery,” said Coleman.

“The curtains had fiberglass,” said Serge.

“Deviled eggs,” said Coleman.

Serge frantically scratched his neck.

Coleman slowly moved his hands in front of his face. “Whoa!”

Her smile never wavered.

Serge uneasily grinned back.

Coleman tugged his sleeve. “Isn’t this the part where they usually ask if they can help you?”

“That’s the problem,” Serge said out the side of his mouth. “Her game is to deliberately throw me off-balance.”

“How’s she doing that?”

“By tolerating me.” He pulled Coleman aside a step. “This has never happened before. I know I’m a little exhausting to be around, but I’m also a pretty good student of body language: People usually try to break free by the time I get to the Pavlovian itch-response to curtains.”

“Serge, I don’t find you exhausting. But I self-medicate.”

“And that’s the dynamic of our special friendship. But the receptionist is totally lucid. Not only is she tolerating my high-octane quirks, but she’s actually encouraging them.”

“How is that a problem?”

“Because this is a business negotiation,” said Serge. “And in every hardball negotiation, there’s a point where you shut up, and the next person who talks loses. Except I’ve never gotten to that point before because people always jump in and shut me up. But this woman’s good. I’ve never encountered such a formidable foe who can indulge my verbal incontinence.”

“The temptress.”

“Time to get back to the negotiation,” said Serge. “Be cool.”

“It’s hardball.”

Both stepped back up to the desk and grinned.

The receptionist grinned back.

Serge and Coleman smiled harder.

The woman maintained even pleasantness.

Serge began to perspire.

The woman didn’t.

“Okay! Okay!” said Serge. “You win! I want to see the Tupperware Museum.”

“We used to have a museum, but we updated the displays and it’s now called the Confidence Center.”

“I’m all about positivity.” Serge opened his wallet. “How much?”

“It’s free.” She handed them flowery visitor stickers for their shirts. “Hope you enjoy it.”

A cell phone rang. Serge turned it off.

DOWNTOWN MIAMI

The lunchtime crowd strolled along Biscayne Boulevard. They passed the eternal torch at Bayfront Park, and a bench where someone was eating Cuban rice and beans out of a Styrofoam container.

The person on the bench was alone, wearing a golf shirt and aviator sunglasses on a cloudy day. He had a tightly cropped haircut. Cheekbones jutted like a cross between Nicolas Cage and a competitive bicyclist. Under his shirt was a deceptively powerful, angular frame he’d developed from ocean swimming.

He finished lunch, grabbed his briefcase and headed toward a garbage can on the corner to toss his trash.

So did someone else.

Wham. They ran into each other, and he dropped his briefcase.

The other man also dropped a briefcase. Funny, but the two cases looked striking similar. Actually identical.

“You okay?” said the second man.

“Fine.”

“I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.”

“No, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”