“I didn’t know the parties were still going on,” said Coleman. “And that they’re using stopwatches.”
“So that’s what those international plaques in the hallway were about,” said Serge. “The parties may be played out a little here in the States, but the rest of the world is just discovering that hand-to-hand gelatin-mold transactions are a joyous intermission between Greek austerity riots.”
They walked past a concave sequence of interlocking screens flashing historic Technicolor images, and approached a round column of pinwheel flowers.
Serge tucked the flex tube under his shirt. “I feel like I’m in one of John Lennon’s dreams.”
“Did his dreams have a dollar-bill slot?”
“What? . . . Oh my God!” Serge ran up and placed respectful hands against the column. “A vending machine for miniature Tupperware souvenirs on key chains . . .” Serge fumbled for his wallet again. “Someone must have been spying on me when they conceived this place.”
Moments later, Serge’s pockets bulged with key chains hanging out. He stared into the billfold. “No more singles. Just fives and tens . . .” He looked up. “Where’d you come from?”
The employee smiled. “Do you need change?”
“No, I better cut myself off,” said Serge. “But thanks.”
The person smiled again and dematerialized behind the column.
“That was weird,” said Coleman.
“I know.” Serge put his wallet away. “Again, behavioral quirks that are shunned everywhere else are aggressively nurtured here . . . And I think I’ve just received my inspiration for dealing with the next scam artist . . . To the gift shop!”
They strolled the aisles with gusto. Coleman poked Serge’s arm and glanced backward: “There’s somebody following us.”
“I’m aware. Just be cool and ignore her.” Serge mentally cataloged the inventory of passing shelves. “I knew this was too good to be true. I’ve pushed our visit into the annoyance zone, and now the hammer is about to come down. But it’s critical that I pick up a few things first before we hit the mailbox.”
Coleman glimpsed back again. “What are we going to do?”
“Stall her long enough before we hear the fatal words—”
From behind:
Serge seized up and clenched his eyes. “Damn, so close.” He turned around with a guilty heart. “Why? I wasn’t doing anything.”
“You looked like you could use some assistance finding something.”
Serge glanced oddly at Coleman.
Coleman shrugged.
“Uh, I actually could use a tiny bit of help.”
“Sure, anything . . .”
Seconds later, Serge led the employee briskly down another aisle: “How much is this? . . . How much is this? . . . How much is this? . . . Is this in a different color? . . . Is this in a different size? . . . Can this withstand radiation? . . . How much is this? . . .”
“Serge,” whispered Coleman. “She’s answering every question. And she’s not getting pissed.”
“I know,” Serge whispered back, and headed for the cash register. “Now I get why they call it the Confidence Center: It’s an ethereal never-land of serenity that’s not as much a corporate headquarters as the meditation retreat of a controversial church. I feel such inner peace and unconditional acceptance that I never want to leave.”
They left the building by the giant dandelion.
Serge turned his cell phone back on, and it rang immediately. He began opening it.
“You’re actually going to answer this time?” said Coleman.
“Since I now have my inspiration, our appointment schedule just opened up.” He placed it to his ear. “Hey, Mahoney, what’s shaking? . . . I know you’ve been trying to call. My phone went dead and had to be recharged, and when I turned it back on I saw all the times you tried to reach me. Must be awfully important . . . Sure, we’re free to come back to Miami to get in position. Be there in a few hours. Later . . .”
Serge and Coleman walked off into the sunset with brimming Tupperware shopping bags in each hand.
FORT LAUDERDALE
Floral arrangements continued arriving.
All shapes. Ovals, horseshoes, a bunch of roses supposed to look like a fireman’s helmet.
They sat on easels along the front wall. The flowers kept coming because people didn’t. Couldn’t break away from New York or afford the trip in the economy.
Brook Campanella sat in the first row of a room full of empty folding Samsonite chairs. The casket was open for the viewing. The funeral director solemnly stood off to the left side near the door. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his face was a long, sad countenance of deepest empathy. He was thinking about an upcoming fishing trip.
Brook had set her cell phone on vibrate, but what did it matter?
It vibrated.
She flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Ms. Campanella, this is Ken Shapiro of Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious—”
“I know,” said Brook.
