The pupils of the hostage’s eyes darted back and forth between his clearly insane hosts.
Serge snapped his fingers in front of the man’s face. “Don’t be distracted by Coleman. He’s got problems. Maybe I’ll try my hat again.” He reached in another duffel and donned a helmet with a red beacon on top.
“Hey, Serge, isn’t that the same helmet when we were here a couple years ago, and you had that superhero costume with a cape?”
“That’s correct.”
“But why don’t you wear the cape anymore?”
The beacon began revolving on top of Serge’s head. “Because I realized I looked ridiculous.”
Muted whining from under duct tape.
“Oh, sorry,” said Serge. “Back to the contest and the open-minded part. That’s why I always give my contestants a chance to win and go free. And here’s your big chance! Sometimes I’m unable to fight my urges, so I’m going to do something to you one way or another.” He shrugged. “I know, it’s a hang-up. But I’m also hung up on the bonus round because I’m a silver-lining kind of cat. I’ve laid out a variety of weapons to choose from. You got your automatic pistol, revolver, single- and double-edged knives, poison, hatchet, hand grenade. That’s just a drawing of a hand grenade, but I can lay my hands on a real one in Miami at any hour. And your ice picks, cattle prods, etcetera . . . It’s your choice.”
The captive looked up with a question in his eyes.
“That’s the contest,” said Serge.
The man’s eyes couldn’t have been wider.
“Don’t look at me,” said Serge. “The clock’s running. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Actually you can’t see the clock because I’m keeping time on the field. But if you haven’t chosen before time’s up, then I get to pick.”
The man’s eyes swung to the table. The item in the middle immediately jumped out. His face snapped back toward his captor.
“By that expression, I know what you’re thinking,” said Serge. “Is choosing my weapon a trick question? . . . Because you just noticed the cigars. And they’re a real prize, three authentic Cubans, the Cohiba, Partagás and El Rey del Mundo. Not cheap.”
The man nodded.
“You want the cigars?”
He nodded harder.
“The cigars it is! Excellent decision.” Serge lifted another duffel bag from beside the bed. “And I definitely appreciate the selection because Florida relevance always motivates my work. With the Cuban influxes of 1960 and ’80, these beauties are now ubiquitous in Miami, which has become the free-Cuba cigar capital of the world.” He unzipped the bag. “And now to prepare your selection . . .”
A number of benign and confusing items came out of the bag, plus an emergency travel tool kit. Serge smiled over his shoulder at yet another bewildered expression. “What? You didn’t think I was just going to let you smoke these? They’re bad for your health.”
He produced three small metal canisters. “Ever get a bunch of dust in your laptop’s keyboard? Drives me crazy!” said Serge. “But luckily most computer stores sell these cans that contain compressed air to send those little dust bunnies scurrying.”
Into the bag again. This time three plastic containers came out. “And these are empty pump spray bottles that you can get at any drugstore. Mainly women use them to spray shit in their hair, so that’s why they’re foreign territory to us men. But if you’re a dude, simply remember they work just like perfume bottles: When you press the little pump button on top, the liquid inside is transformed to a fine mist in accordance with the Venturi effect, named after Italian physicist Giovanni Venturi, who derived complex equations for fluid transfer in different diameter channels. Who would have thought it would lead to spray-on butter? . . .”
Serge cut and snipped and taped and twisted for half an hour. Then a last tap with the butt of a screwdriver. “There.” He stood.
Coleman looked up from the moaning transmission shop. “You’re done? We’re leaving?”
“Yes and no,” said Serge. “We
“I don’t understand.”
“We need to let it set and cure awhile until it’s ready. Like letting a fine brandy breathe.”
Coleman hopped off the bed. “Can we go to a bar?”
They headed down the elevators and Coleman popped a beer. “So did the guy guess right with the cigars? It’s what I would have picked.”
“So would most people, and that’s exactly why you
“But, Serge, you always give someone a way out,” said Coleman. “And everything else on the table was a deadly weapon.”
“The revolver was unloaded.”
“Pretty clever.”
“I even had it turned toward him so he could see the empty chambers, but he was too busy freaking out.”
“Some people are just naturally nervous.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
FORT LAUDERDALE
