“Because it belongs to the von Zurenburgs.” The bartender hung the dry glass in an overhead rack. “Old money. You’ve heard of shoelaces?”
Even the waiter was impressed. “You don’t mean
The bartender slowly picked up another wet glass and peered sideways with a glare that said,
Courtney glanced back and forth with a near laugh. “What’s going on?”
Everyone stood silent.
She turned around. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
More quiet.
She closed her eyes a moment.
“Ma’am,” said the maître d’. “There is still the matter of the check.”
Courtney sighed in resignation. “How much?”
It was not the Palm Beach Way to say such numbers aloud. He handed her a small leather folder and raised flared nostrils to deliberately expose unsettling dark bristles inside.
“Six hundred and ninety-three dollars!” she blurted. “For two bites of food and a few mimosas?”
“And a shrimp cocktail.”
TAMPA
A vintage Firebird rolled through noon sun on Busch Boulevard, named for the famous brewery that had since been shuttered. But still operating nearby was the theme park.
Serge stopped across the street and checked his watch to see how long until Busch Gardens closed for the night.
“Serge, I think the idea about Canada is good and all, but I don’t think it’s enough to stop all the fighting.”
“It’s not.” Serge stared across the street with binoculars. “The second part of my Master Plan to reinstate domestic peace is one simple word: Music!”
“Oh, yeah,” said Coleman. “That’s how they settle all serious shit on
“The Tea Party and the Occupiers are simply different twists on Parrot Heads and Dead Heads. At first impression, the Parrot Heads see a bunch of filthy people with bare feet and think, ‘Get a job.’ And the Dead Heads see all these wacky tropical hats and Buffett-licensed apparel and think, ‘Get a life.’ But the overwhelming common ground is obvious.”
Coleman petted his hamster. “They both like music?”
“If we can just sit them down and listen to a mash-up of ‘Margaritaville’ and ‘Casey Jones,’ we’re halfway home.”
Coleman nodded. “Tequila and cocaine. I like it.”
“You’re missing the point. This is about uniting our fractured nation, and I’ve come up with a unifying theory to explain all human behavior and achieve this harmony: the Empathy Continuum.”
“What’s empathy?”
“The ability to feel others’ vibes and follow the Golden Rule—”
Banging from the trunk.
“Son of a bitch!” Serge jumped from the car and popped the rear hood—
Serge slid back into the driver’s seat. “People who interrupt! Jesus! . . . Where was I?”
“Empathy.”
“Right. In order to treat people with the utmost sensitivity, you must become acutely in tune with their every emotion: happy, sad, anxious, melancholy, introspective, that awkward sensation in the grocery store when you see someone you know really well but you’re in a rush and don’t have time for the kind of chitchat that nobody knows how to end gracefully, but they haven’t seen you yet, so you quickly duck down an aisle.”
“Especially if you owe them weed money.”
“Which leads us to my Empathy Continuum,” said Serge. “At one end are the totally chill cats: Mother Teresa, Gandhi, the Salvation Army, and at the opposite, Stalin, Pol Pot, Son of Sam, Ike Turner.”
“But how does this unite everyone?”
“Noted psychotherapists claim empathy can’t be taught, but they’ve never tried with the level of zeal I apply when I put my mind to something.” He glanced over his seat as thumping resumed from the trunk. “And I’m going to launch my clinical trials with someone who could stand to learn empathy the most.”
The hamster twitched its whiskers and strained to reach the eyedropper in Coleman’s hand. “How did you find out about Roscoe in the first place?”
“It was in all the papers. Remember that rookie police officer in Manatee County who was brutally gunned down in the line of duty? Pulled over a carload of crack smugglers with UZIs on the Tamiami?”
“Sort of.”
“Roscoe must read the papers, too.” Serge got out of the car and walked toward the back bumper. “Because after the first of the year, Nash falsely filed the officer’s tax return and had the refund check diverted to a PO box.”
“How do you even figure out how to do that?” asked Coleman.
“I don’t know, but Roscoe must have because it actually happened.” Serge popped the trunk. “Just when you think you’ve seen all depravity, someone raises the bar again.”
“He’s another wiggler,” said Coleman.
Serge rolled Roscoe over and ripped the duct tape off his mouth.
“Ow! Shit!” The captive looked up. “Who the hell
