Those higher up on the food chain pushed their way through to the carousels, flipping other people’s bags over to check name tags and colored ribbons. The vegetarians hung back. A beeping cart went by carrying someone with two broken legs and a tropical drink. The PA system asked the public to report unattended luggage and weirdos. A heated conversation in Spanish was either about misplaced traveler’s checks or the Havana regime.
A row of chauffeurs stood at the bottom of the escalators with a variety of white signs: COLSON, ROCKFORD, MR. FUJITSU, WILKES-BARRE WEDDING, and a blank sign for the psychic convention.
Off to the side, another person in a Mets jersey held another sign:
ENEMIES OF RICK MADDOX.
They came dribbling in from the corners of the country. The first four arrived in a cluster of mid-morning flights, all wearing their team T-shirts: the initials
They took the Dolphin Expressway to Biscayne Boulevard and a row of high-rise resorts popular among conventioneers. In one of the hotels across from the basketball arena, the group had reserved the Flamingo conference room. They began filing in just before the first seminar was scheduled to start. There were rows of long tables with water carafes, notepads and pens with the name of the hotel.
The Mets fan tapped the microphone. “Good evening and thank you all for coming. A few housekeeping items first.” He unfolded a page of notes and read matter-of-factly: “You probably already noticed, but on each of your chairs is the complimentary tote bag containing our official program, a local visitors’ guide for restaurants and attractions and a plastic laminated badge attached to a lanyard. Please wear it at all times. Plus, everybody should have gotten two drink coupons. If you didn’t, ask at the front desk. And I’d like to thank our sponsors. At our platinum level, Amalgamated Diodes, thanks to Silicon Valley Sally. Those are the little blinking rulers you got. Also, the Greater Miami-Dade Better Business Bureau, the New York Mets baseball organization and the National Rifle Association.”
There was a polite round of quiet applause.
“And I have a positive update to report. Our private investigator just called me an hour ago with the confirmed home address of our esteemed pal, that fake DEA agent Rick Maddox . . . Now, if you’ll refer to your official programs and agenda item number one: Let’s kill this motherfucker.”
FOOD KING
Serge wheeled the cart past checkout line after checkout line.
“There’s a million people at every one,” said Coleman.
Serge gnashed his teeth. “Let’s try the express lane.”
“But we’ve got like thirty items, and the sign says ten.”
“We’ll have to triage.” Serge grabbed an empty cart from a customer who was wheeling it by. “Sorry, this is an official emergency.”
The pair transferred the most essential items into the new cart and took off for the express lane.
They screeched to a halt at the back of a line that snaked out into the main aisle and curved around the magazine racks.
“Look at all the people at this register,” said Coleman.
“Look at all the stuff they’re buying,” said Serge. “Son of a bitch! At least six of these miscreants ahead of us have more than ten items!”
“We’re within the law.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “Even though we wanted more, we courteously winnowed it down to ten and stuck it in that cart we commandeered from that other guy.”
Coleman looked over the top of the cashiers. “What’s that place up front?”
“Good eye,” said Serge. “The customer-service counter.” Serge spun the cart out of the line. “They have a register, and there’s only a few people. Let’s hurry before the stampede.”
The cart skidded around the last register and raced up to the counter.
They waited. Coleman looked at his fingernails, yawned and itched himself. Serge stared at the clock. Coleman thought about a traumatic incident he’d experienced when he was younger and got his head stuck between stair railings. He was twenty-eight at the time. Serge stared at the clock.
“Motherfu—!”
Coleman jumped. “What is it?”
“Now I know why we’re waiting so long.” He pointed with a shaking arm. “They’ve got one of those glass counters to see the scratch-off tickets. That woman can’t decide between Gold Rush and Mega Slots.” He emitted a piercing whine. “Now she’s filling out a six-ticket Lotto form with her lucky family birthdays.”
“Just hang in there.”
“I’m trying,” said Serge. “She’ll eventually need food and water.”
“Hey, I see another place. Those empty registers.”
“Holy Jesus.” Serge spun the cart again. “This store has automated self-serve checkout. There is a God.”
