Another Typical Day in Paradise

A large, clear plastic ball rolled across the Atlantic Ocean off Miami Beach.

It approached a yacht. A hatch on the side of the ball opened. A head popped out. �Which way to Bermuda?� Three deep-sea sports fishermen pointed. �Thank you.� The hatch closed. The ball resumed rolling.

Back ashore, a whiskered man dove onto the sidewalk next to U.S. Highway 1, capturing another iguana under his T-shirt. The reptile was hog-tied with rubber bands and hung from the handlebars of a Schwinn bicycle, joining five other similarly dangling reptiles all wondering how life had come to this.

High above the road, workers on a scaffold updated the jackpot on a billboard for the Florida lottery. Motorists stopped texting to slam their brakes as a Marilyn Monroe drag queen ran into the street, chased through traffic by a JFK impersonator. There were fistfights, fender benders, free clinics, firecrackers that people thought were gunfire, and gunfire that people thought was firecrackers.

A man with no known address was thrown out of a Chinese restaurant after trying to sell iguanas to the kitchen staff during the lunch buffet special. He was soon arrested in the parking lot but escaped during an increasingly bitter jurisdictional feud between Animal Control and the health department. A bullet-riddled body lay unnoticed behind a Dumpster as a nearby SWAT team surrounded a group of small boys lighting fireworks.

The sun climbed toward noon. Heat waves rose from the pavement. People slowed down. A bicycle rolled quietly past Caribbean trawlers docked along the banks of the Miami River. Six swaying iguanas looked up from the handlebars at a dilapidated office building and an unimpressed man in a fedora staring back at them from a second-story window.

The man in the window removed the hat and wiped his brow as the cyclist pedaled out of sight. Then he returned to his chair and the conversation with himself: �The name�s Mahoney, and if I had a dime for every shanghaied lizard on this river, I could buy the B&O Railroad and not have to pass Go. But they don�t pay for that kind of information in these parts, and until they do, I use up oxygen with my feet propped on a desk that has coffee stains older than all the cops in this town, and most of the hookers. The chipped gold letters on the window of my office door say I�m a �private investigator,� but from this side of the glass, I�m a �rotagitsevni etavirp.� Been called worse. As long as the money�s green, except that�s not a popular shade in this economy. Is business slow? My bartender stopped letting me hock cuff links for Cutty Sark, the bookies treat me like an IRS agent at a dice game, and the client chair on the other side of my desk has been empty so long it�s starting to have that new-car smell. Guess it�s just that time of year again in Miami. Summer, that is, when the road tar outside is hotter than a stolen pinkie ring at a mob wedding. Most people can�t take this heat�.�.�.�

Rapid footsteps came pounding up the hallway. The door flew open. A Marilyn Monroe drag queen burst in and locked the door behind her. �I can�t live like this anymore! You have to help me!�

Mahoney replaced the fedora on his head. �Then again, some like it hot.�

It remained quiet and still outside a private detective�s office on the Miami River. Suddenly, from high in the sky, the thunderous whapping of a Coast Guard helicopter that had just rescued someone drifting out to sea in a human-sized hamster ball. It continued north toward its air station in Opa-locka, flying over the horse track and a desolate, industrial stretch of Hialeah.

Down below sat a small, squat concrete pillbox of a building. Used to be the office of a high-mileage used-car lot. Now a lawyer�s shingle hung over the door. Inside, two people sat on opposite sides of a desk. One wore a tailored French suit. The other, shorts, flip-flops, T-shirt. They stared at the ceiling, waited for the helicopter racket to fade. Then:

�Okay, I got you off on a technicality this time, but you need to be more careful.�

The client didn�t speak.

�I can�t legally tell you to break the law,� continued the attorney, kicking off his flip-flops. �But hypothetically, if someone absolutely had to transport weed for personal use, they should get a rental car and pull the most tightly packed buds from their stash. Now this is the most important part: no baggie. That�s where they get fingerprints. And since you can�t get prints off individual buds, just stick them here and there in various spots in the trunk. Even if the cops find your stuff, what can they do? Arrest you because the rental company didn�t thoroughly vacuum after the previous customer?�

The man in the French suit slowly began to nod with understanding. �Cool.� He stood up, revealing the extent of an athletic frame that made him one of the most popular players for the Miami �����. He pulled a platinum money clip from his pocket and peeled off C-notes.

�But you already paid me.�

�This is a tip.� He formed a wad just north of two G�s and passed the currency across the desk, then gave the lawyer an interlocking-thumb, freak-power handshake.

The player left. His lawyer remained behind the desk, counting the cash and sticking it in a bottom drawer before lighting an incense stick. Ziggy. Ziggy Blade, attorney to the�.�.�. well, it was different every day, about to become even more so. The entire office was one room, divided in half by a curtain of hanging beads. The walls were covered with taped-up posters: the Constitution, Vietnam napalm plumes, Frank Zappa in concert.

Ziggy had just fired up a joint when the front door opened. He quickly stubbed it out, swatting the incriminating smoke away from his face as the beads parted and someone walked in. Then someone else. And another. And another. So on, until there was no breathing room. Serious mouths, briefcases, guns, dreadlocks.

Ziggy sat with wide, stoned eyes. His T-shirt said: Everyone Remain Calm. Let the P.E. Teacher Handle It. The leader of the group gave a slight nod, which was all the communication needed for the others to set their briefcases on the desk and open them in succession.

Ziggy had never seen so much cash, even on TV. He looked up with even bigger eyes. �You sure you have the right lawyer?�

The leader nodded. �You come highly recommended.�

Outside the concrete-block law office in Hialeah, a bicycle rolled by with dangling iguanas. It continued on and approached one of Florida�s most popular supermarkets, like Publix, except not Publix.

A dozen cars circled the parking lot for elusive spots. Crammed shopping carts crossed the crosswalks. Inside the automatic doors, all the checkout lines were full, even the registers at the customer-service counter, which were usually shortest of all and the last refuge of the one-item shopper. Except now they were the longest lines in sight because�.�.�.

Bright lights flooded the front of the store. A TV correspondent cheerfully raised a microphone. �This is Bianca Blanco reporting live for Action Eye Live Eyewitness Five at Five from one of Florida�s most popular supermarkets, where the short lines at the customer-service counter are now preposterously long due to an outbreak of lottery fever, and since we�ve gone three weeks without a winner, the jackpot has rolled over to a whopping record that is being updated by the hour�.�.�. Excuse me, sir, why are you willing to wait so long to buy lottery tickets?�

�It gives my life meaning�.�.�.�

Behind the counter, employees worked frantically to dispense tickets and process the occasional grocery purchase. The staff all had little green plastic name tags. Two of them: Serge and Coleman.

Another customer stepped up to the counter. �Six quick-picks, please.�

�Jesus, don�t buy lottery tickets,� said Serge. �The store won�t tell you this because they�re in on it, but the whole thing is a fool�s bet. It�s a tax on people who are bad at arithmetic.�

�What the hell�s going on here? Just give me the tickets!�

�Buy food instead,� said Serge. �That�s a sure thing.�

�I am buying food.� The man set an item on the counter.

Serge gasped. �Not that!�

�I�m buying chips.�

�But you�re buying the twelve-pack of small individual bags! It�s the worst possible cost-per-ounce scenario! Work the numbers, man!�

�I can afford it.�

�That�s not the point!� said Serge. �Think of all the extra Fritos!�

�Do I need to get the manager?�

Serge sighed and hit buttons. �It�s your road to ruin.�

The customer snatched tickets and chips. �Wacko�.�.�.�

At the next register, an employee popped a can of soda.

�Six quick-picks, please.�

�Sure thing.� The worker lowered the can and furtively manipulated something in his other hand. Then he chugged while pressing buttons on the lottery console.

�Are you drinking?� asked the customer.

�What?�

�I just saw you pour a miniature bottle of vodka into that can of Sprite.�

Coleman stared a moment. �No, I didn�t.�

�Whatever. Just give me my tickets.�

�Here you go.�

�Hold on.� The customer looked at his stubs. �These are Fantasy Five. I wanted Lotto. Where�s your supervisor?�

�Wait! It�s cool! It�s cool!� Coleman quickly pressed more buttons, canceling the previous sale and spitting out correct tickets. �There you go. Have a nice day.�

The customer gave him a cold stare before leaving.

Coleman took a deep breath, followed by an extra-long chug. �The pressure�.�.�.�

Back at the other register, the line was really starting to stack up.

�No, listen to me!� said Serge, raising his voice. �All of you, listen to me! There are more than twenty million permutations! Do the math! The government is taking all of you for a ride��

Serge felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. �Yeah?�

An assistant manager stood dumbstruck. �What do you think you�re doing?�

�What�s it look like? Teaching home economics.�

The supervisor opened his mouth to say something, but stopped and sniffed the air. �Do I smell alcohol?�

�I don�t drink,� said Serge.

The lines of irate customers pointed in unison at the other register.

Coleman punched buttons in frustration. �Darn, wrong tickets again�.�.�.�

Two men wandered away from the grocery store with holes in their shirts where their name tags had been torn off.

�I can�t believe they fired us,� said Coleman. �I was starting to get pretty good at that.�

�Doesn�t matter,� said Serge. �We were going to quit tomorrow anyway.�

�But we just started working there Monday.�

�That�s right. We reached our time limit.� Serge pulled a lottery ticket from his pocket and gently caressed the image of a loggerhead turtle. �It�s the key to our new lifestyle choice, moving on to a new town every week and getting another job, just like all the classic American TV road shows: Route 66, The Fugitive, Branded, Kung Fu, and the all-but-overlooked Sea Hunt, starring Lloyd Bridges. None of them ever stayed more than a week.�

�Why not?�

�The next episode had to air. Even rebels must answer to the prime-time network schedule.�

�Serge, why do you have a lottery ticket?�

�Not just any ticket.� He raised it over his head in triumph. �This is a special-edition Guy Harvey marine-life scratch-off.�

�But you told all those people back there that the lottery was stupid.�

�Only if you play,� said Serge. �This is going right in my collection. That way I�ve already won.�

Coleman reached. �Can I scratch it off?�

Serge clutched it to his chest. �And ruin a mint-condition Florida souvenir?�

Coleman shrugged and pulled another miniature bottle from his pocket. �Serge, there�s a dude riding by with a bunch of iguanas hanging from rubber bands on his handlebars.�

�Florida happens.�

The pair strolled down the sidewalk as a commercial truck pulled up to the curb. A work crew got out to update the jackpot total on another lottery billboard. The first began climbing the ladder. �Hey, Stan, check this out.�

�What is it?�

�I�m not sure.�

Passing motorists had been staring curiously at the unusual sign all morning, but they just assumed it was one of those 3-D gimmick billboards, this one sending a message like You�ll really regret not buying lottery tickets.

The first worker slowly climbed a few more rungs. �What the� .�.�. Oh my God!�

He practically jumped off the ladder. The whole crew sprinted back to their truck and got on the radio.

High above the road stood the familiar flamingo logo with a tropical splash of colors that promoted wealth without work. In front of the sign was a man wearing a short-sleeve clerk shirt with a clip-on tie. Clasped to his breast pocket: a photo ID badge from the state department of lottery. He gently swung in the breeze from the noose around his neck.

One Month Earlier

Yellow wildflowers and cattle fences ran along the side of the country highway traveling from the middle of nowhere to the outskirts of nowhere else. It was in the soggy armpit of the state that gently bends the peninsula west up into the Panhandle.

Here and there, separated by long stretches of trees and moss, were signs of the hand of man. A corrugated aluminum building advertising well drilling, a defunct campground on the Suwanee, an unexpected scuba shop for visitors to a local spring. It was that weird swath of backwoods, off-the-radar counties that featured wanton barrenness anchored by a monstrous granite courthouse circa 1909 that could accommodate the entire population.

Then, occasionally, a modest main street of sorts. Meme�s Diner; the Boon Docks restaurant with cattle skull on the roof; Tumbleweed�s Smoke House with no explanation for the apostrophe; a pizza place boasting the �best service in town� with no explanation for the quote marks; Mayo Good Home Cookin Caf�; Daddy�s Place Bar-B-Q with a mural of Malcolm X, Elijah Muhammad and Louis Farrakhan, peacefully existing next to a mechanic�s garage with no customers and large, motionless white men in overalls leaning back in the humid shade as if they�d been asked to pose for Life magazine in 1965.

A vintage sports car zoomed across the Aucilla River, down into the elbow of the Panhandle between Goose Creek Bay and Hog Island Sound. Coleman sat up after firing a fattie. �I know I ask this question a lot, but this time I really mean it: Where in the heck are we going?�

Serge made a skidding right at a wooded fork. �To possibly the most isolated oasis of funk in all the state�and the first stop on my Route 66 tour of Florida.�

�What�s its name?�

�Sopchoppy.�

�You mean like that biker at the No Name Pub?�

�It�s Creek Indian for �long and twisted.��

Coleman took a deep hit. �Works for me.�

�The place is so remote and tiny, yet has all kinds of bonus features as both the self-proclaimed �music capital of North Florida� and �earthworm-harvesting capital� of the whole state. That is a bold range of culture.�

�Worms and tunes.� Coleman popped a Bud. �Dig it.�

Serge turned onto Rose Street. �There�s the town�s recording studio, converted from a clapboard rooming house, and over here on Yellow Jacket Avenue is the historic old high school gymnasium, which hosts monthly performances of the Sopchoppy Opry.�

�That�s a high school gymnasium?� said Coleman. �Looks like the Alamo.�

�Good analogy,� said Serge. �It alone is worth the visit: hands down the state�s coolest gymnasium, or anything in the scientific family of gymnasiums. Constructed in 1939 by the Works Progress Administration, it�s a Spanish-mission-style fortress of cemented-together limestones. Not bricks, the actual stones, forming an arched facade where the basketball hoops are mounted inside.� Serge grabbed a lockpick set and a ball from the backseat. �I must shoot a basket.�

Coleman sipped his beer in the convertible and listened to quietness. Serge ran back out.

�That was fast.�

Serge vaulted over the driver�s door. �Strike that from the list.� He drove off, making a series of turns with his eyes in the sky. �The cool thing about small towns like this is you can navigate with just the water tower.�

�I see it. And there�s an old train depot�.�.�.�

�.�.�.�Now a museum.� Serge pulled up to the curb in the busiest section of town, a total of three buildings long. Sopchoppy Grocery was made of red bricks with a tin awning and a sign that hung over the sidewalk with 1950s artwork of a pile of vegetables next to a slice of raw meat. Smaller signs in the windows advertised Coca-Cola and Cracker Jack, then homemade notices for septic repair, a lost dog, canoe rentals, a carpet service called Dirt Doctors, and an announcement that �local squash� was now in stock.

�You need food?� asked Coleman.

�No, a job.� Serge hopped out. �Our Route 66 pilgrimage requires that we secure new employment each week in a different town. That�s why I picked Sopchoppy for episode one. We can�t miss!�

�But how can you be so sure the grocery store will hire us?�

�They won�t,� said Serge. �We�re starting our own business.�

�What kind of business?�

Serge pointed at another sign in the window that said $2.50 a Cup next to a crayon drawing of a smiling earthworm. �Each year, people from all over descend on the tiny hamlet for the annual worm-grunting festival.�

�Grunting?�

�It�s what they call their patented technique for harvesting worms.� Serge entered the store and walked past a produce case with an eclectic decorative display on top of antique cash registers, lanterns and tennis rackets. �It seems hard to believe now, but back in the day this was a gold-rush town of pioneers supplying the region with earthworms and making fortunes, until people started calculating fortunes differently.�

�Far out.�

At the other end of the vegetable case was a dignified woman in a straw hat trying to reach a zucchini decision.

�Excuse me,� said Serge. �I know this place has seen better times, but thankfully all hardship is in the rearview mirror now that we�ve arrived. The new Route 66, episode one.�

�Do I know you?�

�Not yet, but soon everyone in town will. Extreme worm-grunting.�

�Oh, the worm festival,� she said with a laugh. �You just missed the last one by a week. The kids loved it.�

�I�m sure the little tykes were joyfully spitting up ice cream and cotton candy all the way home,� said Serge. �But we�re deadly serious. I believe I can trust you: There could soon be an employment boom around here, except we only have a week. Shooting schedule for the next episode. Sorry, but the suits make the rules.�

�What are you talking about?� The female customer was possibly late thirties. Appeared slightly older from the light sun wrinkles of an outdoor life, and acted younger because of the experience.

Serge glanced around for eavesdroppers, then leaned closer. �I can get you in on the ground floor. Just point us toward the worm fields, and the highway will soon be so full of semi trucks that they�ll have to reinforce the bridges.�

�Do you actually know anything about worm-grunting?�

�Everything,� said Serge. �Do I look like some kind of amateur? You fashion a foot-and-a-half wooden stake made of persimmon or oak that�s called a �stob� and pound it into nutrient-rich soil. Next you take an equal length of metal known as a �rooping iron� that�s often a leaf spring salvaged from the suspension of an abandoned truck. Then you rub the iron over the top of the stob to mimic the frequency of the earthworm�s mortal nemesis, digging moles. Consequently, your quarry flees to the surface, and before you know it��he snapped his fingers��you�re tits-high in earthworms. Lower property taxes for everyone!�

The woman stared a moment. �Where�d you learn all that?�

�Books, Internet.�

�But have you actually done it?�

�Knowledge trumps experience,� said Serge. �Einstein never built an A-bomb, but ask a certain country how that turned out.�

�No, I mean it�s a dead art,� said the woman. �Only a few old-timers out in the forest still practice it. Really hard work for horrible pay, maybe twenty bucks a pail if you�re lucky. And I mean big pails.�

�Never thought of pails!� said Serge. �See? I knew you�d be helpful�.�.�. Coleman, make a note. Pails, ten. Make it an even dozen.� He turned back to the woman. �Any other wisdom you can impart? You mentioned a forest?�

�The Apalachicola, but�.�.�. don�t take this wrong�.�.�.� She eyed Serge up and down. �.�.�.�You look a bit too city for this line of work. I�m not joking about how hard it is.�

Serge gleamed a brilliant smile. �My fingernails may look spotless, but don�t underestimate my laser focus and impish tenacity�.�.�. Coleman! To the Apalachicola!�

The woman selected a vegetable.

Coleman was already in the passenger seat chugging a fresh quart. Serge stood outside the driver�s door with an ancient Gulf Oil road map. �This place called Tate�s Hell looks inviting�.�.�.�

The door of the grocery store opened. �Let me give you some directions. It�s easy to get lost out there in the woods if you�re not from these parts.�

Serge turned and recalibrated his initial impression. The woman�s subdued beauty was more apparent in natural light. High cheekbones, the hair a bit wild and more strawberry, almost no makeup. And he hadn�t noticed the hiking boots before. Definitely a nature mama. But the main thing: green eyes, pure jade. She walked around the car and grabbed the edge of his map.

�The problem is a lot of these back roads dead-end up at the Ochlockonee River.� She leaned closer to Serge and tapped a spot on the Liberty County line. �But this one bridge west of Smith Creek�.�.�.�

�And that�s where the worms are?�

�You�re on your own there, but it�s where I�d start.�

It was the slightest of brushes. The side of his arm and the side of hers. Was it on purpose? Either way, electricity clearly jumped.

She moved her finger along the map, leaning even closer until their shoulders were in full contact. Okay, now that definitely was on purpose. Then sense of smell came into sexual play. Scientists don�t precisely know why, but humans are individually hardwired to be aroused by certain specific scents. She removed her straw hat, and the aroma of her hair reminded Serge of those little hazelnut coffee creamers from 7-Eleven. He got a woody.

�Wait,� she said. �It�ll be much easier if I just show you myself.�

�You want to come with us?�

�Sure, I hike out there all the time. That is, when I�m not riding horses.�

Serge mentally dialed up that last image. Heart be still. He opened the driver�s door and slipped on polarized sunglasses. �Climb on in. It�s only a two-seater, so I hope you don�t mind Coleman�s lap.�

�Heck, no!�

�Coleman, I wasn�t talking to you.�

They all wedged inside. �Wow,� said the woman. �What a cool car!�

�Genuine 1964 Corvette Stingray, just like Martin Milner drove in the third season of Route 66. I have the whole series on DVD. They kept changing car models each year without explanation and it briefly caused me to retain water�.�.�. Where are my manners? I�m Serge.� He extended a hand.

�Lou Ellen, nice to meet.� She ran her hands over the white leather interior. �Where�d you find such an old model in this condition?�

�Actually it�s not mine.� Serge pulled away from the curb. �The owner is just letting me use it temporarily.�

�For how long?�

�Until he gets home from vacation and calls the police.�

Laughter.

�What�s so funny?�

�You have a great sense of humor�.�.�. Hey, have you seen our historic gymnasium?�

�It rocked my world.� Serge suddenly cut the wheel. �But I�d like to see it again.�

Lou Ellen braced for balance as the Corvette fishtailed its way over to the limestone landmark, until it almost crashed into it.

Serge jumped out. �Let�s go!�

Coleman opened his door.

�Not you,� said Serge, extending a hand to help Lou Ellen out of the car.

She started up the steps. �But I think it�s locked.�

�I have a key.�

They went inside.

Coleman settled back with a new bottle of malt liquor. He stared without intent at a spot in the air a foot in front of his face. His brain was a test pattern.

Meanwhile, at center court in the middle of the gym�s hardwood floor�.�.�.

�Oh God! Yes! Yes! Yes! Faster! Yes! .�.�. What are you thinking about?�

�Stobs, rooping irons, pails, the old Sopchoppy lumber mills, turpentiners, cut-rail fences, indigenous blue iris and black willows used for gunpowder, Corvettes through the ages, the Route 66 theme song, 7-Eleven�.�.�. I�m there!�

�Don�t stop!�.�.�.�

Coleman upended the brown glass bottle as the gymnasium�s door crashed open.

Serge sprinted down the steps and leaped into the driver�s seat.

Coleman belched. �What�s going on?�

�We have to get the hell out of here!�

Serge threw the Stingray in gear as a disheveled woman staggered out in a daze and pulled up a bra strap. �Wait! Why are you leaving?�

�To protect you,� Serge yelled as he hit the gas. �There are a lot of serial killers running around. Luckily it was just me this time, but you need to be more careful.�

Sopchoppy

Serge nervously glanced over his shoulder as the sports car swerved away from the gymnasium and raced west out of town. Coleman twisted the end of a joint in his mouth. �What happened back there?�

�A close call. I had sex.�

�But that�s a good thing.�

�It�s a split decision this time,� said Serge. �In most episodes of Route 66, besides getting a job in a new town, at least one of the guys bangs a local gal. It was required, whether they wanted to or not. Of course with TV standards back in the black-and-white days, they could only allude to it, but if you were paying attention, it was always there: a wholesome independent woman who isn�t leery of the newcomers like other folk. And if she was a widow, then you definitely knew it was going down.�

�You made me watch all your DVDs,� said Coleman. �I never picked up on that.�

�Because they were having sex during the commercials,� said Serge. �If you�ve got a work ethic, that�s more than enough time.�

�You said it was a split decision?�

�That�s right,� said Serge. �Having sex with her was my obligation to the fidelity of the TV series. On the other hand, we�re out to revolutionize worm-grunting, and intercourse always blunts your edge in a drive to the championship. Remember in Raging Bull how Robert De Niro shunned sex and put ice in his underpants before a prizefight? A few orgasms probably won�t cost me many pails of worms, but why roll the dice?�

�So when you told her about all the serial killers running around?�

�Trying to let her down easy,� said Serge. �During a breakup, you can hem and haw about �No, it�s not you; it�s me,� but that can drag on for weeks. Jump right to �serial killers� and it�s a clean break.�

�I admire you,� said Coleman. �I could never ditch a woman that hot.�

�The breakup was best for everyone,� said Serge. �Otherwise, instead of becoming worm-grunting kings, you end up in a Pottery Barn picking out boysenberry candles.�

�What a nightmare.�

�Those places give me the willies,� said Serge. �They exclusively sell shit that I didn�t even know was happening. Decorative boxes and bowls and baskets full of fragrant twigs and painted wood shavings, and about half the stuff is used to hide the tissues, which is why a runny nose is sheer panic in a woman�s pad. �Dear Jesus, in which one of these fucking things is the Kleenex? Maybe inside this seashell-encrusted octagon. No, that�s the monogrammed note cards. What about this faux-driftwood container? No, that�s like a thousand Q-tips, which is a separate mystery. Wait, it�s obvious, the antique shabby-chic metal tissue box. Crap, just jewelry��.�.�. Until she finally catches you hiding behind a wicker birdcage full of natural sponges, which triggers another of her trick questions: �Are you back there blowing your nose in one of my monogrammed note cards?��

�Why not just blow your nose with toilet paper?� asked Coleman.

�Why not just drink out of the toilet,� said Serge. �See, you have to understand how they think: Everything a man does in a bathroom is wrong, so putting toilet paper on your face probably doesn�t top their Internet-profile list of turn-ons. I�ll take my chances with note cards.�

�That�s why they�re always knocking on bathroom doors and asking, �What are you doing in there?��

�In your case, it�s a valid question,� said Serge. �You chart whole new realms of forbidden territory that can piss a woman off.�

�I�m just doing my thing in there, like when I was at your apartment when you were married,� said Coleman. �Suddenly all this screaming.�

�Coleman, even I�m dumbfounded by the unfettered spectrum of forensic fluid that you bring into play.�

�It is what it is.�

�You existentialist, you.�

Coleman pointed toward the side of the road. �Weren�t you looking for a hardware store?�

�Hardware stores are the opposite of Pottery Barns. If the two ever collided in deep space, they would explode like matter and anti-matter.� He pulled into a dirt parking lot and chugged the rest of his coffee. �You always know where you stand in a Home Depot.�

�They should call it the No-Bullshit Depot,� said Coleman.

�You just might be onto something.�

The pair went inside the cramped quarters of a family business that hadn�t been inventoried since Eisenhower. Iron chains of various link sizes hung behind the counter. A skeletal man rested against a galvanized bin of roofing nails. �Can I help you fellas?�

�You already have,� said Serge.

�No bullshit,� said Coleman.

�A rope is a rope,� said Serge. �Not something you glue in circles to make a magazine organizer. That�s why I had to ditch her after the sex. No time for candles. Do you see where I�m going?�

�Not really.�

�Worm-grunting! We need the works.�

Ten minutes later, the old man rang them up. �Here are your stakes and irons and a dozen pails. Anything else?�

�Yes,� said Serge. �My underpants. Do they sell ice nearby?�

An hour later, a silver Corvette sat on an anonymous shoulder of an unimproved road winding through the Apalachicola National Forest.

One of Florida�s most diverse landscapes: hardwood hammocks, sandhills, bogs, prairies, savannahs and swamps. Bears, bats, box turtles, indigo snakes, red woodpeckers. The green, moisture-rich canopies of the lowlands seem almost luminescent, and the yellow fields of carnivorous pitcher plants digest insects and snails. In the dry season, freaky formations of cypress rise atop exposed bases of wooden legs like the walking trees in Lord of the Rings.

A long pole rested across Serge�s shoulders, several shiny new pails on each end. He trudged on through layers of muck, decaying leaves and water beetles.

Some distance behind, labored breathing. �How many miles have we walked now?�

�Two hundred yards. Catch up!�

Pails crashed to the ground. Then a human thud. �I can�t go any farther.�

�Dammit.� Serge dropped his own gear and helped Coleman to his feet. �This is our first day. You can�t quit now! Have some ice.�

�I�m not quitting,� said Coleman. �I just want to try for worms here.�

�But the mother lode is deep in no-man�s-land!� Serge pointed onward like a conquistador. �There�s no way we�ll succeed unless we outlast the competition with a days-long death march into untapped terrain. We must fight the exhaustion and cramping of extremities, never giving in, drawing upon reserves of mental steel!�

�You go on,� said Coleman. �I�ll wait here.�

�Fine, but I�m not splitting the fortune.�

Coleman watched his buddy fiercely charge into the wildness. Fifty yards later, Serge set his pails down again. �That�s enough marching for today.� He hammered a piece of wood into the ground.

A strange vibrating sound greeted Coleman as he moseyed over. �Whatcha doin�?�

�Sliding the rooping iron over the top of my stake.� Serge handed him a hammer. �Pound your own in. But not too close to mine, or we�ll duplicate effort and cut into the vast quantities of worms that will soon leap into the air. I just hope the prices don�t plummet when we flood the market.�

After several rest breaks, Coleman finished getting a stob in place and rubbed his iron strip across the top. �How long is this supposed to take?�

Serge wickedly worked his stake like a fiddle player. �From what I�ve read, the results should be instantaneous and devastating.�

Coleman rubbed at a less robust pace. �Serge, why does this forest look so weird?�

Rub, rub, rub. �Because you�re used to dense forests, but the trees are spread out in this one, making room for a naturally occurring compost heap that harbors all the other cool stuff like newts and scorpions.�

�Scorpions!�

�It�s a big forest�.�.�. You�ve stopped rooping.�

�Sorry.� Rub, rub, rub.

An hour later, they both stopped.

�Where are all the worms?� asked Coleman. �I just see ants.�

Serge scratched his head with the iron. �Something�s definitely wrong. Did I skip a step?�

Coleman began crawling. �What�s that thing?�

�Where?� Serge turned. �Sweet victory! It�s an earthworm!�

Coleman crawled faster. �It�s mine!�

�It�s mine!� Serge scrambled on his knees. �It was closer to my stake!�

�It was closer to mine!�

They both dove face-first in the dirt.

�Give him to me!�

�You give him!�

�Let go of my hair!�

�Let go of my finger!�

Then a period of non-verbal yelping and growling.

It stopped. Serge stared solemnly at his hand before looking up. �You broke him.�

Coleman stared, too. �Fuck it. I�m putting my half in my bucket.�

They sneered at each other and resumed rubbing their respective stakes with the silence of smoldering animosity.

Afternoon passed. The sun drew down, sending long shadows across the forest floor.

A rustling sound. Coleman perked up in alarm. �What was that?�

From behind a cluster of cabbage palms, two other men appeared with overflowing pails that drooped their shoulders. Rubber boots, Levi�s, bare chests with a sheen of perspiration and stuck-on dirt. Both had untrimmed beards, but only one wore a baseball cap for transmission parts.

They were personable types. �Ya fellas gruntin�?�

�Yes we are!� Serge beamed.

�Sure got a lotta pails.� The one with the ball cap looked inside to see half a worm.

Serge rubbed with all his might. �They call me Clapton of the Rooping Iron.�

�Well, ya fellas have a good one.� They trudged off.

Coleman stared at the worm piece in the bottom of his bucket. �How the heck did those guys fill all their pails?�

�I�ve got an idea.� Serge gathered up his implements. �Come on!�

The Apalachicola

A shiny Corvette Stingray skidded on and off the road as it raced through a section of the national forest known as Tate�s Hell.

Coleman clutched the passenger-door frame with both hands. �Why are you driving so fast?�

�Because I can�t wait to see if my breakthrough technique works!�

The sports car found a parking space in the dirt, and Serge raced around to the trunk. �Coleman! Get out here! I need you to carry some stuff!�

�Can I rest first? We just got here.�

�Rest from what? You�ve just been sitting there the whole drive from Tallahassee.�

�It was tiring.� He reluctantly climbed out. �And why did we have to go all that way just to turn around and come back here?�

�I had to go to the nearest big city because there�s no place around here that carries what I needed for my X-Treme Gruntinator,� said Serge. �Because nobody�s ever thought of it! .�.�. Hold this�.�.�. and this�.�.�. and this�.�.�.�

�It�s getting heavy.�

Serge slammed the trunk. �Stop complaining and follow me.�

They marched a few hundred yards to the same spot as the day before. Their stakes were still pounded into the dirt. Serge ignored them and went to work with a posthole digger.

Coleman sat on the ground and pulled a flask from his pocket. �Where�d you get this idea anyway?�

�I went on the Internet to study the techniques of bona fide sixth-generation grunters and found all these great video clips.� Serge rammed the digger deep in the hole and dumped out another clod of dirt. �The guys were regular Mozarts. Their secret was a deft touch with the rooping iron that produced a specific-frequency metallic wheezing sound. I realized my quest now required dedication to arduous effort, until I thought: �Bullshit on effort. I just want success. That�s America!��

Serge dumped a final lump of soil and tossed the digger aside. �Hand me that box.�

�It�s heavy again.�

Serge ripped the container open sideways. �This is the key to the whole operation.� Insulated wires dangled out the tip of a long insulated pole. At the other end was a high-tech oval bulb.

Coleman grimaced as he knocked back a slug of bottom-shelf bourbon. �What the heck is that thing?�

�Nature enthusiasts and the U.S. Navy use hydrophones to listen to majestic whales or enemy submarines, depending on which lifestyle they signed up for.� Serge wrapped the bulb in thick Mylar and sank it five feet into the ground. �Most hydrophones today are passive and just listen, but this is an active hydrophone. It puts sound in the water. Like those old war movies where ships �ping� to find subs.�

�Who wants to do that?�

�Whoever just up and feels like making the water noisy. Again, another not-thought-of opportunity like gold in the streets that everyone walks by.� Serge filled in the hole around the device. �Basically the same principle as those underwater speakers they use each year in the Keys for their annual scuba diver concert.�

More boxes were opened. Serge pulled out a hefty battery pack and amplifier. He intricately connected them with a series of cables that led through the leaves to a lawn chair.

Coleman raised a hand. �But this isn�t water.�

�Precisely,� said Serge. �Any scientist knows that solids conduct sound even better than liquids.�

�Really?�

�Think of those old western movies where Indians put ears to the ground so they could hear the hoofbeats of horses miles away that told them the White Man was about to shit on the whole program.�

�I get it,� said Coleman. �Like the time when I was with you, and I was like super stoned, and you said that if I put my ear on the rail of some train tracks, I could hear the locomotive coming. So I tried it, and you were right!�

�Except you don�t do it when you can also see the locomotive.�

�Good thing those people were there to drag me off the tracks.� Another slug of bourbon. Coleman�s neck suddenly swung sideward. �What the hell was that noise?�

�Just more rustling in the leaves.� Serge settled into his piece of patio furniture as a familiar pair of men emerged in rubber boots and crusty jeans.

The locals set down brimming pails. �You fellas havin� it another try?�

�I never heard the words �give up,�� said Serge.

�Good for ya.� Then they noticed the scientific pole sticking out of the ground, along with the rest of the equipment and all the wires. One of them tugged at the end of his beard. �Whatcha fixin� on doin�?�

�Get ready to witness history.� Serge grabbed the end of the last cable, opened a laptop on his legs and plugged it in.

The locals glanced at each other and grinned�a computer and a lawn chair?�except it wasn�t condescension, but more like amused reaction to watching a likable child do something silly. �So whatcha got cookin� there with that fancy thang?�

�Might want to stand back,� said Serge.

�It gonna hurt us?�

�No.� Serge tapped the keyboard. �You might damage the product.�

And with that, the ground began to come alive like a deep-toned tuning fork.

Two pairs of rubber boots high-stepped it in reverse. They recognized the sound�just never heard it coming up from beneath. And at such volume. �Lord above! What in the name of creation?�

Serge continued tapping the keyboard. �I downloaded some high-end equalizer software, plus the worm-grunting Internet videos, then enhanced the audio. Behold�.�.�.�

�Jesus, Mary and all the saints!�

The entire forest floor became a living canvas of earthworms. And caterpillars and centipedes and snakes and moles and everything else unmoored from its natural bearings�like during the midday total eclipse that hit the Okeefenokee Swamp straddling the Florida-Georgia line on March�7, 1970. Serge added that last detail. �It was televised. You can look it up.�

�Take your word for it, mister.�

Then came the predators: swarms of birds, and smaller mammals as the food chain went into overdrive.

One of the old grunters pulled a Colt revolver and fired it in the air, scattering the wildlife that threatened Serge�s harvest. �Never thought I�d see so many dad-gum earthworms if I lived to be Methuselah!�

�Your own pails are already full,� said Serge. �So why don�t you grab a couple of ours?�

�You brought up the worms,� said Beard number one.

�They�re rightly yours,� said Beard two.

Serge shook his head. �We�re visitors, and it�s about respect. This is your home.�

�But it�s a national forest open to the public.�

Serge looked over twin appearances that suggested long lives of abiding devotion to the land. He repeated himself with emphasis. �This is your home.�

�Well then, let�s fill �em on up before the little buggers change their minds.�

�He�s Willard,� said the other, bending down for worms. �I�m Jasper. Hope you fellers worked up an appetite, �cuz you�re gonna have the best meal south of the Mason when we get back to the �stead.�

�That�s awfully nice,� said Serge. �But it�s really not necessary.�

�Won�t take no for an answer,� said Willard. �You folks got a thirst for some mountain dew?�

�Not really,� said Serge. �Soda�s just empty calories.�

�Naw!� Jasper laughed. �We�re talkin� canned heat, John Barleycorn.�

�You mean the classic album by Traffic?� asked Serge.

�Sheet, man, I�m talkin� moonshine.�

�Hell yeah!� shouted Coleman.

�Down, boy.� Willard hiked his overalls. �I say that one�s got some spring in his paws.�

Serge grabbed his own pail. �Wait till later.�

That Evening

It was not a usual sight in rural North Florida: a vintage silver Corvette pulling up to a bare-wood cracker house on the edge of Sopchoppy near the forest. It had a sagging porch roof atop four-by-fours. Two bearded men in overalls sat out front in rocking chairs they�d fashioned from cut pine.

�See you fellas made it.�

�Wouldn�t miss a meal like you described for the world,� said Serge.

�Moonshine!� said Coleman.

They all headed inside the cabin to a single large room. Beds with chipped antique frames in back, dining table up front, and the whole space filled with a medley of aromas from the gas stove.

Jasper stirred a cast-iron pot. �Didn�t know what you had a hankerin� for, so we made a little of everything. But I�m betting you�ll like everything.�

�How can I help?� asked Serge.

Jasper pointed with a wooden spoon the size of a boat paddle. �Venison could use a flippin� in that skillet.�

�You got it,� said Serge. �What�s in the other pan?�

�Snapper.�

�Surf and turf,� said Serge.

�The kind we like up here. Willard�s my brother. Probably guessed that. He�s divorced. I never could take to moss�.�.�. Hey, Willard, break it out.�

Willard walked over to the gun rack and reached inside one of the ammo drawers for a mason jar.

�What�s that?� asked Coleman.

�The white lightnin� you been lickin� your chops about.�

�Now you�re talking!�

Serge flipped the meat. �Let the reindeer games begin.�

�You boys just make yourself at home�.�.�.�

Behind them, Willard poured clear liquid into a pair of mismatched coffee mugs. �Easy with this stuff if ya ain�t used to it.�

�Don�t worry about me.� Coleman took a stiff pull.

�What do ya think?� asked Willard.

No answer. Coleman stood perfectly still, surprised eyes indicating an internal security breach. Then he suffered a brutal coughing fit that brought tears and drool.

�You better set yourself down.�

Coleman waved him off and pounded his chest, then jiggled his coffee mug, signaling for another pour.

�You sure?�

Coleman nodded firmly.

�Damn,� Willard said as he unscrewed the jar again. �Hey, Jasper, this one�s got some tough bark on him.�

Jasper set down his wooden spoon and turned the stove�s burners to simmer. �Grab plates. We serve ourselves around here.�

Soon they were all seated around the dining table with checkered place mats. The brothers tucked bibs in their bib overalls. They bowed their heads.

Coleman reached for the basket of buttermilk biscuits, but Serge slapped his hand.

�Ow. What?�

Serge gave him a hard look and pointed at the brothers.

�Oh.�

They lowered their own heads.

Willard said the grace, seeing he was a volunteer at Sunday school. It was a good grace, from Ecclesiastes.

�.�.�.�A time to plant, a time to reap�.�.�.�

Coleman whispered sideways. �Isn�t this the Byrds?�

�Shhhh!�

�Amen.� Willard raised his head. �Dig in before someone else does.�

Coleman grabbed the mason jar.

�What an incredible spread,� said Serge. �There�s the meat and fish, and this must be fried okra and collard greens.� He cut into something else with a fork, blew on the steaming bite, and popped it in his mouth. �Mmmmmm!� He closed his eyes. �Tastes like heaven. What is it?�

�Swamp cabbage patties,� Willard said with his own mouthful. �Panhandle truffles.�

�Never heard of it,� said Serge. �And I�m intensely comprehensive in that regard.�

�Not surprisin�,� said Jasper. �Even country restaurants don�t have a likin� for the words �swamp cabbage� on their menu, so they call it heart of palm, which is the tasty soft bulb you cut out of the trunk just below the base of the leaves. Cabbage palmetto, also known as��

�Sabal palm,� said Serge. �The state tree. They probably would have picked the coconut palm, but needed something that also grew in Florida�s northern latitudes.�

�You sure nuff know your facts.�

Serge took another bite. �I�m getting a party in my mouth, but I can�t place all the guests.�

�Chop up the hearts with some onion, add a beaten egg, lots of pepper and bacon fat,� said Jasper. ��Cept I just also add the bacon itself �cuz life�s too short. Then some flour makes the patties.�

Something knocked Serge�s arm, and his fork fell to the floor.

�Sorry,� said Coleman, passing the mason jar to Willard.

Jasper broke off tender flakes from the snapper that still had its head. �Been meanin� to ask, and feel free to tell me it�s none of my business, but how exactly did you spook all those worms with those gizmos?�

Serge wiped his mouth with his bib. �Happy to tell�.�.�.� And he slowly laid out the entire process.

Willard whistled. �That�s some technique. But it doesn�t make money sense if you don�t mind me sayin�. We just get two sawbucks a pail, and that equipment must have broke the bank.�

�It did,� said Serge. �But in business, it�s all about taking the long view. Yeah, it�ll take years to pay off, but after that the profits just gush.�

�And how long you plan on workin� these parts for worms?�

�Couple more days, till the next episode.� Serge speared an okra.

A knock at the door.

�Forgot to mention,� said Willard. �We might have company.� He finished chewing and hollered, �You know to come right in!�

First they heard the screen door. Then the proper one creaked open.

Three of the men politely jumped to their feet. Serge yanked Coleman up by the arm.

�Boys,� said Jasper, �I�d like you to meet our sister, Lou Ellen�.�.�. Lou Ellen, these nice fellas are Serge and Coleman, some of the best grunters we ever laid eyes on. Even let us have four pails of their haul�.�.�.�

Coleman whispered again. �Awkward.�

Serge quickly grabbed a chair from the side of the room and brought it to the table for Lou Ellen to sit. �Listen, about the other day. I got an emergency call��

�No need to explain.�

Willard aimed a knife. �You two�s acquainted?�

�Met briefly at the grocery,� said their sister, lowering her voice: �And the high school.�

Serge quickly slapped the table. �Say! How �bout I fix you a plate, Lou Ellen?� He got up and the rest of the gang joined him at the stove for second helpings.

A half hour later, the guys all threw in the towel, literally. White bibs tossed on empty plates. Stomachs patted. Leaning back in chairs. �I�m stuffed.� �Why�d I eat so much?� �It was good there for a while.� �More moonshine, please.�

Jasper broke out the toothpicks and passed the box.

�Thanks,� said Serge. �All this reminds me of Route 66. Dinner at the house of friendly locals who take kindly to strangers.�

�I remember that show,� said Willard. �Every town they went to, those guys were screwing everything that wasn�t nailed down, but they couldn�t let on too much back then.�

Coleman: �Awwwk-ward.�

�Shut up with that.�

Willard held his mason jar to unfocused eyes and poured the remnants in two mugs.

Coleman drained one. �So what do you guys do around here after drinking moonshine?�

�Only one thing to do,� said Willard. �Shoot guns!�

�Eeee-hah!� said Coleman.

They stumbled back to the gun rack and crashed into it. Rifles toppled, along with Willard. Coleman got on his knees. �I�ll pick up the bullets�.�.�. Here, bullet, bullet�.�.�.�

Willard reached in a drawer. �I got us another mason jar. Let�s go, buddy�.�.�.�

The pair swerved out the screen door into the night.

Serge�s head slowly rotated toward Jasper. �You know how sometimes when everyone is standing around in horror, and you wish you could turn back the clock to a certain point in time? This reeks of one of those points.�

�They�ll be fine.� Jasper made a backhanded wave of assuredness. �Willard took a gun safety class.�

A musical ring-tone emanated from an unseen source. Joni Mitchell�s �Big Yellow Taxi.� �That�s mine.� Lou Ellen reached in her purse. �Hello? Oh, hi, Joline�.�.�. What�s the matter? You sound� .�.�. Slow down. I can�t understand a word�.�.�. Yeah, uh-huh�.�.�. Hold on a sec.� She covered the phone. �I need to take this somewhere private.�

She headed outside, where the evening air was filled with happy shouts, singing and gunfire.

Willard held up an empty bottle and turned to Coleman. �See if you can hit this.�

�Okay.�

�No, let me throw it first�.�.�.�

It became still inside the cabin as Serge and Jasper sat back in the silence of being drugged by food.

A rapid-fire burst from the Browning level-action rifles echoed across the countryside. A scream. The screen door flew open. Lou Ellen ran inside.

�What is it?� asked Serge. �Who got shot?�

�Nobody.�

�Then why are you shaking?�

She grabbed a chair. �Jasper, it�s Aunt Maybelline who lives in Port Saint Joe.�

�What�s happened to her? Is she okay?�

�We don�t know,� said Lou Ellen. �We can�t get in touch with her.�

Jasper jumped to his feet. �Call the po-lice! Aunt May might�n be lyin� on the bathroom floor with a busted hip!�

�It�s not like that,� said Lou Ellen. �The guy from the assisted-living service hasn�t let Joline talk to Aunt May in nearly a month. Keeps saying she�s not feeling well.�

�She phone the service office?� asked Jasper.

�She did,� said Lou Ellen. �The man taking care of her quit the company a few weeks ago. He told Joline he�ll just be working with May now.�

Outside: Bang, bang, bang�.�.�.

�Sounds hinky,� said Jasper.

�Joline felt the same way, so she did call the cops. They talked to the guy, and all his professional certificates were up-to-date. They also talked to Aunt May and she told them she was happy�.�.�. But Joline still didn�t feel right, so she went to the bank because she�s joint co-signer on all of May�s accounts. They said she no longer had access to them.�

�Why?�

�All they could say was that new documents had been filed by my aunt, which took Joline�s name off everything.�

Bang, bang, bang. �Yahoo!� Bang, bang, bang�.�.�.

Serge held up a hand for permission to speak. �I hate to be indelicate, but may I inquire as to the state of your aunt�s mental faculties?�

�Early stages of dementia,� said Lou Ellen. �Maybe middle by now.�

Serge nodded with sadness. �Unfortunately, I�ve seen this one too many times before.�

�What are you talking about?�

�It usually starts out on the level,� Serge continued. �But temptation is too great for some people. Whoever this guy is, he probably assessed her condition and started poking around her checkbook and other stuff while she was napping. Then he persuaded your aunt to replace Joline�s name with his on all the accounts, giving him power of attorney, and finally cutting off all contact with her relatives.�

�Then we definitely have to go back to the cops,� said Jasper.

�It�s a little more complicated than that,� said Serge. �If this is playing out like I think, he drafted a bunch of completely legal contracts charging exorbitant fees for services rendered. I�d bet the farm that he�s already cleaned her out.�

�But if that�s true, why is he still there?�

�Why not? If he doesn�t have much drive in life, he�s living there free in a spare bedroom, cashing her Social Security check each month, and propping his feet up on empty cases of Mallomars.�

�And military benefits from her late husband, Homer,� said Lou Ellen.

�Plus I�m sure her life insurance policy has a new beneficiary,� said Serge. �No, going to the authorities isn�t an option. He might end up in jail, but it won�t help recover what�s already been lost.�

�But how can you be so sure of this just from that short phone call?� asked Lou Ellen. �How do you know all the details?�

�Wish it weren�t true, but this is such a common scam in Florida that the authorities have trouble keeping up,� said Serge. �Even worse, they have a harder time prosecuting the cases they do uncover because these lowlifes specifically target the elderly with health issues that make them unreliable on the witness stand. Just when you thought they couldn�t drop the bar any further, this new breed of criminal comes along with no conscience at all. The old, young and weak are the first ones they go after. Call me old school, but when I pick a target�.�.�. well, it�s best just to leave it at that.�

�So what do we do?� asked Willard.

�You don�t do anything,� said Serge. �I�ve got this one.�

Bang, bang, bang. �Yippeeeee!� Bang, bang, bang. BOOM. �Oops.�

The screen door flew open.

Willard and Coleman tumbled inside.

Jasper stood over them. �What in tarnation?�

The pair on the floor just pointed at each other in blame.

Serge walked to the window. �By any chance is there a place nearby that sells propane?�

The Next Morning

Workers scaled tall ladders again to reach the catwalk along the front of a billboard. Which meant no winners had been picked in last night�s lottery drawing, and the jackpot had rolled over once more. The workers pulled down old numbers and put up new. Most of their signs were in blighted neighborhoods.

Down below, predictable lines snaked out of convenience stores, and TV crews broadcast the excitement across the greater metropolitan area�.�.�.

Just over a decade ago, there were a couple of back-to-back hurricane seasons that made even lifelong Floridians go �Damn.� For the first time ever, the weather service ran out of pre-chosen names for storms, and had to go deep into the Greek alphabet before the year was out.

Now it was lottery season, and it was the same story. Never had the state experienced such a conga line of massive jackpots. It was all about random odds. Right after one massive payout made landfall, nobody would win for several more weeks, and the next jackpot kept gathering force until it reached dizzying wind speed. Then bam! Another winner, and the whole mathematical process began again. Already this season there had been five jackpots with nine or ten digits after the dollar sign. And since the state had increased drawings to twice a week, the fever was constant. Billboard companies loved it.

The last winner came a month ago. The press conference featured balloons and one of those giant checks the size of a door. The Florida State Lottery gleefully introduced its latest mega-jackpot winner, an eighty-year-old woman with a poodle who chose the lump-sum payment.

Viewers at home thinking: It�s always an eighty-year-old with a poodle. What a waste.

Lottery officials lowered the microphone for the diminutive winner: �I�m buying a speedboat.�

Right after an old woman and a poodle named Bubbles set out to sea, the big numbers began ascending again. Lines spilled out of the convenience stores, and regular customers couldn�t buy their Red Bull and vitamin water. TV crews forgot there was other news.

As they say, Miami is the capital of the Latin world, and local newscasts were picked up throughout Central and South America. Just below the isthmus of Panama, a satellite dish rose from the rooftop of a jungle chalet high up the side of a mountain. Inside, a group of men sat around a dining table. On the wall was a bank of video screens from a dozen security cameras. A larger screen showed a reporter interviewing hopeful people in Florida.

�It rolled over again,� said one of the men at the table, sipping a glass of French wine. He looked out the window at a nearby plateau that had been cleared for a private airstrip. �When should we go?�

The man at the head of the table raised a fork with a thick chunk of prime steak from Argentina. �Wait until it rolls one more time.�

Armed guards marched past the windows outside. The men resumed dining without discussion�.�.�.

.�.�. Back in Miami, billboard workers climbed down from ladders and drove up the street to their next sign. This time it was a neighborhood so bleak that even the convenience stores had cleared out.

One of those abandoned buildings sat boarded up, overgrown with weeds and loitering. The gas pumps were now just concrete oval bases. An old man with a brown paper bag sat on a citrus crate. He removed his socks, turned them inside out, and put them back on.

Surrounding the shuttered store were vacant lots of broken liquor bottles, condoms, vials and RC Cola cans. A Miami police car was parked in the middle of one such lot, pointed at the street. The car remained motionless for hours. No need to even patrol. Along this stretch of Biscayne Boulevard, crime had delivery service.

The reason for the particular placement of the police car was across the street: a feckless rectangular building of beige bricks, where the only window facing the street was a long horizontal slit filled with neon signs for beer brands.

The Sawgrass Lounge, established 1949.

Back then, it was a happening place. Sterling martini shakers, coat and ties, marble-top horseshoe bar. Today, it was still happening, just in another direction.

More people were outside the lounge than in. Mingling, exchanging esoteric handshakes, whispering in ears. It was like a casting call for Starsky & Hutch street villains, the kind that end up being chased by the cops and always get caught after running down a dead-end alley and tackled trying to climb a chain-link fence. The gang outside the Sawgrass was not in mint condition. More bandages than the general population. Half had just slept something off, and the rest were trying to come down. Some milled out front, and others conspired in an alley: �We have to do something about that chain-link fence.� But they all had one thing in common: keeping an eye on the police car across the street.

Several miles away, a black Suburban with tinted windows cruised south on Biscayne. A man in the backseat wore headphones and adjusted dials on an expensive-looking piece of electronics with a green oscilloscope. �Raise your arms up. I need to run this under your shirt.�

�What is it?� asked Reevis.

�Lapel mike. But we need to clamp it backward so it can�t be seen.� The sound man snapped it in place. �This tiny transmitter goes in your pants pocket, but make sure the wires aren�t hanging out.�

Reevis grew more skeptical by the minute. �I�ve been with you guys three hours now, and you still won�t tell me about the story I�m supposed to be working on. You just kept filming me walking through the middle of the newsroom at the cable station. Must have been at least twenty times. Necktie on, tie off, jacket over the shoulder, sometimes running, sometimes yelling ahead to someone who wasn�t there to �hold the elevator,� which also wasn�t there. It�s a one-floor building.�

�Trust us,� Nigel said from the front seat. �Capturing reality is an art.�

�Will you just tell me what I�m supposed to be investigating?�

�In due time,� said Nigel. �I�ve found it�s best to wait until the last moment to let my performers in on the key elements. That way we catch a fresh reaction from you just as you�re thrown into peril.�

�Peril?�

�Nothing to worry about.� The sound man twisted a knob. �We�ve done this a million times. Taken every precaution to eliminate the peril. That gives us a safety margin to provoke peril.�

Reevis sighed and stared at the ceiling.

Nigel grabbed the dashboard and leaned closer to the windshield. �Slow down. We�re coming up on it now.� Then he turned to Reevis. �Here�s the story. Cold case. Woman went missing four years ago without a trace, body never found. We couldn�t have asked for a better crime to kick off the series.�

�Why�s that?� asked Reevis.

�Police came up with three equal murder suspects,� said Nigel. �That�s essential for a classic whodunit. In this case it�s the husband, a short-order cook who was seeing her on the side, and the semi-employed landscaper found driving her car after she went missing. All extremely suspicious and guilty-acting.�

Reevis got out his notebook. �How were they acting guilty?�

�They haven�t yet,� said Nigel. �But they will when we surprise them with our camera. Their eyes always give them away.�

�That�s out of context,� said Reevis. �You can make anyone look guilty that way.�

�I told you we know what we�re doing.�

�No,� said Reevis. �I mean it�s not ethical.�

�Glad you brought that up,� said Nigel. �Ethics are our top priority! That�s why we save the footage and only air the �guilty eyes� shots of the people we decide are guilty.�

Reevis took a deep breath. �Back up and tell me more about the missing woman�s car.�

Nigel flipped open a briefcase on his lap and held up a document. �Police located it at three a.m. with a Dominican behind the wheel after it was pulled over for a broken taillight. Real suspicious type. Kept changing his story. First he said he was partying with the woman and that she had lent it to him. Then after they discovered a trunk full of blood, he changed his story and said he found it abandoned outside this sketchy bar with the keys still in the ignition.�

Reevis continued scribbling in his pad. �Did the police ever charge him?�

�He was the prime suspect for the first week,� said Nigel. �Then suddenly the cops ruled him out and started looking at the boyfriend. Don�t you find that suspicious? I think we should pump up the angle of police corruption.�

�Slow down,� said Reevis. �I haven�t even started looking into this. Let me go through all the official files.�

Nigel shook his head. �No good for TV.� He handed Reevis a sheet of paper.

�What�s this?�

�The script of how you�re going to break the case wide open!�

The reporter handed it back. �My editor said I didn�t have to change how I worked�that I could investigate cases the way they taught me in journalism school.�

�And that�s exactly what we were hoping you�d say!� Nigel exclaimed. �We want you to bring integrity and respect to the show. We promise to let you investigate as you see fit.�

�Doesn�t sound like it.�

�This is a different medium.� Nigel snipped the end off a large Honduran cigar. �Sometimes we have to start filming with the conclusion and do the investigating later.�

�Why?�

�Lighting.� Nigel puffed the cigar.

�You can�t be serious.�

�All we�re asking is that you work with us,� said Nigel. �The only hard piece of evidence is the car, so we�ll start there and pick up the trail. Go into the lounge and see if you can find anyone who remembers anything. The car, the Dominican, the woman. This is a real regulars� place, same people on the same stools for years. Someone in there has answers.�

�Okay, now it�s finally beginning to sound like legitimate journalism.� Reevis nodded. �I can do that.�

�We knew you were our man.� A tinted window rolled down. A large, high-def video camera pointed out the window, followed by puffs of cigar smoke.

The Suburban pulled into an empty lot at an abandoned convenience store and parked next to a police car. The loitering crowd on the opposite sidewalk stopped and stared in unison at the huge lens aimed at them. Some shouted at the SUV. Rude hand gestures.

Nigel turned around again. �Here�s the deal: I called ahead to the lounge, and they said they didn�t want anything to do with TV or interviews. So you�re going to lead the way, and we�ll come in right behind you with the camera and lights, guns a-blazing until they throw us out.�

�That�s not journalism,� said Reevis. �What about getting answers to a cold case?�

�Later,� said Nigel.

�Lighting,� said the cameraman, lacing up running shoes. �We need a quick strike.�

�Stop!� said Reevis. �Everyone just stop! Forget the lighting and peril. I know this turf, and that is not the kind of place you want to barge into with a TV camera.�

�Sure it is,� said Nigel. �The footage can�t miss. Just look at the joint.�

�Yes, look at it,� said Reevis. �This isn�t the lounge at the Hyatt, where security guards professionally ask you to leave. It�s not that we�ll be thrown out, but how we�ll be thrown out.�

�There�s a police car right next to us,� said Nigel. �What can go wrong?�

The police officers received a domestic disturbance call and drove away.

�I propose a wild new concept,� said Reevis. �Let me go in alone without all the camera lights and see if I can talk to them politely.�

�They were quite adamant on the phone, screaming in fact. �No goddamn reporters!�� said Nigel. �But we need footage, even if it�s just getting tossed out. Especially if it�s just getting tossed out.�

�I do this for a living,� said Reevis. �I might even be able to persuade them to allow your camera in there. What�s the harm in letting me try?�

�Except the footage won�t be fresh, in the moment.�

�But your camera won�t get destroyed.�

Nigel thought a moment and formed a cynical smile. �This could work even better. We�ll stay parked here and film you going in. Then we�ll film ourselves in the car�which we�ll refer to as Mobile Command Central�listening while you capture salty dialogue on your hidden microphone.�

�I can�t do that,� said Reevis.

�Sure you can,� said Nigel. �Nobody will see it, especially in the dark.�

�You�re not understanding,� said Reevis. �Florida is a two-party consent state for recording conversations. We�ll be committing a felony.�

Nigel quickly looked it up on his smartphone. �He�s right about the statute. And we would never, ever want to break the law�.�.�. Okay, Reevis, we�ll defer to your expertise. But we still need to get something on camera later.�

�Great.�

�Hold on,� said the sound man, reaching in a bag. �Here�s your gun.�

�Put that stupid thing away,� said Reevis. He departed the SUV.

The camera poked back out the window as the young reporter headed for the lounge�s entrance. The sound man reached for a knob.

�What are you doing?� asked Nigel.

�Killing his microphone.�

�No,� said Nigel. �Leave it on.�

The Sawgrass Lounge

Reevis Tome entered the joint. It was one of those places where you could still smoke. He coughed and stopped to let his eyes adjust. All heads around the oval bar slowly turned. Bikers, barflies, suckerfish. They looked the baby-faced reporter over and returned attention to their highball drinks. Some smirked at first. That was the Reevis Effect.

He took a seat away from the others, at the end of the bar nearest the door, indicating a level of discomfort. Again, a Reevis tactic. An auburn-haired bartender strolled over.

�What can I get ya?�

�Diet Coke.�

She had some mileage but she was sweet. �Coming right up.� Reevis always did better with the women bartenders in knife-and-gun clubs, especially if they were moms. She came back with a soda. �That�ll be a buck.�

Reevis handed her two dollar bills. Another strategy. He raised the soda. �What�s your name?�

�Clementine.�

�That�s a pretty name.�

�Thank you.� She left and went back to taking orders from rough trade at the other end.

Minutes passed. Laughter. Someone stuck money in the juke and punched up �Kaw-Liga.� That would be a Hank Williams song, both junior and senior, but this was the original recording from 1952. More time passed. Reevis quietly finished his drink. That was his approach. Wait.

Sets of malevolent eyes occasionally gazed down the bar at Reevis, without concern of being noticed. Reevis noticed. Peripheral vision. It was the first thing he did in unfamiliar waters. Chart all points of potential confrontation. This time, an out-of-work plumber facing spousal battery, a middle-rung crack dealer bearing battle scars, and two bikers with probationary patches on their jackets. The last always carried a hammer on his belt, but he wasn�t in construction.

Outside in the Suburban: �What�s he doing in there?�

�He ordered a soda a few minutes ago, but since then nothing.�

Nigel pounded his door panel. �Why did I let him talk me out of bursting in with the camera?�

�What are we going to do?� asked the videographer.

�Okay, I know a way to make this work,� said Nigel. �Turn the camera on me.�

A lens focused on Nigel�s face.

An urgent, hushed tone: �Our reporter has fallen into the hands of dangerous elements. We must go in now!�

Nigel jumped out of the Suburban, followed by the cameraman. He raced toward the lounge. �Remember to make it jiggle.�

�It�s jiggling,� said G�nter.

Nigel reached the door and was just about to open it�.�.�.

�Hold up!� G�nter placed a hand to the side of his head, where a small earpiece provided an audio feed from Reevis�s lapel mike.

�What is it?�

�I think the kid is making some kind of progress,� said G�nter. �We should retreat and wait to see how it plays out.�

�Okay,� said Nigel. �Put the camera on me.�

�You�re on.�

�Pull back! Pull back!� Nigel sprinted for the Suburban, and a jiggling camera followed.

Inside the bar, Reevis had raised a single finger.

The bartender strolled over with a smile. �Another Diet Coke?�

�Sure.�

A refilled glass was set in front of him. �Thanks, Clementine.� Two more dollars.

She began to walk away.

�Oh, excuse me?�

She turned. �Yes?�

�Well, uh, I�m a local reporter, and I�m not sure I�m in the right place,� said Reevis. �Can I ask you a question?�

�What is it?�

�I�m supposed to do a feature on an old crime case that was never solved. A woman went missing about four years ago, and I heard maybe her car was abandoned behind this lounge?�

�The Dupuis case?�

�You know about it?� said Reevis.

�Shoot yeah. It was the big talk in here for months,� said Clementine. �People still bring it up once in a while.�

Reevis slipped out a notebook as casually as possible. �What do you remember about that night?�

�I was busy working and didn�t notice much, but I do know someone who can help you. The Mouth of the South.� Clementine toweled up a wet spot on the counter. �She�s over there right now. I�ll introduce you.�

A minute later, Reevis sat at the darkest, smokiest end of the bar. Next to him was a row of stools with several older women who seemed to have history. They favored mixed drinks. Beside one glass lay a leather cigarette case with a picture of an Irish setter.

�Maddy,� said Clementine. �This is a nice local reporter named� .�.�. I didn�t get your name�.�.�.�

�Reevis.�

�Reevis,� repeated Clementine.

Maddy laughed. �You don�t look old enough to be a reporter. You don�t look old enough to be in a bar.�

Reevis grinned sheepishly. �I get that a lot.�

From the corner of the reporter�s eye: a plumber was nonplussed by his presence, a crack dealer incensed by his existence. The two bikers weren�t currently taking account, but they would soon respectively become nonplussed and incensed.

�Maddy,� said Clementine. �He was asking about the Dupuis thing.�

�Holy Jesus! Don�t get me started on that! I could talk all night!�

Reevis got out his notebook. �I have all night.�

�What do you want to know?�

�Let�s start with the missing woman�s car,� said Reevis. �Police had a suspect who was found driving it.�

�Sanchez!� said Maddy. �He wins the putz-of-the-year award. Boy, did he step in it that night!�

�Why do you say that?�

�The guy�s a regular in here�.�.�.�

�.�.�.�A regular pest, if you ask me,� said the woman sitting next to her.

�But nobody�s asking you,� said Maddy. �I�m telling the story here�.�.�. Now I lost my place.�

�He was a regular,� offered Reevis.

�Worked landscaping, but unsteady.� Maddy slipped a new Parliament from her leather case. �By the end of the evening always bugging people for a dollar. Usually had mulch on him.�

�There�s one part that I�m trying to figure out,� said Reevis. �Police pulled him over in the early hours, and he gave them two contradictory stories. First, he said the owner lent him the car, then after he found out she was missing, he told them he found it abandoned behind this place and just stole it�.�.�. You can see how that would make a big difference ruling him in or out��

�Caprice, blue,� said Maddy. �No, green, definitely green.�

�You have a good memory,� said Reevis.

�A photographic memory,� clarified Maddy.

�You saw the car?�

�Of course. It was sitting right out back for hours,� said Maddy. �Sanchez definitely stole it.�

�How do you know?�

�Because at the end of the night, he was stomping up and down the bar, yelling, �Yep, I�m gonna steal me that car. I�m stealing that car! Anyone dare me to steal that car?� and the rest of us are like, �Stop getting mulch on us�.�.�.��

Reevis could feel the heat from the eyes across the bar. The regulars became more hostile in their glares. The only thing holding them back was Clementine�s de facto approval of the young reporter. You don�t shit where you eat, and you don�t cross bartenders in your zip code.

Reevis gathered his thoughts. �But tell me about when you actually saw the car.�

�Sanchez keeps pestering me, raising his hands to heaven and saying, �It�s a sign from God!� Tells me it�s brand new, driver door open, keys in the ignition, and a holy glow inside telling him the saints wanted him to have the car. I said that was the dome light, but he won�t stop until I finally say, �Okay, okay, if you�ll promise to leave me alone.� So he takes me out back, and sure enough, there�s this factory-spanking-new blue Caprice. I mean green; the yellow crime lights throw you off every time. And it was sitting there just like he said, door open, light on, keys, ready to roll.�

Reevis was bolt upright. �What happened then?�

�I told him not to steal a car with blood all over the interior.�

�You saw blood with your own eyes?� Reevis scribbled furiously. �What else?�

�Kittens.�

The reporter raised his head. �Live cats were in the car?�

�No, the little stuffed ones that people make rows of in their back windows. Not me, personally, but what are you going to do?�

�Okay, and Sanchez?�

�I kept warning him about the blood, but he just jumped in the car and said, �Screw it, I�m stealing it anyway!� And then he drove off. The next thing we knew, he was all over the news as prime suspect in a murder. Everyone in here laughing at the TV: Sanchez with that goofy, hapless expression during the perp walk. That�s when police take a suspect��

�I�m familiar with a perp walk,� said Reevis. �So what happened then? I understand he was ruled out pretty quickly.�

Maddy nodded as she sipped watered-down Canadian Mist through a straw. �Police came in the bar to interview me. They said Sanchez had changed his story�that at first he had been partying in the bar with the victim, and she lent him the car�.�.�. I cut them off and said Sanchez was an idiot but not a murderer, and the missing woman had never been in the bar, period. Not that night or any other. Then I told them about seeing the car abandoned with door open and the keys and the blood, and Sanchez not listening to me and speeding off in the thing.�

�So that�s when they ruled him out?�

�Not at first.� Maddy pulled another long menthol from her cigarette case. �They said if everything I told them was true, it makes no sense for Sanchez to admit to partying with the victim the night she went missing and make himself the last person to see her alive. Well, I read a lot of mysteries, so I said, �It makes perfect sense. When he thought he was just facing auto theft, he tried to lie his way out, but when it turned into a murder rap, he thought, �Can I go back and take the stolen-car beef, please?�� She leaned closer and dropped her voice in secrecy. �You know who you should really look into? A guy named Larouche who works at the body shop up the street.�

Reevis wrote diligently in his notepad. �Why?�

She formed tight, earnest lips. �I don�t like him.�

�How is he involved in the case?�

�He�s not. He�s dating my daughter.�

Reevis removed the tip of his pen from the pad. �Maddy, you�ve been more than helpful, and I don�t want to impose, but could I ask you a favor?�

The bottom end of her straw searched for scotch around the ice cubes. �Name it.�

�My company sent a film crew because they think there�s still a lot of public interest in this case. Would you possibly mind repeating what you just said on camera?�

�For you, no problem,� said Maddy, signaling the bartender for a refill. �But you�ll need to clear it first with Clementine�.�.�.�

.�.�. Outside, in a black Suburban. �What�s going on?� asked Nigel.

The sound man cupped both hands over his earphones to hear better. �There�s a lot of background noise, but it seems like he actually might get our camera into the bar after all.�

�Well, I�ll be,� said Nigel. �Keep listening and let me know the second he gets permission�.�.�.�

Back inside, the bartender saw Reevis signal with his finger and came over with a smile.

�Another Diet Coke?�

�Thanks, Clementine. And thanks for introducing me to Maddy. She�s been great�and she�s agreed to an on-camera interview.�

�Well, look at you!� Clementine told Maddy. �Hope you�ll still remember us little people when you�re a big TV star.�

�If it isn�t too much to ask,� asked Reevis, �could we possibly bring the camera in here? I promise to be as low-key as possible and respect your other customers� privacy. We�ll be completely unobtrusive and stay tightly focused on Maddy. Do you think maybe that might be something you could�.�.�.�?�

Clementine grinned and shook her head with amusement, like he was being silly. �Of course you can film in here. Take as long as you need.�

�Really appreciate it,� said Reevis. �I�ll just go outside and get the crew��

Suddenly the front door of the lounge crashed open. Blinding light filled the bar. Screaming.

Clementine spun around and shielded her eyes. �What in the living hell?�

Nigel sprinted through the bar, followed by a Bavarian with a jiggling camera. �Reevis! Thank God you�re safe!�.�.�.�

Ten minutes later.

A parked black Suburban rocked to and fro on its suspension.

G�nter wept and cursed in German, repeatedly slamming himself into the door.

�Easy now,� said Nigel, rubbing the videographer�s shoulder. �Everything will be all right.�

More anguished wailing.

�There�s something seriously wrong with you people,� said Reevis. �I had everything under control.�

�And it was an amazing thing to listen to,� said the producer. �You had them eating out of your hand.�

�I told you not to listen!� said the reporter. �As we sit here, that recording is evidence of a felony. You need to destroy it now.�

�Can�t do it,� said Nigel. �It�s all we�ve got.�

�That�s on you,� said Reevis. �We had the interview in hand before that cowboy nonsense back there. What on earth were you thinking?�

�Priorities,� said Nigel. �The interview would have been gravy�and don�t think we�re not thoroughly grateful for your efforts setting it up�but we needed confrontation footage.�

�And where is the footage?� Reevis asked sarcastically.

�We sort of lost it when they smashed the camera,� said Nigel. �How was I supposed to know that biker was carrying a hammer? What�s that about?�

G�nter sobbed louder.

�This is everything I was trying to tell you,� said Reevis. �Your antics provoked an unknown variable that nobody could predict or control. That isn�t crime reporting! If you�re in the woods and see a gigantic bees� nest, you go around it. You don�t say, �Reevis, get a big rock and whack that thing open and we�ll film whatever happens next.� We lost the camera, my interview, and your precious confrontation footage. Am I missing anything?�

�Wait,� asked Nigel. �Are you saying you actually know where there�s a gigantic bees� nest?�

South Florida

The airspace over Miami International grew crowded. An American Airlines flight from LaGuardia touched down. Then a United, Southwest, JetBlue, Delta, Virgin Atlantic, Lufthansa. Somewhere in the middle, a smaller private jet from South America landed and taxied to a separate terminal. Six serious men with mustaches got out and marched in cadence toward the customs building.

They made their way to baggage claim, where a chauffeur held a sign: Mierda Holding Group.

The men filed into the back of the limo, and the driver climbed in up front. �Where to?�.�.�.�

It was shortly after lunch as the white stretch cruised down Brickell Avenue and double-parked outside one of the numerous downtown banks that used to launder cocaine money in the eighties, and now just laundered money. The half-dozen men entered the lobby with unwavering precision and approached a teller. One of the bank vice presidents saw them and dashed out of his office.

�Mr.�Pelota,� said the hurried executive, shaking hands. �Great to see you again. Mind if I call you Ocho? What brings you to town?�

Pelota silently gave him a certified check from the Caymans. The vice president raced behind the counter and practically hip-checked a female teller away from her station. �I�ll take care of this personally.� He looked up. �I�m assuming you want this in hundreds?�

Ten empty briefcases were passed over the counter, and ten heavy ones came back.

The limo cruised across the Miami River and north toward Aventura, passing convenience stores of varying ethnicity with numbers of customers dribbling out the doors. All along the route, billboard workers putting up new numbers. They arrived at a local office with a circular illustration on the door: an Indian maiden near a palm tree as a wooden ship approached. The sun was on the horizon, but it was ambiguous about rising or setting. The official seal of the state of Florida.

The men went inside, and the receptionist had them wait until a low-level bureaucrat in a short-sleeve dress shirt appeared in a doorway, eating a baloney-and-lettuce sandwich. �How can I help you?�

They simply pushed past him.

�Wait! You can�t just go in there!�

�Which is your desk?�

�The gray one.�

They pulled up a half-dozen chairs from nearby work areas. Two were being used, and people had to stand up. �What the hell do you think you�re doing?�

The wordless looks they received in response convinced them that chairs suddenly were out of style.

The men gathered around the bureaucrat�s desk. On the corner of the desk was a novelty plastic bird with a pointy beak that occasionally dunked down into a glass of water. The concept was to make people happier. The bureaucrat finished chewing and balled up a piece of wax paper. �Now what can I do for you?�

�We would like to buy the board,� said Pelota.

The office worker had grown used to language barriers, but this wasn�t a question of accents. �Buy the board?�

�Yes.� Pelota leaned to read the official laminated badge clipped to the worker�s shirt. �Mr.�Foote.�

�I�m sorry, but I don�t understand.�

Pelota turned and looked back at the door they had just come through. �This is the Miami office of the Florida State Lottery?�

�Yes, it is�.�.�. but if you could just explain a little more.�

�We want to buy the whole board. Every number.�

�Of�.�.�. what?�

�The lottery.�

�Let me get this straight: You want to buy a ticket for every single number in the lottery?� The bird dunked in the water. �But there are over twenty million different combinations.�

Pelota didn�t need to say anything. Ten briefcases were promptly opened on the floor.

�Holy God! Is that what twenty million looks like? .�.�. How can you guys carry that much cash around Miami and not feel scared?� Foote gazed into six sets of vacant eyes. �Oh.�

�Sell us the board,� said Pelota.

�You do realize that the lottery pays a lot less?�

�Except it�s rolled over five weeks now.�

�What if there are several winning tickets?� asked Foote.

�We�ve done the math,� said Pelota. �The board, please.�

�Look, I would if I could, but there just isn�t any mechanism,� said the employee. �The only way we sell tickets is from the machines in the stores. The lottery has a strict policy against mass sales because it would discourage individual players.�

The silence lasted only seconds, but it was effective. �I am familiar with computers,� said Pelota. �If one is so inclined, anything can be achieved.� He pulled several packets of bills from a briefcase. �How much do you make a year?�

�Put that away!� Foote glanced around quickly and lowered his voice. �I can�t take your money, and even if I did, the system is completely firewalled.�

�They�ve hacked into the Pentagon,� said Pelota.

�Our system�s better. The lottery�s pretty important in Florida.�

Pelota�s mouth firmed. �I am growing weary of you.�

�Please relax,� said Foote. �Here�s what I would do in your shoes: Our lottery forms are good for up to ten numbers, and if you can hire enough people and hit enough stores, you just might be able to cover the board before Saturday night�s drawing.�

�Do you feel lucky?� asked Pelota.

�Why?�

�Because you have just placed a large bet.� Pelota stood up and snapped the plastic bird�s neck and left the building.

The Next Morning

Traffic stacked up on a lazy, hot stretch of Old Dixie Highway running south from Miami to Homestead. A carpet-remnant outlet just held its eighth going-out-of-business sale, but the turnout was so anemic that they had to go out of business.

Next to the store, two police cars sat side by side, facing opposite directions so the officers could talk through their open driver�s windows. In prison lingo, it�s called a sixty-nine.

�Two flakka arrests this morning.�

�What�s with these new street drugs?� said the other officer. �And why does Florida always get them first?�

�We�re number one!�

�I just don�t understand the drug fringe. And flakka is the worst yet. People pay good money for a substance whose primary effect is an overwhelming urge to get naked in broad daylight.�

�That tends to stand out. Like the guy having sex with a tree�.�.�.�

�.�.�.�Or leaping on hoods of moving cars, proclaiming he�s the god Thor.�

�.�.�.�Or urinating in motel ice machines.�

�Remember when crime had a point?�

�At least this drug makes it easy for us. Three users this month ran into police stations demanding protection from invisible enemies.�

The officer facing the road stopped talking as his eyes followed a northbound vehicle. �I think we got one.�

The other cop turned around. When he did, the German shepherd in the backseat also turned. The dog�s name was Nixon. �Which car?�

The first officer pointed. �Rusty station wagon packed to the gills with garbage bags.�

�What�s our pretext?�

�The bags are blocking the view out the rear window.�

�Is that an actual infraction?�

A shrug. �Courts have upheld searches as long as we think it�s an infraction.�

�I love the War on Drugs.�

Both vehicles peeled out in diametric circles before regrouping on the highway. The lead patrol car radioed in the traffic stop.

Moments later�.�.�.

If traffic was backed up before, now it was a festering, motionless river of irate drivers sticking heads out windows to investigate the delay. A station wagon had been pulled over, one tire on the curb, parked at a dysfunctional angle blocking the right lane. Red and blue lights revolved atop two cruisers sitting behind it. The first officer was all business at the driver�s window. �License and registration.�

A brown man smiled back.

�Didn�t you hear me? License and registration.�

The smile got wider as the man began nodding but doing nothing else.

�Do you understand me?�

The man continued nodding. �No hablo ingl�s.�

The officer spoke louder. �License-o.�

The other cop held a leash, walking Nixon around the Pennzoil-dripping heap. When they reached the rear bumper, the dog sat in a perky position and barked. He received an imitation-bacon treat.

�Dougan,� yelled the canine officer. �I think we got a hit.�

Dougan took a step back from the driver�s door and placed a hand on his holster. �Sir, get out of the car�.�.�.�

The brown man smiled and nodded.

Then a voice from the backseat: �Please, he can�t speak English!�

The officer hadn�t noticed the second person in the car, obscured by the pile of bags. He pulled his Glock. �Show your hands!�

Two petite sets of fingers appeared from the bags. �Don�t shoot!� Thick accent, but at least the official language.

�Ma�am, don�t move!� The officer glanced back at his colleague with the dog. �We have a passenger!�

The second cop quickly rounded the car and opened the door. A plump older woman raised her arms in the air and got out, tumbling garbage bags onto the pavement. �Don�t shoot.�

�Is that your husband?� asked the officer.

�S�.�

�Tell him to step out of the car before he gets hurt.�

She spoke rapidly in Spanish.

The driver complied, and they were given complimentary seats in the rear of one of the patrol cars.

�Ma�am, our dog indicated the presence of drugs in your vehicle��

�No drugs! No drugs!�

�Then you won�t mind if we search?�

�No drugs!�

More units arrived, and a tedious excavation began in the rear of the station wagon. The sidewalk was soon covered with the contents of the plastic sacks. Mostly clothes, the kind that other people leave out for Salvation Army. Then loose utensils, hot plate, doorstop, Dixie cups, plastic bowls decorated with the Flintstones, half a set of dominoes, snarled yarn, hairnet, a lamp without a shade, glow-in-the-dark Elvis, a shade without a lamp, which wouldn�t fit the other lamp. It was the consumerism of hope.

Nine patrol cars later, the precinct lieutenant arrived. �Another garage sale?�

Dougan was bent over, pawing through the back of the car. �It�s got to be here somewhere. Nixon definitely picked up something.�

It came down to a final bag tucked low behind the spare tire. Dougan opened the top. �Well, well, well, look what we have here.�

�What is it?� The lieutenant peeked inside. A fifteen-gallon plastic sack crammed with unorganized cash of all denominations.

�Malloy! Bring Nixon over!�

The dog arrived and promptly sat on the pavement, barking at the money.

They pulled the two suspects from the back of the patrol car and uncuffed them. �No drugs!�

�You�re right,� said Dougan. �We didn�t find any illegal narcotics in your vehicle. However, our canine indicated that your cash is positive for cocaine residue, so we are required to seize it under Florida�s drug forfeiture laws.�

�No jail! No jail!� pleaded the wife.

�No, you�re not going to jail,� said the officer. �Since actual contraband wasn�t uncovered during our search, we have nothing to charge you with. Consider this your lucky day. You�re free to go.�

She pointed at a pair of officers dumping the money into an evidence bag. �Dinero?�

�I told you we have to impound it.�

Another officer strolled over and ripped an official page off the top of a clipboard. �Here�s your receipt. Under the law, you have the right to hire an attorney and appeal.�

Her eyelids rose in optimism. �You serious? We can really go?�

The patrolman gestured toward the undependable vehicle. �Stay out of trouble. And maybe have that suspension looked at.�

She quickly grabbed her husband by the arm and rushed him to the car. �V�manos!�

The station wagon hopped down off the curb and chugged away.

The lieutenant ambled over. �They didn�t seem like drug smugglers.�

�They weren�t,� said Dougan.

�You mean you just confiscated money from innocent people?�

�What I�m saying is that the real drug smugglers are now hiring all these poor peasants to fly under the radar for them,� said the officer. �First, they were paying these unfortunate people a few hundred dollars to swallow enough condoms of drugs that it would kill everyone in our station house if they broke. Or worse: they hide drugs in a baby�s diapers, because infants are the perfect camouflage. But if any leaked�� The officer looked askance. �And I thought I�d seen evil before.�

�Except you didn�t find any drugs in this particular vehicle?� said the lieutenant.

�That�s how the pipeline works.� Dougan pointed at a distant station wagon belching black smoke. �The drugs come one direction. And someone has to take the cash back the other.�

�What was your probable cause to search?�

�Didn�t need any. The wife gave us permission,� said Dougan. �But even if she hadn�t, the dog barked. Who are we to argue?�

The lieutenant looked up and down the debris-covered sidewalk, which resembled a recycling sorting station. �But why did they leave all their stuff?�

�In a hurry to get out of here,� said Dougan. �More evidence of guilt.�

The lieutenant briefly bit his lower lip in strained thought. �Good job. Write it up, and I might be able to put a nice word in your files.�

The lieutenant departed and Officer Malloy came over. �Doesn�t he know anything? How did he ever get to be lieutenant?�

�Political appointment,� said Dougan. �Uncle�s on the commission.�

They looked farther up the road as a trail of black smoke dissipated over a bank building. �Think they�ll appeal the cash forfeiture?�

�If I was a betting man�.�.�.�

The Gulf Coast

A silver Corvette sped south on the Tamiami Trail. The sun had only been up a couple hours, but the heat felt like noon.

�This time you�ve got me stumped,� said Serge. �We�re definitely not going to do it, but curiosity is killing me: Why on earth would you want to fake that you�re a scuba diver with the bends?�

�Isn�t it obvious?� Coleman unwrapped an aluminum-foil package. �To get inside a decompression chamber.�

Serge�s eyes reflexively crossed. �I guess it�s a two-part question. Why a decompression chamber?�

�Because it gets you higher.� Coleman peeled back the last piece of foil. �That�s why I made these brownies. Ingestion lasts longer with a delayed onset for a smooth, extended ride when there�s no opportunity to blaze one. I�m really looking forward to a decompression chamber.�

�But wasn�t it enough for you to fake the bends last summer?�

�I didn�t fake anything. They simply assumed I had the bends.�

�Why? Just because the rescue helicopter found you floating incoherently miles off the coast, completely naked except for the scuba inflation vest that kept you from going under?�

�That�s right.�

�How did you even end up like that in the first place?�

�Beats me,� said Coleman. �I just went out one night for a beer, and then there I was. Stuff like that keeps happening to me.�

�This topic is going nowhere fast,� said Serge. �I�m picking the next one.�

�Which is?�

�Race relations in America.�

Coleman�s head snapped sideways. �Jesus, Serge! You�re really going to talk about race?� He nervously glanced around the road. �I think that�s a bad idea. Everyone�s really angry right now.�

�Screw it, I�m going there!�

�Hold on.� Coleman quickly fastened his seat belt. Then he pulled something out of a duffel bag and put it on his head.

Serge looked over. �Where�d you get the football helmet?�

�I went out for a beer one night and the next thing I know I�m staring out through a face mask��

�Never mind.�

Coleman snapped the chin strap and stiffened his arms against the dashboard. �I�m ready now. Talk about race.�

�Remember the movie The Color Purple?�

�Oprah.�

�That color represents a whole subtext that defines relations in our country.� Serge hit his blinker. �You know I hate trendy buzz phrases, but there�s one that sums it all up: Own it.�

�Own what?�

�Your life. We can discuss huge racial differences as long as it comes from a position of love, like telling your aunt at a funeral that she�s got toilet paper stuck to her shoe. Awkward, but you work through it as a family. The problem is the people who refuse to sit with us and break bread at the Great American Dinner Table. Why? Deep down they realize their lives suck, but they won�t own it. �Gee, maybe I should have done some planning and put in a little effort and not spent all my money on porn and fog lights. Could that possibly be it? Naw, someone else did this to me.��

�That�s just not being responsible,� said Coleman.

�Their entire life drive is to make others as miserable as they are,� said Serge. �There�s no excuse for that. Everyone should be ecstatically happy every second! We�re alive on earth, after all! When did that get taken for granted? I don�t exactly know how the program works. Maybe there are a bunch of people floating around somewhere looking down on the planet and going, �Damn, I missed the cut.� If those guys have shitty people skills, I could understand it. But the ones among us constantly taking dumps in the fun pool are just missing the point.�

�How do we know who they are?�

�We don�t even have to look; they readily identify themselves,� said Serge. �Making comments like, �They call each other the N-word all the time, then get all upset if�.�.�.� Or: �Did you know the original slave traders were other black people in Africa? .�.�. Oh, but I�m not a racist.��

�So you�re saying that we actually can criticize black people?�

�Of course,� said Serge. �But only from a position of love, which brings up the title of the Oprah movie. I�ll be watching some sports awards show on TV, and one of my favorite pro athletes will go up to get a trophy wearing a purple suit. And I�m sitting on the couch saying: �Dude, I love you, man, but Christ! Purple?��

�So purple suits are a black thing?�

�Most certainly,� said Serge.

�What�s an example of a white thing?�

�Laughably playing the victim card,� said Serge. ��Hey, where�s my affirmative action?� Dude, I love you, man, but in case it�s not shockingly obvious, it came with your birth certificate.�

�Are we done?�

�For now,� said Serge. �I�ll bet I�d look pretty snazzy in a purple suit.�

�But I thought you just said��

�I�ve evolved on that,� said Serge. �Purple is the new white.�

The Corvette continued on. Serge reached under his seat and passed something to his pal. �We�re getting close to our destination. We need to focus on our next Route 66 jobs.�

Coleman held it up and read the yellow block lettering on the back. �Another Windbreaker?�

�Rule number one in life: Windbreakers with stuff written on the back are the key to making nosy people step back so you can have room to work. Along with clipboards and orange cones, the Windbreaker is rarely questioned.�

�Like the other time when you got jackets that said �Bail Recovery Agent�?�

�That�s right.� Serge placed a portable emergency scanner in his lap that squawked intermittently. �There�s no rule against putting whatever you want on the back of your own jacket�just no �Police� or �SWAT� or �ATF��or you can be charged with impersonating a law enforcement officer.�

�Then we�ve got a problem with these jackets,� said Coleman. �They�re bound to arrest us for impersonating.�

�Not if you stop and really break it down.� Serge slipped his own jacket on while driving and swerving. �Wear one of these, and most people just automatically assume you�re law enforcement, but the law is all about the fine print, or in this case the large print.�

�I�m confused.�

�The Windbreakers or life generally?�

�Both.�

�People say this is a free country so often that it�s lost meaning. I�m only tapping into the possibilities that everyone else just assumes are off-limits simply because they lack the imagination to think of it themselves.� Serge leaned over and tapped the back of the jacket in Coleman�s hands. �Right now, only law enforcement is doing that, but what�s to prevent a private citizen from taking it up as a hobby?�

Coleman looked down at his jacket again: Hostage Negotiation Team.

�But how will we find a place to use these?�

�At any particular moment in Florida, an average of fifteen standoffs are under way,� said Serge. �It�s only a matter of paying attention.�

The other side of Serge�s brain had been monitoring all the verbal traffic on the emergency radio in his lap. He set his course for an address below Sarasota. The Corvette turned a corner in a neighborhood of ranch houses where they used to cut the grass.

�Serge!� Coleman shouted. �Look at all the police cars and flashing lights!�

�It might be wise to pull around back.�

He stopped in an alley as two patrol officers guarding the perimeter came running up. �You can�t park there! We have a situation!�

Serge turned around to show them the back of his jacket. �Who�s in charge?�

�Right this way.�

They were briskly led across the front yard of the house. �Sergeant,� said the first officer. �These two men��

Serge urgently shook his hand. �Hey, boss, I�m Serge and this is Coleman. Sorry if I must be curt, but the clock is ticking. What�s our status here?�

�Who are you?�

Serge quickly turned around to display his jacket. �Tick-tock. How many in there?�

�Just two.� The sergeant pointed. �We were serving warrants when shots came through the door. He�s holding his live-in girlfriend.�

�Have you alerted the phone company to block all calls and redirect them to your command post?�

�Already done.�

�What about electricity?�

�Cut that off, too,� said the sergeant. �No air-conditioning. Figured we�d sweat him out.�

�Turn it back on,� said Serge. �There�s a new way of thinking on that.�

�Behavioral studies at Quantico? The heat might make him irritable?�

�No,� said Serge. �It makes me irritable.�

�Are you authorized?� asked the sergeant.

�We have Windbreakers.�

�Who did you say you were with again?�

�Nothing personal, but I�m afraid this has already flown above your pay grade,� said Serge. �The perp is on a watch list.�

�So this has gone federal?� The sergeant nodded to himself. �I thought the jackets looked FBI.�

�FBI, NSA, CIA, it�s all the same alphabet soup since we lost our innocence. I�m not supposed to say anything, but you seem like a good man who has a right to know since this is your community. We�ve been a step behind this guy in six countries, and his luck finally ran out here. When this is all over, I expect a punch-bowl-ful of commendations to go around, but the ceremony will have to be classified and held at a secret location we can�t tell you about. Sorry.� Serge turned and walked away with Coleman.

�Hey!� yelled the sergeant. �Where are you going?�

�To negotiate.�

�But you can�t just walk in the house!�

�It�s a free country. Hobbies are underrated.� They went inside and closed the door.

A gunshot splintered back through the wood.

Serge�s voice echoed out a window: �Hold your positions! Just a warning shot!�.�.�.�

Standoff

A sweaty, sunburned man in a camouflage tank top stood in the hallway, clutching a Bushmaster .223 carbine rifle across his chest. �Get the hell out or the next shot will be on target!�

�Is that any way to start a friendly negotiation?� asked Serge.

�Are you hard of hearing? I told you to leave my house!�

�Leave?� said Serge. �Did you see all the police in your yard? The last thing I need in my life is cops.�

�You�re a cop!�

Serge and Coleman looked at each other and doubled over with laughter.

�What�s so funny?�

�Us? Cops?� More laughter. �That�s rich! A regular hoot!�

�But your blue Windbreakers�.�.�.�

�I�ve been known to pick up avocations.� Serge took off his jacket and threw it on the couch.

A finger perspired on the trigger. �If you�re not police, then who are you?�

�Highly wanted fugitives.� Serge tapped the side of his head. �You have to admit it�s pretty clever. Who would ever think of looking for a fugitive as a negotiator in a hostage standoff?�

�It�s some kind of trick! This is the last time I�m going to tell you to get out!�

Serge walked over to the television. �Anything good on?�

�Are you insane?� said the man. �I have a gun here!�

�So do I.� Serge briefly raised his tropical shirt, then lowered it. �See? We�re off to an excellent start! Show-and-tell, gun for gun. We�re bonding! That�s what dudes always do the first time they visit each other�s crib. �Let me see all your coolest shit.� If you were at my place, right now we�d be looking at View-Masters and a prize collection of souvenir flattened pennies, but since it�s your pad, we could be heading to the garage and an industrial cooler full of do-it-yourself shrunken heads, because America was founded on the principle of never judging a hobby. In the idiom of the times, the Founding Fathers called it �the pursuit of happiness,� but we all really know they were worried about Franklin�s big kite-flying drunk-fest coming up and wanted to give themselves some cover from the wives.� He walked toward the gunman until the end of the military rifle stuck in his gut. He extended a hand. �My name�s Serge.�

�Jesus! You really are crazy!�

�Come on!� Serge left his hand hanging in the air. �What�s your name?�

The man sighed extra hard. �Good grief.� He quickly shook. �Rogelio. They call me Rog. So will you finally leave?�

�We�re going backward now,� said Serge. �I thought we were hitting a groove comparing our toys. Plus, I already told you, I can�t leave. They�ve probably figured out my identity and are setting up the sniper nest as we speak.� He sat down on the sofa and grabbed the remote control. Coleman plopped next to him with a joint.

�Whoa! Wait, wait, wait! What are you doing?� Rog ran over to the couch. �You can�t stay! This isn�t how it works!�

�You�re acutely wound up.� Serge clicked the remote. �Have a seat and chill�.�.�. Ooooo! The Road Runner! My favorite!�

Rog eased himself into a chair. �Okay, what is it you really want?�

�What? Oh, sorry, the coyote just put on that special helmet with the roller skate on top so he can do a headstand and zip across the canyon on that tightrope. Normally, I�m against hard drugs, but when it helps the writers create such masterpieces�.�.�.�

�Excuse me�.�.�.�

�.�.�.�Like the time he painted a railroad tunnel on the side of a mountain and a locomotive comes out and runs over him. Clearly influenced by the 1903 Parisian Surrealist movement��

�Excuse me!�

�You were saying something?�

�Yes!� said Rog. �What do you want?�

Serge leaned toward the television. �Just to continue my Route 66 pilgrimage through Florida. In this week�s episode, we�ve stumbled into your unassuming town and become hostage negotiators. That�s the formula: new city, new gigs, sex during commercials.� He suddenly pointed atop the TV. �Wow, you�ve got one of those cool new cable boxes that streams just about everything ever filmed. Let�s binge-watch Route 66!�

Rog grimaced with a whimpering sound. �What can I do to make you leave?�

�I don�t know,� said Serge, absentmindedly examining the sleeve of his Windbreaker. �Maybe release the hostage?�

The phone rang and Rog jumped.

Serge answered it. �Helllllloooo?�

�What�s going on in there?�

�Hey, boss, I�ve established a rapport, but it�s going to take some time.�

�We need the hostage out as soon as possible, for good faith, then you can continue working on him.�

�All right, boss.� He hung up.

Coleman tugged his pal�s arm. �Serge, why do you keep calling him �boss�?�

�I�ve been studying a cultural phenomenon lately. It�s another one of those little unofficial things that messes with people�s social equilibrium.�

�Like clipboards and orange cones?�

�Exactly,� said Serge. �Those are two things that inexplicably bend people to your will. Same with calling someone �boss.� It�s like handing a little kid one of those giant swirly lollipops. The general public doesn�t even realize it�s happening, but on a subconscious level: �Why yes, I guess I am kind of like the boss. And I�ve only known this person a few seconds, but for some reason, I really like him.� Then it completely flips the hierarchical paradigm. Once I saw these moving-company guys call their customers �boss,� and after that they were just flinging credenzas into the truck while the homeowners happily served them cold drinks.�

The phone rang again.

�Yeah, boss?�

�We�re sending in the robot.�

�You got a robot? Cool! I�ll leave the front door open�.�.�. Hey, Coleman, they got a robot!�

�Cool!�

Serge hung up and smiled at the armed resident. �Now, where were we?�

�You mentioned a hostage,� said Rog. �What hostage?�

�They told me you were holding your girlfriend.�

�Holding her?� said Rog. �I�m not holding anyone. In fact, I can�t get her to come out.�

�What are you talking about?� said Serge.

�Locked herself in the bedroom,� said Rog. �Totally pissed at me. Then she goes and makes a false 911 call to fuck with me.�

Serge whistled. �I�ll take decorative soap any day.�

Coleman got up on unsteady legs. �Where�s the bathroom?�

�Last door on the right,� said Rog.

They heard a mechanical whirring sound as a small remote-controlled device rolled into the room on tiny tank treads. A fiber-optic antenna rotated.

�Serge, it�s the robot,� said Coleman. �Can I take it with me?�

�Knock yourself out.� Serge stood and turned to Rog. �Let me talk to her. I have a way with the ladies.�

�You don�t know my girlfriend.�

�You don�t know me.�

Rog shrugged. �Can�t get any worse. Her name�s Maria.� He led Serge down the hall�.�.�.

.�.�. Meanwhile, outside. Officers filled the mobile command unit parked at the curb. The lighting was dim as they crowded around a flat-screen monitor.

�What am I looking at?� asked the sergeant.

�Not sure,� said the officer working a joystick. �I�ve lost orientation control on the robot�.�.�. Hold it, what�s this?� Coleman giggled on the toilet, aiming the optic antenna inside the bowl. �It looks like� .�.�. No, it couldn�t be�.�.�.�

�Something�s not right,� said the sergeant, picking up the phone for the local FBI office.

�Special Agent Braun here.�

�Agent Braun, this is Sergeant Duffy over in Sarasota County. We�ve got a tactical situation here and the hostage negotiators just went in.�

�How can I help you?�

�Did you send them?�

�I�m not sure I understand the question,� said Braun. �Are you telling me you let people inside the box without knowing who they are?�

�Oh no, we definitely know who they are. Obviously. They had Windbreakers. Just curious, uh, if they might be yours.�

�Did they say they were FBI?�

�Not in so many words. But they mentioned our guy was on a terrorist watch list.�

�We always want to cooperate any way we can,� said Braun. �But you know I can neither confirm nor deny any Homeland Security operation while it may still be ongoing.�

�Just thought I�d ask. Thanks.� The sheriff hung up.

�What did he say?� asked a nearby corporal.

�Could go either way,� said Duffy. �Get the SWAT team ready�.�.�.�

.�.�. Inside the FBI office. �Someone�s running an operation right under our noses,� Braun told his assistant. �You know how I hate to be the last to find out. Call the other agencies�.�.�.�

.�.�. Inside the house. Knocking on a bedroom door.

A female voice from the other side. �Go screw yourself!�

�Maria, my name is Serge. I�m a hostage negotiator.�

�Hostage negotiator? What are you doing here?�

�Some cops outside got this crazy idea in their heads just because you called 911,� said Serge. �It would be much better for everyone if you opened the door so we could talk face-to-face.�

The phone in the living room began ringing again.

�Shouldn�t we answer that?� asked Rog.

Serge shook his head. �This is the most delicate part of the negotiation.�

A muffled voice from the other side of the door: �Is that Rog out there?�

�Standing right next to me.�

�Hey, baby,� said Rog. �I can explain.�

�Get away from me! I hope you rot!�

Serge tilted his head, and Rog took the cue to return to the living room.

�He just left,� said Serge. �Can you please open the door?�.�.�.�

.�.�. Outside, Sergeant Duffy turned to a corporal. �Well?�

�They�re not answering the phone. And we lost transmission from the robot.�

�I don�t like the looks of this.� Duffy checked his wristwatch. �We�re going in. Tell the SWAT team they have two minutes�.�.�.�

.�.�. �Please open the door,� said Serge.

�Do you know what that asshole said to me in Pottery Barn?�

�Tell you what,� said Serge. �You come out, and I�ll take you to Pottery Barn.�

�Promise?�

�Cross my heart.�

�Okay�.�.�.� The bedroom door creaked, and she stepped into the hall just as Coleman emerged from another door with a broken robot under his arm.

Maria looked inside the bathroom. �What in the name of God happened to my guest towels!�

Coleman grinned. �Sorry�.�.�.�

.�.�. The sergeant gave the signal. �Go! Go! Go!�

Tactical officers in black gear stormed toward the house.

Serge yelled out a window: �Hostage coming out!�

�Stand down!� yelled the sergeant.

Maria stomped out the doorway and across the lawn. A SWAT member darted forward and grabbed her arm to pull her to safety, but she just jerked away. �Don�t touch me!�

There was a commotion in the street as other officers attempted to detain her for debriefing. �You men are all alike!�

An emboldened Rog stuck his head through a crack in the door. �And don�t come back, cunt!�

�What!� Serge screamed, and yanked him back inside. �Rog, a Pottery Barn can test even the strongest man�s limits, which is why you always see them crying in the parking lot. But I cannot abide this level of misogyny�.�.�.�

Out in the street, Sergeant Duffy huddled with his corporal. �What do you think now?�

�That negotiator must be for real. He got the hostage released faster than I�ve ever seen in my life.�

�I was thinking the same thing,� said the sergeant. �I got nineteen years in for my pension. Can�t afford to mess this up.�

�The only other explanation is they simply bought Windbreakers.�

�Don�t be silly.� Duffy was also privately thinking: He called me �boss.� For some reason I really like this guy.

�Then what�s the plan?� asked the corporal.

�We wait�.�.�.�

.�.�. Serge sat back down on the couch. �What a day! .�.�. Rog, where are you going?�

He pointed at the front door. �Leaving. This is far too weird for me.�

�Come back in here and sit down with us,� said Serge. �I insist.�

�But I want to give up now.�

�Are you nuts?�

�No, really, I�d like to turn myself in now.�

�And I need to discuss your manners with women.� Click.

Rog raise his hands. �Why are you pointing that gun at me?�

�To negotiate.�

Negotiations

The TV trucks began arriving on an otherwise quiet neighborhood street in southern Sarasota County. Reporters clamored for information as officers kept them back behind the ropes.

A female correspondent held a microphone out to a sergeant. �You�ve got to give us something.�

�All I can say at this time is that there�s a standoff, but we have our best negotiating team inside.�

Inside: Rog sat tensely in a straight-backed chair, staring down the barrel of a gun. �W-w-why won�t you let me leave?�

�Because we haven�t gotten our free pizza yet,� said Serge. �Everyone knows if you take a hostage, you get free pizza. I didn�t make the rules.�

Coleman toked a roach. �And free drugs, too.�

�That�s right,� said Serge. �One of the reasons they give you free pizza is to lace it with phenobarbital so you�ll go to sleep.�

�The key is to know your tolerance,� said Coleman. �And mix it with uppers.�

Serge pulled out a notepad. �Rog, what�s your pleasure?�

�Huh?�

�On your pizza?�

�I really don�t care.�

�Okay, you can pick off the stuff you don�t like�.�.�. Coleman?�

�The usual.�

Serge grabbed the phone. �We�re ready for our free pizza�.�.�. Two large pies, the works on one, extra phenobarbital on the other�.�.�. Crust? Let�s go with garlic-butter this time�.�.�. No, we don�t want to add wings or a two-liter bottle of Pepsi to make it a combo�.�.�. Okay.� He hung up. �They said up to an hour because of traffic.�

More whimpering. �I just want to leave.�

Serge aimed the remote control at the TV. �You don�t like Route 66? But it can be enjoyed on so many different levels. Frankly, I can just watch it with the sound off and appreciate the magnificent period black-and-white footage of our tragically lost landmarks. Let�s fast-forward!� Serge hit a button on the remote. �Here�s Guy Lombardo�s famous Port O� Call Resort in Tierra Verde, where Tod hooks up with a female powerboat racer while showing model homes in a new development�.�.�. and that�s the old Tampa Fronton in 1963. Look at what a tiny street Dale Mabry Highway was back then, and check out their rooming house on Bayshore Boulevard, where the guys befriend a jai alai player who�s actually a Cuban dissident. The show really hit its intellectual stride when they got to Florida�.�.�. And here�s the Nautilus Motel in Cape Coral from the episode where Linc is taken hostage. Isn�t that ironic?�

�Please let me go.�

�You�re dwelling.� Serge walked to the window and picked up the phone again. �I see you all have Dunkin� Donuts coffee out there. Bring two to the door immediately. I don�t care if they already have spit on the rim. Either ask for volunteers to give theirs up or pick a couple guys who aren�t carrying their weight. Later.� He hung up again and snapped his fingers. �Earth to Rog? You�re fading out.�

�I really want to surrender now.�

�Okay, okay,� said Serge. �Then negotiate it.�

�How?�

�Well, one of history�s best negotiators for my money was former U.S. senator George Mitchell, who hammered out the breakthrough Good Friday Belfast peace accords in 1998. You know his most brilliant tactic? He�d gather everyone together, and his only ground rule for the first day was that nobody could discuss what they were there to discuss.�

�I�m confused,� said Rog.

�Pure genius!� said Serge. �Imagine mortal enemies meeting for the first time, and there are hundreds of dead relatives on both sides. In stand-up comedy, they call that �a tough room.� So Mitchell said bullshit on how it�s been done before: We�re going to talk about our kids and sports and movies and how we suspect that all weather forecasters, regardless of race or creed, are just making the shit up. I think they also got free pizza. Then, on the second day, they�re now pals: �You know all this killing-each-other stupidness that�s been going around?� �Yeah, what�s the deal with that?��.�.�.�

�Can I kick it off?� asked Coleman.

�Rock the negotiation!�

�Rog, you know any weed guys?�

�Coleman!� said Serge. �What�s it always with you and the weed guys?�

�I�m putting out feelers. Mine�s become unreliable.�

�Of course he�s unreliable,� said Serge. �He�s a weed guy. That�s his job.�

�To a point,� said Coleman. �But there are certain pot etiquettes, like don�t show up, toke and split; or if it�s offered to you free, don�t bad-mouth the stash no matter how stale; or if you�ve made your weed guy a bundle of money, he shouldn�t refuse your phone calls just because you dropped his favorite ceramic dragon bong through his glass coffee table��

�Enough!� said Serge. �It�s obvious that I need to pick the category again. Pet peeves for a hundred, Alex. I hate it when I�m watching another action movie, and for the thousandth time during the climax they cut to the gun slipping out of the hero�s hand and skittering away on a catwalk. I hate that the heroes in the same movies are avenging the murder of a partner two days before his retirement. I hate the driver in front of me who thinks a right turn on red is optional. I hate complaints about first-world problems: �The Cheesecake Factory isn�t open late enough.� I hate that there�s now such a thing as a �social media butler.� I hate the perversion of the English language: incentive-ize, pre-planning, optics, face time, at the end of the day, using up all the oxygen in the room, saying literally when you mean figuratively�.�.�.�

Coleman raised his hand. �So I shouldn�t say, �I literally shit myself�?�

�You�re the exception that proves the rule,� said Serge. �But you know what I really hate? The public�s insulting definition of �serial killer�! .�.�. Rog, chime in at any time.�

A wild stare.

�That�s why I can�t just walk out of here. Who knows what they�ve figured out? This is my whole point. It�s so unfair that there�s no distinction between �serial killer� and what I�d like to coin �sequential killer.� .�.�. Rog, again, feel free to buzz in.�

�W-w-what�s the difference?�

�Serial killers are sick, obsessive losers who will never stop until they die or get arrested. Sequential killers, on the other hand, just happen to be the only person around when action is required. You know how some people avoid getting involved at all costs? Not me! It�s about character, Rog. A sequential killer never intends to kill again�it�s just that the cosmic hand of responsibility sometimes keeps picking the same person. If I don�t act, I�m selfishly leaving work for the next person. That�s not how I was raised. You agree? .�.�. A simple nod will do.�

Rog�s head trembled as it rose up and down.

�That�s a complex nod,� said Serge. �But what really muddies the water is the term �psychopath.� People think it�s synonymous with the Zodiac, the Night Stalker, Jack the Ripper, but that�s more cruel injustice�.�.�. Rog, take slow, deep breaths�.�.�.�

.�.�. Meanwhile, secure phone calls began crisscrossing South Florida.

�Cargill, this is Special Agent Braun.�

�What can the CIA do for you today?�

�Police have cornered an international terror suspect in Sarasota County, but his name�s not on any of our watch lists.�

�Give it to me.�

�Rogelio Martinez.�

�I�ll run it through. Who�s on scene besides local?�

�A pair of hostage negotiators.�

�Hope you don�t mind me asking, but if he�s not on your watch list, how�d you know to send your negotiators instead of leaving it to the county?�

�That�s the thing,� said Braun. �Uh, you didn�t happen to send any negotiators?�

�You mean you don�t have any idea who�s in the house?�

�Oh, no, no, no!� said Braun. �It�s just that the situation is very fluid at the moment, and a lot of jurisdictions are involved. In case the negotiators are part of a joint task force, I wanted to give a heads-up so you didn�t think we were stepping on your toes.�

�Appreciate the professional courtesy,� said Agent Cargill. �You�ll be the first person I call as soon as I find out anything.� He hung up.

An aide was standing next to him. �You�re really going to call the FBI back?�

�Hell no! If that asshole Braun doesn�t have a clue who�s negotiating the surrender, I�ll be damned if he�s going to grab the headlines all for himself�.�.�. Get Homeland Security on the line. I�ll find out who�s really inside that house�.�.�.�

Inside that house: �.�.�.�A psychopath could be sitting right next to you, Rog, or the person at the top of a company where you can never get a live person on the phone. Need a prime example? This one�s from the file marked �Just when you already thought corporate America couldn�t stoop any lower.� Sometimes family members will suffer a sudden loss and need to fly to a funeral in a big hurry. But booking a flight at the last minute can get expensive, so in the airline industry there�s something known as a �compassion� or �bereavement� rate designed especially for relatives of the recently deceased. But one particular airline calculated that most people wouldn�t be thinking straight in their grief, and when they call to get the special fare, they�re quoted a price much higher than everyone else is receiving at that very minute. A psychopath thought of that.� Serge gritted his teeth. �I�m not naming names, but I could literally kill someone at that airline! .�.�. Rog, where are you wandering off to? I meant figuratively.� Serge got up and guided the sobbing man away from the front door and back to his chair. �You need to sit down. You�re getting light-headed waiting for that pizza�.�.�.�

Back to the phones:

�.�.�.�What can Homeland Security do for you today, Agent Cargill?�

�.�.�.�We�ve uncovered a sleeper cell near the Sarasota-Charlotte county line, and I just wanted to keep you in the loop because our joint task force has two men inside, and I�m expecting a lot of positive press out of this. The kingpin is Rogelio �The Scorpion� Martinez. It�s such a sensitive operation that he�s not on our regular watch lists.�

�And how can I help?�

�Did we have some negotiators on loan to you? We�re working up the press releases and wanted to make sure you receive proper credit.�

�I�ll check it out and get back to you, but thanks for the call.�

Another aide. �But you�re not calling him back?�

�Hell no!� He dialed the NSA. �Agent Cooper? This is Maxwell at Homeland�.�.�.�

Minutes later, Agent Cooper hung up.

�What is it?� asked his aide.

Cooper grabbed his coat off a rack. �Looks like a plot against the airlines, the ports and Amtrak. They have the head of the entire network cornered in Sarasota. Rogelio �The Fighting Desert Scorpion� Martinez�.�.�. Get the chopper ready�.�.�.�

.�.�. A member of the Sarasota SWAT team walked up the front steps and knocked on the door.

Serge answered and raised eyebrows in joy. �Pizza�s here! .�.�. Which one�s laced with drugs? Don�t want to dose myself.�

�I marked it for you,� said the black-helmeted officer.

�Thanks.� Serge closed the door. �Soup�s on!� He opened two cardboard boxes at the counter. One of the pizzas had a toothpick with a little flag: Phenobarbital. Serge and Coleman dug in. �Get over here, Rog! You must be famished!�

Later That Evening

Sniper rifles froze in triangulated aim at a ranch house in Sarasota County.

Rog gingerly slid his chair up to the coffee table and reached into one of the pizza boxes.

A string of hot mozzarella stretched from a slice to Serge�s mouth as he chewed. �One last lesson. After you grasp the concept of a psychopath, you have to wonder, what�s the opposite? An �empath�! They feel everything, the suffering of people they don�t even know in other countries, baby seals, the destruction of rain forests. Some of them are those former celebrities on late-night commercials with starving children who are forced to write you personal letters if you buy them rice and pencils during a drunken late-night moment of weakness, and now these letters of shame keep popping up each month like herpes. That�s why I hate the terms �bleeding heart� and �tree hugger.� Sure, they can get so annoying you want to ram knitting needles through both your ears. But deep inside, their intentions are wonderful. Jesus was an empath. Although today I�m tempted to tweak the Sermon on the Mount: �The meek shall inherit the earth, but only if their parents were greedy psychopaths��.�.�.�

Tires screeched outside. A sedan with black-wall tires and tinted windows pulled up. A badge flashed. �FBI special agent Braun�.�.�. You must be Sergeant Duffy�.�.�.�

Another skidding of tires. Another sedan with lots of antennas. A different badge. �CIA special agent Cargill�.�.�.�

.�.�. Serge leaned back on the couch and patted his stomach. �I�m stuffed.�

�So am I,� said Coleman.

Serge slowly stood and stretched his back. �I guess that means it�s time to surrender.�

Rog perked up. �You mean it?�

�Sure.�

�Uh, Serge,� said Coleman. �I think we might have a problem.�

�What�s that?�

�We�ve gotten ourselves cornered,� said Coleman. �The whole place is surrounded by cops. I don�t see how we can get away.�

�There�s always hope.� Serge walked to the front of the house and grabbed the doorknob.

�Great!� said Coleman. �I knew you�d have a plan! What is it?�

�That is the plan,� said Serge.

�Hope?�.�.�. No, seriously.�

�I am serious.� Serge cracked the door a slit and waved a pizza-stained napkin. �We�re coming out!�

�Everyone in position!� yelled Sergeant Duffy. �But hold your fire.�

Clacking sounds as the SWAT team crouched and readied their weapons. Other officers shielded themselves behind the open doors of their squad cars. Agents Duffy and Cargill pulled Glocks from shoulder holsters inside their suits. A half block away behind the police lines, the entire press corps stopped talking. Cameras zoomed in on the front of the house.

All sound stopped. Time slowed down. Perspiration trickled on cheeks. Fingers twitched on triggers. Duffy took one last, careful look around and raised a megaphone. �Okay, we�re ready!�

The door opened the rest of the way. Rog burst from the house��Thank God! Those guys are out of their minds! They held me hostage!� One of the SWAT team tackled him in the middle of the yard, and soon there was a pile of ten. Somewhere at the bottom, handcuffs snapped closed.

Serge and Coleman strolled across the grass in Windbreakers. �Sergeant Duffy, I�m taking a wild stab that you�d like to have a word with us.�

�Yes! Definitely! Don�t go anywhere!�

The tactical human pile in the middle of the yard began to sort itself out. They helped Rogelio to his feet, and Duffy led him to the back of a blue-and-white police transport van.

A suit with a thin tie stepped in front of him. �Excellent work,� said Agent Braun. �We�ll take the prisoner now.�

�No disrespect,� said Duffy. �But I�d like to get him processed at the jail before anything else. This is my city.�

�National security takes precedence,� said Braun.

From behind: �Yes, it does,� said Agent Cargill. �And I�m taking custody of the prisoner.�

Serge tapped the sergeant�s shoulder. �You wanted to talk to us?�

�Not now!� Duffy swatted his hand away. �I strenuously object�.�.�. Officers, take the prisoner.�

�Sergeant,� said Braun. �Don�t force me to arrest you.�

�Sergeant,� said Cargill. �I authorize you to take the prisoner to my headquarters.�

�Excuse me?� said Serge. �Are you guys with the FBI and CIA? You�re probably curious who we are.�

In unison: �Not now!�

People had Rogelio by both arms, swinging him back and forth. Another sedan pulled up. The seal on the door was Homeland Security. So was the badge. �Agent Maxwell. We�ll take it from here�.�.�.�

�Now just a minute!� said Cargill.

�Let�s see some paperwork!� said Braun.

�We were here first!� said Duffy.

�My arms are starting to hurt,� said Rog.

�Excuse me?� said Serge.

Leaves and litter began to swirl in the air. Everyone covered their ears and looked up as a black helicopter landed in the street. Agents with night-vision goggles jumped out. �We�re asserting jurisdiction�.�.�.�

Serge shrugged at Coleman. They strolled behind the house and hopped in their silver Corvette, then drove back around front to the street. A large argument was blocking them.

Beep, beep!

Everyone scooted to the side as they continued yelling in each other�s faces. The Corvette slipped by and approached the police line holding back the reporters.

Beep, beep!

The officers on the perimeter turned toward the car with the Windbreakers.

Beep, beep!

They lifted the rope to let them through.

Thoreau Club

Traffic crawled north on U.S. 1, and the cross streets began bearing presidents� names. When you reached Roosevelt, you knew which one it was because it lay between McKinley and Taft. The last was Coolidge, a hint at the age of the planned community that opened in 1925.

Hollywood, Florida.

The 1920s were a high-water mark of optimism in the Sunshine State. People imagined everything from floating hotels to golf courses in the Everglades. The city of Hollywood, for instance, had a wishful-thinking main street called Hollywood Boulevard, and there was even a Hollywood Bowl on the shore. It was all designed to give the California movie industry a stiff run.

Didn�t quite work out that way. But when the hucksters and hoopla dissipated, a tastefully quaint community accidentally emerged from the fog of failed avarice. Reevis�s car reached the middle of town and entered a massive roundabout circling a green space for children called Anniversary Park. He turned east toward the sea. Along both sides of the road, stucco houses and bright splashes of color: flowers, trees, canvas awnings, Bahama shutters. Reevis approached a blue street sign for Clownfish Lane. He made a left and pulled up to a modest beach apartment building constructed during the Gulf of Tonkin incident. A single story of eight units in a row, white with orange-and-green citrus trim. The screen doors still had those sixties-era wire sculptures of herons and palm trees and swordfish. A lizard made ripples in the concrete birdbath supported by a concrete seahorse. What used to be a lush lawn had since been replaced by a yard of big, smooth white rocks, because the owner had taken up apathy. The same reason was behind a landscaping theme of sea grapes and banana trees. Try to make them not grow. It was one of perhaps a hundred such apartments in Florida with names like the Surfcomber, the Sands, the Tides, the Tradewinds. Except this one wasn�t called anything.

Reevis got out and approached unit number three with keys in hand. He originally wanted a place in the Gables, because of his fondness for coquina and banyans, but that was not in a journalist�s budget. Still, this place had personality.

�All right,� said Brook Campanella, walking up behind him. �Let�s see this great new pad you�ve been bragging about.�

Reevis opened up. Cozy was generous. Just a bedroom and a living room, with a kitchen nook clinging in the corner.

Brook stood amid the terrazzo floor. �I like it. When does the rest of your stuff arrive?�

�This is it.�

�Two wicker patio chairs? Not even a TV?�

�I�ve decided to minimalize,� said Reevis. �Every move, so many possessions to haul around, until it was almost like they were possessing me.�

�You�ve been reading Thoreau again.�

�Actually Fight Club, but there�s a parallel.�

�I�ve got to see the bedroom.� She strolled and stopped in the doorway. �A mattress on the floor and an alarm clock?�

�Lifestyle aesthetics,� said Reevis. �I was concerned about losing my enthusiasm for all the little things.�

�In other words, you got rid of distractions so you could be distracted?�

�Something like that.�

She put her arms around his neck and gave him a quick kiss. �Don�t change.�

�Then you�ll dig this.� He quickly led her into the kitchen nook, reached up and opened doors. The cupboards were as unburdened as the rooms. He pulled down the only thing on the bottom shelf, a shiny device with a handle and no moving parts. �I bought a classic old-style stove-top espresso machine. I was just going through the motions flipping the switch on my Mr.�Coffee. But this baby�.�.�.� He held it at eye level and began twisting. �.�.�.�You unscrew the bottom half and fill it with water. Then replace the perforated little metal chamber where you tamp down the coffee grounds. Turn the burner on and wait for the water to boil up and trickle out a post in the upper chamber. It takes a lot more time, but you can�t compare the taste.�

�Waiting makes it taste better?�

�I�m introducing a new set of simple ablutions into my daily routine.� He opened another cupboard and placed a pair of miniature cups and saucers on the counter. �Then I carefully pour it into authentic Cuban demitasse. Check out the tiny gold rims and blue-and-red diamond patterns like tile work from Ybor City.�

�Demitasse ablutions?�

�It�s all about the little stuff.�

�Don�t take this the wrong way, but you�re starting to remind me of someone.�

�I take it as a compliment.�

She looked toward a brown paper grocery bag with the end of a loaf poking out the top. �Is that the dinner you promised me?�

�I went shopping at this funky market in Little Havana next to the dominoes park. The palm sprig they stuck in the bag is some Catholic tradition.�

�There are only about five hundred closer supermarkets.�

He grabbed the sack and pulled out the loaf. �Real Cuban bread�.�.�.� Then the bulk of the contents. �.�.�.�Rice, black beans, tomato sauce, plantain chips�don�t know how to cook regulars yet�green peppers, one large onion, one clove garlic, and the beef is in the fridge.�

�You�re making me traditional ropa vieja? That�s so romantic.�

�Means �old clothes� or �rags,� probably because of how the beef is shredded.�

�I know.� She opened a drawer for a knife and went to work on the onion. �I�m starting to get what you see in all this.�

�Peace.� There was a small boom box on top of the refrigerator, and Reevis punched up his date-night theme track. �How�s the law clinic going?�

�Seriously pissed off at a landlord.� Brook�s eyes started to water. �Looks like a pattern of fraud�something you�d like to cover?�

�.�.�.�Take a sad song�.�.�.�

�Right in my wheelhouse,� said Reevis. �Just have to ditch these new TV producers and sneak out with my old cameraman.�

�That bad?�

�They want me to use the middle name �Danger.��

�.�.�.�Hey Jude�.�.�.�

Brook stopped to listen to the music. �This is the Beatles, but it�s not the Beatles.�

�Wilson Pickett�s recording from 1968 in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.�

�You�re into Pickett?�

�As much as the next guy.� Reevis oiled a frying pan and tossed the meat in with some garlic. �But the real reason I love this version is the big crescendo at the end when an unknown session guitarist from Florida nicknamed Skydog blew everyone away with an insane riff. Nothing like it had ever been heard on an R-and-B record. And today, that precise moment three minutes into the song is called the birth of Southern rock. Eric Clapton called it the best guitar solo he�d ever heard, so he tracked down Skydog, learned his real name was Duane Allman, and invited him to play guitar on Eric�s next album that they recorded in Miami.�

�Now you�re definitely reminding me of our mutual friend.�

�With good reason. Follow me.�

They set all the stove dials to simmer, and Reevis headed back to the bedroom.

�I�ve already seen this,� said Brook. �Mattress and clock.�

�Not everything.� Reevis opened the slat accordion doors to a closet.

�Good God,� said Brook. �Look at the size of that bookcase. There�s certainly no downsizing here.�

�I�m blocking it from distraction with the closet doors,� said Reevis. �But a few things I just can�t get rid of.�

�Few things? This is the biggest reference library on Florida I�ve ever seen, including music and movies.�

Reevis pulled a plastic CD case off the shelf and handed it to Brook.

�The Duane Allman Anthology? Him again?�

�No, open it. That�s how I learned the trivia I just told you in the kitchen.�

�There�s a letter tucked in here.� Her lips moved silently as her eyes flowed down the page, then she read aloud as she reached the bottom. �.�.�.��Shortly after the �Hey Jude� session, Duane returned to Jacksonville and formed the Allman Brothers Band.�� Her eyes suddenly shot up to Reevis. �It�s signed �Serge�!�

�He sends a package every week,� said the reporter. �Sometimes the return address is in the middle of Lake Okeechobee; sometimes the governor�s mansion.�

�You�ve been in contact with him?� Ultra-urgent now. �How is he? What�s going on? Why didn�t you tell me? When did��

�Stop.� Reevis shook his head. �I don�t know a thing. The parcels just arrive. Sometimes there�s a note but nothing specific.�

�What kind of stuff is he sending you?�

Reevis looked sideways. �Pretty much that whole bookcase.�

�That�s it? But why?�

�I think he fancies me as some kind of prot�g� he�s mentoring.� The reporter idly pulled down a pictorial book on the Sarasota architecture of Paul Rudolph, then a spiral-bound sailing guide to the Keys with aerial photos of Adams Cut and Tavernier Creek. �It almost has a fatalistic aura, like he needs to pass this knowledge down to an heir. Do you think he�s okay?�

�Serge isn�t close to okay,� Brook said with a smile. �I sometimes worry.�

�You two used to have a thing, didn�t you?�

�More like I had a crush, but nothing developed. Then I met you.� She held one of his hands. �Don�t give that history another thought.�

�I don�t. I considered him a good friend, too.� Reevis closed the closet. �I�ve thought about trying to find him, but all I have is an old cell-phone number.�

�Why don�t you call it?�

�Come on.� A knowing look. �From what we�ve learned about him since our ordeal in Key West, he would have been caught five times if he used anything except a series of disposables. And this number is a year old.�

�It�s odd, but until this very second I didn�t realize the impact he had on both our lives.�

�He�s the reason we met, after all,� said Reevis.

�The reason we�re together,� said Brook. �Like a couple that first bonds at a showing of their favorite classic movie.�

�Or teaching me his favorite Latin recipes.�

Their eyes suddenly locked.

�Dinner!�

Reevis ran into the kitchen and fanned the smoke. Brook opened the windows. �What�s it look like?�

�Just a tiny bit burnt.� He began scooping rice and beans and Cuban meat stew onto plates.

�You don�t have a table,� said Brook. �We eat standing up?�

�No.� Reevis opened the door under the sink.

�Wicker trays?�

�Matches the patio chairs.�

Moments later, they sat side by side, sopping up tomato sauce with the thick bread. Brook chewed and looked toward where a TV normally would have been. �I didn�t notice the poster before. Isn�t that some kind of famous work of art?�

�Serge again. Came rolled up in a mailing tube.� Reevis munched a plantain chip. �Watercolor called A Norther, painted in Key West in 1886 by Winslow Homer. Now it�s my favorite painting of all time. I picked a spot in the apartment where I�d see it a lot.�

�So instead of watching TV, you sit there each night and watch the painting?�

�Simplify.� Munch. �My nerves need it these days.�

�You need to figure out what to do with those crazy producers of yours,� said Brook. �Never seen you so stressed.�

�Figured I�d get out in front of this thing by advancing my own stories before they can come up with more inane ideas of their own.�

�By the way,� said Brook. �Thanks for your coverage of the police forfeiture case I�m handling. Public opinion isn�t supposed to count, but judges are still elected around here. And you drummed up a lot of new business for the firm.�

�That whole fiasco was constitutionally reprehensible,� said Reevis.

�Still waiting for our day in court,� said Brook.

�Working on anything else that I might be interested in?�

�You�ll be the first to know.�

Sunlight prematurely departed outside the apartment�s jalousie windows. Floridians know the drill. Most rain will play itself out in minutes. But when the sky turns purple, and palm fronds are already flying in the wind before the first drop has fallen, hang on to your hat.

�I hope the car windows are up,� said Brook.

�I love these storms,� said Reevis.

The downpour crashed into the sea grapes and banana trees with a crackling roar, and the living room grew dark.

�Maybe turn on a light?� asked Brook.

�Have a better idea.� Reevis grabbed something else from the cupboard and struck a wooden match. A dim glow flickered high up the walls.

�A Santer�a candle?� asked Brook.

�Went shopping at this colorful market in Little Haiti,� said Reevis. �I was this close to buying a live chicken and making arroz con pollo for you tonight.�

�What stopped you?�

�At first I thought it would be the ultimate gesture in simplifying my life,� said Reevis. �But as I mulled the implications of the bird process, it only seemed more complex.�

�You�.�.�. entertain me. That�s important.� Brook looked fondly into his eyes.

�Listen to what�s happening out there,� said Reevis. �It�s really beautiful.�

They returned to their final bites of Cuban cuisine. Then it was that kind of quiet and stillness of air like when the electricity goes out. The pair oddly found themselves coupled together as they silently watched the show going on in the Winslow Homer painting.

Outside the apartment windows, palm trees yielded in a dark and overbearing sky. In the painting, same thing.

The stillness in the apartment continued as a series of brilliant blue-white flashes filled the room. A delay followed the lightning, then the marching drum line of thunder.

Reevis noticed the clock was out on the stove. One of the flashes outside had actually been a transformer blowing. The power was out for real. Even more still now without the moving air of the central A/C. A smile. Reevis thought: If you�ve never sat in candlelight and heard rain hit a banana leaf�.�.�.

They both quietly looked at the painting.

�It was storming that night, too,� said Brook. �The trees were bending in Key West.�

�Almost exactly a year ago,� said Reevis. �The last time we saw Serge.�

�I wonder where he could possibly be.�

A New Day

There are parts of greater Miami where even crime doesn�t pay. These are the desolate, bombed-out sections of the metro area with few forms of life above the virus level. Deserted industrial lots and underpasses and rock pits all but abandoned to the lizards and Sterno bums and roaming dogs with visible ribs.

One such stretch sat in the small city of Hialeah near the Palmetto Expressway.

Only two businesses with the loose definition of commerce: a U-Grab-It auto-parts salvage yard and, next door, a squat concrete pillbox of an office that had been repeatedly painted over as it went from bail bonds to title loans to just painted over.

Only two sounds echoed across the steaming badlands: someone with a socket wrench cursing under the hood of a Plymouth, and Jimi Hendrix from the Electric Ladyland album.

The psychedelic guitar licks led back to the pillbox. All the windows had burglar bars, and steel plates covered the dead bolts. The single room inside was divided in two by a curtain of purple beads. A large clay ashtray from Tijuana brimmed with burned-down roaches.

Another roach singed the fingertips of a stubby, potbellied man in a Pink Floyd tour T-shirt featuring a prism and spectrum of light. Bald on top, with wild gray curls of hair on the side, going every which way over his ears like Allen Ginsberg. The T-shirt was too tight.

He cranked up the stereo.

�.�.�.��Cause I�m a voodoo chile!�.�.�.�

Time for the low-demand lawyer to rehearse opening arguments. There was a final, rapid toking on the roach as smoke rose toward an unbalanced ceiling fan. �Okay, focus yourself. I need to remember that, and then that, and the other thing. All right, I think I�ve got it�.�.�.� A last big hit and he stamped out the end of the joint. �Ladies and gentleman of the jury, let�s get something out in the open right away because it�s what we�re all thinking about. Not by a long shot is this the crime of the century, and yet when you say �sex with a goat,� you can�t help but vividly picture it, and then you can�t get the horrible image out of your head, and you unfairly imagine my poor client standing behind livestock�.�.�. Shit, that�s way too visual. They�ll just picture it even more. Okay, how about this. Ahem�.�.�. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, society as a whole treats the goat rather badly. Can we at least agree on that point? .�.�. No, stop. That�s stupid. Maybe this:�.�.�. Ladies and gentlemen, blah-blah-blah. Did you know that in certain regions of Nepal, the goat is used in�.�.�. Fuck it.� He punched numbers on his cell phone. �Yeah, it�s me. Listen, dude, you really gotta plead this one out�.�.�. No, I�m sure�.�.�.�

He hung up, and the phone rang immediately.

�Ziggy Blade, attorney at law, citizen of the planet�.�.�. Oh, hi, Brook. What�s up? .�.�. I can�t hear you�.�.�. I still can�t hear you! .�.�. Oh, right, that�s Hendrix. I�ll turn it down�.�.�. Where were we? .�.�. I�m just in my office working on opening arguments for a jury. It�s a myth that goats eat tin cans, but they do climb trees if at the proper angle�.�.�. No, no, no, no, I�m not high, no, no, okay yes, just a teensy bit, but only to center my head for the trial�.�.�. Advice? What type of case? .�.�. Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh�.�.�. What kind of drug residue on the cash? .�.�. Cocaine? Piece of cake. And I thought this was going to be a tough quiz. Miami Herald, 1985�.�.�. I realize newspaper articles can�t be introduced as evidence res ipso al fresco, so you federally cite Ninth Circuit Appeals Los Angeles 1994. Vast majority of all big-city bills test positive, higher in Florida. Takes as little as point-zero-zero-six micrograms�.�.�. No, only a tiny percentage of the currency has been handled by traffickers. The rest is cross-contamination from ATMs and currency counters at banks. Remember how finely milled, weaponized anthrax got spread in 2001 from mail-sorting machines? .�.�. No, I didn�t take a special legal seminar. Everyone out on the street knows this stuff.�

The stoned attorney listened to profuse thanks from the Women�s Legal Aid Clinic.

�Just glad I could help,� said Ziggy, tilting his head back and dripping Visine into road-map eyes. �And if I may say so, Brook, it�s really good to hear your voice after all this time. How long has it been? Back in Key West with Serge? .�.�. No, I don�t have any idea where he is. You know that maniac�he�s liable to be anywhere�.�.�.�

Last Case of the Day

The flags of the United States and the state of Florida stood against the wall. A clock ticked. A bailiff stood and tried not to yawn. The court stenographer sat with fingers at the ready.

Between the flags, a man in a black robe set some papers down and looked out over his reading glasses. �Let me see if I have this straight, counsel. You are asking me to return seized property to a client you refuse to identify?�

�That�s correct,� said Brook.

Another attorney jumped to his feet. �Your Honor, I move that you immediately dismiss this specious appeal against the upstanding municipality of Coral Cove!�

�Calm down,� said the judge. �You�re already winning, so can we just wrap this up and get to dinner?�

�Of course, Your Honor.�

�Now then,� said the judge. �Unlike regular criminal cases, seizure appeals require a certain burden of proof upon the person seeking to retrieve their property.� He turned to Brook. �If your clients won�t come forward to testify, I find it insurmountably problematic for your case.�

�Your Honor,� said Brook. �The fact that I won�t identify my client is our case.�

The judge took off his glasses and searched for words. Finally, �What?�

�Why don�t you ask opposing counsel?�

The other attorney just gave a clueless shrug.

The judge sat back and gazed at the plaintiff�s table. �Why don�t you simply come out and say what�s on your mind in plain terms.�

�Your Honor,� said Brook. �It�s so hugely obvious that everyone is missing it. The city of Coral Cove is claiming that the appeal should be denied because my client won�t come forward.�

The other lawyer was back on his feet. �That�s right, Your Honor. This was a justified drug-trafficking forfeiture designed to undercut the scourge of narcotics, exactly as the legislature intended.� He swelled with cockiness and gave Brook an accusing glare. �If her clients won�t present themselves, I think we all have a pretty good idea why.�

The judge raised his eyebrows in her direction.

�If I may continue,� said Brook. �The city is making an issue of me not identifying my clients. But it was their police department that made the traffic stop and took property. Why don�t they have the ID?�

The judge�s head swung. �Is that true?�

The municipal attorney nervously flipped through papers in his briefcase. �I�m sure it�s in here somewhere.�

�That�s not even close to good enough,� said the judge. �But we�ll get back to that. What was your basis to seize the money?�

�Our canine alerted to drugs.�

�Did you find any?�

�No, but there was a large, unexplained amount of currency, and our experience has found that such cash often has trace amounts of drugs that our dogs detect.�

Brook held up a newspaper. �According to an investigation by the Miami Herald, most twenty-dollar bills in the Metro-Dade area have at least some drug residue. The newspaper collected sample money to be tested from prominent businesspeople, politicians, even clergy. This article has been accepted as evidence in other jurisdictions.�

�I object,� said her adversary. �Unless she�s prepared to swear in these reporters��

�Won�t be necessary,� said Brook. �My main point is they never intended to charge my client with any offense. In fact, they didn�t even issue a ticket for the ostensible traffic offense, and neither of the vehicle�s occupants had a valid driver�s license between them. Yet they were still let go.�

The judge looked the other way for an answer. The city attorney brimmed with a smile. �Your Honor, she just made my argument. Smugglers often use undocumented aliens as couriers. That�s the real reason her clients didn�t have a driver�s license and aren�t present today. They�re here illegally!�

�What do you have to say?� asked the judge.

�He�s absolutely right,� said Brook. �They are here illegally.�

�Wait, you�re admitting this in open court?�

�If I could call a witness.�

The judge shook his head to clear the legal haze. �Go ahead.�

A police officer put one hand on the Bible and raised the other. Brook approached.

�Officer Malloy,� said Brook. �You handle the police canine named Nixon?�

�He�s more like a partner.�

�How does he rate as a drug sniffer?�

�In a controlled test, he correctly identified all twenty-three sources.�

�Is he obedient and easily trained?�

�Completely.�

�Could you make him bark at will?�

�I guess I could.�

�I�ll take that as a yes,� said Brook. �Does he bark for any other reason?�

�Well�.�.�.� Malloy broke into a grin. �For some reason, squirrels.�

�And do you detain these squirrels?�

The bailiff snickered and quickly covered his mouth.

�Counsel!� said the judge. �I will not indulge such sarcasm, especially in disrespect for a law enforcement officer.�

�My apologies. That was out of line,� said Brook. �And I can�t do this anymore. I�m just going to tell you how I feel. Yes, I represent illegal aliens, and what they�re doing is wrong. But there�s a bigger wrong. On a personal level, I come from a family tree full of officers, and have nothing but respect for the vast majority of police in our state who don�t pull these shenanigans, and don�t deserve to have their integrity tainted. Forfeiture started out well intentioned enough, except there�s so much temptation that it�s gotten completely out of hand. There�s a sheriff on the west coast driving a confiscated Hummer, for heaven�s sake��

The judge held up a hand for her to stop. �And everyone knows that migrant workers don�t have bank accounts�.�.�. I�m way ahead of you. My dad and both brothers were on the force.� He turned and glared at the city attorney. �Appeal is granted.�

The lawyer sighed. �I understand, Your Honor.� He began putting files back in his briefcase.

�Go get it.�

The attorney looked up quickly. �Get what?�

�The money.�

�Now?�

�You don�t want to test my patience because you�re going to be spending a lot of time in this courtroom. I�m requesting that the state attorney convene a grand jury to investigate your seizure practices�.�.�.� Then toward Brook: �Hope you have calendar space for a few more clients.�

Central Florida

A black SUV left Interstate 4 behind in the late afternoon and began a meandering country drive that seemed to lead nowhere. Reevis�s Datsun was right behind.

The vehicles eventually rolled up a quiet street and parked in front of a tidy cottage.

�Here�s the plan,� said Nigel, laying out the details.

�It�s a stupid plan,� said Reevis. �And just when I thought my profession couldn�t sink any lower. Since when do journalists use psychics?�

�Cops hire them all the time,� said Nigel. �And the viewing public loves them! You�ll be a pioneer!�

�I�ll be a laughingstock!�

�You heard what your editor told you back at the office,� said the producer. �Just give it a try.�

�But whatever happened to the missing-woman case we were supposed to be working on?� said Reevis.

�That�s over,� Nigel said bitterly. �It got solved.�

�It did?�

�Tragically, she�s alive. Mid-life crisis. Been backpacking in Europe.� Nigel looked toward the front porch. �Ready?�

Reevis noticed the happy silk flag. �You sure we have the right address?�

Nigel nodded. �Been here before.�

�You have?�

�I was waiting until we arrived to surprise you.� Nigel eagerly rubbed his palms together. �There�s a second element that will put this segment over the top, television�s version of a daily double, combining two things audiences love the most. Not only are we consulting a psychic about a crime, but we�ll also have a confrontation with a psychic!�

�Please stop,� Reevis said weakly.

�No, seriously,� said Nigel, leading the way up the porch steps. �We paid her to work on a show before we met you, and you�ll never guess! The psychic was wrong!�

�I�m shaken.�

�So was I,� said the producer. �Last time she predicted the body would be found near water with sounds and lights. Just my bad luck that the victim in that case wasn�t dead, either. Turns out the girl ran away with her boyfriend for a few days. So here�s the deal: We start out like everything�s on the level; then, when she�s lulled into false confidence, you pepper her with accusations about the last case. It can�t miss! The scrupulous reporter uncovering a scandalous psychic hoax.�

�I feel ill.�

Nigel pounded and pounded on the front door.

�I don�t think anyone�s home,� said Reevis.

�There a car in the drive.� Nigel tried the doorknob. �G�nter, it�s unlocked.�

�I draw the line here,� said the reporter. �I�m not a burglar.�

�Reevis, where are you going?�

�Back to the office.�

�Reevis? Reevis!�.�.�.�

The door to the Datsun slammed, and the reporter drove off.

Nigel looked at his cameraman. �He�ll come around later for the voice-over. Let�s go inside and get some B-roll.�

G�nter Klieglyte ran jiggling up the steps and barged through the door without knocking. They stood in an empty parlor.

�I know you�re back there!� yelled Nigel. �Come out now! We want our money back!�.�.�.�

The cameraman ran forward in the dark room and tripped over something on the floor.

�Good God!� said Nigel. �It�s a body! Get a close-up!�

A Few Minutes Later

Serge shook his Eight Ball and called to the bedroom. �Coast is clear!�

The psychic came out and took a seat at the table. �How�d you get rid of them?�

�Gave �em what they wanted. I�m a student of character that way.� He set the black ball down and opened the new book he had purchased at the gift shop. �What do you think of this stuff?�

�Crystals?� She grabbed her own clear ball from the middle of the table. �I�m on the fence, but some people swear by them. There are hundreds of varieties with their own vibration levels and energy fields, giving each one specific gifts similar to patron saints: peace, love, creativity, decision making.�

Serge flipped pages. �I loved crystals when I was a kid, but I was looking at little bitty ones with the microscope I got for Christmas. In fact, I used it to examine the whole house. That microscope opened a whole new world for me! I was so excited: �Mom! Come quick! You have to see this stuff magnified! All kinds of crazy little creatures are running around!� Then she�d take a peek and ask what she was looking at. �Mom, it�s what you made for dinner.� That was the end of my microscope period.�

A cell phone rang. Trish checked the caller ID. �It�s the spiritual center�s referral line.� She got up to take it. �Hello? .�.�. No, I�m sorry, but I�m not taking any more customers today�.�.�. No, I�m sure�.�.�. Well, if it�s an emergency, there are plenty of others on the board who would be happy to see you�.�.�. What? .�.�. Wait, your voice. Who is this?�.�.�.�

�.�.�.�Then I got a telescope,� said Serge, �and I could literally read a newspaper through our neighbor�s living room window, but I was still too young to process the bedroom scenes�.�.�.�

Madam Bovary hung up and walked to the table.

�What is it?� asked Serge. �Another unsatisfied customer?�

She steadied herself as she sat back down.

�Good God, what�s wrong? You look terrible, and I�m not even psychic.�

�He found me again.�

�Who?�

�My ex. He just called from the spiritual center and is on his way over.�

�Then we only have a few minutes.� Serge noticed her shaking uncontrollably. �I�ve seen the previews to this movie before, so give me the quick version.�

�I�ve called the police, got restraining orders, moved ten times, legally changed my name, but it�s never enough. Once, he even found me through public records when I hooked up to the city water. Except this time I thought I was so far off the grid he wouldn�t stand a chance. But just now he said he saw me on TV when I did that cold-case segment.�

�TV!� said Serge. �That�s the opposite of off the grid.�

�I know, I know, but I�ve never been east of Colorado before. Who would have thought he�d see that show��

�Has he ever hit you?�

�Hit me, choked me, thrown me down stairs, burned me.� She turned her arm over, and Serge cringed. �Swears he�s going to kill me.�

�If you don�t go back with him?�

�No, says he�ll do it someday anyway, just doesn�t feel like it yet. When we were out west, detectives came around one day asking about his missing first wife, and that�s when I finally split for Florida.�

�I�ve heard enough.� Serge ran to the window and checked out the curtains. �Shit, he�s here. Do you have a car?�

�It�s around back.�

�Hopefully he�ll think the Corvette�s yours. Lock yourself in the bathroom and don�t come out! Now! .�.�. Oh, and what�s his name?�.�.�.�

Feet ran down the back hallway. Others came up the front steps. Serge ran to the kerosene lamp and turned down the flame. Then he quietly unlocked the front door. �What an episode.�

Outside: �I�ll huff, and I�ll puff, and I�ll blow your house in!�

Quiet.

�What? No answer? Is that any way to treat the love of your life?�

The ex tried the knob. �You�ve got to be kidding. This is too easy.� He slowly opened the door and poked his head inside with a bad Jack Nicholson impersonation. �Heeeeeeeere�s Johnnnnnnny!�

The parlor was ultra-dark as he crept inside. �Come out, come out, wherever you are!�

More svelte steps across the Tibetan carpet. Trip. Thud. �What the hell?�

�Ow!� said Coleman. �I�m trying to sleep.�

The kerosene flame came back to life.

The ex looked up from the floor. �Who the hell are you?�

�Calico Kid Serge. And you must be Gil.�

Gil stood back up and aimed a pistol. �Are you the current loser fucking my wife?�

�No,� said Serge. �Well, not for the last half hour.�

�Son of a bitch!� Gil stormed across the room and pointed the gun between Serge�s eyes. �You�re a dead man!�

Serge put a hand to his mouth and yawned.

�What�s the matter with you? I have a gun!�

�But I have the Eight Ball!�

�What?�

Serge shook the water in the novelty item. �Its power is much greater.� He held the ball�s fortune-telling window toward Gil�s face. �See?�

�Where?�

�There.� Bam. Right in the nose.

It�s not the injury as much as disorientation. A pain source so close to the brain is magnified. Involuntary blinking. Whatever else your hands were doing, they can�t help but drop everything and fly to the center of your face�.�.�.

Ten minutes later�.�.�.

Serge tugged hard on a stretch of rope and yelled down the hall. �You can come out now.�

A wedge of light appeared as a door cautiously opened. �Is it safe?�

�Completely.�

It was indeed safe, but Trish grabbed her heart anyway at the sight of Gil. He was fit to be tied�and he was. The work with the rope defined overkill. Dozens and dozens of loops like a woman left on the railroad tracks in a silent movie. A tube sock duct-taped in his mouth.

�Forget you ever saw this,� said Serge. �I just have to wait for nightfall, and you�ll never have to worry about him again.�

Meanwhile in Miami

The clattering noise was loud and machinelike and nonstop. All across the city, it was the same, a mesmerizing rat-a-tat at thousands of locations.

Lottery machines spit out tickets at a feverish pace to feverish people. News stations kept breaking in to update the record number of sales. Lines wrapped around 7-Eleven.

A group of serious men from South America fanned out across the metropolitan area and beyond, in an equal division of land, like precinct captains. It was a process that had begun a couple of days earlier. It involved school buses. Now it was Saturday night, and the official Ping-Pong ball drawing was precariously near.

The biggest crowds of all came at the last minute because people bad at math also weren�t on time. One particular line wound down a sidewalk on Biscayne Boulevard. A school bus arrived. An intimidating Latino with a thick mustache waited on the sidewalk as the migrant workers filed off. He gave each of them a five-dollar bill as promised, plus an envelope with more cash and pre-filled lottery forms.

Once the bus was empty, he led his assemblage inside the store, passing the rest of the customers who had been waiting forever. He cut to the very front of the line with predictable reaction. Shouts, a polyglot of cursing, and overt threats of physical harm.

All the man had to do was turn and look with those dark, bottomless eyes. The reaction changed: By all means, be my guest.

Identical scenes played out at various other locations as buses drove into Fort Lauderdale and West Palm Beach.

At 11:01 p.m., the gang of five collected the last of their tickets and regrouped in the luxury suite of an extended-stay hotel near the airport. Mr.�Pelota was waiting. He never had to speak loud. �How much?�

They compared tallies. �Half the board. We hit every store we could within the time possible.�

�That�s ten million dollars, fifty-fifty shot,� said Pelota, his pulse predictably steady according to the Hare PCL-R psychopathy index for low reaction to high risk. Response to negative outcomes was another matter.

The TV neared the end of the local news. The room went silent as a pink flamingo logo appeared, followed by a game-show host in a sports coat. The night skyline of Miami was projected in the back of the studio as Ping-Pong balls frolicked deliriously in some kind of clear-plastic vortex bin before being suctioned up six tubes and read off: 48, 39, 53, 51, 43, 46.

�What�s with all the high numbers?� asked one of the lower-ranking men, prompting a sharp poke to his ribs.

The suite had floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows with a view of the skyline that matched the one on television. It efficiently shattered, left to right, and the shards rained down into the storm-water retention pond behind the hotel. Mr.�Pelota calmly re-holstered his TEC-9 machine gun under a white jacket. He headed for the mini-bar, hair whipped up in a crisp new open-air breeze off Biscayne Bay. He uncapped a nine-dollar miniature of Patr�n and picked a sliver of glass off his shoulder. �Juan, go down and pay the man at the front desk.�

The Next Day

Another sunny morning in Miami.

Nothing out of place. Drivers sipping coffee, pedestrians reading newspapers, drifters with rolling Samsonite. People on cell phones reported credit-card issues. Some checked their wrists to see how many steps they had taken.

A decade-old Hyundai sat at a red light with a dripping brake drum and a bumper sticker from the driver�s alma mater: Go Terrible Swedes (Bethany College, Lindsborg, Kansas). The employee badge clipped to his pocket said Dagwood Foote, named for some great-great-grand-uncle, but he preferred Darren. His mind wandered without attention, as did the traffic around him: His namesake relative was said to have perished a hero in Teddy Roosevelt�s Rough Riders. Were the Swedish even aware of the nickname? His family lied more than most. Maybe the first Dagwood actually died in a tragic stevedore accident in Spokane, leaving behind a modest collection of vice-presidential autographs. What was the deal with Norway? He decided that life was immeasurably complex and required another bumper sticker about his son making straight B�s. He took a bite of a Hot Pocket.

The radio was tuned to a Spanish news station for the English: Someone was found at sea. Someone else wasn�t. Ra�l Castro is still a jerk. Don�t buy ranch salad dressing dated February�17 or else.

The driver leaned forward as a Marilyn Monroe drag queen sprinted through the crosswalk��Get away from me!��followed closely by a JFK look-alike��But I love you!�.�.�.�

The red light turned green. The Hyundai had just started to move when it was cut off by a flying-V formation of Mercedes sedans.

Tires screeched to a stop. Hands seized through the driver�s window.

�Excuse me,� said Foote. �I�m having breakfast.�

A sausage Hot Pocket flew as a coat was thrown over his head. Another man shoved him in the backseat of the getaway vehicle and fired gunshots in the air to intimidate bystanders, who weren�t interested anyway because the same thing was happening for unrelated reasons at the other intersections.

Miami Women�s Legal Aid Clinic

Word was getting around. The waiting room had never seen so many clients. They all leaned forward in their chairs and strained to hear the commotion coming from some unseen part of the building. The receptionist got up and closed the door to the hallway.

In the last office, Brook stared slack-jawed at the angry mob on the other side of her desk, quarreling nonstop and spewing epithets.

�Please be quiet�.�.�.�

They didn�t miss a beat, shouting away.

�Quiet�.�.�.�

It only got worse.

�Everyone! Shut the hell up!� Brook�s fist hit the desk. �Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!�

Silence. Stunned eyes turned toward her.

�I�m sorry I had to speak to you that way,� said Brook. �But you have to listen to me. These are serious offenses. I�ve spoken with the prosecutor, and if everyone agrees not to file charges, we�re only talking about a little community service. Do you understand?�

The combined staffs of the nail and beauty salons began to nod.

�But here�s the most important part, and you absolutely have to do exactly as I say,� Brook continued. �This war ends now. You�ll be on probation, so that means no more vandalized cars, no more dead rats in mailboxes, no more cars doing doughnuts on front lawns, and definitely no more lasers. Are we in agreement?�

The crowd exchanged nasty glances, but reluctantly began to nod again.

�Good.� Brook stood up. �Now make the peace�.�.�. Go on, hug. It�s a non-negotiable condition of me representing you.�

The staffs tentatively embraced, then thanked Brook and departed. The door closed.

The door opened.

Jacklyn Lopez escorted Danny into the office.

Brook stood up with a big smile. �Did Jacklyn tell you?�

Danny looked back and forth at the two attorneys. �You really want to hire me?�

�Without a doubt. You�re sharper than most law students I know,� said Brook. �And you�re working your way through Miami-Dade College at what? The food court? We can do better than that.�

�You want to pay me for more referrals?�

�No, we�re not asking you to chase ambulances,� said Jacklyn. �Just stuff around the office.�

�I didn�t mean it that way,� said Danny. �It�s just that a lot of my community is under-served in this area, and you take cases others won�t touch. But you�ll still work with people I bring in on my own?�

�If it�s like that, sure, we always want to help,� said Brook. �Anyone who comes to you purely of their own volition��

�Already got a few,� said Danny. �Actually a bunch.�

�That was fast.�

�Word�s out about you in the neighborhood. It�s all good.� She opened her purse. �The business with the forfeiture sealed the deal. The fact that you wouldn�t divulge the names of your illegal migrants in open court earned their complete trust in a way no outsider could ever hope for.�

�I�m flattered.�

Danny pulled her hand from the purse and slid a stub across Brook�s desk.

�A lottery ticket?�

�A winning ticket.�

�Good Lord!� said Jacklyn.

�Don�t get too excited,� said Danny. �It�s one of the smaller pots, Fantasy Five, just several thousand.�

�What are you doing with it?� said Brook. �More perplexing, why are you giving it to me?�

�A neighbor of mine wants you to cash it in. And I�ve got a dozen more in here just like it.�

�Why me?�

�Like I said, word�s getting around.�

�That�s not what I meant.� Brook examined the ticket in her hands. �Why doesn�t your neighbor cash it himself?�

�Because you have to show ID and do all the tax stuff. Except he isn�t trying to avoid taxes.�

�And I�m guessing deportation,� said Jacklyn.

�I keep telling everyone not to waste their hard-earned money on these stupid tickets, and then Hector wins that thing, and the whole block scrambles to the nearest bodega�.�.�. His only other option is to go to these shady brokers that run dubious convenience stores, and they take a cut.�

�You do realize that I�ll be taking a cut, too,� said Brook. �Pro bono starts with constitutional violations and ends at lottery winnings.�

�But it�ll be a smaller cut, and it will go to you.�

�Haven�t done anything like this before,� said Brook. �Never even thought of it.�

�I�ve heard of situations where someone is buying up investment property and wants to shield their identity so the prospective sellers don�t raise their prices. So they create some kind of trust where a law firm�s name shows up on everything.�

�Sharp. That�s why I just hired you.� Brook set the ticket down. �But this is more than just a name change in a public file. This is actually taking possession of money. I can still wrangle that, but your neighbor will need two lawyers.�

�Why?�

�I�ll represent the client and draw up the contracts with the other attorney, who will be assigned legal ownership of the ticket and cash it in on behalf of his client, which is me,� said Brook.

�Sounds awfully complicated.�

�We need the firewall created by a second layer of attorney�client privilege,� said Brook. �It may even set a precedent.�

�Got anyone in mind?�

Brook reached for the phone. �Let me do some calling around.�

After Dark

High beams of a black SUV split the ominous night on Highway 98. Nothing but trees and lawlessness. An oncoming semi truck whizzed by on the two-laner, rattling the car. Then wisps of fog. Every now and then, eyes glowed on the center line before darting off into the brush.

It became less isolated as they saw more and more headlights. The vehicle crested a hill and found the reason. A country store near the Wakulla River. Only place open for miles at this hour.

The SUV pulled into a parking lot full of pickup trucks with abnormally large tires. They went inside, and Nigel headed for the beer case. �You get the shovels.�

They approached the counter.

�Shovels and beer?� said the grizzled clerk. �You boys burying something?�

�No!�

He scanned in the purchase. �Then you must be digging something up.�

�W-w-why do you say that?�

The clerk shrugged. �It�s Friday night.�

Nigel and G�nter rushed out of the store.

The next customers stepped up to the counter.

�Anything else?� asked the clerk.

�Just the shovels and beer.�

The SUV took off into the woods. G�nter popped the cap off a Beck�s and began chugging.

�Give me one of those,� said Nigel. A green bottle upended.

The Suburban flew over hills and screeched around desolate turns, deeper into nature. Deeper into the beer. They took the fork at Tate�s Hell. A bottle flew out the window and shattered on the sign. �Fuckin� A! .�.�. That�s what they say around here, right?�

Nigel turned up the brightness on the vehicle�s instrument panel and watched the odometer, counting down the last 5.7 miles to X-marks-the-spot. They slowed to a crawl when the last tenth turned over. �We�re here!�

�A-Ooooooooo!� G�nter bayed at the moon. �Werewolves of London!�

It had been a twelve-pack. The contents of ten were back in the mist, with the final two in their hands as they opened the back of the vehicle for digging implements.

�Just a second,� said Nigel, pulling back the mat over the wheel well. �Take this.�

�A gun?�

Nigel tucked his own pistol in his waistband. �They sell them everywhere in the state. I bought these last week during our confrontational expos� on the dangers of gun shows.�

�Why?�

�To be on the safe side.� Nigel popped his last beer and staggered toward the woods. �Those gun people were scary.�

The pair plunged down the road�s embankment through mossy ground cover, aided by a D-cell baton flashlight.

�This way, I think,� said Nigel. �G�nter? .�.�. G�nter! What are you doing waving that gun?�

�Thought I heard something.� He crouched and took aim. �Shine that light over there.�

The beam hit a tree and an unimpressed bird.

Bang.

The bird took flight.

�Why�d you shoot at an owl?�

�His intentions were unclear.�

�Well, knock it off. We might need those bullets. These automatics only hold sixteen.�

Onward. Scraping themselves on branches. Falling down, tearing their pants.

�What�s so funny?� asked Nigel.

The cameraman stifled giggles. �This whole mess. Now that we�ve calmed down, it�s pretty hilarious if you think about it.�

�G�nter! We�re not out of this yet! .�.�.� Snort. �We still have to�� Then he was cracking up as well. �You�re right. It is funny.�

G�nter held his last bottle up to the moonlight. �How much you got left?�

�About half.�

�Same here�.�.�. On three: one, two, three!�

They guzzled the last of their beers together, followed by the sound of bottles breaking on trees. Laughter again as they threw arms over each other�s shoulders like war buddies, blustering forward dragging shovels.

They found themselves in a clearing. An erratic flashlight beam bounced around trees and dirt.

G�nter turned in a circle. �Where�s the grave?�

�Remember, it was by a clump of trees?� said Nigel, curiously pointing the flashlight at his own face. �And a fallen log?�

�I�m starting to get worried again.� G�nter leaned on his shovel. �What if the cops� .�.�. Can�t even think about it.�

�I feel the same. The beer isn�t cutting it.� Nigel reached in his back pocket for a sterling-silver flask.

�What�s that?�

�Emergency supply to fortify our nerves.� Nigel took a swig and cringed. �Wasn�t sure how hairy this would get. Try some�.�.�.�

G�nter sniffed the pungent open cap. �What is it?�

�Sour mash, from someplace they called Tennessee.�

�Never tried it,� said G�nter. �I�m a gin man.�

�So am I, but they told me everyone in the state drinks this stuff.�

�Where�d you hear that?�

�At the gun show.�

G�nter glugged and coughed. �That�ll sure clear your sinuses. Which way?�

�Let�s try this direction,� said Nigel, setting off north.

The pair wove through the woods for a half hour, meaning they were ten minutes from the road.

�That way looks familiar�.�.�.�

They staggered southwest, then east, northwest, south��Why can�t we find it?��north again, southeast. If you could chart the flight of a moth, that was the course of their search.

The two stopped again. �Where�s that flask?� asked G�nter.

�Me first.� Nigel took a slug before passing it. �Stuff grows on you.�

G�nter drew a big sip, looked around and scratched his head. �It�s the damnedest thing. We were just here the other day.�

�I could have sworn I�d never forget the spot,� said G�nter. �All that digging.�

�No way the forest could have covered it up so soon. It should be easy to identify with all that freshly disturbed ground.� Nigel stomped his foot, tamping down loose soil, and pointed the flashlight at the ground. �Like this place right here. There�s a clump of trees and a log. It should look exactly like this.�

�Okay,� said G�nter. �We need to find a spot that looks like the one we�re at.�

�Let�s go.� They set off on another serpentine quest with a zigzagging beam of light that grew dimmer with depleting batteries. After a few cloverleaf patterns in the forest, they returned to where they had just started.

�Check it out!� Nigel aimed the beam. �It�s a spot that�s just like the other one.�

�And look! Fresh footprints where someone was just tamping it down!� said G�nter, spinning in place. �Who else can be out here? I�m a nervous wreck.�

�Here�s the whiskey.�

�Right.�

They began digging. The task was much easier this time around, since the soil had recently been unpacked. It was sloppy as digs go, but precision wasn�t required. They were down to their hips, then chests�.�.�.

G�nter thrust his spade. �Think I just hit something. Turn on the flashlight.�

�It is on.� Nigel shook it next to his ear. �I think the batteries are dead. Dig with your hands.�

The German dropped to his knees and scooped. �Yeah, it�s definitely him. Here�s his nose.�

�This calls for a drink�.�.�.�

They cleared a trench around the body, then stood at opposite ends and lifted him by ankles and armpits. �All right, throw him up there onto the ground.�

The swung the body from side to side to build momentum��On three. Three!��and threw him into the side of the hole.

�What happened?� asked G�nter.

�This isn�t working.� They finished off the flask, and Nigel flung his shovel over the edge. �Okay, I�ll climb out, and you prop him up against the side. Then you join me, and we�ll pull him out together.�

Heavy grunting, but they finally extracted the corpse, then fell to the ground with it to catch their breath.

�What now?� asked G�nter.

�I think we�re supposed to take him somewhere else.�

�Okay, I got his ankles.�

�I got the other end. Let�s go that way.�

�Wish that flashlight was still working.�

�Me, too. Start walking�.�.�. Ahhhh!�

Thud, thud.

�Ouch! Shit!�.�.�.�

�Nigel, I think we�re back in the hole again.�

They pulled the body out a second time and picked him up. �Let�s go a different direction��

It was quiet except for a mild rustling of leaves under their feet. They heard a louder rustling, approaching fast from behind.

G�nter�s head whipped around. �What�s that?�

Blinding lights came on as a cameraman rushed toward them. An Australian voice: �Why did you kill him?�

�Ahhhhhh!�

They dropped the body and fled in different directions.

�Follow them!� directed Cricket Brisbane.

The cameraman named Dundee gave chase. �I think one of them went this way�.�.�.�

Bang, bang, bang.

Brisbane hit the ground. �Who�s shooting?�

Dundee killed the lights, ran back and flattened himself next to his producer. �I think they are.�

Now another direction: bang, bang, bang.

�Nigel!� G�nter called out from behind a tree. �They�re shooting at us!�

�I know!� yelled another tree. �Where are you?�

�Over here! Let�s make a break for the car!�

�Okay, but we�ll have to cover each other!�

�Now!�

The pair charged out into the dark forest like Butch Cassidy and Sundance. Bang, bang, bang�.�.�.

�Dundee!� whispered the producer from Perth. �They�re coming back this way. Make sure you get this.�

�I�m ready.�

Bang, bang, bang�.�.�.

Dundee turned on the camera lights, capturing the rival reality team in full stride and blinding them.

Bang, bang, bang�.�.�.

And just like that, nothing.

�Where�d they go?� asked Brisbane.

�I don�t know.� Dundee cut the lights again.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang�.�.�.

Muzzle flashes flickered up out of the hole in the ground.

�What the hell?�

Then a long silence as tendrils of gun smoke dissipated into the trees.

The Australians cautiously rose. Camera lights came on again as they walked over and stared down into the grave.

�Are they dead?�

�Get a close-up.�

The Gold Coast

Another hot and bustling day along U.S. 1 in Miami. Sidewalks full of businesspeople on lunch and aimless people on parole. Broken headlight glass in the street, and the rest of the fender bender at the curb. An old man worked the intersections with a cardboard sign: Why Lie? I Want to Buy Beer. A tent sale with balloons, a bicycle with dangling iguanas, a hooker past her sell-by date.

At every corner, waiting customers spilled out of convenience stores. Above, perpetually updating billboards where the workers might as well just camp out.

A silver Corvette sat at a red light. Coleman popped a Pabst and stared. �What�s the deal with all those people in line? Did a Stones concert go on sale?�

�Shhhhh! I�m trying to listen.� Serge turned up the radio. �Lottery�s now projected to break another record by Saturday. I always monitor the lottery when it gets this high.�

�But you hate the lottery.� Coleman burped. �You said it preys on people least able to afford it.�

�Plus, my coffee gets cold waiting in line at the counter.� The light turned green, and Serge passed another daunting assemblage that extended into an alley. �But even if you don�t play the numbers, you have to follow the jackpots as a matter of survival down here.�

Another swig. �How so?�

�If you live in Florida, a major jackpot is like a hurricane about to make landfall,� said Serge. �Society looks no different than during the final hours of storm preparation. The lottery lines screw up all major infrastructure for basic needs, so frantic people fight through snarled intersections to stock up on water and food, get prescriptions filled, hit ATM machines, and keep their cars full of gas, because God knows if you can�t pay at the pump and have to go inside, you better be wearing comfortable shoes.�

�Never thought of it that way.�

�The closer you come to the official drawing of the Ping-Pong balls, the lower the state�s IQ.�

�But why all the fuss now?� asked Coleman.

�That stupid Powerball jackpot a couple years ago that broke a billion dollars. Since then, everyone�s had lottery fever. But the Powerball prizes are back down, and Florida�s are up, so we get all the commotion.�

�Lucky us,� said Coleman.

�But it�s also the perfect setting for our next episode,� said Serge.

Coleman looked down at a ripped spot on his shirt, where an employee name tag had been unceremoniously removed a half hour earlier. �At least we got our new jobs out of the way. Working at that supermarket was nerve-racking.�

�Getting fired after thirty minutes doesn�t count toward an episode,� said Serge.

�I think it does.�

�You don�t get to make the call,� said Serge. �You were the one drinking at the register and messing up the lottery tickets.�

�And you�re the one telling everybody in line not to buy them, then shoving the manager,� said Coleman.

�That was tough love,� said Serge. �I did another statistical analysis. Did you realize that among all the millions of people who played the lottery last week, there were no winners, yet seven others will be struck by lightning in their lifetimes?�

�For losing the lottery?� said Coleman. �That�s harsh.�

�No, that�s not what� .�.�. forget it.�

Coleman glanced down again. �Do you think they�re going to want their shirts back?�

�I�m taking a wild guess that �Get the hell out before I call the police� means the shirts are our severance package.� Serge hit a blinker. �But it�s all for the best. I just came up with a much better idea for our next gig.�

�What is it?�

�You�ll find out when we get to the Party Store.�

�The Party Store?� said Coleman. �They have everything!�.�.�.�

.�.�. An hour after their shopping spree, the silver Corvette sat at another typical South Florida strip mall anchored by a tattoo parlor and a Hungry Howie�s pizza place. Serge stood on the edge of the parking lot with a megaphone. �You�re fantastic! Just keep it up!�

�I�m having trouble breathing,� said Coleman. �And I�m getting really hot.�

�That means you�re doing it right,� Serge barked. �Now execute a camel foot and the pancake spin, then a big finish with the inverted butterfly.�

�Okay, here goes.�

�Whoa!� yelled Serge. �That�s way too fast!�

�What do I do?�

�Slow down!�

�I can�t!�

A heavy cardboard sign flew into the air and came down, bonking Coleman on the head. �Ow!�

Serge ran over and helped his fallen friend up into a sitting position. Then he removed the giant, furry costume head. �Coleman, speak to me.�

�This sucks.� He rubbed his forehead. �How come I�m the one who has to dress like a panda and twirl a sign for the Chinese lunch buffet?�

�Because I�m your manager,� said Serge. �Sign-spinning has become an increasingly competitive field. They now even hold conventions with their own version of the X Games. If I don�t teach you the newest technique, there�s no way you�ll survive out here�.�.�.� He pointed across the highway at a gorilla executing a triple Lutz to promote international calling minutes.

�Can�t I just stand still and wave at cars?�

�No!� Serge grabbed the panda head. �Now put this back on. There�s much work to do. Many crowd-pleasing routines to learn: the swim, the flop, the gator, the reverse axle, the Heimlich maneuver, the DUI field test, the restless leg syndrome, the Czechoslovakian Dance of Death�.�.�.�

�I�m just going to wave at cars.�

Serge seized him by the shoulders. �Get a grip on yourself!�

Coleman held out a paw. �I think it�s starting to rain.�

Serge looked up. �Crap, you�re right�.�.�. Hurry! To the bus-stop shelter before your sign starts to smear!�

They dashed under the metal overhang and the sky cut loose, as it is known to do every afternoon in the Florida summer for fifteen minutes.

Coleman took a seat with the panda head in his lap. The bench had an advertisement for corrupt personal injury attorneys: No Pain? No Problem! Across the street, a gorilla glared at them from another bench advertising a credit repair service that just made it worse.

A fingernail scraped at a mustard spot on the panda�s chest. �Serge?�

�Yes, Ling Ling?�

�How come it rains every afternoon in the summer?�

�Temperature differential because land heats up faster than the sea as the sun climbs into the sky, creating a pressure drop and pulling air and moisture in from the ocean.� Serge chugged a giant cup of coffee and gave the gorilla across the street the bird; the gorilla beat its chest. �The rain effect is most pronounced in the summer.�

�Huh?�

�It�s above your need-to-know.� Serge reached in his pocket and began fiddling with a new cell phone. �But don�t worry. It stops as fast as it starts.�

�Rain makes me sticky inside this suit.�

�What are you complaining about? I�m pissed off at filling out official forms.�

�Forms? Where? When were you filling out forms?�

�Inside my head. Another flashback.� Serge pressed phone buttons. �I forgot that I�m really angry at all the forms we�re forced to complete. Name, address, emergency contact, page after page, checking off tiny boxes that you�re a U.S. citizen, don�t have artificial joints and understand the terms of agreement.�

�Who makes you fill them out?�

�Everyone with more money,� said Serge. �It�s the American Dream, version six-point-oh: Some dude finally makes it big, and the first day he drives up to his new mansion, �Excellent, now I get to make the others fill out forms.��

�It�s just not right.�

Serge nodded with conviction. �I�ll be standing at that counter with the sliding-glass window where they hand you a clipboard, and I say, �I�ve been here before,� and they say they have a new filing system, and I respond, �But my doctor referred me�he already has all this info. Can�t you share?� They say, �That�s a different office,� and I say, �It�s the same building, in fact it�s right next door. For heaven�s sake, you have state-of-the-art imaging machines that can produce cross sections of every organ practically down to the cellular level, and yet that wall behind you is a baffling barrier to my date of birth?�

�What happened?� asked Coleman.

�The same glare every time, like I�m the one who�s crazy,� said Serge. �But I�m hip to their mind-control scheme. The whole process is no accident. The receptionist herself owns a personal phone with a thousand times the computing power of the entire Apollo program, and yet the clipboard she just handed me has a crappy pen hanging from twisted-up rubber bands, not to mention that all the forms are primitive, tenth-generation Xeroxes so grainy that people haven�t seen resolution this poor since Three Dog Night was big.�

�Jeremiah was a bullfrog!�.�.�.�

�Man! Keep it together! .�.�. So I finally acquiesce, taking a seat in the waiting room to fill out this same shit for the millionth time, and they�ve set me up for failure again! I know they�re all hiding behind the counter giggling: �Look! Look! He�s trying to write his e-mail address on that line that�s only a half-inch long! This is too much! Now he�s trying to write his Social Security number on the line that�s only a quarter-inch! I�m laughing so hard my sides hurt!��.�.�.�

�Serge?�

�Wait! Wait! Wait! .�.�. Then the receptionist tells the others: �Shhh! Pipe down! He�s coming back up here. You guys keep hiding and I�ll stand up and take care of this�.�.�. Ahem, yes, Mr.�Storms, thank you for filling out� .�.�. Wait, you missed this one part, the address of your primary physician�.�.�. Yes, I know he�s next door�.�.�. Yes, I understand it�s the same address as ours�.�.�. No, sir, I�m sure that line on the form is longer than a half-inch�.�.�.� Then they send me into the bathroom: �Look! Look! We asked him to pee again in a cup that�s way too small! And we told him not to eat anything after midnight when it doesn�t matter! This is priceless!��

�Serge?�

�Huh?� He looked around with a glazed stare. �Why are we here? What are you doing in that costume?�

�The new sign-spinning job.�

�Oh, right. It�s coming back now.�

�Serge, when was the last time you filled out a form?�

�I don�t know, two years? Three? But that�s the thing about trauma.�

A panda arm extended from under the bus shelter�s overhang. �I think the rain is letting up like you said.�

�But the streets will stay flooded for hours.� Serge deftly navigated a small touch screen.

�You sure love your new cell phone.�

�These new babies are now called smartphones. I don�t know how I�ve managed to get along without one!� Tap, tap, tap. �I�ve never possessed a cooler gadget in my life, and I�ve only begun to scratch the surface of its potential. But from what I�ve seen so far, these phones are the pinnacle of human achievement. Forget nuclear fission and stem-cell research. Every culture on every continent now has instant, around-the-clock, multiple media platforms to share with the rest of the globe that cats like to sit in boxes.�

�There�s an app for everything.�

�And here�s the crucial reason I needed it for our mission. While we�re crisscrossing the state tilting at lighthouses, we can watch all the old episodes of Route 66 that were filmed in Florida�.�.�. Hold on, I�m trying to pull one up now.�

�I�m still having trouble believing the two main characters could land a new job every week.�

�It was a golden age,� said Serge. �The baby-boom economy became so robust that people had no trouble getting any job in any city at any time if they were the stars of a hit TV series.�

�Wow.�

Vehicles on U.S. 1 continued speeding by with a rhythmic whoosh of tires on the slick roadway. Clouds began to part. Pedestrians folded umbrellas.

�Okay, check it out,� said Serge. �I just finished a show from season four where Martin Milner�who would later star in Adam-12�gets hired as a safety diver for the mermaids at Weeki Wachee. And here�s one from season three, when they�re over in Punta Gorda doing yard work, and the town rises up after Linc is falsely accused of injuring a family dog with pruning shears. Back then the viewing public required less stimulus.�

Coleman peeked over Serge�s shoulder at the phone. �I don�t see anything.�

�That�s because it�s not finished loading,� said Serge. �Just keep watching the screen! This is going to seriously rock! I�m getting the tingles! It just finished loading! It�s starting!�.�.�.�

A taxicab went by, followed by a red Porsche just off the factory line. The Porsche�s driver spotted the bus shelter and cut the wheel at the last second, swinging over for the lane closest to the curb. The motorist timed his skid perfectly, hitting a deep roadside puddle like a slaloming water-skier.

The wave of spray drenched a pair of people at the bus bench.

Serge stared silently at the road as bulbous droplets fell off his eyelashes and streamed down his cheeks. The departing Porsche had a vanity plate: Scrw U.

Coleman tapped his shoulder. �Hey, Serge, you were just about to show me something really cool on your new phone. Why�d you turn it off?�

The Next Day

A mom-and-pop motel sat on a corner of Biscayne Boulevard between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. A simple turquoise court topped with white barrel tiles. It was once a sparkling postcard oasis where families on a budget drove two days in station wagons from Illinois and Indiana to enjoy a safe and happy vacation in paradise. Manicured lawn, shrubbery trimmed to strict angles, an intoxicating tropical palette of azalea, jacaranda, bougainvillea, poinciana. Children splashed in the pool, newfangled window air-conditioning units dripped on the sidewalk, and everyone bought ice cream next door from a stand in the shape of a large sugar cone. It was actually called the Florida Motel, with a neon sign in the shape of the state, bragging about color TV and shuffleboard.

That was then.

Today it clung to life as one of the countless old joints tucked among pawnshops, liquor stores and victim clinics, with its own constellation of the undead orbiting at all hours. The swimming pool had an aggressive aroma of chlorine ever since the crime tape came down, and police required the office to supply photocopies of driver�s licenses from everyone who checked in, except the manager let that slide for ten bucks.

The sun was at that point just below the horizon where approximately half the cars whizzing by had their lights on. A taxi pulled over and picked up a gorilla. Most of the motel rooms were dark, but number four had a glimmer of life. Inside it was quiet. The wall over the bed featured a faded Edward Hopper painting of a lonely person staring out a motel window at a lot of wheat. On the other side of the room, a lanky man stood intense and motionless at the sink, as he had for an obsessively lengthy time.

�Serge,� said Coleman. �Why do you keep staring at that bag of uncooked rice?�

�Because my new cell phone is in it.�

�Why?�

�Rice is supposed to absorb the moisture if you get your phone wet.� Serge crouched down and inspected the bag two inches from his face. �This is the coolest gadget I�ve ever owned, so I�m going balls out with household tips. The most crucial step is not to turn your cell back on too soon. If you do and there�s any wetness still inside, the power surge will fry the circuitry. It�s a test of patience now.�

Coleman popped the cap off a beer bottle. �Why am I wearing a skin-diver suit with rubber gloves, boots and a mask?�

�More on that later.� He checked his wristwatch. �Hmm, I wonder if I�ve waited long enough. I must have waited long enough because my feet are starting to throb.�

�I say go for it.� Fart.

�That means I better wait�.�.�. What are you drinking now?�

�Miller High Life!� Coleman thrust the bottle above his head in triumph. �The champagne of beers!�

�Coleman, do you realize what a ridiculous advertising slogan that is? Had all the executives just chugged a case of the stuff before green-lighting that chestnut?�

�What are you talking about?�

�In marketing, it�s not just what you call attention to, but what you don�t,� said Serge. �I mean, �the champagne of beers�? That�s like �Miami Mass Transit: The Rolls-Royce of riding the bus.��

�Miller gets me fucked up. That�s all I know.�

�Now that�s a slogan.�

Serge raised the bag of rice and shook it. Coleman popped another beer, using the drawer handle on the nightstand. A police officer left the motel office with a stack of photocopied driver�s licenses. Someone screamed and clawed their eyes after jumping in the swimming pool. Coleman threw up in the nightstand�s drawer and closed it. �I say the phone�s ready.�

Serge slowly began to nod in agreement. �I�ve definitely given it more than enough time. Now I�m just wasting my life.� He swiftly yanked the phone out of the bag and turned it on.

Coleman walked over with a squeaking of neoprene. �Look! It�s working!�

�So it is,� Serge said with a satisfied grin.

Coleman pointed as the tiny screen suddenly zapped to black. �What just happened?�

�Son of a bitch!� Serge flung the broken device in a rage, and now the room�s Edward Hopper painting featured a lonely person looking out at a field of wheat with a giant cell phone in the middle.

�That was pretty interesting,� said Coleman.

Serge walked over to the window and peered outside. �It�s almost dark enough.�

�What for?�

�Back to the wet suit you�re wearing.�

�Almost forgot I had it on.�

�How does it feel?�

�Wet again inside.�

�Hold this in front of you.�

�Why?�

�Because the panda costume wasn�t cutting it.�

�You don�t mean�.�.�.�

�That�s right.� Serge nodded again. �We�re taking sign-spinning big!�

Fifteen minutes later, Serge and Coleman stood in front of a narrow storefront with extra burglar bars and reinforced concrete pylons to prevent smash-and-grabs using stolen vehicles to ram the entrance. A cardboard sign lay at their feet: We Buy Gold.

�It finally stopped raining,� said Serge.

�The streets are flooded again.�

�Doesn�t affect your big debut.� Serge grabbed a plastic atomizer bottle. �Now hold out the left arm again.�

Coleman reluctantly complied. �I don�t know about this. What if something goes wrong?�

�I�m a professional. What can possibly go wrong? .�.�. Now stick out your right leg�.�.�.�

�There�s got to be another way.�

�Trust me,� said Serge. �We�re about to turn the sign-spinning world on its head!�

�Then why don�t you wear the wet suit?�

�Stop whining! You�re about to become an Internet rock star!� Serge reached in his pocket. �If anything, I�m the one making the sacrifice�.�.�. Stay still. The only thing you have to remember is not to panic�.�.�.�

Thirty seconds later, Coleman ran shrieking in terrified circles in the parking lot.

�You�re panicking,� yelled Serge.

Motorists on U.S. 1 slammed their brakes and dialed emergency numbers, watching in disbelief as a person fully engulfed in flames ran around a parking lot with a burning cardboard sign.

�Look at all the attention you�re getting!� said Serge.

Coleman sprinted by. �I�m all on fire!�

�I told you I used low-burn-temperature cooking alcohol,� said Serge. �It�s just a little bit of fire.�

Coleman dashed back the other way. �Aaaaauuuuuhhhhhh!�

�Shit, he�s running into traffic.� Serge grabbed an extinguisher. �Coleman, stop moving so I can put you out.�

Cars jumped curbs and rear-ended each other as Serge chased his friend around the street with blasts of foam.

Coleman eventually stopped in the intersection, removed his mask and looked at the steam coming off his arms. �Am I out?�

�Except for that foot. Stick it in that puddle on the edge of the street.�

Sizzle.

Serge gave the smoldering black suit a final blast of foam. �There, good as new. Now don�t you feel silly?�

�Holy turds,� said Coleman. �Look at all the people pulling into our strip mall to sell their gold.�

A horrible squealing of tires. Crash.

A horn continuously blared from the wrecked car.

�Uh-oh,� said Serge. �That guy just had an accident, and of course he�s probably going to try and blame us.�

�Some people,� said Coleman.

�We better go help�.�.�.� Serge ran up to the side of the convertible. �Sir, are you okay?�

The woozy driver raised his head off the steering wheel. �What happened?�

�You smashed up your car because you weren�t paying attention.�

Coleman pulled off charred rubber gloves. �Nothing we did.�

A mother with two small children ran over. Serge looked them up and down. �What happened to you?�

�That jerk drenched us! He deliberately swung over from the center lane to hit a deep puddle while we were waiting in the bus shelter. I just bought this phone!�

Serge turned back to the car. �Wait a second�.�.�.� He took a step back to appraise the color and model-year of the Porsche. Then walked around back to check the license plate.

Scrw U.

�Sir.� Serge opened the driver�s door. �On second thought, you need to come with us.�

�Why?�

�As a safety precaution, you should be held for observation.�

Midnight

The vintage Florida-shaped sign was dark at the motel, which meant it was open.

Coleman dumped a bag of weed on the dresser of room four. �What are you looking at?�

Serge gazed out the window at the part of the sign advertising color TV. It was one of the old signs where each letter of the word color was a different color. Serge liked that every time. Then he looked back across the room at their own television with thirteen channels of black-and-white snow.

�Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!�.�.�.�

Coleman removed pot stems and glanced over his shoulder. �I think he wants to tell you something.�

�Almost forgot about him.� Serge returned to the center of the room and the aisle between the two beds, where a chair had been repositioned. In it sat a trim and tanned young man in a golf shirt. Not exactly by choice. Nylon rope fastened his arms and ankles to the chair with complicated nautical knots.

�You talking to me?� asked Serge.

The captive nodded anxiously.

Serge grabbed a corner of the duct tape and quickly ripped it off the mouth. There was a brief scream, but Serge didn�t even notice anymore.

�Please don�t hurt me!�

�Why would I hurt you, boss?�

�I, uh, well, I�m tied up.�

�That�s right, boss.� Serge whacked him upside the head with a rolled newspaper. �Being tied to a chair is a subtle hint that your day probably isn�t building toward the usual laugh track.�

�But why me? What did I ever do to you?�

�Gee, I wonder.� Serge placed a fresh stretch of duct tape across the mouth. �Concentrate hard, boss.�

Coleman began puffing up a spliff as thick as a roll of quarters. �I don�t think calling him boss will make him like you this time.�

�You can never allow jerks to take you out of your game.� Serge set a clipboard down and placed orange cones around the chair.

�Mmmm! Mmmm!�

�Shut the hell up!� Serge pressed the barrel of a pistol against the man�s nose. �Can�t you see I�m conversing!�

Coleman stuck his eye in the opening of an empty prescription bottle. �Serge, you got any more of your pills?�

�You know I never keep count of that junk.�

�Damn.� Coleman began going through a suitcase.

�Why do you take those things anyway?� asked Serge. �It�s my anti-psychotic medication, completely lacking in recreational value.�

�That�s where you�re wrong,� said Coleman. �One of the first rules of the drug culture: A pill is a pill.�

�Mmmmm!�

Serge violently ripped the tape off again. �What now!�

�Y-y-you take anti-psychotic medication?�

�Not for weeks, boss. Nothing to worry about.� Serge pulled something from his pocket. �Now, back to your obvious confusion about this little pinch you�ve found yourself in. Recognize this?�

�Uh, it�s pieces of a cell phone?�

�I smashed it pretty good, but that was post-mortem.�

�Don�t understand.�

�A couple days ago, we were in a bus-stop shelter to escape the rain, and you deliberately swerved your car to spray us with water.�

�I did?�

Another whack with the newspaper. �I can�t begin to emphasize how important that phone was to me. I could look up any Florida historical fact, retrieve photos of the most obscure landmarks, hover over the remotest scenic roads in three dimensions, receive ten parameters of live telemetry from weather buoys in the Gulf Stream, and I even heard a rumor it makes phone calls.�

�Wait a minute,� said the hostage. �You�re the guys I drenched? This is all about a wet phone?�

�I recognized your license plate when you crashed earlier tonight,� said Serge. ��SCRW U�? So I�m guessing you�re a regular on the dickhead rodeo circuit.�

�It was just a joke.�

�I�m in stitches. Especially the part where you also drenched that mother and her kids.� Serge reached in the dresser and pulled out a plastic spray bottle. �But since you love the art of comedy, I�ve got a better joke.�

�W-what�s in the bottle?�

�Just harmless water.� Serge reached into the dresser again.

�Hey!� yelled the captive. �That�s my new Galactic Quadrennial XLZ5000 smartphone with Triple Vagueness Technology!�

�So it is.� Serge held the phone in one hand and aimed the spray bottle.

Squirt.

�No! Not that!� yelled the man. �I�ll give you anything!�

Squirt.

�Wait! Stop! Before it�s too late!�

�Why should I?�

�Because I have all my contact information in there.�

�My phone did, too,� said Serge.

�Yes, but�.�.�. I�m important.�

Squirt, squirt, squirt, squirt�.�.�.

�No! Stop! It burns!�

Squirt, squirt�.�.�. �Hey, boss,� said Serge. �Did you forget to charge the battery today? The screen just went black.�

�Noooooooooo!� The man hung his head in sorrow. �You destroyed it. You�re mean.�

�Mean?� Serge picked up the pistol again and pointed at himself. �You will soon wax nostalgic for that kind of tenderness.�

�Okay, you got me back. You destroyed my phone.� The captive looked down at the rope around his chest. �We�re even now, so you can untie me.�

�You really are a comedian,� said Serge. �We�ve only begun your lesson.�

Coleman chugged a bottle of Old Crow. �Can I watch this time?�

�Don�t see why not.�

�Cool!� For the occasion, Coleman began constructing an even bigger spliff with a quilt of eight gummed-together rolling papers. �This is going to be so excellent!�

�But you might want to pace yourself,� said Serge. �This is going to take a while.�

�Then we should throw him a going-away party.�

�Brilliant idea!�

Coleman froze. �The world must be coming to an end.�

�Why do you say that?�

�I�m two-for-two. First, you almost never let me watch. And now, during one of your experiments, we�re also going to party?�

�I always say to enjoy your work.� Serge grabbed his keys. �We need to go shopping. Lead the way.�

�To the Party Store!�.�.�.�

One Hour Later

Coleman chugged. Serge scribbled on a clipboard. A boom box blared.

�.�.�.�Get down tonight! Get down tonight!�.�.�.�

Serge hopped up on a bed and fastened something to the drop ceiling with string and thumbtacks. �The Party Store has everything!� He jumped down as a small disco ball began to twirl, sending hundreds of flecks of light across the walls. Other parts of the room were decorated with balloons and crepe-paper streamers and a pi�ata. A box of cupcakes sat on the nightstand.

�.�.�.�Do a little dance�.�.�.�

Coleman gyrated off balance in a Chubby Checker twist, swinging a bottle of whiskey by the neck. Serge repeatedly sprang up and down around the room in a hyper-spastic version of the pogo.

The captive sat in motionless terror. Wide eyes swung back and forth�Coleman wearing only his undershorts and a panda head, boogying past the TV set; Serge with a beauty-contestant sash from the Party Store across his chest, jitterbugging the other way, waving a gleaming hatchet.

�This is some party!� said Coleman.

�Reminds me of my sixth birthday,� said Serge, attacking the pi�ata with the small ax. �Die, motherfucker!�

Candy scattered. Serge and Coleman dove on the floor and began wrestling. �I saw the Pez dispenser first!� �It�s mine!� �Give it to me!� �Ow, my hair!� �Ow, you�re bending my finger back!� �I�ll hit you with my whiskey bottle!� �I have a hatchet!�.�.�.�

They released each other and sat on the carpet, gathering Milk Duds and Hershey�s Kisses. �That was fun,� said Coleman. �Can we do it again?�

�We still need to pace ourselves,� said Serge. �This is how Elvis went.�

The candy-collecting jamboree continued. A Baby Ruth stuck out of the panda�s mouth. �What a party!�

�It�s how we roll.�

�Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!�.�.�.�

Coleman pointed. �Our guest doesn�t seem to be having fun. In fact, he looks scared shitless.�

�Probably worried about us because he�s not used to seeing people rock out with Roman warrior stamina.�

Serge walked over to the captive�s chair with the hatchet.

�MMM! MMM! MMM!�

�Oh, that. Sorry.� Serge tossed the ax aside. �Where are my manners! You�re the guest of honor, but we�ve been having all the fun.� He tore the duct tape off the man�s face, mashing a cupcake in his mouth and sticking something on his head like a hat. �That�s your celebration tiara.� Then he replaced the tape.

Knock, knock, knock.

�Someone�s at the door!� Coleman jumped back. �Who can it be?�

�Relax.� Serge unlocked the dead bolt. �We ordered a pizza. It�s automatic with a hostage, remember?�

The door opened and a man with a name tag stepped inside.

�Watch your step,� said Serge. �There�s candy everywhere.�

The delivery guy was about to place the pizza on the bed when he suddenly stopped. He looked Coleman over, then Serge, the disco ball, the hatchet, and finally a bound-and-gagged man with frosting up his nose and an orange traffic cone on his head like a high-visibility dunce cap.

Serge took the pizza and handed over some cash. �There�s a little extra for you in there.� Then he pointed at the candy-strewn floor. �The pi�ata was bigger than I thought. Need anything?�

�I�m good.�

�Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!�.�.�.�

The delivery guy pointed at the chair. �What�s the deal with him?�

�Just getting his freak on,� said Serge, adjusting his beauty-contestant sash. �Why? Does something seem weird in here?�

�No, I deliver to Miami motel rooms all the time. Have a good one.�

�Thanks for the prompt response.�

The delivery guy was about to leave when he stopped again and looked back in the room. �Wait a second. Didn�t I deliver a pizza to you a few years ago on Collins Avenue?�

�I doubt it.�

�Yeah, you told me it was the Goldfinger Suite or something.�

�You must be thinking of another room where everything was completely okay.�

The pizza man shrugged. �It�s Miami.�

�Thanks for your service.�

The door closed.

Serge stared back at the hostage chair and rubbed his palms together. �Alone at last. And have I got the perfect lesson to help with your people skills. It just came to me�.�.�. Which is why we didn�t only go to the Party Store. We also stopped at the Home Depot! You�re probably wondering why? Because Lowe�s has a color scheme to attract chicks, and that�s a slippery slope. Wait here�.�.�.�

Serge made a few quick trips to the car, returning with a custom-cut piece of plywood and a bunch of cement blocks. �.�.�.�We also went to Sam�s Club�.�.�.� More excursions outside, each time Serge laboring with an outrageously heavy sack, until ten were stacked against the wall. �I know I�m not supposed to like Sam�s Club, but the quantity prices are insane!�

�Another science experiment?� asked Coleman. �What is it?�

�Actually our guest gave me the idea.� Serge ripped the tape off again and got face-to-face with the captive. �I don�t know how I can ever thank you. Actually I do, but that�s not in the cards. Sorry, dealer�s choice. The best you can hope for now is the bonus round.�

�W-w-what�s the bonus round?� asked the hostage.

�I�m so glad you asked!� Serge patted him on the shoulder. �If you thought you were in a quandary before, it�s going to get exciting in a big hurry. And the bonus round is this: I used a spray-mist bottle on your cell phone instead of, say, dropping it in the toilet. That way there�s still the possibility it can come back to life. Or maybe not. Who knows or even cares? You obviously didn�t when you splashed me.� He playfully pinched the man�s cheek. �That�s the whole joy of the bonus round! It so unpredictable! .�.�. If that thing eventually comes back on, you can call 911 before it�s too late. And the bonus round takes points off for lateness.� Serge shivered at the thought. �So here�s the most important part that you must remember above all else. If you turn your phone back on too soon, before it�s sufficiently dry, it�ll fry the circuits. You taught me that concept as well, so additional kudos if I don�t see you again. And if the phone fries, it�s game over. Game over is really bad�.�.�. Well, that�s about it. Welcome to my latest science project!� The tape went back over the mouth for the last time.

A finger pressed a button on the boom box. Sly and the Family Stone came on.

�.�.�.�Dance to the music!�.�.�.�

Serge and Coleman locked arms for a do-si-do square dance, twirling in a circle.

Serge singing: �Welcome to the science world�.�.�.�

Coleman: �Let�s give it up for science world�.�.�.�

�Edison, Newton, the periodic chart�.�.�.�

�Did you know you can light a fart?�.�.�.�

The pair continued crooning as they spun the chair around and tilted it backward until the man�s feet left the floor. Then they began dragging it backward toward the bathroom.

�Mmmmmmmm! Mmmmmmm!�.�.�.�

�Will he survive the bonus round?�.�.�.�

�No one freaking knows�.�.�.�

The bathroom door slammed shut.

The Next Day

A knock on a door in the Miami Women�s Legal Aid Clinic.

�Come on in.�

The office assistant named Danny took a seat. �I just wanted to thank you for all your help again on the lottery-ticket thing.� She opened her purse and pulled out a large plastic bag full of paper stubs.

�Jesus!� said Brook.

Danny placed the bag on the desk. �There�s so much goodwill toward you in the community that if you ever moved there, you�d never pay for another meal the rest of your life.�

Brook stuck the bag of tickets in a briefcase. �I�ll get moving on this right away.�

�Thanks. There�s plenty more where that came from.�

Danny left and the phone rang.

�This is Brook Campanella�.�.�. Wait, what kind of case? .�.�. He�s being held where?�.�.�.� She got out a yellow pad and pen. �Okay, back up to the beginning, and don�t leave anything out�.�.�.�

.�.�. The Florida Keys are unto themselves. No point in trying to make sense. They�re just the Keys being the Keys.

The only road to the string of islands is U.S. 1 out of Florida City. In 1982, the U.S. Border Patrol established a checkpoint on this route outside the Last Chance Saloon, looking for illegal immigrants and drugs. If you know anything about local geography, the bottleneck at Mile Marker 126 is bad enough as it is, the worst possible site for a federal choke point. Traveling by car to the Keys became unworkable. The tourism-dollar lifeblood was cut off. Objections from area officials went ignored.

So they declared independence from the United States.

No kidding. But this time Keys logic actually was logical: If there was a border-crossing station for anyone attempting to either enter or leave the islands, then they were essentially being treated as a separate sovereign state. So they called themselves the Conch Republic. It was all tongue-in-cheek, very silly and quite savvy. The mock celebrations were tailored for TV, and the story made news across the country and overseas. There were T-shirts and hats and beer koozies and even fake passports. The official blue flag with a conch shell began flapping from flagpoles. The U.S. government bowed under the pressure of embarrassment, and the border station was closed.

But the movement became such a hit that sales of Conch Republic keepsakes remain brisk to this day. A huge sign on the runway at the Key West airport welcomes visitors to the fictitious nation. And locals began a contest of sorts. The souvenir passports didn�t just look kind of official; they were dead on. The goal was to see how many times you could use it to enter a foreign country without detection and get it officially stamped. It was great fun and games, especially when showing them off in bars.

There was no official tally, but a man named Ennis Keefe was arguably in the lead with twenty-two official stamps.

Then came 9/11. Homeland Security. The Patriot Act.

Ennis was still sailing smoothly, until he decided to go for the most coveted customs stamp of all. The United States of America.

A twin-prop commuter flight from the Bahamas landed at Miami International on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. Ennis arrived at the international air side and presented a small leatherlike booklet from the Conch Republic. He was still smiling when they slapped on the cuffs.

�It�s just a joke,� said Ennis. �I�m really a U.S. citizen and my regular passport is in that bag, so you can release me now.�

Customs people were on phones and walkie-talkies. More agents arrived. Then a transport van.

�Seriously, guys, I do this all the time,� said Ennis. �It�s harmless.�

�I�m listening,� said a senior agent. �What exactly do you do all the time?�

Ennis exhaled with relief. �Thank you! Finally someone reasonable! Just call anyone in Key West. It�s this game we play in the bars to see how many stamps we can collect.�

The agent flipped the pages of the ersatz passport. �How many foreign stamps have you collected in this game?�

�Twenty-two! I was in the lead but someone just tied me,� said Ennis. �So if you�d be kind enough to just hit that thing with your own stamp, it would really make my day.�

�Let me see if I have this straight,� said the agent. �For a couple of decades now, you�ve been traveling all over the world and entering these countries illegally with a forged document?�

�No, not forged,� said Ennis. �They sell them in the T-shirt shops all over Duval Street.�

His luggage was quarantined and taken out to a remote field. They had determined that the suitcases posed no threat, but blew them up anyway because it was fun. Frightened eyes stared out the metal screen in the back of an INS van as it drove through the barbed-wire entrance gates of a sprawling, fortified facility surrounded by the equally sprawling migrant farmlands near Homestead. Ennis became the only U.S. citizen detained in the infamous Krome Detention Center�.�.�.

.�.�. Brook finished scribbling. �Thanks�.�.�. Yeah, I have a pretty good idea where to get started. Just tell your brother not to say another word.�

She hung up and dialed again. �Reevis, it�s me, Brook�.�.�. Yeah, I�ve been busy. How about dinner tomorrow night? .�.�. Listen, you know how you�re always asking me if I�ve got a good story and press coverage will help my client? .�.�. Oh, it�s a real beauty�.�.�.�

Sunset

Limos arrived for the festivities along a trendy section of South Beach. There was a ridiculous selection of clubs along Collins Avenue, but many in the late-night set chose one particular art deco building that featured dinner shows. They filed inside and were escorted through the dark to tables dimly lit with those old-style candle lamps with that plastic netting. It was a spirited crowd, as dinner shows go. The nightclub was called Hips, and the sign was trimmed in pink neon.

Dry martinis, cosmopolitans, pork loins with wild mushrooms, laughter, conversation that needed to be loud to compete with other conversation. Topics ranged from shoes to revenge. Some tables were full of friends not talking to each other so they could text people also not talking to their friends in a different club.

The stage lights came on, and blue velvet curtains parted to rousing applause. The first act was a performer in a tight sequined costume with a riot of feathers that extended almost to the ceiling and looked like something out of a parade in Rio de Janeiro. When that subtleness was over, the room filled with the familiar strains of �Somewhere Over the Rainbow� and �Everything�s Coming Up Roses,� sung respectively by impersonators of Judy Garland and Ethel Merman.

Finally, the moment they�d all been waiting for. The stage lighting tightened to a single spot in the middle of the blue curtains. A platinum-blond head coyly poked through, followed by the rest of the performer named Marilyn. A four-song set reached its finale.

�Happy birthday, Mr.�President�.�.�.�

.�.�. Later in the dressing room. Cabaret lightbulbs surrounded the mirrors, and autographed photos lined the walls. Marilyn came in, took off her wig and began brushing it out. His real name was Chuck, and his hair was black.

�Darling, you were great tonight,� said Liza.

�Thanks,� said Chuck, wiggling out of a slinky silver dress.

A sudden commotion at the door. �You can�t come in here!�

�But I have to see Marilyn!�

�You�ve been warned before!� said Ethel. �Get out!�

�I brought her roses! .�.�. Marilyn! Tell them you want to see me!�

Chuck retreated to the back of the dressing room as the rest of the �girls� formed a protective pack. �Leave now before you get hurt!�

�She sang that song especially for me! I really am the president,� said a man with thick brown hair who partially resembled JFK.

The bouncers arrived. Red flowers went flying.

�Let go of me!�

He was dragged out and told never to come back.

�Marilyn! I love you!�.�.�.�

Chuck collapsed in a makeup chair, tears down his cheeks. The others gathered around for support.

�Honey, are you okay?�

�No.� Chuck was shaking. �It just keeps getting worse! He sits in his car for hours outside my apartment, follows me to the grocery store, keeps calling even though I�ve changed my number six times now.�

�You need to go to the police, girl.�

�I�m afraid to provoke him,� said Chuck. �Police warnings only work if someone is at least remotely rational, but he�s certifiably insane.�

�Because he�s an obsessed stalker?�

�No, because he really thinks he�s the president,� said Chuck. �When we first met and I didn�t know he was off his rocker, he showed me family photos in his wallet of Jacqueline and Caroline and John-John. He drives an old black Lincoln convertible like in Dallas, and once I even saw him on a street corner setting up a portable podium with the presidential seal and delivering a speech about America going to the moon.�

�You can�t sit and do nothing,� said Garland.

�I know, I know,� said Chuck. �I just haven�t figured it out yet.�

The Next Day

Fluorescent yellow crime tape was back up at the Florida Motel in Miami. This time, stretched around the general vicinity of room number four. The parking lot filled with marked and unmarked police cars.

Someone dusted the Do Not Disturb sign for fingerprints. A detective scribbled in a notepad as he questioned the whiskered manager in a bowling shirt for the Biscayne Guttersnipes.

�You say you didn�t have much contact with them?�

�Not really.� He swatted a love bug off his arm. �Kept to themselves, some of the best tenants I�ve had. Paid cash up front for the last three days.�

�Did you notice anything unusual about forty-eight hours ago?�

�Not really, except for some music by K.C. and the Sunshine Band, if that helps. Plus, hundreds of twirling spots of light on the curtains.�

The detective looked up from his notebook. �What?�

�Probably a disco ball.�

�And that�s normal to you?�

�Do you know how many meth labs and portable sex dungeons we�ve had to clean up at this place? I see a disco ball, I say, �Go with God.��

�Okay.� The detective flipped his pad closed. �Just one more thing. We�ll need to check your guest registry against the stack of Xeroxed driver�s licenses you provided us by law.�

The manager stared at his shoes, which were Keds, then at the detective�s shoes, which weren�t.

�You did make copies of their licenses, didn�t you?� said the officer.

�Oh, of course, of course,� said the manager.

�Because if you didn�t, that�s a serious offense,� said the detective. �We�ve already arrested several managers along this strip for taking bribes not to make copies.�

�I remember very clearly now. I definitely asked for their licenses.�

�That�s better.�

The manager headed toward his office. �Just give me a few minutes to find them.�

Another patrol car arrived. An officer opened the back door, and a pizza deliveryman got out.

�What�s going on?�

�We�ll ask the questions here.� A detective flipped to a fresh page. �I understand you made a delivery to room four a couple nights ago.�

�So?�

�Did you notice anything unusual?�

�Not really.�

�Do you recall what they were wearing?�

�The thin one had a beauty contest sash, the chubby guy was in a panda head, and the dude tied up in the chair wore an orange safety cone on his head.�

�And all this seemed normal to you?�

�You must be new in town,� said the driver. �Have you ever delivered a triple-cheese meat special to an orangutan-smuggling ring?�

Inside room number four, more detectives milled with Styrofoam cups of coffee. One of them eyed a box of cupcakes, but knew it would be wrong. Camera flashes strobed out of the bathroom. A forensic technician emerged with a phone in a sealed evidence bag.

�Is that the cell he used to call 911?�

�We�ll know as soon as we get it to the lab. But it�s a safe bet�.�.�. It�s kind of a shame.�

�How�s that?�

�More and more people are making emergency calls from cell phones,� said the technician. �If they came from landlines, we could pinpoint the exact locations. But if the person is incapacitated and can�t communicate�like our victim in there�we can only get a general location by triangulating pings off cell towers. He might have made it.�

�Why couldn�t he communicate?�

A stretcher rolled past them with a zippered body bag. The forensic tech glanced back at the bathroom. �See for yourself. It�s clear to go in now.�

A pair of detectives arrived in the doorway as the last photographer left. The medical examiner made notes on a clipboard. He noticed them staring at the plywood and cement blocks that had been moved to the side. �Those were used to keep him from getting out of the tub.�

�You mean someone drowned him?�

�Just the opposite.� The examiner sadly shook his head. �This was so tediously planned in sadistic detail that it could be nothing other than the result of extreme, prolonged rage. Whoever did this had a serious grudge with this guy.�

�But if he didn�t drown in the tub,� asked the first detective, �then how did they kill him?�

The examiner bent down and retrieved a few tiny granules near the drain.

�What�s that?� asked the second detective.

�Rice,� said the examiner. �My staff just carted away several huge bags of the stuff. The tub was filled to the brim, completely covering the naked victim. We�re going to do a chromatograph to see where it was bought, but in this quantity, my guess is Sam�s Club. We�re still trying to figure out why the killers left him with a cell phone taped to his hand.�

The first detective crunched his eyebrows. �Rice killed him? But how?�

�Dehydration,� said the examiner. �Rice pulled a bunch of water out of him in a major rush. First leg cramps and delirium, migraine-level headaches, speech loss and, at the end, a falling domino line of organ failure.�

�Rice does that?�

�You know how you�ll sometimes buy a moisture-sensitive piece of electronics, and you open the box and there�s a little porous bag that tells idiots not to eat it? That�s a chemical substance similar to rice to keep your product dry. Or you might have heard that if your cell phone gets wet, you can stick it in a bag of rice to save it?� He glanced back at the tub. �Doesn�t work so well on people.�

�Thanks, Jerry.�

�I�ll send over my final report by the end of the week, but you already have the main talking points.�

The two detectives left the room and strolled across the parking lot. �Rice. Just when you think you�ve seen everything.�

�What was he yapping about with the cell phones?�

�That�s true. I accidentally splashed some water on my phone near the sink, and rice fixed it,� said the first detective. �One of my kids told me about the tip. Apparently they�re constantly getting their phones wet and have to deal with it before their parents find out.�

They entered the motel office. The manager stood behind the counter and handed over a Xerox. �That�s him. That�s the guy who paid for the room.�

�Are you positive?�

�I�ll never forget the face.�

�Thank you for your time.�

The detectives drove away from the motel, hot on the trail of a retired couple from Peoria.

The Next Day

The official press conference announced another lottery rollover, resulting in the biggest jackpot yet of the already record-breaking year, but nobody knew how high it would go before Saturday night�s drawing.

At that very moment in a South Florida penthouse, a Jamaican man with dreadlocks hit the pause button on the remote control. He leaned and stared at the tall numbers on the official lottery tote board. �If only I could get hold of one of those tickets�.�.�.� Then Rogan resumed channel surfing. Click, click, click. Rerun, rerun, rerun. Three�s Company, One Day at a Time, Different Strokes, credit-card travel perks, flooring installed, online education for less. Something caught his attention. He stopped clicking. On the screen:

A potbellied man in a tie-dyed T-shirt swayed Zen-like to sitar music. He had a scraggly beatnik beard and John Lennon glasses.

�You think most lawyers are scum? I agree! So score the karmic representation you deserve at the cosmic court where the age of Aquarius is still alive�.�.�.� He began singing off-key: ��.�.�.�Please allow meeee�.�.�. to introduce myselffff�.�.�.� Singing stopped. �Ziggy Blade here. DUI? Bankruptcy? Divorce? Hash pipe found during routine traffic stop? Who says it was yours? Come on down and let yourself move to the smooth legal groove with the Blade-man�.�.�.� He thrust his fingertips to within inches of the camera in a trippy, 3-D effect, except the camera wasn�t 3-D, so there was no effect. �.�.�.�And as always, we legally cash in all lottery tickets. No appointment necessary in downtown Hialeah. Call the number below now!� Ziggy pointed down at red flashing digits superimposed across his legs.

�You�ve got to be kidding me,� Rogan told himself. �This is my competition? This is the lawyer who�s been horning in on my territory?� The man with the dreadlocks put pen to paper to write down the phone number, but it quickly disappeared. �Damn, I wish he�d show that number again.�

�That number again�.�.�.�

It began flashing and Rogan began writing. He underlined the name Blade three times and got on a burner phone.

The Next Morning

A late-model arctic-white Mercedes-Benz was an odd sight in the neighborhood. In fact, the largely abandoned industrial area didn�t see much traffic at all, except the twenty-four-hour pedestrians moving with less verve and direction than zombies. Dobermans barked behind fences topped with barbed wire to protect tanks and drums of manufacturing chemicals.

The Mercedes pulled into a parking lot that baked in the unfiltered sun. Five Jamaicans with dreadlocks got out. It was the job of the last one to unfold a silver reflective screen and place it in the windshield.

A small concrete-block building with burglar bars sat in the back of the lot. A hand knocked on the door.

�Be right there!�

For once, it was answered promptly. Ziggy Blade was all smiles as he held the door. �Come in! Come in! Thank you for calling! Pleasure to meet you! .�.�. My secretary�s out sick today�.�.�.�

Ziggy parted a curtain of beads and led them into the back half of the one-room office. He quickly unfolded Samsonite chairs. �Mi casa es su casa. Please, all of you have a seat�.�.�.�

They remained on their feet and stared with vacant eyes.

�Or stand,� said Ziggy.

They sat down in unison.

Ziggy took a deep breath and found his own chair behind his desk. �Now then, you mentioned on the phone something about lottery tickets. I�m not sure I completely understood.�

�We want to buy winning lottery tickets,� said Rogan.

�That�s what I heard on the phone,� said Ziggy. �I�m not sure how long you�ve been in the country�and by the way, we�re so glad to have you despite what you might have heard�but how it works is you buy your tickets at the stores. Supermarket, convenience, they�re all over the place.�

�We�ve lived here a long time,� Rogan said evenly. �And we know how to play the lottery in the stores.�

�Then I�m not exactly sure what my role is.�

�We�ve seen you on TV. You cash in lottery tickets for people who can�t come forward. We highly respect your discretion. We�ve asked around.�

�Well . . .� Ziggy chuckled. �The glowing testimonials can get a little embarrassing when you�re at the top, but they�re always appreciated.�

Rogan opened his jacket to remove an Uzi, and the rest of the men followed his lead.

�Whoa!� said Ziggy. �What are all the guns for?�

�We know about cashing in other people�s lottery tickets because that�s our line of work,� said Rogan, stretching out his arm with the machine gun. His voice raised in volume and menace: �You simply decided to move in on my territory? Just who in the fuck do you think you are?�

Ziggy stared motionless with wide, bloodshot eyes. Then he cracked up with uncontrollable giggles. He held up a hand��Sorry, just give me a second��the laughter subsided and he wiped away tears. �As your attorney, this is probably unprofessional, but you have dreadlocks, so I�m sure you�ll understand. I just scored some radioactive hydroponic pot and it�s kicking my ass. I�m practically hallucinating and hearing things I�m sure you didn�t say. But put any worries aside�when it�s time to get cracking, I�m all business.�

�Motherfucker!� screamed Rogan. �How dare you mock me! Anyone else insulting me like you have has ended up praying for death!�

Ziggy cracked up again and began slapping his desk. �Stop! You�re killing me! .�.�. I�m definitely calling my weed guy and getting some more of this shit�.�.�.�

Rogan�s shooting arm became rod-straight, as did all the others.

Ziggy held out a plastic tube. �Bong hit?�

�What?�

�Of course, you�re driving.� Ziggy concealed the smoking tube back under his desk. �Now then, what can I do for you?�

Rogan abruptly changed the trajectory of his thoughts. He sat back in his chair and studied the attorney, thinking to himself: I was wrong about the bozo in that TV commercial. Now it�s obvious how he was able to muscle in on my turf. He has balls the size of coconuts.

The Uzi was stowed back inside his jacket, and the others followed again. �You have my respect. I hope I have yours.�

Suppressed laughter. �Totally.�

Rogan gave a slight nod, a signal to the others.

Ziggy had been tripping out on the sight of the guns so that he completely forgot about all the briefcases the men had carried into his office. And now they were popping open on his desk to reveal an obscene amount of cash.

�Whoa!� said the lawyer. �I�m definitely calling that weed guy back.�

Rogan allowed the effect of the money to settle in. �I wanted you to see how serious I am.�

�About what?�

�We are going to become business partners. It�s not negotiable.�

Ziggy had never seen so much cash, even on TV. �You sure you have the right lawyer?�

The leader nodded. �You come highly recommended.�

�I do?�

�On TV, you advertised that you cash in winning lottery tickets,� said the leader. �And as I mentioned earlier, we do the same, but our connections have become unreliable as of late. I�d like to start bringing you our winning tickets.�

�Why would you want to do that?�

�To launder money.�

Ziggy covered his ears and made a high-pitched beeping sound��Didn�t hear that, didn�t hear that, beep, beep, beep�.�.�.�

The leader looked around oddly at the others.

Ziggy dropped his hands. �Let me explain attorney-client privilege. You�re free to tell me anything you�ve done in the past, but the privilege doesn�t extend to unlawful acts you�re planning in the future.�

�But you will do this thing for us?�

�Like ringing a bell.�

�One more item,� said Rogan. �This is my territory. Any other tickets that come your way from your TV commercials or otherwise are mine. You�ll still receive a cut. I�m sure a businessman of your stature will see the mutual benefit.�

Another fit of giggles. �Why not?�

�That�s very good. That�s what we like to hear.� He pulled a brown envelope from his jacket and tossed it on the desk. It slid into Ziggy�s lap.

�What�s this?� He looked inside. �Trippy!�

�Your retainer,� said Rogan. �How much flow do you get?�

�Depends on how lucky people are.� Ziggy thumbed through the cash. �Some hit the Fantasy Five, or one of the big scratch-offs. A few thousand on a slow week, maybe five figures on the better-than-average, unless someone hits a really big one, then we�re looking north.�

�You�re probably already taking five�percent off the front end.� Rogan began standing. �We�ll give you another five. Buy some furniture.�

�How will I get in touch with you?�

�You won�t. You�ll hear from us.� He walked toward the bead curtain and turned around. �When you do business with us, your word is your bond. From now on, you will not cash in anyone else�s tickets without running them through us�.�.�. I will take your silence as your word.�

Giggles.

Rogan rolled his eyes. �I will take that as silence.�

They let themselves out.

Ziggy went to the front window and watched the Benz drive away. �Where�s that number for the weed guy?�

Setting the Table for the Climax

News of yet another lottery rollover spread like only lottery news can, and the greed typhoon whipped from Florida to the rest of the country and Latin America.

It was still the wee hours before dawn, but a group of men in the nation of Costa Gorda were paying particular attention to a big-screen TV. The luggage had remained packed and waiting since their last unsuccessful visit to Miami.

The new jackpot was announced, and all heads in the room turned toward the same person.

He gave a curt nod, which scrambled the others into a military-style operation. The dark of night had begun to dissipate when the men trotted briskly across a mountainside plateau. A Learjet lifted off, climbing into the orange light of the sun still below the horizon. The passenger manifest was in the name of one Ocho Pelota.

The last time around he had been caught off guard by an inability to buy the whole board in one fell swoop. Insufficient time or boots on the ground. And a tidy sum down the drain. He would not make the same mistake twice.

�Pablo, come here,� said Pelota, sipping a mimosa. That�s how it worked. Don�t speak until spoken to.

Pablo took a seat in the jet next to his leader. �What are you reading?�

�This cheap lottery magazine. I bought it in a convenience store on our previous trip.� Pelota flipped back to show him the cover. �It gives advice on how to increase your odds of winning.�

�But mathematically you can�t predict randomness.�

�Usually,� said Pelota. �But one thing that�s not random is the weight of the Ping-Pong balls. This fascinating article explains why there have so many record-breaking jackpots in a row this year, like when they had that unprecedented conga line of hurricanes back in �05.�

�What�s it say?� asked Pelota.

�That the lottery changes its set of balls from time to time, and they did so again at the beginning of the year. The magazine statistically analyzed the new set and determined that the balls with the most favorable weights were high numbers.�

�How does that cause a bunch of big jackpots?� asked Pablo.

�The lottery numbers are one to fifty-three, but this article says most people like to play birthdays�their own, spouses�, children�s�or anniversaries and other occasions. The months limit the numbers to twelve, and the days of the month to thirty-one. Hence, lots of rollovers.�

�That makes sense,� said Pablo. �We lost last time on a high-number drawing.�

�So we do it in reverse this time.� Pelota stirred his drink. �Start buying combinations of the biggest numbers and work backward. That way if we can�t complete the board in time, we�ll at least be in a better position�.�.�.�

The Lear touched down at Miami International in time for brunch. Pelota and his coterie cleared customs. He had called ahead from the plane, and a luxury motor coach was already full of cheap Latin labor.

After his earlier failure, Pelota had done the math five ways. It was all about the proper design of an organizational pyramid. Each of the men who had flown down with him would supervise ten local associates with their own crews. And each of them was given a specific spread of permutations descending from fifty-three. It worked on paper and, unbeknownst to Pelota, had actually been done before in the nineties by a group of legitimate venture capitalists who, as they say, hit the jackpot.

Pelota�s gang all met in the conference room of an extended-stay business hotel near the airport, and the local bank vice president even accompanied the armored car that delivered the needed currency.

�So happy to see you again in Miami,� said the executive. �With all this cash, will you be needing any protection?�

Pelota gave him the look.

�Oh, right.� The vice president left.

Ocho�s lieutenants fanned out across the city to put their plan in motion. Underlings were dispatched in geometrically precise quadrants. They worked all day and well into night, then the next day, and the next. They cut in line. They sped on the highway. Parked in handicapped spots. Rushed back to the hotel to refill with cash on hand. Then back out again.

Pelota remained in his suite, receiving hourly rounds of phone calls with progress reports. Traffic was thick and the crowds thicker. Ticket machines crashing from the volume.

By the last evening, they were still on schedule, and then they weren�t. It came down to the wire. One way or another they would know by the end of the night�.�.�.

10:40 p.m., sales cut off.

10:46, last piles of Pelota�s tickets collected.

10:51, rental sedans raced back to the extended-stay hotel near the airport.

Crime lieutenants crowded into the elevator for the top-floor suite. Pelota was already sitting at the table when they whipped out notebooks and entered results on the master spreadsheet.

Much, much better than the last time. But�.�.�.

�You didn�t get all the tickets?� Pelota asked the first lieutenant.

�It was impossible�.�.�.�

�I don�t pay you for impossible.� He turned to the next one for an answer.

�The places were crazy�.�.�.�

On down the line, same story.

Pelota had adopted a saying he�d picked up in prison. Don�t get mad until it�s time to get mad. He was roundly feared for his erratic and ruthless temper, but in truth his emotions were a highly polished chest of tools, and he orchestrated erraticism to an advantage. He had known these men going back forever, his most trusted and dependable. If none of them was able to fully complete the task, then maybe he was asking too much, but it was not something to admit. He folded his hands in pregnant thought. He quietly raised his eyes. �How much?�

It was all entered into a calculator, and the equal sign punched. �We were able to buy ninety-two�percent of the board.�

Not perfect, but definitely better than last time around. As long as the numbers didn�t fall into the low end. Pelota downed a double of Johnnie Walker Blue to stop the anxious calculus in his head. Nobody spoke during the last five minutes as they waited in front of the television. Pelota was closest to the set, sitting on the front edge of a padded lounger. The rest stood in a semi-circle around the back of his chair.

11:15 p.m.

Hyper-optimistic game-show music came on as a pink flamingo logo swirled to the center of the screen. The Miami skyline lit up the back of the studio as Ping-Pong balls ricocheted around a clear chamber. Vacuum tubes sucked up a half dozen of the balls in succession as the emcee read them off: �Eighteen, twenty-nine, thirty-six, forty-five, forty-eight, fifty-two�.�.�. Thank you and good night from the Florida Lottery!�

Silence.

Everyone in the room knew.

The men standing around the chair began jumping and whooping and hugging. Pelota simply shut his eyes in relief.

The only question now was how many other winning tickets, and that data would come the next day. With jackpots this large, there was often more than one, but the split would still be exceedingly ample. The celebration in the hotel suite lasted almost till dawn. Big cigars puffed out on the ninth-floor balcony. Cart after cart of room service arrived, and the mini-bar guy was called in to restock. They ignored front-desk complaints about the blaring TV. A local commercial came on with sitar music and a swaying lawyer in a tie-dyed T-shirt.

Covering 92�percent of the board is a lot of tickets, but you wouldn�t believe how much actual physical space they take up until you saw it. Almost twenty briefcases sat in neat rows in Pelota�s closet. Considering whose suite they were in, security was no issue. The cases weren�t going to get as much as a fingerprint.

The sky gave its initial hint that the black of night was beginning to fade, and the last of the lieutenants adjourned to their own rooms.

Ocho Pelota was left alone on his balcony in a personal orb of cigar smoke and accomplishment. Tiny lights blinked on the western sky as the first of the red-eyes began their landing approaches from Los Angeles and San Diego. Pelota stubbed out his cigar and went to bed.

Jackpot

Jack-pot (noun) 1. The top prize in a game of stakes, such as bingo, poker, slots, lottery. 2. A significant fortune. 3. Large, unexpected success. Syn: pool, kitty, bonanza. Hitting the jackpot.

Idiom: (chiefly western, southern) Suddenly and without warning entering into a position of extreme distress or peril. Syn: jam, pickle, crisis. Find oneself in a jackpot.

The Florida Keys

A silver Corvette glinted in the sun as it crossed the Seven Mile Bridge.

�Where are we going for our next Route 66 episode?� asked Coleman.

�That was the series finale. When you hit a high note, leave the stage.�

They were speaking to each other on walkie-talkies. Because Coleman was in the trunk.

�You sure you�re comfortable back there?�

�I like it. Got my beer, munchies, smoke. Cool.�

It helped make room in the front seat for the nail-salon woman snuggling up next to Serge.

A walkie-talkie squawked again. �So what are the new plans for now?�

Serge glanced down at his lap and an official summons that he had poached from a mailbox. �I�ve always wanted to serve on a jury.�

Florida Roadkill

Hammerhead Ranch Motel

Orange Crush

Triggerfish Twist

The Stingray Shuffle

Cadillac Beach

Torpedo Juice

The Big Bamboo

Hurricane Punch

Atomic Lobster

Nuclear Jellyfish

Gator A-Go-Go

Electric Barracuda

When Elves Attack

Pineapple Grenade

The Riptide Ultra-Glide

Tiger Shrimp Tango

Shark Skin Suite

Coconut Cowboy