by Tim Dorsey
Serge sat his pal up and shook him back into the world.
Coleman stood and grabbed the cart. “What are we shopping for?”
“Required ingredients for my new inspiration,” said Serge. “Things are starting to happen fast, so we’ll also need super-high-energy food.”
“What about Little Debbies?”
“Good thinking.”
They turned up the aisle. “Serge, people are doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Giving us looks. They see us with the single cart and think we’re gay.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Of course not.”
“But I see what you mean,” said Serge. “Some are glances of abject disgust, while others over-sell their friendliness to compensate for the injustice of our struggle.”
“Here are the Little Debbies.” Coleman grabbed a box off the shelf and set it in the cart.
“Coleman, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m putting it in the cart.”
“You never just put it in the cart.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
Serge shook his head. “Give me that.” He took the box and walked backward several steps into three-point range and made an arcing jump shot. The treats crashed into the cart. “That’s how you do it.”
“But, Serge, I don’t think I can shoot from that far away.”
“Give me the box again.” He paced to the other side of the aisle. “If you’re not a good perimeter shooter, I can always hit you with a no-look, behind-the-back pass, and you slam-dunk it.”
Serge slung the box to Coleman, who slammed it hard into the cart. “Like that?”
“You’re a fast learner.” Serge took the box again and began walking even farther than before. “The other options are the underhanded shortstop-to-second-baseman lob to begin a double play or, if the aisle is clear like this one, you can retreat as far as possible for a Hail Mary football chuck into the back of the end zone.”
Serge went as far as possible, then slapped the side of the box in his right hand and unleashed a high spiral that almost reached the air ducts and could be seen from anywhere in the store.
The box crashed a few feet short of the cart.
Coleman picked it up and slam-dunked it hard again.
Serge returned. “Now, that’s how you shop.”
Coleman stared into the cart. “Serge, these Little Debbies are all fucked up.”
“You’re right,” said Serge. “They should check those things before they put them on the shelf and hope we don’t notice. Stick ’em back and grab another.”
They continued, aisle after aisle, slinging and passing and tossing products, until the cart was half full. “Grab that cleaning product and look for giant ten-pound bags of sugar. It will become important later.”
“Why? Another inspiration?”
“You think I bought all that food-storage stuff back at headquarters just to keep leftovers great? We’re going to have the best Tupperware party ever!”
“Serge, I just noticed something.” Coleman threw a tin of mixed nuts. “The people aren’t giving us looks anymore. I mean not the gay looks. They’ve been replaced by these other looks.”
“You’re right,” said Serge. “Now all the looks are bad except without a subtext of butt-fucking.”
“What could possibly be the reason?” asked Coleman.
“You think maybe gay people don’t shop this way?”
“Serge, I’ve been looking around, and I don’t see anybody shopping like this.”
“It’s tourist season.” Serge lobbed a grapefruit. “There are a lot of Europeans in town.”
“They don’t do this in Europe?”
Serge shook his head again. “The countries are much smaller, so they have very tiny carts and no elbow room in the aisles to go Michael Jordan on the store’s ass.”
A few minutes later, the cart was nearly full. “I’m tired of throwing things,” said Serge. He grabbed an item off the shelf and set it on top.
A guy in a trucker’s hat walked by and mumbled, “Faggots.”
Serge turned around: “Hey, buddy, you should watch more Glee.”
“That show’s really growing on me,” said Coleman. “Especially that one chick who’s always plastered.”
“I was particularly impressed by the Madonna episode,” said Serge. “ ‘Express Yourself’ was quite moving.”
“Oh, definitely,” said Coleman. “She’s not just the Material Girl anymore.”
“But you know what makes it the best show on television?” said Serge. “They teach the youth of America that it’s cool to be tolerant.”
“In real life, most of the kids on that show would get daily beat-downs if they broke into song and dance in the middle of the gymnasium during PE.”
“But not on Glee,” said Serge. “The coach always knows that jumping jacks must take a backseat if someone spontaneously feels a Broadway show tune coming on.”
“Madonna would approve.”
“But here’s the most fascinating aspect of Glee. It proves that Sean Hannity and the rest of the gang at Fox News are actually super nice.”
“How’s that?”
“Glee is on the Fox Network, run by the same corporation,” said Serge. “And given the slant of Fox News talking points, you’d expect them to slam Glee for indoctrinating our youth with the San Francisco agenda. Yet they don’t.”
“What could possibly be the answer?”
“They’re secretly in on the plan to help us all get along,” said Serge. “Fox News creates a diversion of fake anger so Glee can slip through. Because the only other answer is that they’re just hate farmers who don’t want to bite the hand that feeds, which would make them the world’s biggest hypocrites.”
“And that can’t be.”
“I know.” Serge reached for a shelf. “Hannity’s my hero.”
“Serge, why’d you put that in the cart? It looks yucky.”
“We need to balance the Little Debbies with ultra-healthy stuff.”
“How do you eat tofu?”
“Scoop it with Doritos,” said Serge. “That’s the last item. Time to check out . . .”
Chapter Thirty
MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Civilization was breaking down again at baggage claim.
Those higher up on the food chain pushed their way through to the carousels, flipping other people’s bags over to check name tags and colored ribbons. The vegetarians hung back. A beeping cart went by carrying someone with two broken legs and a tropical drink. The PA system asked the public to report unattended luggage and weirdos. A heated conversation in Spanish was either about misplaced traveler’s checks or the Havana regime.
A row of chauffeurs stood at the bottom of the escalators with a variety of white signs: COLSON, ROCKFORD, MR. FUJITSU, WILKES-BARRE WEDDING, and a blank sign for the psychic convention.
Off to the side, another person in a Mets jersey held another sign:
ENEMIES OF RICK MADDOX.
They came dribbling in from the corners of the country. The first four arrived in a cluster of mid-morning flights, all wearing their team T-shirts: the initials R.M. surrounded by a red circle with a slash and a dagger. They pooled resources and got a rental car together. The next gathering came down the jetways and rented another vehicle. And now the last group was beginning to assemble around the Mets fan, who led them to the Hertz counter.
They took the Dolphin Expressway to Biscayne Boulevard and a row of high-rise resorts popular among conventioneers. In one of the hotels across from the basketball arena, the group had reserved the Flamingo conference room. They began filing in just before the first seminar was scheduled to start. There were rows of long table
s with water carafes, notepads and pens with the name of the hotel.
The Mets fan tapped the microphone. “Good evening and thank you all for coming. A few housekeeping items first.” He unfolded a page of notes and read matter-of-factly: “You probably already noticed, but on each of your chairs is the complimentary tote bag containing our official program, a local visitors’ guide for restaurants and attractions and a plastic laminated badge attached to a lanyard. Please wear it at all times. Plus, everybody should have gotten two drink coupons. If you didn’t, ask at the front desk. And I’d like to thank our sponsors. At our platinum level, Amalgamated Diodes, thanks to Silicon Valley Sally. Those are the little blinking rulers you got. Also, the Greater Miami-Dade Better Business Bureau, the New York Mets baseball organization and the National Rifle Association.”
There was a polite round of quiet applause.
“And I have a positive update to report. Our private investigator just called me an hour ago with the confirmed home address of our esteemed pal, that fake DEA agent Rick Maddox . . . Now, if you’ll refer to your official programs and agenda item number one: Let’s kill this motherfucker.”
FOOD KING
Serge wheeled the cart past checkout line after checkout line.
“There’s a million people at every one,” said Coleman.
Serge gnashed his teeth. “Let’s try the express lane.”
“But we’ve got like thirty items, and the sign says ten.”
“We’ll have to triage.” Serge grabbed an empty cart from a customer who was wheeling it by. “Sorry, this is an official emergency.”
The pair transferred the most essential items into the new cart and took off for the express lane.
They screeched to a halt at the back of a line that snaked out into the main aisle and curved around the magazine racks.
“Look at all the people at this register,” said Coleman.
“Look at all the stuff they’re buying,” said Serge. “Son of a bitch! At least six of these miscreants ahead of us have more than ten items!”
“We’re within the law.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “Even though we wanted more, we courteously winnowed it down to ten and stuck it in that cart we commandeered from that other guy.”
Coleman looked over the top of the cashiers. “What’s that place up front?”
“Good eye,” said Serge. “The customer-service counter.” Serge spun the cart out of the line. “They have a register, and there’s only a few people. Let’s hurry before the stampede.”
The cart skidded around the last register and raced up to the counter.
They waited. Coleman looked at his fingernails, yawned and itched himself. Serge stared at the clock. Coleman thought about a traumatic incident he’d experienced when he was younger and got his head stuck between stair railings. He was twenty-eight at the time. Serge stared at the clock.
“Motherfu—!”
Coleman jumped. “What is it?”
“Now I know why we’re waiting so long.” He pointed with a shaking arm. “They’ve got one of those glass counters to see the scratch-off tickets. That woman can’t decide between Gold Rush and Mega Slots.” He emitted a piercing whine. “Now she’s filling out a six-ticket Lotto form with her lucky family birthdays.”
“Just hang in there.”
“I’m trying,” said Serge. “She’ll eventually need food and water.”
“Hey, I see another place. Those empty registers.”
“Holy Jesus.” Serge spun the cart again. “This store has automated self-serve checkout. There is a God.”
The cart zipped back across the store, arriving at a total of eight do-it-yourself registers with only a few customers. They chose the one with a lighted number seven atop a pole next to a bar-code scanner.
“Wonder why there aren’t more people over here,” said Coleman.
“I don’t care.” Serge’s head was down in the cart, unloading at battle speed. He swiped some chips over the glass plate that contained the laser. Nothing happened.
“Please scan again.”
Coleman glanced around. “Who said that?”
“The Clockwork Orange machine.” Serge wiped the bar code, turned it around and swiped it a second time.
“Please scan again.”
“This one’s fucked.” Serge refilled the cart and moved to lighted pole number eight.
The chips swiped. A cheerful sound dinged a single time from inside the counter. “Excellent,” said Serge. “This scanner works. The laser rang it up.”
Coleman looked at the screen. “I think it rang up the wrong price.”
Serge raised his head. “Dammit!” He turned around and looked toward a small, centrally located service stand where a woman was on duty to assist customers who were having trouble with the self in self-service.
Serge fleetly approached. “Yes, it rang up my chips wrong and I specifically checked the price on the shelf because I love sour cream and garlic, even though I know it’s just flavor dust made from ground animal parts that are otherwise the least popular.”
“I’ll need to send someone to check the shelf price . . . Jerry!”
“I just told you I checked the price. And they’re clear on the other side of the store. It’ll take forever.”
Jerry arrived and removed iPod earbuds. Serge heard faint Metallica.
She handed him the chips. “I need a price check.”
“Where do we sell these?”
“Somewhere far away.”
Jerry replaced the earbuds.
“No!” Serge’s arms shot out. “I’ll pay the extra. I can’t wait! Jerry!”
Jerry disappeared into the aisles.
Serge gave the woman a punched-in-the-stomach look. “He took my sour cream and garlic.”
Coleman had Little Debbie crumbs on the corners of his mouth when Serge returned to the service stand. “What happened to our sour cream and garlic?”
“No human will ever see that bag of chips again.”
“Where’d he go?”
Serge watched Jerry emerge from an aisle, scratch his head and disappear down another aisle. “Teenage wasteland . . . Forget the chips. Life’s too short.”
Serge scanned another item.
“Please place item in bag.”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “It’s already in the bag.”
“I know.” Serge lifted the item and set it down again.
“Unscanned item in bag. Please remove.”
Serge removed it.
“Please place item in bag.”
Coleman leaned toward the register’s screen. “How does it know what’s in the bag?”
“There’s a magic scale inside the counter.” Serge put the mixed nuts back in the bag.
“Item not in bag.”
Serge stuck his hand into the bag and pressed down.
“Item weight does not match item purchased.”
Serge removed the nuts.
“Try scanning something else,” said Coleman.
Serge scanned something else. Ding.
“Item not in bag.”
“There’s an ‘ignore’ button on the touch screen,” said Coleman. “It’s if you don’t want to place the item in the bag.”
Serge pressed the button and placed the item in the bag.
“Unauthorized item in bag. Cannot proceed. Please see customer service.”
Serge looked over at the service stand and a woman laughing on her cell phone.
“Screw it. I’m going on.” He swiped another item.
“This is your first warning.”
Serge ran over to the service stand. “Excuse me—”
The woman held up a finger. Into the phone: “You would not believe what I heard about Hector . . .”
/> “Hell with it.” He ran back and scanned something else.
“This is your second warning.”
“I’ll just pay.” Serge inserted a twenty. Rurrrr. He inserted it again. Rurrr.
“What’s the matter?”
Serge flattened the corners of the bill. “It keeps spitting my money out.” He stuck it in again. Rurrr.
“This is your third warning.”
“Serge, the lighted number eight on the pole is now flashing red.”
“Shit,” said Serge. “Heat’s coming down . . . but the woman’s off the phone!”
He ran over again as she hoisted a purse strap over her shoulder.
“We’re having a total collapse of your business model at number eight!”
“Sorry.” The woman started walking away. “I’m on break.”
“Is someone else going to replace you?”
“Oh, yeah. Linda.”
Serge looked around. “Where is she?”
“On break.”
Serge ran back as Coleman scanned a six-pack.
“Age-restricted item. Please show ID to service personnel.”
Serge covered his eyes. “Not the age-restricted item!”
“Please show ID . . .”
“Serge, the flashing red light now has a bell going off with it.” Coleman popped one of the beers.
“Please step away from the counter and cooperate.”
“What do we do now?” said Coleman.
“Rage against the machine . . .”
The replacement clerk finished a smoke break and approached the store entrance as two men sprinted past her into the parking lot. She reached the service stand and stopped. A bunch of employees were standing around a pole with a now un-lighted number eight jammed down through the shattered glass of the product scanner.
Chapter Thirty-One
MEANWHILE . . .
The curtains were drawn tight on an upper-floor suite in a Biscayne Boulevard resort.
Enzo Tweel set a room-service tray down in the hall and returned to his suite’s writing desk. He picked up an eight-by-ten zoom photo from the dossier, studying it while imagining permutations of how the target might appear with a beard and change of hair color.
