by Tim Dorsey
Enzo put his free hand on hers. “It’s nothing. We were just remembering a mutual friend who isn’t with us anymore.”
“Oh, that’s sad.” Brook turned to her new beau. “Were you close?”
“That was a long time ago,” said Serge. “Enzo’s right—it’s nothing.”
Enzo looked at each in turn. “How do we want to order? Serge, you want to order first? Or how about Brook?”
“But we don’t have any menus yet,” said Brook.
Serge was well aware of this. It was code.
“I think Serge should go first this time,” said Enzo. “That way Brook can see what’s on the menu for her.”
Serge had made his decision. When the moment came, he would simply upend the table and dive into the gun. Of course Enzo was a pro and would be able to get several shots off; Serge would take the bullets but knock him down in the process, giving Brook a chance to escape.
“Okay, enough games,” said Enzo. “You’ve been a thorn for far too long, and I have a plane to catch.”
Brook looked around the table. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
The countdown clock reached zero.
Serge began to spring, but the shot was too fast.
Bang.
Serge jolted back in his chair.
The next second seemed an eternity. Serge’s head fell toward his chest. Checking for blood that wasn’t there. Then he noticed only two of them were left at the table. He looked toward the ground and saw Enzo on his back, eyes surprisingly wide, with a softball-size hole in his chest.
Patrons began to scream and stampede.
Serge turned with an open mouth toward Brook, who was holding a designer shopping bag. Smoke drifted out through a burn hole in the bottom of the bag, near the end of a concealed sawed-off shotgun.
Serge blinked hard. “Something tells me you didn’t buy shoes.”
She reached across the table and seized his hand. “We need to get the hell out of here. I’ll fill you in . . .”
They took off running down Ocean Drive.
Epilogue
A cardboard sign hung from the doorknob of Mahoney’s office on the Miami River:
GONE FISSING.
Fifty miles south, a black Firebird with a Florida-winged skull on the hood crossed the bridge from the mainland to Key Largo.
“That was some adventure, eh?” said Serge.
Brook was sitting up front with him. Her hand out the window, catching the wind like a kid. “Is this how you always live?”
“Most of the time.”
One of the passengers in the backseat had a porkpie hat and the other a joint. Coleman turned to Mahoney and offered the doobie. “Wanna toke?”
“Hophead.”
Coleman shrugged and took the hit himself.
They passed a fake conch shell, as tall as a building, where tourists were snapping photos. Then a giant lobster and a giant mermaid.
“It still hasn’t sunk in,” said Serge. “I’ve never had such a close one.”
“You can thank Mahoney,” said Brook.
Serge looked up in the rearview. A hand tipped the porkpie.
Brook cracked open a wine cooler and smiled as they crossed a bridge with emerald-and-turquoise water all around.
Serge smiled as well and stuck his own hand out into the wind. “I just can’t believe how it all came together.”
“The last piece was the call from Big Dipper that Enzo had printed his boarding pass at a resort,” said Brook. “Which meant he wasn’t at the Tortugas Inn.”
“And wasn’t South Philly Sal,” said Serge.
“Except Mahoney couldn’t get the word to you because you had stopped taking calls. So he tried my number from his client files. And used a different phone because of the tap on his.”
“And after I thought I’d killed Enzo and started taking calls again . . .”
“You didn’t know he was still alive,” said Brook. “So I told Mahoney to call you and set up lunch. But we couldn’t let you in on it because Enzo was still listening. We planned on him listening. There was no way he wouldn’t show up at that café and expose himself.”
“But your shotgun was empty,” said Serge. “Personally checked it twice.”
“I took a cab from the motel to get some ammo.”
“You left the room after I told you not to?”
Brook opened another wine cooler. “We’re still breathing, aren’t we?”
“Can’t argue with that . . .”
MIAMI REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
Roger sat on the opposite side of the desk from Jansen.
“I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I had the weirdest dream a couple nights ago and haven’t stopped freaking out. You were in it.”
“Were we in a warehouse?” asked Jansen. “With Serge, Jesus, a hostage and a lobster?”
“How’d you know?”
“I’ve been freaking out, too.” Jansen uncapped a prescription bottle. “Doctor has me on sedatives.”
“I did some thinking,” said Roger. “We’ve been bickering about the trivial, when there’s a serious crime problem in South Florida.”
“No kidding.” Jansen chased his pill with a cup of water. “Chills me to the bone that there are people like Serge just walking around out there . . .”
And thus it was decided to form: Republicans and Democrats United for a Better Miami.
BIG DIPPER DATA MANAGEMENT
A small army of police officers hovered over the shoulder of Wesley Chapel.
The analyst pointed at a computer screen with his pen. “I plotted hits here, here and here. Three of them traveling together, possibly four.”
“And they’re heading down the Keys?” asked one of the cops.
“That would be my bet.”
“Wonder where they are now?”
A Firebird crested the hump of the Seven Mile Bridge. Everyone euphoric from the palette of creation in all directions. It called for another round of tropical drinks, except bottled water for Serge. Off-key singing from the quartet drifted out the window.
“ ‘Waistin’ away again in Margaritaville—’ ”
Blooooooosh.
“Coleman!”
About the Author
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of sixteen other novels: The Riptide Ultra-Glide, Pineapple Grenade, When Elves Attack, Electric Barracuda, Gator A-Go-Go, Nuclear Jellyfish, Atomic Lobster, Hurricane Punch, The Big Bamboo, Torpedo Juice, Cadillac Beach, The Stingray Shuffle, Triggerfish Twist, Orange Crush, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, and Florida Roadkill. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
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ALSO BY TIM DORSEY
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
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover illustration © by Stanley Chow
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TIGER SHRIMP TANGO. Copyright ©
2014 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-209281-6
Epub Edition FEBRUARY 2014 ISBN 9780062092830
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