Tiger Shrimp Tango

by Tim Dorsey

Serge started up the car and began following in the slow lane.

  “So what’s the irony part of your lesson?”

  “That will unfold when they get in the hospital . . .”

  MIAMI

  A porkpie hat Frisbee’d through the air, missed the hat rack and sailed out an open window of a two-story office building overlooking the Miami River.

  The man who had just thrown it talked to himself in the third person: “Mahoney glared at the empty hat rack like a pile of torn-up betting tickets at the track . . .”

  He grabbed a stale cup of coffee and an even staler glazed doughnut.

  A rotary phone rang. He swallowed a rock-hard bite and chased it with a swig of cold joe.

  “Mahoney, start jawing . . .”

  The phone had been ringing a lot lately. Mahoney was cultivating a nice little reputation for rescuing scam victims. The word of mouth was just a trickle, but multiplied by the exponential volume of fraud in South Florida, it amounted to a respectable jingle of pocket change. Calls were coming from as far away as Orlando. He already represented three victims who had been swindled out of donations by the father with the sick boy on Channel 12.

  He held the heavy black receiver to his head as he accepted another client. “Mahoney told the dame on the blower that he was all over the case like big hats on the pope, and she could chill like an underboss with a no-show job at the railroad, which doesn’t require a conductor’s jacket and all that it leads to . . .”

  He hung up.

  The phone rang again. Mahoney usually let the phone ring, but he was thinking about his hat down in the parking lot.

  “Mahoney, rattle your molars.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mahoney, this is Wesley Chapel from Big Dipper Data Management, and I’ve just detected a statistical trend that I thought you’d want to know about right away . . .”

  Wesley began a careful explanation of what he had learned. “And Mahoney listened like a dope fiend watching the Big H start to bubble in a spoon he stole from Mooky’s Diner because he doesn’t have any spoons left in his flophouse, and the neighbors no longer believe he needs to borrow some to play spoons in a jug band . . .”

  “What? . . .”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “It seems that some of the scam artists you’re having me investigate are painting an unusually large radar signature with their data. Statistically impossible.”

  “Like the queen yodels.”

  “What?”

  “Give it to me in English.”

  “The only explanation is that they’re all working as part of a larger, organized gang of grifters who travel together. That means if you get another client who might have been taken in by one of the gang, they’ll be much easier to trace. On the other hand, it also means increased danger for any of your men in the field. I’ll keep you up to date as more comes in.”

  “Bingle-schnapps.”

  Mahoney hung up again. But didn’t take his hand off the receiver. He quickly dialed. Someone answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Get me Serge, toot-sweet!”

  “Mahoney,” said Serge. “Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  “Mahoney cogitated on what he was about to reveal, like a pimp deciding how to tell a hooker she’s been sent down the minors to work on her skin flute.”

  “Who are you talking to? . . .”

  DOWNTOWN ORLANDO

  Serge closed his cell phone.

  “Who was that?” asked Coleman.

  “Mahoney thinks some of our targets are part of a larger, organized gang—specifically the dating bandits and that couple up ahead running for the hospital.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Coleman bent toward the windshield.

  The couple reached the ambulance drive-up and made a slippery turn toward the building.

  They sprinted into the emergency room, the place where people with urgent needs go to wait. It was packed with rows of un-cheerful people in molded plastic chairs, sitting for hours. A variety of injuries and malaises, but the most common threat was dying of old age.

  Omar and Piper practically crashed into the admittance desk. “We need help!”

  The nurse looked them over and didn’t see any bones sticking through skin. She pointed at the clipboard on the counter. “Sign in and have a seat.”

  Piper leaned forward as far as she could. “You don’t understand!”

  “Wait a second,” said the nurse. “I recognize you now. From the TV news.”

  “I need cancer treatment!” said Piper.

  “Sure you do,” said the nurse.

  “I’m serious this time!”

  “Just like last time?”

  “I’m so sorry. I need help!”

  The nurse yelled to get the attention of everyone in the room. “Look who just popped in to grace us with their presence: the scam artists from television. They’d like to get some medical care.”

  A drone of murmurs rolled around the room. People began pointing. Mumbles rose to outraged voices. “Those are the assholes who stole all those donations!”

  “We hate you!”

  “You’re lower than worms!”

  “Please die!

  “One more thing,” yelled the nurse. “They also want to cut in front of you.”

  To this audience, that played worse than the original scam.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “I’ve been waiting since dawn!”

  “My gout!”

  A few began standing. Someone called the television station on from a cell.

  Omar and Piper pleaded desperately with the nurse. “We’ll do anything! You have to help us!”

  The nurse had already picked up her own phone. “I’m calling security. The TV said there are fraud warrants out on you.”

  “Wait! Don’t! We’ll give you all the money!”

  The nurse hung up. “Security is on the way.” Then she sniffed the air. “Jesus! What is that god-awful smell?” She leaned over the desk and looked down at the floor. “That’s disgusting!”

  “I told you we were sick,” said Piper. “This guy made us drink some stuff . . .”

  Three security guards ran down a disinfected hallway.

  But other things first:

  The couple felt a presence from behind. More and more patients surrounding them. “You’re the devil!”

  “My grandmother gave you money!”

  “What’s that smell?”

  Someone shoved Omar into the desk, and another pushed Piper. The rest joined in. “Let me get my hands on them! . . .”

  Security guards burst through double swinging doors on the side of the emergency room. They immediately spotted the couple but couldn’t reach them because of the growing mob.

  “Kill them!”

  “You suck elephant dicks!”

  “What he just said!”

  Omar noticed the guards working their way through. “We have to get out of here!” He grabbed Piper by the arm and charged into the crowd. People grabbed and ripped their clothes. They each lost sleeves but pushed on.

  The mob wanted to stop the couple, but everyone was now skating around on diarrhea. Omar and Piper made it through the pack with shredded shirts. They dashed back out the emergency room doors and onto the sidewalk.

  The crowd paused, looking at one another, thinking about losing their spots in the emergency room. Then: “Get ’em!”

  The room emptied in a hurry. Patients made a hard left turn outside and ran up the street. The security guards stopped at the doors, because they weren’t paid much.

  Omar and Piper only had a half block lead, but all the people chasing them were sick and injured.

  A cameraman pointed through a windshield. “There they are! At the front of that crowd!” The Live Action Eyewitn
ess Orlando 12 News mobile unit had arrived.

  The TV van quickly passed the crowd and slowed so they could roll alongside the couple as they ran. The satellite dish on its roof began beaming the video feed back to the station. Regular programming was interrupted for breaking news, as it had been every time a live chase came through the greater Orlando area. Except this was the first one on foot.

  Viewers at home began texting in votes to a poll that just went up on their screens. Others recognized the street on TV as the same one just outside where they were sitting. They angrily poured out of shops, restaurants and Transcendental Meditation classes, joining the pursuing mob. Still others lined the sidewalk ahead, spitting on the couple and splattering them with rotten food.

  Two blocks north, a black Firebird sat on the side of the road. Serge lowered his binoculars. “Here they come now. The plan is unfolding beyond expectation.”

  “That one guy just hocked a big snot-rocket right in her face.” Coleman chased pork rinds with Pabst Blue Ribbon. “This is better than pay-per-view.”

  Serge raised the binoculars again. “I should be in charge of programming somewhere.”

  Back up the street, a reporter with a microphone hung out the passenger window of the TV van. “Our live poll shows that ninety-six percent of viewers believe you should be tossed in a blast furnace. Your thoughts?”

  More people streamed from sports bars and convenience stores until the mob was five times its original size.

  The couple rapidly approached a busy intersection where heavy traffic blocked their escape. They made a left at the corner and hit the brakes. More TV viewers had emptied into the street and charged from that direction. The pair looked back at the gaining crowd, then up at the green light over the road. “Come on, turn red!”

  It didn’t turn red. Lynch mobs converging from two pincer directions would be on them in seconds. They glanced at each other and nodded. The traffic wasn’t that bad. And a break between buses was coming up. They could easily get across if they timed it just right . . .

  Serge handed the binoculars to Coleman. “They’re going for it, but it’ll be close. That second crowd will get there almost simultaneously.”

  “I say they’ll make it.”

  “Me, too.”

  The TV van pulled up next to the anxious couple. A microphone out the window: “Are you going for it? It’s going to be close . . .”

  Those at the front of the mob reached them and went to grab what was left of their shirts, but the couple was too fast. The break in traffic came and they bolted . . . In the clear!

  Coleman pointed with a pork rind. “I don’t think they see that bus.”

  “Which bus?” asked Serge.

  “The big one with the ad on the side for the children’s hospital . . . Ooo! God!” Coleman covered his eyes.

  Serge threw the Firebird in gear. “That’s ironic.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  FORT LAUDERDALE

  A blue glow filled an eighth-floor condo unit.

  “I’ll take ‘Rectangular U.S. States’ for two hundred, Alex.”

  Ronald Campanella turned the volume down with the remote control. “I don’t want to watch Jeopardy! anymore.”

  “Come on, we always used to play,” said Brook. “You need to keep your mind occupied.”

  “But what if the lawyers are wrong? What if I have to go to trial?”

  “That’s nonsense,” said his daughter. “We just need to wait it out and let them fix the misunderstanding.”

  “I can’t take this not-knowing business.” Ronald began breathing rapidly again.

  Brook got up from the sofa. “You need a drink. I’ll get you one.”

  “I don’t want a drink.”

  “I didn’t say you wanted one. I said you need one.” She went to the cabinet for a bottle of Scotch. Her cell phone rang. Brook made a detour for her purse.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Ken Shapiro, from Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious and Blatt. Sorry for calling so late, but we have some preliminary good news that I thought you’d like to hear.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing confirmed, but based on our experience, we don’t think your father is a very high-value target.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The number you were given to call back turns out to be the main DEA line in Washington, which indicates a certain lack of urgency. After some more calls, we learned there is no agent by the name of Rick Maddox in that office, but there is one in Miami. And he’s a polygraph examiner.”

  “That’s weird,” said Brook.

  “That’s what we thought. It’s not the kind of position dealing with heavy trafficking enforcement, so that should lower your stress level.”

  “Really appreciate you calling.”

  She hung up and headed back to the living room. “Dad, I have some good news.”

  Ronald stood up, grabbed the center of his chest and, without a word, toppled forward on his face.

  “Dad! No!”

  ORANGE BLOSSOM TRAIL

  A cell phone rang. And rang.

  Serge checked the display. It kept ringing.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Coleman.

  “Mahoney again, probably ungrateful that we didn’t get the money back from those scam artists with the medical donations.”

  “Bus accidents rule.”

  “Or he wants us to jump right on another case,” said Serge. “But you have to pace yourself. If we actually are dealing with an organized gang, that means recharging my idea reservoir for unique ways to dispatch them.”

  “Why?”

  “To maintain a quality standard. Unlike you, I have a reputation to uphold.” Serge sucked the coffee tube but only got air. “You start phoning in your murders and people talk.”

  “Where are you going to get new ideas?”

  “A special place of inspiration.” Serge handed his bladder tube to Coleman. “Coffee me.”

  Coleman grabbed a thermos and watched as the Firebird turned onto a long, stately-looking road with sprawling, professionally maintained lawns on both sides. They drove toward a massive, low-slung building in the distance. Straight ahead at the end of the road—in the building’s courtyard—stood a giant metal sculpture that looked like a dandelion. It sprayed water from the ends of hundreds of prongs into a fountain pool.

  Coleman stuck his head out the window and gazed up at rows of countless flags on each side of the building. “What is this place? It looks like the United Nations.”

  “It sort of is,” said Serge. “Florida-style.”

  They parked and climbed the steps to the courtyard, heading for the main entrance, but Serge had to go back and retrieve Coleman, who was trying to climb into the fountain and stick his head in the giant dandelion. “No more hallucinogens for you.”

  “Serge, the building says ‘Tupperware.’ ”

  “Correct again.” He pulled the tube from his mouth. “World headquarters built on the site selected by Brownie Wise, who envisioned a utopian Shangri-la of togetherness and keeping food fresh. She was a pioneer, way before any of the theme-park honchos saw the potential of all the available sun-blessed land south of Orlando. I’m guessing the Disney advance scout team flew in from Los Angeles, took a drive down Orange Blossom Trail, then immediately rushed back with wax alligators and burp lids and said, ‘Look no further.’ ”

  They entered the building and approached the front desk. Serge stopped to stare down the hallways running off the sides of the lobby toward the management offices. It was pretty far away, but he could make out extensive displays of plaques with photos and more international flags.

  Serge gave a slight elbow jab and whispered: “Coleman, I need to check out something. And take photos. Those plaques are calling me. But it’s an
other one of those employees-only areas where they unfairly don’t want strangers popping in off the street and wandering the halls of private offices, just because it’s their building and they’re trying to run a business.”

  “Stop the oppression.”

  “They force you to be sneaky when you want to burrow deep inside corporate sanctums and take candid pictures. Sure, they claim that capitalism is opportunity for all, but how else can you learn to join the club if they don’t let you watch how they do it? And then some guy blocks my path and asks, ‘Can I help you?’ which really means, ‘What’s your fucking problem?’ Another nuance game. But the first time it happened, I thought they were sincere and responded, ‘Yes, you can help me. I want to join the club. And you’re the company to watch! Outsourced boiler rooms, raided pensions, securities violations. What’s the secret handshake?’ And then I thought they were taking me to the clubhouse, but it was just an exit door to the street, and they threw me really hard against the mailbox on the corner . . . Spin it any way you want, but that’s not help.”

  “I remember that mailbox,” said Coleman. “I was tripping on ’shrooms and accidentally got away from you and used the Xerox machine to make five hundred copies of my nipples.”

  “So now when they ask if they can help, I hold up an official-looking blue document with notary stamps and say, ‘I’m here to serve a subpoena but can’t tell you who because I have to physically hand it to the person, and if they get advance notice, the guy usually ducks out a fire door or sits on a toilet and pulls his feet up.’ Then I flash the document again, prominently showing the word fraud—which covers everyone in the building on the DNA level—and the guy bugging me usually says he has to use the restroom, and I follow him in a minute later and bend down, but I can’t see feet . . .”

  A voice from behind: “Those are the walls of fame.”

  “What?” Serge turned.

  The receptionist smiled. “They honor the top representatives from each country.” A bigger smile. “Please take a look.”

  Serge did look. At Coleman. “Sounds like a trick.”

  “She seems nice enough.”

  “Until I ask to join the club. Then it’s mailbox time again.” Serge checked his camera settings. “But I have to see those plaques. Cover my flank and stand back to back against me as we walk down the hall so you can see if anything is coming up on us from the rear.”