Pineapple grenade

Chapter Seven

Biscayne Bay

Serge walked across the Stiltsville shack and strapped something around the first captive’s waist.

The man squirmed violently. “Dear God! Not in the water!”

“Relax.” Serge snapped a latch. “Most people don’t drown because they’re bad swimmers. They drown because they panic. Humans are naturally buoyant. So as long as you keep your heads…”

“You just put a scuba weight belt around me!”

“That’s right.” Serge strapped a belt on the second hostage. “Now you’re not naturally buoyant. Otherwise there’d be no point in the game.”

Uncontrolled screaming and weeping.

“Jesus!” said Serge. “I’m never kidnapping you guys again. They’re just five-pound belts, so you’re only slightly non-buoyant… And that’s what these are for…”

He smiled and held up mesh diving gear bags.

One of the captives stopped crying and sniffled. “What are those?”

“Your life preservers,” said Serge. “Maybe.” He opened the cooler. “All depends on what you put in them. Who wants to pick first?”

“What are our choices?” asked the second hostage.

“Tonight’s ‘Will It Float?’ theme is Florida cuisine, starting with yummy tropical drinks like the mojita. And you can’t have them without ice.” Serge pointed down in the cooler. “There’s a half-dozen ten-pound blocks in there. Who wants it?”

In rapid succession: “Me!” “Me!”

“I made that one too easy,” said Serge. “Anyone who’s had a tropical drink sees the cubes floating at the top of the glass, except weight belts aren’t involved. So is their buoyancy enough? You make the call!”

“Can I change my answer?” asked the hostage.

“No,” said Serge. “You buzzed in first. I don’t make the rules.” His head turned toward the remaining contestant. “That leaves you with this…” He opened another duffel and pulled out several shopping bags with loaves poking out the tops. “Miami is famous for her deeeeeee-licious Cuban sandwiches.”

Coleman burped. “I had one of those once.”

“I remember,” said Serge. “You embarrassed the hell out of me.”

“How’d I do that?”

Serge turned to his captives. “Dig this: We’re on Calle Ocho in Little Havana, and Coleman points up at a menu board and says, ‘What’s a Cuban?’ ”

“I want to know what’s going in me,” said Coleman.

Serge rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Anyway, there’s twenty loaves of Cuban bread here. I let them get extra stale and hard to resist sogginess… Okay, everyone back out on the deck.”

They had to be dragged.

Fifteen minutes later, Serge attached a final clamp and stood up. “Let the game begin!”

The captives sat with legs hanging over the side of the dock, hands still bound behind their backs. Each had a pair of mesh bags tied to their weight belts, respectively filled with ice blocks and loaves.

Serge knelt behind them. “One last thing. Regardless of the game’s results, I built in a bonus round. I always like to give my students a way out. It’s a pretty obvious and logical escape, just as long as you remember what I said before: Don’t panic.”

He slid sideways behind the one with ice, and looked up. “Coleman, your opinion? Will it float?”

“I think so.”

“Me, too.”

He gave a hard push, and one of the carjackers splashed into the water. And went under the surface.

Serge stood and scrunched his eyebrows. “Could have sworn he’d float.”

“Look!” said Coleman. “He bobbed to the surface!”

“It floats!”

Serge moved to the remaining captive. “Coleman?”

“I don’t think it’ll float.”

“Me neither.”

Another shove and splash.

“Well, what do you know?” said Serge. “It floats. That’s two for two.”

The criminals stared up from the water, breathing heavy with relief. “Thank God! So you’ll release us now?”

“Absolutely,” said Serge. “You’re free to go, anytime you want.”

They looked around. “Uh, all right. Help us up.”

“That’s not the deal,” said Serge. “Your freedom is built into the bonus round. Figure it out and it’s joy time. Or come up with your own idea. Either way, I’ll keep my word and not do anything to hinder your escape.” He looked at Coleman and shook his head. “You give and give, but some people are never satisfied.”

“Hey, I’m getting lower,” said the one with the ice bags.

“I almost forgot,” said Serge. “Ice floats. It also melts. Even faster in salt water.”

“I’m begging you. Get me out of the water.”

Serge took a seat on the edge of the dock. “Then come clean. Who are you working for?”

“What?”

“Who sent you to take out the president of Costa Gorda?”

“Nobody. We were just robbing them.”

“Suit yourself,” said Serge.

“Wait.” The man had to tilt his head back to keep his mouth above water. “I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“Bullshit. You’re a spy!” said Serge. “For the last time, who put out the contract?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Coughing and spitting water. “You have to believe me!”

Coleman nudged Serge and whispered: “So he’s really a spy?”

“Naw,” said Serge. “Only another street-level stickup man. I’m just fucking with him.” He faced the water again. “I’ll make it simple for you. Was it the Marmoset or the Purple Gang?”

More coughing. “Okay, okay, it was the Purple Gang.”

“See?” said Serge. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“Now get me out!”

“You have everything you need to get yourself out. Remember the bonus round: Don’t panic.”

“Ahhhh!” Glub, glub, glub. He went under.

Serge and Coleman stared over the side of the dock. One minute. Two. Three. Then a burst of bubbles hit the surface.

“Guess he didn’t win the bonus round,” said Serge.

“What was that business about the Purple Gang?” said Coleman.

“Just proving a point in support of prisoner rights,” said Serge. “Torture doesn’t produce reliable confessions.” He swiveled his head left. “How are you doing with those loaves?”

“Pleeeeeeeeease!”

“It’s like the name of that movie,” said Serge. “ Hope Floats. Actually it dog paddles. Land’s that way. Only a few miles.”

“Little things are hitting me!”

“Those must be tropical fish. You should come out here in the daytime. Our coral reefs are magnificent!”

“More things hitting me! Are any of them dangerous?”

“Completely harmless. If I used meat, that would draw sharks. Bread only draws the little guys.”

“Draws them?”

“Yeah,” said Serge. “They like to eat it.”

The captive looked around in the water at a growing swarm of tiny fish nibbling through holes in the mesh bag.

Serge and Coleman hopped back in the boat.

“Wait!” yelled the man in the water. “You can’t leave me!”

Serge untied davit lines. “Remember the bonus round. Just stay calm.”

Coleman leaned over the bow. “Wow! Look at those fish go at it. The loaves are almost gone.”

Serge joined him up front. “They must love Cuban bread as much as I do.”

Like the first captive, the man’s head was tilted back, nose and mouth barely above the surface.

“Help-” Glub, glub, glub. Under he went.

The pair in the boat watched quietly. This time only two minutes until the bubbles came.

Serge started up the engine. “I would have bet anything at least one of them would win the bonus round.”

“What was the bonus round?” asked Coleman.

Serge slowly pulled away from the dock. “What’s the most logical thing to do in their predicament?”

“Hold your breath longer?”

“No, Coleman. Become buoyant again. Which means losing the weight belt.”

“But their hands were tied behind their backs.”

“And I put their belts on backward, so the release latch was right by those hands. If only they listened to me and remained calm.” Serge gave the engines full throttle back toward shore. “Panic causes more drownings. That’s what makes tonight’s tragedy especially senseless.”