Tiger Shrimp Tango

Chapter Twenty-Two

ORANGE BLOSSOM TRAIL

Serge stuck the coffee tube back in his mouth and hustled Coleman down the hall. There was no specific beginning to the exhibit, but the building gradually changed.

“Freaky,” said Coleman. “There are no straight edges in the room. Everything curves and bends and is shiny.”

“And it’s all covered with retro circles and swirls and starbursts in colors only found on Jefferson Airplane’s tour bus.” Serge marveled as he slowly snaked through the winding displays. “Check out these lighted bubbles in the walls and domed pedestals with the funkiest Tupperware I haven’t seen since I was a kid. It isn’t just an homage to nostalgia. We’re actually in the sixties. This is like the last and greatest parts of the Carousel of Progress from the 1964 World’s Fair that Disney disassembled and rebuilt up the road at the Magic Kingdom. Then at some point they chucked the sixties diorama and ruined everything, but who knew it landed over here.”

“Trippy—” Coleman turned and rotated his head. “I hear God’s voice.”

Serge pointed up at flush-mounted speakers. “Piped-in narration.”

“ . . . Every one-point-seven seconds, a Tupperware party starts somewhere in the world . . .”

“I didn’t know the parties were still going on,” said Coleman. “And that they’re using stopwatches.”

“So that’s what those international plaques in the hallway were about,” said Serge. “The parties may be played out a little here in the States, but the rest of the world is just discovering that hand-to-hand gelatin-mold transactions are a joyous intermission between Greek austerity riots.”

They walked past a concave sequence of interlocking screens flashing historic Technicolor images, and approached a round column of pinwheel flowers.

Serge tucked the flex tube under his shirt. “I feel like I’m in one of John Lennon’s dreams.”

“Did his dreams have a dollar-bill slot?”

“What? . . . Oh my God!” Serge ran up and placed respectful hands against the column. “A vending machine for miniature Tupperware souvenirs on key chains . . .” Serge fumbled for his wallet again. “Someone must have been spying on me when they conceived this place.”

Moments later, Serge’s pockets bulged with key chains hanging out. He stared into the billfold. “No more singles. Just fives and tens . . .” He looked up. “Where’d you come from?”

The employee smiled. “Do you need change?”

“No, I better cut myself off,” said Serge. “But thanks.”

The person smiled again and dematerialized behind the column.

“That was weird,” said Coleman.

“I know.” Serge put his wallet away. “Again, behavioral quirks that are shunned everywhere else are aggressively nurtured here . . . And I think I’ve just received my inspiration for dealing with the next scam artist . . . To the gift shop!”

They strolled the aisles with gusto. Coleman poked Serge’s arm and glanced backward: “There’s somebody following us.”

“I’m aware. Just be cool and ignore her.” Serge mentally cataloged the inventory of passing shelves. “I knew this was too good to be true. I’ve pushed our visit into the annoyance zone, and now the hammer is about to come down. But it’s critical that I pick up a few things first before we hit the mailbox.”

Coleman glimpsed back again. “What are we going to do?”

“Stall her long enough before we hear the fatal words—”

From behind: “Can I help you?”

Serge seized up and clenched his eyes. “Damn, so close.” He turned around with a guilty heart. “Why? I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You looked like you could use some assistance finding something.”

Serge glanced oddly at Coleman.

Coleman shrugged.

“Uh, I actually could use a tiny bit of help.”

“Sure, anything . . .”

Seconds later, Serge led the employee briskly down another aisle: “How much is this? . . . How much is this? . . . How much is this? . . . Is this in a different color? . . . Is this in a different size? . . . Can this withstand radiation? . . . How much is this? . . .”

“Serge,” whispered Coleman. “She’s answering every question. And she’s not getting pissed.”

“I know,” Serge whispered back, and headed for the cash register. “Now I get why they call it the Confidence Center: It’s an ethereal never-land of serenity that’s not as much a corporate headquarters as the meditation retreat of a controversial church. I feel such inner peace and unconditional acceptance that I never want to leave.”

They left the building by the giant dandelion.

Serge turned his cell phone back on, and it rang immediately. He began opening it.

“You’re actually going to answer this time?” said Coleman.

“Since I now have my inspiration, our appointment schedule just opened up.” He placed it to his ear. “Hey, Mahoney, what’s shaking? . . . I know you’ve been trying to call. My phone went dead and had to be recharged, and when I turned it back on I saw all the times you tried to reach me. Must be awfully important . . . Sure, we’re free to come back to Miami to get in position. Be there in a few hours. Later . . .”

Serge and Coleman walked off into the sunset with brimming Tupperware shopping bags in each hand.

FORT LAUDERDALE

Floral arrangements continued arriving.

All shapes. Ovals, horseshoes, a bunch of roses supposed to look like a fireman’s helmet.

They sat on easels along the front wall. The flowers kept coming because people didn’t. Couldn’t break away from New York or afford the trip in the economy.

Brook Campanella sat in the first row of a room full of empty folding Samsonite chairs. The casket was open for the viewing. The funeral director solemnly stood off to the left side near the door. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his face was a long, sad countenance of deepest empathy. He was thinking about an upcoming fishing trip.

Brook had set her cell phone on vibrate, but what did it matter?

It vibrated.

She flipped it open. “Hello?”

“Ms. Campanella, this is Ken Shapiro of Shapiro, Heathcote-Mendacious—”

“I know,” said Brook.

“I’m calling because I have great news. Upon further inquiry, I ultimately received a press release faxed from the DEA about a fraud alert on someone impersonating one of their agents in a phone scam. If your father had been present to answer the call, he would have been told of pending charges against him that could be dropped if a civil fine was immediately paid through Western Union. It was all a hoax.”

“What?”

“After getting the news release, I did an online search and found several chat rooms where all these furious people want to strangle the fake agent. Apparently the guy was good, and some victims paid up to six thousand dollars. The chat rooms tell almost identical stories of being on the phone with him, shaking uncontrollably and almost having heart attacks. One Internet bulletin board is even making progress tracking him. He’s hit Maryland, Tennessee and is now believed to be in Florida.”

“But—”

“I know your next question. The common denominator was that all his marks had recently had their credit-card data compromised. Did that happen to your father?”

“I . . . uh, have to go.”

“Okay, but I knew you’d want to know right away. Aren’t you happy?”

She hung up.

Brook sat quietly alone for the rest of the viewing.

At the end, she heard someone clear his throat. The funeral director.

“Yes.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Brook dabbed her eyes. “Thank you.”

The director smiled with practiced sympathy. “But you’ll have to move on.”

She nodded—“I know. My father would want me to”—and got out another tissue.

“No, I mean you have to go.” The director pointed toward the doorway and two employees standing in the hall. “They need to wheel in the next casket. The family’s already starting to arrive.”

Brook got up without reaction and drove home in a ten-year-old Ford Focus. If electrode pads had been attached to her head, they would have detected brain activity on the level of a major thunderstorm.

She pulled into the driveway, went up to the condo and opened the door.

Brook stopped with an open mouth.

On top of the TV stand was a lot of air. Her eyes went to an empty shelf where the stereo had been. She roamed room to room. The silverware stuck deep in the closet was gone, including the cake knife from her parents’ wedding. They’d gotten Ronald’s watch and favorite cuff links.

The police were exceptionally polite, taking notes and offering condolences. They had been encountering more and more burglary victims wearing black.

Brook fought tears at the kitchen table. “What are the odds my father died because of a scam . . . ?” She turned generally toward the living room. “. . . And then this.”

“I’m afraid it probably wasn’t a coincidence,” said the lead detective, still jotting on a pad.

Brook looked up quickly. “What do you mean, not a coincidence? Are you saying that the person who left the phone message also robbed us?”

The detective shook his head. “What I mean is you put a funeral notice in the newspaper, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So you shouldn’t have done that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s a sad commentary on the direction of society,” said the detective. “But we’ve begun distributing Crime Stopper tips to grieving relatives about what details to withhold from the newspapers.”

“What for?”

“Because most of the people reading funeral notices today in South Florida are criminals looking to burglarize the homes of survivors during the viewing. You may want to have someone watch this place.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes they come back during the burial.”

“What the hell is wrong with these people!”

The detective solemnly bowed his head. “They have no empathy.”

Soon, all the notebooks were closed. The police offered their condolences again and let themselves out.

Brook was left sitting alone in silence. The thunderstorm in her brain spun off downpours with hail.

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