Tiger Shrimp Tango

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 tables 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.

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