Tiger Shrimp Tango

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!”

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