Tiger Shrimp Tango

Chapter Three

PALM BEACH

The drive down South Ocean Boulevard, along the sand and surf of the Atlantic, is one of the most inspiring in the country. People come away describing an almost morphine-like sense of euphoria and bliss.

“Motherfucker!” screamed Courtney Styles, punching the ceiling of her Geo Prizm that needed transmission work and non-bald tires.

She pulled up the driveway of her uncle’s vacation cottage and couldn’t stay mad for long. It was the cutest little bungalow, and only three doors down from the ocean, cozily tucked in a nest of traveler’s palms and banana trees. Courtney especially liked the color combination of the villa’s yoke-yellow Bahama shutters and a phosphorus tropical green from those giant rain-forest leaves draping over the trim.

She unlocked the front door. One step inside before her fingers went numb. Keys hit the polished, blond-pine floor. Courtney’s unbelieving eyes worked their way wall to wall. “What on earth—?”

The first phone call was to the owner.

“No,” said her uncle. “We’ll call the cops. You go over to the neighbors where you’ll be safe.”

Before Courtney could ring the doorbell on the next house, nine squad cars and two vans from the Palm Beach Police Department arrived like they were paid massive bonuses for response time and overwhelming force to protect wealth, which they were. Black helmets dashed in a low crouch through the snapping foliage and took up an eight-point interlocking perimeter with laser sights and flash-bang options.

“Miss, are you okay?”

“Yes, but—”

The leader held up a hand as his walkie-talkie squawked. “Go ahead, Team Indigo? . . .” He listened, then turned to Courtney with a reassuring wink. “Indigo went in and cleared the kill box.”

“Kill box?”

“Office language,” said the commando commander. “Important thing is you’re safe. Come with me . . .”

Courtney decided she was beginning to like the thought of going back to school for her graduate degree. They reached the front of the bungalow, and the commander introduced her to a pair of detectives with mirror sunglasses and clipboards.

“So if I understand, ma’am, a few minutes ago you returned to this unfurnished cottage when something seemed suspicious?”

“Yes, it used to be furnished.”

“Of course,” said the second detective. “And the previous owners took their stuff when they left.”

“No, my uncle still owns it,” said Courtney. “They’re letting me live here this summer after graduation.”

“But they stripped the place down after the season, right?” said the first detective. “Very common here. I can give you statistics.”

“I’m saying it was furnished this morning.” She pointed. “Seventy-inch LED flat-screen in front of that jimmied-open wall safe.”

“But the safe is empty,” said the second.

“That’s the point,” said Courtney. “They got everything. I can’t believe how thorough they were.”

“I see.” The first wrote something on his clipboard. “When was the last time you saw this furniture?”

“About nine this morning when I left.”

“And where did you go?”

“Worth Avenue.”

“Did anyone see you there?”

“Wait a minute,” said Courtney. “I didn’t do it.”

“We’re not saying that,” began the first detective. “Some homes are hit at random . . .”

“. . . Others are targeted,” completed the second. “We’re just trying to determine if someone was watching you to establish your patterns.”

“Seen anyone out of place in the neighborhood?” asked the first. “Maybe in a parked car on your street?”

“No,” said Courtney. “Nobody.”

“What about a suspicious truck from the power company, where a guy is up in a cherry-picker basket supposed to be working on the lines, but instead he’s looking in bedroom windows with a zoom lens?”

“I would have noticed that,” said Courtney.

“You’d be surprised how many don’t,” said the first detective.

The second detective flipped back through his notes. “You said it’s your uncle’s place? So you’re not actually a resident of Palm Beach?”

“No, just the summer—”

The detective wrote quickly. “That changes everything.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Courtney.

“Nothing,” chimed his partner. “So you were on Worth Avenue this morning. What did you do?”

“I met someone for lunch.”

“What time?”

“Just before ten A.M.”

“That’s brunch.”

“Okay, brunch.”

“Are you changing your story?”

“No,” said Courtney. “Lunch, brunch, what’s the difference? I was robbed blind.”

“Interesting.” A pen pressed against a clipboard. “What was the name of this person you had this so-called brunch with?”

“Gustave.”

“Gustave what?”

“I don’t know,” said Courtney.

The pen came off the clipboard. “You don’t know your friend’s last name?”

The second peeked over the top of his sunglasses. “Do a lot of your friends not have last names?”

“No,” said Courtney. “I mean, when I say I met someone for lunch, I literally just met him.”

“Where?”

“On the sidewalk. He struck up a conversation and seemed nice enough, so we went to grab something to eat.”

Writing on both clipboards now. “Where did you go?”

Courtney opened her mouth, then realized she didn’t know how to say the name of the restaurant, and closed her mouth.

The first detective nodded. “I know that place.”

“Was it a long lunch?” asked the second.

“Pretty long.”

“You probably had a few drinks,” said the first. “How many?”

“Two . . . wait, three. I’m not sure.”

“Hard to remember?” More clipboard writing. “And given the hour, I’m guessing Bloody Marys.”

“Mimosas.”

“You seem to know your way pretty well around a bottle in the morning.”

“What are you implying?” said Courtney.

“Do you often discover vehicle damage you can’t remember?” said the first.

“Have all your relatives stopped lending you money?” said the second.

“No!”

“So you’ve been borrowing large amounts of money lately?”

“No!”

“Can’t keep your facts straight, can you?”

The first detective held an index finger in front of her eyes and slowly moved it side to side. “Just follow it best you can.”

“I am not a drunk!”

“Tell me, how much did you have to eat today?”

“Just one bite. And a shrimp cocktail, but it was the strangest—”

“So you’ve been drinking all morning on an empty stomach.” The first detective glanced at the second. “Gee, that fits no problem behavior model we know of.”

“Look,” said Courtney. “This polite guy asked me to lunch, we ordered— Can you please take your finger out of my face?”

“Is it making you dizzy?”

She just shook her head. “And when we were all finished at the restaurant, he got a phone call, and then he—”

“Stop,” said the first. “He got a phone call at the end of the meal?”

“And went to take it in private?” said the second.

“But he never came back,” said the first. “Sticking you with the check?”

“Probably said he had an expensive car out front?”

Courtney’s head swiveled back and forth like a tennis fan’s. “How’d you know?”

The detectives put their pens away.

Courtney looked from one to the other. “What’s going on?”

“We’ll need to get you with a sketch artist.”

“What for?”

“Ma’am, I’m afraid you’ve fallen victim to the dating bandit.”

“Dating bandit?”

“He finds his mark and follows her until he can arrange an ‘accidental’ meeting,” said the first.

“Sometimes they go to lunch right then . . .” said the second.

“. . . Sometimes he makes a date for later,” said the first.

“Depending on whether his crew is in position.”

“Crew?” said Courtney.

“He keeps the target occupied until getting the phone call telling him his crew is clear of the residence. Victims all over the state, from Orlando to Miami to Naples and Sarasota.”

Courtney was astonished. “If he’s done it so many times, how come he’s never been caught?”

“The term dating bandit is generic,” said the first.

“There are dozens of guys working separately,” said the second.

“Usually it’s lonely older women with a lot of jewelry.”

“That’s why we initially didn’t suspect it in this case, because of your age.”

Courtney’s brain raced to process data. “I don’t see any broken windows. How did they get in the house?”

“Probably a ‘bump’ key,” said the first detective.

“What’s that?”

“About twenty brands of locks cover ninety-five percent of the residential market, so they buy blanks to cover the spread . . .”

The other pulled out his own key chain. “See these ridges? They go up and down, high and low . . .

“. . . But on a ‘bump’ key, they’re all at the maximum height. Then they simply match the blank to the lock brand on your house.”

Courtney checked her own keys. “That’s kind of disconcerting. It just opens the door?”

“No, they have to practice,” said the first.

“An accomplice grabs the doorknob and applies torque, trying to turn it . . .”

“. . . And the other sticks the key in the opening of the lock and whacks it with a rubber mallet . . .”

“. . . If all goes right, the internal tumblers momentarily bounce, and the knob pops open in the hand of the guy applying pressure.”

Courtney leaned back against the door frame. “So what now?”

“We’ll have the sketch artist call . . .”

“. . . In the meantime, get your locks changed.”

“I’ll do it this afternoon,” said Courtney. “Will that stop another bump key?”

“No.”

The detectives headed out the door and down the front porch steps. The first stopped and turned. “Just one more thing, ma’am . . .”

“Yes?” said Courtney.

“How’d you like the shrimp cocktail?”

They walked away laughing.

STATE ROAD 60

High beams from a Firebird Trans Am was the only illumination for miles, splitting the thick night in that long no-man’s run between Lake Wales and Yeehaw.

A hamster crawled out of a bong. “Serge, I thought you were going to take care of this guy back at Busch Gardens.”

Serge slowed to let a rabbit cross the road. “I was, but realized they don’t have what I need there anymore. It would have been perfect back in the seventies, except I’m guessing the safety people decided to lower the risks.”

“Change of plans?”

“No, same plans. Plenty of other places have since cropped up that’ll work just as well.”

A few more minutes and the black Pontiac pulled up alongside a barbed-wire fence. There was a gate with a gnarled wooden sign across the top. Coleman read it and turned to Serge. “You’ve got to be kidding. He’s going to be tickled to death?”

Serge grabbed a pair of bolt cutters. “You’d be surprised.”

Soon the muscle car bounded across one of the most wide-open plains in all of Florida.

Coleman leaned toward the windshield. “Are you going to let me watch this time?”

“From a safe distance.”

“Yes!”

They finally reached the approximate center of the prairie flats. Coleman started opening his door.

Serge lunged and yanked the handle shut. “Are you crazy! Want to get us killed?”

“Why are you so freaked out?” said Coleman. “There might be another bunny out there?”

“It will soon become more than evident. But whatever you do, don’t get out of the car.”

Serge pulled his gun and stepped out of the Firebird, pointing it into the darkness. He slowly inched his way to the back of the Firebird.

The trunk popped.

Eyes blinked like a waking child.

“Good, you’re still dazed,” said Serge, ripping the tape off Roscoe’s mouth. “Listen, I’ve done some thinking and, whatever you’ve done, I’ve been displaying a complete lack of empathy. So you’re free to go.”

“Huh, what?”

Serge untied Nash and helped him out of the trunk.

Roscoe just stood and stared.

Serge waved with the gun. “Go on. Git!”

“Uh, okay, sure.”

Roscoe took slow steps backward as Serge scrambled into the driver’s seat and hit the gas like he’d just gotten the green flag at Daytona.

Coleman bounced against the ceiling as the Firebird sprang across dips and mounds. “Ow, ow, ow, what’s the hurry? Ow, ow . . .”

“We need to get back outside the fence and lock the gate as soon as possible.” Serge veered and barely missed a watering hole. “I didn’t tell you this before because of your marijuana situation, but we’re not even safe in this car.”

“What!”

“It’s got a tight suspension that doesn’t let us go very fast in this terrain. And the windows aren’t tempered to the proper strength.”

Moments later, the Trans Am was back on the shoulder of State Road 60 with the gate adequately secured. Serge and Coleman leaned against fence posts, peering into the dark expanse.

“Just remembered something,” said Coleman. “You mentioned at the jail that you posted his bail?”

“What a bargain! Paid the bondsman ten cents on the buck.”

“But why would you waste good money that way?”

“It’s like those credit-card ads,” said Serge. “Bailing a dipstick out of jail: eight hundred dollars. What happens now: priceless!”

Serge returned his gaze to the field, resting his chin on top of a post. A quarter mile away, a tiny silhouette turned in a circle and glanced around.

“Nothing’s happening,” said Coleman. “He’s just standing in the open, looking confused.”

“He will soon be accompanied by other thoughts.”

“Wait, what’s that?”

“Where?”

Coleman stretched out an arm. “Way over there to the right.”

“Are you sure?”

Coleman looked down at his sneakers. Written across the toes in Magic Marker: R on one; L on the other.

“I mean the left,” said Coleman. “Even farther away from the guy than we are. It’s not moving. Just standing upright like a human, but the shape’s not right.”

“The guy sees it,” said Serge. “He’s starting to back up. The thing has spotted him and is beginning to walk in his direction.”

“Where’d you get this idea anyway?”

“From a friend who worked at Busch Gardens in the seventies,” said Serge. “He used to run the rib shack, and people really must have loved ribs back then because by the end of the day, they had such huge piles of ashes from the wood they’d burned that it filled several fifty-five-gallon drums. Then they loaded the drums on the back of a big Cushman golf cart, and the animal handlers would give them the all clear, open the gates and wave them through. They’d drive around the Serengeti Plain in the dark, spreading the ashes because it’s a good fertilizer.”

“That doesn’t sound dangerous,” said Coleman.

“It’s not,” said Serge. “Except one night when they reached their first drop point, faint yelling erupted back at the gate: ‘Get out of there! Get out now!’ My friend turned and realized they hadn’t secured all the wildlife. So he mashed the pedal of the golf cart all the way down, racing for the gate and praying. He’d worked at the park a long time and knew one extreme peril that the general public would never suspect.”

“Peril?” Coleman looked up at the gnarled ranch sign over the gate. “I’m not buying it.”

“I was skeptical, too, so I did some research on the Internet.” Serge watched his former captive break into a full sprint. “Found reports of several deaths every year in South Africa and Louisiana, even videos on YouTube. One article quoted a California zookeeper saying that they’d had a couple lions escape since they opened, except they weren’t worried because the big cats were old and sluggish. But there was one zoo resident whose possibility of escape freaked them out more than all the others and required the tightest security.”

“It’s starting to chase him,” said Coleman, tracking the pursuit with a pointed finger. “Man, I had no idea they could run that fast.”

“A sustained forty miles an hour, with even faster bursts.” Serge raised binoculars. “That’s what my friend at Busch Gardens found out.”

“But, Serge, when you’re waxing a dude, you usually like it to have some kind of . . .” Coleman stopped to ponder.

“Theme?” said Serge.

“That’s it.”

“Oh, it’s got a theme all right. Some of the finest unknown Florida history around. Back in the late 1800s, they had breeding farms all over the northern half of the state, some for the meat, others for entertainment.”

“Entertainment? Like this?” Coleman gestured across the field at their former hostage, who was losing ground.

“Believe it or not, they used to race these things with little jockeys on their backs. Around 1890, a farm in Jacksonville actually became one of the earliest Florida tourist attractions, with a greyhound-like track. I don’t know if they placed bets. There were other races and farms, including one in St. Petersburg. EBay has some hundred-year-old sepia-tone postcards of people saddling these babies up. Then the whole thing died out until a couple decades ago when breeders started getting good money again for the drumsticks, and they began a resurgence.”

Coleman looked up at the sign again: CIRCLE K OSTRICH RANCH. “So what happened to your friend?”

“The ostrich was much faster than his golf cart, so while my friend drove, the other guy from the rib shack starts pushing fifty-five-gallon drums off the back, one after another, and the ostrich just hurdles them like one of those exciting raptor chases from Jurassic Park. The barrels slowed the bird down just enough to let their cart shoot out the gate at the last second, and they can now laugh about it today.”

Coleman’s finger was still pointing. “It’s almost to the guy. He’s looking over his shoulder . . . But what makes an ostrich so dangerous? Their beaks don’t look too scary.”

“Not beaks, their feet.” Serge held his hands apart like a fisherman bragging about a catch. “They’re huge and powerful, and if you saw a cropped photo without the rest of the bird, you’d swear they belonged to a dinosaur, which on the evolutionary family tree is actually correct. Each foot has two toes with a giant weapon at the end that is a cross between a hoof and a talon.”

“Can I borrow the binoculars?”

Serge handed them over, and Coleman followed the action with magnification. “It’s just a few yards behind him now . . . How do they use those toes, anyway?”

“In the case of human attack, first they knock their prey down and pin the person on their back with one foot . . .”

Coleman tightened the focus. “Just happened.”

“. . . Then they start raking their victim’s chest with the other foot.”

A shrill, spine-tingling scream echoed across the field. “Put a check mark there,” said Coleman.

“The feet are so powerful that they easily rip out all the ribs and keep going through the internal organs until the dude’s on empty.”

“Something went flying,” said Coleman. “Definitely a rib.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Coleman kept his eyes pressed to the binoculars. “Ostriches are cool!”

“I’m thinking of approaching some of these farmers to start up the races again.”

“What happened to your empathy thing?” asked Coleman.

“Just because I was forced to mete out justice doesn’t mean I don’t feel his pain.”

“There goes a liver.”

“Ouch.”

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