“Like shampoo. Repeat as needed.” He went back to the trunk for the second hostage. Into the other hole. Dirt shoveled in. Serge’s soil-packing dance again.

  Two heads looked up with wide, puzzled eyes.

  Serge smiled back. “Inland Florida is such a hoot!”

  Time passed. An invisible moon tacked across the sky. The Javelin’s engine was running with the front hood up. A metal can rested on the radiator cap.

  “Can you dig it?” Serge swept an arm across the dim panorama. “We’re blessed with a rare opportunity to soak in the pure, untainted natural essence of Florida exactly as the original Tin Can Tourists found her almost a century ago.”

  “Even wiggling heads sticking out of the ground?”

  “Especially wiggling heads. Florida’s changed, but people haven’t.” Serge dipped a spoon into the can and tested a sip. “Still too cold.”

  “Can I try?”

  “Go for it.”

  Coleman ladled a spoon into his mouth. “Ow. That’s pretty hot.”

  “Not for me,” said Serge. “I demand all my soup be tongue-blistering.”

  “Then how do you eat it?”

  “I don’t. It’s way too hot. I have to blow on it awhile. That’s why I love soup! Anticipation building while I blow until I lose interest and dump it out.”

  Coleman peered back through the barbed wire at what looked like two bowling balls in the darkness. “I still don’t get what you have planned for those dudes.”

  “Plan’s complete.” Serge wrapped a towel around the tin can and removed it from the radiator. “Mechanism’s already in motion, totally self-contained and under its own renewable, earth-friendly power.”

  Coleman pointed at the radiator. “May I?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Coleman stepped forward with his own can. It was empty and dry. He set it on the radiator cap, then began breaking up pot buds and dropping them inside.

  Serge rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure I want to ask.”

  “Old party technique, but you have to know someone who’s no Bogart.” Coleman meticulously disassembled another bud. “Fill an aluminum can with a two-finger bag, stick it on a hot plate in a bath room, then cram as many people as you can inside and hyperventilate. You want to talk about high.”

  “What made you think of trying it here?”

  “All your history talk.” Coleman turned his Baggie upside down, emptying residual shake into the can. “Dope goes way back. Bet anything those Tin Can guys were getting righteously ripped.”

  Serge dumped chicken noodle on the ground. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Coleman looked at the surrounding fields and woods and marshland. “No TV out here. And back before TV, dope was TV. All the heads understand this.” Tendrils of smoke began snaking out of Coleman’s can. He bent over and inhaled deeply. “Like you know how one of my favorite TV shows will be coming on, and I’ll fix myself a plate of Cheetos and torch a mondo fattie?” Coleman leaned for another deep breath. “Then I’ll get so stoned I forget to turn on the TV and just watch my reflection in the blank tube for a half hour? Still a good show.”

  A chorus of grunting in the background. Serge turned toward the fenced pen. “Speaking of show …”

  On the other side of the gate, the gathering of dark forms began to emerge from shadows.

  “Hey,” said Coleman. “Those pigs don’t have those things.”

  “That’s pretty specific.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Coleman, wiggling an index finger on each side of his nose. “The pointy deals on the wild pigs we saw run in front of the car.”

  “Tusks.”

  “I thought when you handed me your field guide and said the pigs gave you an idea, we were going to bury these guys so they could get stabbed in the head with tusks.”

  “That would be gross.”

  “I was looking forward to it.”

  “Those were wild boar, but they gave me the idea because people all around these parts raise livestock pigs,” said Serge. “Most people don’t realize how extremely intelligent they are because of their poor hygiene. But pigs roll in the mud to cool off because they don’t have sweat glands.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  “Sniffing the heads.” Serge walked over and leaned on one of the fence posts like a ranch hand. “Incredible sense of smell. That’s how they find truffles. Another thing about pigs is they’re omnivorous. Nature’s garbage disposal. Devour absolutely anything, I mean anything.”

  “Eat their own poop?”

  “Coleman, you ask me that same question every day, except this is the first time it’s in context. Yes, they do.”

  “What about attack?”

  “No, just your friendly foragers. But if something’s conveniently left on their plate, like a dead or injured animal that can’t move much, they won’t send it back to the kitchen. And afterward, nothing left, no hair, not even the smallest bone.”

  “Like piranha?”

  “No. Well, yes. Well, maybe super-slow-motion piranha. They just kind of gently nibble at their own relaxed pace. It’s actually kinda cute.”

  “Like what that first pig is doing to the top of that guy’s scalp?”

  “Field guides are worth every penny.”

  Four hours later, the sun rose on foggy, dew-covered fields. The farmer had been making his rounds since well before first light. He left the chicken coop for a short tractor drive down the hill to his pigpen, where he hoisted a hefty burlap sack and began scattering feed to the swine herd. Nothing out of the ordinary, just like every other morning-except for a pair of barely noticeable reddish-brown circles in the mud at ground level.

  BIG WATER

  End of another day in paradise. The atmospheric conditions were Serge’s favorite. Cirrus clouds refracted the setting sun into chromatic brilliance, while a distant storm front sent flaming shafts across some of the most wide-open ranch and wetlands in all of central Florida. Nearer to his vantage, waning light peeked through palms and danced off a tiny nest of silver mobile homes.

  Serge and Coleman had binoculars. Serge scanned the horizon. Coleman uncapped an eyepiece on his nonfunctioning pair and swigged from the hidden flask inside. Serge panned to the south. “Absolutely beautiful. I can never get enough of the lake.”

  “Lake?” said Coleman. “Thought that was the ocean.” “Coleman, we’re in the middle of the state.” “Are you sure? I can’t see the other side.”

  “Because it’s Lake Okeechobee. Big Water in the Native-American tongue.”

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Baked muck. Never seen the lake level so low.” Binoculars panned the eastern shore. “Down at least eight feet from the drought, killing the local sportsmen economy. Probably finding all kinds of bodies and weapons and stolen cars at receded banks. On the bright side, it’s the perfect opportunity to add bodies.” Serge pulled out a pen and pad. “Note to self: …”

  Coleman looked over a railing, got dizzy and stumbled back. “How high up are we?”

  “Five-story viewing platform. I’m helpless to resist viewing platforms, and my life record is still intact: never passed one without stopping and climbing to the top, or at least being told to get off the fence if the gate is locked.”

  “What’s that giant grass wall in front of the shore?”

  “Massive berm. Runs all the way around the lake. That’s why we have to be up here to see the water.”

  Coleman chugged his binoculars. “What’s the berm for?”

  “To prevent a repeat of the ‘28 hurricane, which literally pushed the lake onto the surrounding countryside, killing hundreds.”

  Coleman walked across the platform and looked over the opposite railing at a flat tar roof. “I’ve never seen a viewing platform on top of a motel before.”

  “It’s the Pier 2 Resort.” Serge jotted in the notebook. “That’s why they’re getting extra-high marks in my report. They didn’t have to, but the owners spared no expense for the enjoyment of their paying guests.”

  “So this is our hotel tonight?”

  “No, we snuck up here.” Serge slipped his notepad in a pocket. “Let’s go to the bar.”

  They climbed down and started across the parking lot. Coleman poked Serge. “The hotel’s back there. Where are you going?”

  “To the bar.”

  Serge headed away from civilization and toward the lake. Just outside the berm, the lake was surrounded by a man-made access waterway, which shallowed into a dense swamp that stretched the last couple hundred yards to shore. Serge reached the edge of land and stopped at a sign: NO SWIMMING, BEWARE OF ALLIGATORS.

  Coleman caught up. “That’s the bar?”

  “One of the finest in all of Florida.”

  They strolled a lengthy boardwalk. Ahead: a small building on stilts in the middle of the swamp. Serge circled its wraparound porch until they reached another boardwalk that extended from the pub’s screened-in back deck, farther toward the lake.

  “Serge, we just passed the bar.”

  “Exactly. I’m checking all escape routes. Then we enter from the rear. They won’t expect that.”

  “Who won’t?”

  But Serge just kept walking. Even though the planks were elevated a good six feet, the surrounding reeds and cattails reached above their heads and, with the growing darkness, came alive in a racket of nightlife.

  Coleman clutched Serge’s sleeve with both hands. “What’s all that eerie noise?”

  “Bullfrogs and insects.”

  “What?”

  “Bullfrogs and insects!”

  “It’s freakin’ loud!”

  “That’s the thing about inland Florida. The coasts deceive us into thinking we humans are running things, but out here you realize nature’s the true boss and can swallow you in a blink.”

  “Serge, I’m scared.”

  “We’re perfectly safe up here, just stay on the boardwalk. Whatever else you do, keep telling yourself: Never get off the boardwalk.”

  Serge eventually came to the end of the pier. The water’s surface was, as they say, like glass, reflecting the last twilight, perfect for picking out ominous, drifting bumps.

  “There’s an alligator,” said Serge. “And another. And another. Man, they’re everywhere! Coleman, let’s see how many we can count. Five, ten, fifteen … Coleman?…”

  Serge turned around. Empty boardwalk.

  “Coleman!” His eyes shot left and right. Off to the side, a cluster of nearby reeds shook wildly. Serge ran over. “Coleman! What are you doing down there?”

  “I found this big dope plant!” More shaking vegetation. “I can’t get it loose. Come help me.”

  “Coleman, it’s just a swamp reed.”

  “Are you sure ?”

  “I’m sure you’re an idiot. Give me your hand!”

  Serge reeled him up just as unseen reptilian jaws snapped below his feet.

  Coleman rubbed scratched-up palms on his pants. “Now can we go to the bar for that meeting of yours?”

  “Sure, he’s here.”

  “You just saw him arrive?”

  “No, he’s been here the whole time.”

  “Then why weren’t we in the bar?”

  “Had to give the alcohol time to take effect.”

  They entered through the back deck. Tables pushed together again in the middle of the room. The Okeechobee Coin & Stamp Show.

  Serge and Coleman proceeded directly to a pair of empty stools at the bar. A draft and bottled water arrived.

  Coleman toasted his buddy. “Pretty cool joint.”

  “One of the coolest.” Serge pointed above rows of bottles behind the bartender, where three-sided bay windows provided a panorama of the darkening swamp. “That’s my number one rule for bars: All the best have views behind the bottles, like the revolving lounge at Tampa International or the top of La Concha in Key West. Except those have views over stuff. This is even better, looking out from inside the swamp.”

  Coleman signaled for a refill. “Where’s Story? I almost forgot about her.”

  “Studying back at the motel.”

  “I didn’t see her at the motel, either.”

  “Got her a separate room.”

  “What for?”

  “Our relationship is progressing more rapidly than I’d anticipated. We’re getting on each other’s nerves.”

  “How do you know it’s the relationship? Men and women do that anyway.”

  “You’re right,” said Serge. “But she’s also started using sex as a weapon.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Remember how the Romans built their empire by laying siege to a city? Think of that with guest towels.”

  “Can I use sex as a weapon?”

  “You already do, except in your case it’s a nuclear deterrent.”

  “But she’s still hanging with us, right?”

  “She’s still with us, just won’t be around as often now that classes are about to start at the college.”

  Coleman turned toward the crowd at the tables. “Where’s Steve?”

  “Over there on the end.”

  “Why didn’t you meet with him before, right after we saw him talking with those guys you left in the pigpen?”

  “Because the Master Plan has to evolve and constantly change its approach, or the gang will scatter before I have a chance to pick off a satisfying number.”

  “So how’d you convince Steve to meet?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t know we’re meeting. That’s why this has to be handled very delicately. My gambit must be completely …”

  Coleman stuck two fingers in his mouth and made a shrill whistle. “Yo! Steve!” Big waving motion with his arm. “Over here!” (,

  “… subtle. Thanks, Coleman.”

  Steve came over and gave the pair a look of non-recognition. “Do I know you?”

  “Met a bunch of times,” said Serge. “Hotel bars.”

  Steve didn’t like the vibe. “Sorry, you got the wrong guy. I don’t know you.”

  “Let me buy you a drink.”

  “I remember you now.” He grabbed a stool. “Bart?” “Serge.”

  Steve raised a finger to the bartender. “Double Chivas on the rocks, his tab.” He turned to Serge. “So how’s business been?”

  “Business is wonderful! Couldn’t be better! So good, in fact, that I have a proposition for you.”

  Steve laughed. “I’ve heard this come-on before. Should have known: There’s no such thing as a free drink.”

  “Seriously,” said Serge. “My business is taking off.”

  “It’s on the tip of my tongue,” said Steve. “Your business was…”

  Serge leaned and lowered his voice. “I fix problems. Heard you have a big one.”

  Steve cocked his head back with a new expression. “Who are you, really?”

  “Close friend of Howard Long.”

  “Howard?”

  “The guy who sold vintage Florida souvenirs at your shows.”

  “Ohhhhh.” Steve began nodding. “I remember him. Great kid. Just terrible what happened to him. Absolute shame, the decline of this state.”

  “Interesting perspective since you were in on it.”

  “Huh? Me? …”-pointing over-innocently at his own chest- “… What are you talking about. I barely knew the guy.”

  “You recruited him to be a courier. He told me in the hospital,” said Serge. “But I could always be wrong. I’ll check with the police-“

  “Okay, okay, look …” Steve glanced around, then scooted closer. “I lied about not knowing him because the whole courier thing is very confidential and I don’t know who you guys are. But if you say he told you at the hospital … I mean, you understand my position.”

  “I understand your position. Ten percent.”

  “What?”

  “More or less. But ten would be the standard cut for fingering Howard.”

  “I have no idea what you’re-“

  “You recruited him, and he gets hit on the first run. What are the odds? Nobody knew where he was staying or that he was holding. Except you.”

  Steve shook his head and got off his stool. “Thanks for the drink.”

  Serge raised the edge of his tropical shirt, revealing a pistol butt. “Don’t be rude.”

  Steve sat back down and became verbally incontinent. “… I’m so sorry. It was all a mistake. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the room. These guys are crazy. They’ll kill me. I just want to sell coins. You’re not going to kill me, are you? I’m so sorry …”

  “Get a grip. And stop crying-you’re attracting attention.”

  He sniffled and wiped his eyes.

  “That’s better.” Serge handed him a napkin. “Nobody’s going to kill you. At least I’m not. But you have to do me a favor.”

  Steve blew his nose. “What is it?”

  “I’m guessing right about now the gang is pretty pissed at you for the two guys they lost going after your last target.”

  “You know about that?”

  Serge smiled.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Keep your shit together,” said Serge. “I told you: I fix problems. If you go back to them with a new courier, it could go a long way toward smoothing ruffled feathers.”

  “But I don’t have a new courier.”

  “I do. The perfect guy.”

  “Who?”

  Serge beamed and thumped his chest. “Me!”

  “You?”

  “I know. Isn’t it great?” Serge slapped Steve on the back. “We’re going to be partners! Spending all kinds of time together, barbecuing in each other’s backyards …”

  Tears returned. “I can’t take this anymore.”

  “I’m afraid you’re between a rock and a hard place. Of course I’m the one who put you there. Sometimes I’m the rock, sometimes the hard place, sometimes both if there’s enough elbow room.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Just plug me into your network, and I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  “No, I mean my distributor will never go for it. He’ll smell this a mile away.”

  “Look, I’m not going to be a real courier. So there won’t be any gems to worry about.”