but they all called her Madre. They weren’t related.
The men ate with manners and strong appetites. Cuban loaves at one end, Wonderbread in its original sack at the other. Bottle of sangria. Idle conversation, weather, sports, relatives’ diseases. Against the wall, eighty bank- wrapped packs of hundred-dollar bills on a dessert cart.
The woman rested back in her chair, sipping wine. She looked to her left. “Guillermo, will you be able to take care of our situation today?”
He washed down a bite with milk. “Yes, Madre. No problem.”
“Good.” She paused and nodded. “Very good.”
Behind her on the kitchen counter, stacks of tightly bound kilo bricks and a yellow raincoat.
“What about civilians?” asked Miguel.
Juanita shrugged. “If that’s what it takes to be certain.” She stood and dug two large wooden spoons into the paella. “Pedro, you’re getting too thin.”
He placed a hand on his stomach. “Stuffed.”
She turned with the spoons. “Miguel?”
He pushed his plate back. “Can’t eat another bite.”
The rest set napkins on the table.
Juanita reached into her apron and handed Guillermo a folded sheet of stationery. “Here’s the list of names he gave me.”
“Glad
“They never do,” said Juanita.
Everyone turned toward the head chair at the opposite end of the table.
Juanita stood again. “Is he secure?”
“Won’t be running off anywhere soon.”
“Funny,” said the woman. “Didn’t touch his food.”
A round of laughter.
Juanita walked along the back of the table. Her shoes made a crinkling sound on the plastic tarp under the last chair. She looked down at the tied-up man, a black hood over his quivering head.
Guillermo came over from the other side and yanked off the hood. The man stared up at them with pleading eyes, gag in his mouth.
Juanita simply held out her arms. Two others at the table quickly got up, grabbed the yellow raincoat and slipped it on her. She smiled and patted their involuntary guest on the head, then turned her back.
When she faced him again, the man’s eyes went to what was in her hands.
Juanita leaned forward, placed the electric carving knife to his neck and pressed the power switch.
Chapter Two
FORT MYERS
Coleman turned around in his passenger seat. “We got another that likes to bang.”
“Note to self,” Serge said into a digital recorder. “Soundproof trunk.”
The Challenger pulled into a strip mall.
“What are you doing?”
“My new business. Spring-training tickets and trunk insulation aren’t free.” Serge got out, popped the rear hood and motioned with a pistol. “Would you mind rolling a little to your left? You’re on top of something I need… Thanks.”
He closed the trunk.
They started at the far end of the shopping center. Dry cleaners. Bells jingled. Serge approached the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“No, but I can help you!” said Serge. “Hate to cold-call like this, but spring training left me no choice.”
“I’m sorry,” said the clerk. “We don’t allow solicitors.”
“Then we’re brothers in the struggle!” Serge held up his hand for a high five that never came. The clerk looked curiously at Coleman, swaying and drinking from a paper bag.
Serge slapped the counter. “Pay attention! Opportunity knocks! Sometimes it plays a tambourine or makes shadow puppets, but mostly it knocks. Are you ready? Bet you can’t wait! Knock-knock! Hi, I’m Opportunity!” Serge placed a pile of large, thick-stock white cards on the counter. He flipped up the top one, covered with Magic Marker handwriting.
NO SOLICITING.
The clerk scratched his head. “You’re soliciting to sell ‘No Soliciting’ signs?”
“I know! Can’t believe it hasn’t been thought of before: The perfect mix of product and presentation. We came in here creating a problem
“I-”
Serge pounded the counter again. “Hell no! You have important stains to get out and can’t waste time with every bozo who wanders in from the street with bottles of the latest stain-removal craze, but they’re really just giving all their money to a doomsday cult with their fancy suicide machines and little or no interest in the laundry arts. I’m sure they’ve already been in here a thousand times.”
“Not really-”
“Five dollars,” said Serge. “I’ll even throw in ‘No Public Rest-rooms.’ That’s actually more critical. Ever seen a restroom after Coleman’s done his fandango?” Serge whistled. “Not a pretty picture.”
“I don’t think-”
“There’s a guy in our trunk,” said Coleman.
“Maybe I need to amp the presentation.” Serge leaned comfortably against the counter and stared at the ceiling. “I love dry cleaners. Could hang out for hours…”
Coleman raised his hand. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“… Always wondered,” said Serge, idly tapping his fingers. “What the fuck’s Martinizing?”
“If you don’t leave I’m calling the police.”
Next stop, dentist office. Same story. Accounting firm, ice cream parlor, nope, nope.
Computer repair, walk-in clinic. “Howdy! Pay no attention to the man behind the beer…”
The owner of the dog-grooming service pointed at an already-posted NO S OLICITING sign.
“My point exactly,” said Serge. “Did it stop
“Out!”
They reached a drugstore. Serge pulled a handwritten list from his wallet and headed toward the back.
“Wait up,” said Coleman. “Aren’t you going to sell your signs?”
“Not yet. Have to pick up a few things. Let’s see…” He began grabbing items off shelves. “… Nylon rope, pliers, razor blades, duct tape-naturally-nine-volt batteries, broom, saw…”
“One of your projects?”
Serge turned up the next aisle. “If this baby doesn’t win me a grant… Kwik Dry superglue, wire cutters, tape measure, kite string…”
He finally arrived at the counter and tried to pay with some signs, but the cashier said they only took dollars and credit cards.
