Felicia smiled. “You were pretty funny when you were under. What’s the whole anger issue with guest towels?”
“Used to be married. Long story,” said Serge. “I don’t approve of Tiger Woods, but I heard he had like eighteen bathrooms. How much can a man take?”
More gorgeous people in thongs and T-backs rollerbladed by. On the ocean side of the street, bodybuilders flexed at women in convertibles. Pink and lime lifeguard shacks shaped like time machines. A film crew from Japan shot a TV commercial for sake.
At one of the alfresco tables, a deal was being closed. A ruggedly handsome man with striking Latin features and long, sexy black hair dined with an equally attractive woman in a swimsuit. In two months, her Sports Illustrated photos would hit the stands, and she’d become a supermodel. But right now she was still an Above- Average Model.
The man reached across the table between their wineglasses and held her hand. She gazed dreamily into his eyes. Another typical Miami Beach afternoon tryst was about to spawn. In the Art Deco hotel rooms above the strip, 136 were already under way.
Men at other tables stewed with envy. The Latin hunk could have any woman in the place. What they didn’t know-and the source of universal disbelief if they did-was that the oncoming liaison would be the playboy’s first. Ever.
Oh, he could line them up in stunning volume and variety, but he’d just never been able to land them in the boat. Had nothing to do with his appeal or bedside manner. It was luck. The wrong kind. Always some crazy, blind- side against-the-odds interruption before consummation. And as with any statistical sample, somewhere in the world was the man who ranked absolute last on the standard-deviation coitus graph. That was this guy.
Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.
But hope springs eternal, and Johnny was at bat again with the bases loaded. As he held her hands and stared into those emerald-green eyes, it seemed nothing remotely could go wrong. The sun was high, and a balmy breeze ruffled the fringe of their table’s umbrella. Sinful desserts arrived on a cart.
Three blocks south, Serge and Felicia strolled past the Colony Hotel.
Ahead, two men on the sidewalk, staring stupidly at the diners. A waiter asked them to move along.
“There you are,” Serge called out. “We were supposed to meet at that corner.”
“Serge!” Coleman came running over with Ted Savage. “I’ve never seen such great tits. There’s been like forty-three so far.”
“It’s Ocean Drive,” said Serge. “Nipple City.”
“Serge!” scolded Felicia.
“Baby, don’t crowd my facts.”
Coleman stared at more breasts. “I never want to leave this place.”
“Coleman, there’s more to Miami than silicone.”
“Like what?”
“Stay here long enough and anything can happen.” Serge swept an arm over the beach mating frenzy. “Look at all these people. Their backstories are arguably the most diverse and compelling in all the country, an international roll call of intrigue: TV producers, exotic-animal smugglers, money launderers, foreign agents, people on the run from Interpol, the ShamWow Guy. I’m getting pumped just thinking about all the secret life arcs surrounding us. Except in real life, it’s impossible for me to know what’s ticking behind all these five-hundred-dollar sunglasses. That’s why I love to read novels about Miami.”
Coleman’s eyes seized on a passing bikini top. “Novels?”
“In novels, the omniscient narrator knows all secrets and reveals them.” Serge watched a Lamborghini being valeted. “Sometimes I like to pretend that my own life has a narrator. I wish I could meet him someday.”
“Why?”
“Because to me, narrators are the most impressive people on the planet. Every one of them outrageously intelligent and perceptive. They’re like gods.”
Serge was clearly a genius in all respects. They continued up the sidewalk. The group didn’t know it, but they had, in succession, just passed the woman with the highest number of Botox injections, the largest wholesaler of human-growth hormone on the beach, the hotel with the top frequency of burglaries by maids, and the Most Laid Guy in Miami, which placed him thirty-fourth nationwide.
The Most Laid Guy was also the most unlikely. Just a regular Joe, maybe the corner barber or H amp;R Block man. Statistics again. Someone has to be the anomaly. Women didn’t understand why, but they found themselves magnetically drawn to him in astounding numbers. A million males would have killed for what fell off his truck, but to him it had all become a burden. He sat alone with coffee and a copy of Florida Architecture.
“Pardon me,” said a college cheerleader in town for a game. “Is this seat taken?”
“I’m trying to read.”
And so on, until he’d eventually relent just to release the pressure.
The gang continued up the sidewalk, past a DEA agent on the take, an indicted boy-band manager, a paparazzo with inside information, a transgender with second thoughts, and a spy from Costa Gorda peeking over the top of a menu. He got up and began following.
Coleman bumped into Serge’s back as they prepared to cross Thirteenth Street.
“Coleman, watch where you’re going.”
“I was looking up.” He shielded his eyes. “These are some outrageous hotels.”
“And every room holds a story.” Serge gazed toward the top floor. “Things you could never imagine are going on right this second. Like that window there. I’d love to know what’s happening inside.”
Inside, someone had tied himself up with intricate knots and a gag ball in his mouth, where he’d remained alone and happily still for the last six hours.
Coleman looked around. “Who said that?”
“Said what?”
“Knots and gag balls.”
“Maybe my narrator,” said Serge. “Actually the proper term is the narrator. My implies a demeaning, possessive relationship, like he’s an organ-grinder monkey. Narrators don’t like that.”
They don’t. The spy from Costa Gorda grew closer. Felicia turned around. The agent ducked behind a potted tree at the News Cafe.
Coleman resumed walking. “Remember when they found the star of Kung Fu tied up and dead in that motel closet.”
“David Carradine,” said Serge. “Bangkok. The namesake of the Kill Bill movies.”
“They said he accidentally got strangled during freaky sex with himself.”
“Coleman, that’s a private matter. He should be remembered for his impressive body of work.”
“But it’s so embarrassing.” Coleman looked back up at the window. “If I ever thought I might die while playing with my dong, I’d make sure I could throw any devices across the room.”
“That might just be the first time you’ve planned for the future.”
“Planned? I’ve actually been practicing it. You were asleep.”
“You thought I was asleep,” said Serge. “I was wondering why I kept hearing bedsprings and then these little fur doughnuts began flying over my head and hitting the wall.”
“I just don’t want to be found in a motel room like Kung Fu,” said Coleman. “How’d you like to be found in a motel room?”
“Let me take a wild stab at that,” said Serge. “Alive?”
They started across the street. Three men approached from the opposite curb. White face makeup, black- and-white-striped shirts, and red berets. The trio tipped their caps in recognition as they passed Serge.
“You know those guys?” asked Coleman.
Serge nodded. “You heard of the Guardian Angels?”
“Yeah, vigilante group that protects people.”
“Those three guys are from Tampa. They started their own group, the Guardian Mimes.”
“You mean like the dudes from when you filmed those Clowns-versus-Mimes underground fight videos?”
“The same,” said Serge. “I was worried they’d disband after we hit the road. Fortunately they’ve come back stronger than ever.”
