Read Online SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel by Tim Dorsey - Free Book Online Page A

put a big hurt on my monthly nut. So if you can provide a pinpoint location and it’s an easy apprehension—and you’re not involved in any way that would get me in trouble—I’ll go that ten percent.”
    Serge stretched as he stood. “Oh, I think I might be able to pinpoint him for you.”
    A minute later, they stood at the Cobra’s trunk.
    “What are you doing?” asked Benny. “I thought you said we were going for a drive.”
    “I actually said we were going to the car .” Serge popped the trunk. “Already in plastic wrist restraints. Is that an easy enough apprehension?”
    “Jesus Christ!” Benny slammed the trunk and pointed toward the jail. “Are you crazy? They can see!”
    “Okay.” Serge shrugged and headed for his driver’s door. “If you don’t want him . . .”
    “Didn’t say that.” Benny quickly glanced both ways. “Pull around back.”
    T he ’76 Ford Cobra cruised south on U.S. 1, Serge thumbing a wad of cash and swilling his new brand of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. He noticed something up ahead and handed the currency to Coleman. “Stick that in the glove compartment.”
    “Man, I can’t believe this money was just sitting out there.” He popped the latch. “And barely any work.”
    “But I still feel the process has too much fat on the bone.” The muscle car jumped a curb and screeched to a stop.
    “Another budget motel?” asked Coleman.
    Serge jumped out and spun on one foot in a triple ballerina pirouette, brightly announcing the words on the back of his jacket as it flapped behind him. Then he fell to his right knee, closed one eye and pointed accusingly at each person outside a room.
    A shirtless man took off running.
    So did Serge. “I love this state! . . .”
    SOUTH TAMPA
    Lights remained low inside a two-story Mediterranean Revival home on the west side of the peninsula. The owners had paid four hundred thousand when it was first constructed fifteen years ago, then watched its value rocket to seven-fifty, then fall back to four.
    The dimness was cut by the flickering of a giant plasma TV in the living room. A married couple of nineteen years sat shoeless on the sofa watching an old James Bond movie where Paul McCartney sings the theme song. Two plates of mostly eaten rigatoni sat on the coffee table. The woman got up with an empty glass. “Would you like some more wine?”
    “Sure.” The husband hit pause as she took his glass and headed for the built-in, temperature-controlled wine cabinet with see-through doors.
    The phone rang.
    “I’ll get it.” She changed direction and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
    “Is this Mrs. Madison?”
    “Yes?”
    “Does your daughter drive a convertible yellow Volkswagen?”
    “Uh . . . who is this?”
    “There’s been an accident.”
    “What! Where! Is she okay?”
    “Not really. She’s unconscious and bleeding. Doesn’t look good.”
    Mr. Madison jumped up from the couch. “What’s going on?”
    “Caylee’s been in an accident,” said his wife. Then back in the phone: “Is an ambulance there?”
    “No.”
    “How long ago did you call?”
    “I didn’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I personally don’t have the need,” said the caller. “I’m fine, but my passenger airbag failed to deploy.”
    “What’s that mean?” asked Mrs. Madison.
    “It means your stupid fucking brat blew a stop sign and killed my wife . . .”
    “Your wife’s dead?”
    “ . . . So now I’m standing here staring at your spoiled rich kid, wondering whether to call that ambulance. But currently I’m leaning toward wanting you to feel what I’m going through right now.”
    “Please!” shrieked Mrs. Madison. “You have to call an ambulance.”
    Mr. Madison got the drift and snatched the phone away. “Who is this!”
    “Someone watching your daughter circle the drain.”
    “You son of a bitch!”
    “That’s no way to persuade me to call an ambulance.”
    Mr. Madison clenched his teeth with focus. “What do