Free 16 Tiger Shrimp Tango by Tim Dorsey Page A

underplay. He knew women loved the sensitive type. “It’s so tranquil. Occasionally you need to break away from the crazy pace out there with all the calls from hedge-fund managers. The natural purity and solitude out here helps me meditate.”
    “I love the sensitive type,” said Sasha. “J.R. was like that.”
    Johnny Vegas didn’t know it, but he had inadvertently stumbled into one of Florida’s most vividly historic landmarks. There were no signs. With reason. Vegas grinned. “What about you? Come here often?”
    “No.” A sigh. “Just once a year . . . On the day he—” The handkerchief came out again.
    Uh-oh , Johnny thought, a woman in mourning . Grief was such a heartbreaking thing. Maybe he could use it to score. “You said this place is special?”
    She nodded again. “Holds a lot of memories.”
    And how. Every responding police officer clearly remembers the day they got the call. The neighbors remember the fifty-five-gallon drum that had bobbed to the surface and was dragged ashore. The medical examiner remembers the ghastly contents . . .
    A screech of braking tires.
    Johnny and Sasha turned to see a black Firebird skid off the causeway into the grass on the opposite side of the tiny bay. The driver got out and dashed enthusiastically down the bank. The passenger tripped and rolled like a log to the water’s edge.
    “Coleman, stop fooling around! Stand up and get into the moment. I remember it all like it was just yesterday. They opened the steel drum and there was the legendary Johnny Roselli, who worked for Capone and Sam Giancana. Everything about his murder pointed to another legendary moment from Miami’s historic nexus of organized crime and the espionage community, which began when the CIA christened Operation Mongoose during the early sixties. In 1976, Roselli was called to testify before a Senate select committee investigating Mongoose’s alleged cooperation with the Mob to assassinate Cuban dictator Fidel Castro. But he never got the chance. It’s long been rumored that my homey Tampa godfather, Santos Trafficante, made the call. They sawed off Roselli’s legs and jammed them in the drum beside him. That’s why I can’t resist coming here—it’s such a happy place! . . .”
    Across the bay, Johnny and Sasha watched the odd couple on the other side.
    “The tall one’s jumping up and down.” Sasha cupped a hand to her ear. “What’s he saying?”
    “I can’t quite make it out,” said Johnny. “But he sure is drinking a lot of coffee—” He cut himself off and strained for a closer look. “It couldn’t possibly be them . . . Oh, no, this isn’t happening.”
    “What isn’t happening?” asked Sasha. Then she turned toward the opposite bank. “Dear Jesus, the fat one’s peeing in the water. J.R.’s water! ” This time she cupped her hands around her mouth. “You son of a bitch! . . .”
    On the other side of the bay: “Serge, I think that woman is yelling at us.”
    “Probably one of your fans.”
    “Now she’s throwing rocks,” said Coleman. “I think they’re meant for us, but her arm’s way too weak.”
    “Do you know her?” Serge reached down and grabbed a handful of wildflowers.
    “I don’t think so,” said Coleman. “But the guy looks familiar . . . What are you doing?”
    “A historic place requires proper respect.” Serge cast the flowers upon the water. “For Johnny. Let’s bow our heads . . . That’s enough.” He sprinted up the bank to the car.
    Back across the water, Sasha threw a final rock, then collapsed onto the grass in a sitting position, covered her eyes and began crying.
    Johnny collapsed next to her and began crying, too.
    His unlucky streak was intact.
    Johnny was still covering his face when he felt something. A hand caressing his cheek.
    “You’re crying,” said Sasha, snuggling into his shoulder. “That’s so sensitive.”
    They sat still together. Eventually she raised her head. “I’m okay