Free 16 Tiger Shrimp Tango by Tim Dorsey Page B

now.”
    She stuck the J.R. handkerchief back in her purse. Sasha never knew Roselli, or any of the others. Way before her time. But she had this quirk. Sexual. One of those rare, unhealthy paraphilias where she needed to be in danger from the man she was with. At the top of her fantasy list was mobsters. She watched the movies and read the books and visited the sites. Just standing on the edge of Dumbfounding Bay set off a joy buzzer between her legs. In another era, she’d have been a gun mol, but she was born too late. Instead she was forced to run with today’s crop of low-level punks and wannabe gangsters. She was unsatisfied.
    Sasha stood up and smiled.
    Vegas followed suit and held out his hand. “My name’s Johnny, too.”
    “Wow, this must be fate. Pleasure to meet you, Johnny.” She shook his hand. “My name’s Ssssssssaaa-shhhhhh . . . ahhhh .”
    Sasha had been able to throw a bit of ventriloquism into the delivery, and Johnny glanced behind him like her name was being announced in Dolby Surround Sound.
    “Johnny,” she said, putting his arm in hers. “Are you doing anything tonight?”
    Inside his head: You have no idea how much I hope so. “Uh, let me check my planner.”
    “Because if you’re free, I know the hottest new place on the beach . . .”
    And that’s how Johnny Vegas came to find himself at three A.M. on the dance floor of the club called Liquid Plasma in the middle of a breast buffet.
    Soon, a ripple through the crowd as it parted for Sasha. She presented herself in front of Johnny and launched into one of the sultriest grinds anyone had ever seen outside a gentlemen’s club. The performance climaxed with hands sliding down in her signature move that was almost illegal. No, it was illegal. Others took photos and videos with cell phones.
    Sasha finished her routine and threw her arms around Johnny’s neck. And her tongue inside his shirt. The crowd congealed back around them and resumed hopping again as a single organism. It went on like this for hours, Johnny and Sasha tripping the light fantastic with the aid of the new ultra-strength energy drink, Tripping the Light Fantastic. They waved glow sticks and did cocaine bullet-snorts offered by fellow dancers, and Sasha sucked a glow-in-the-dark, amphetamine-laced baby pacifier.
    Pouty lips went to Johnny’s ear. “It’s getting late,” she said just before noon. “Let’s go back to your place.”
    Johnny practically knocked people over dragging her by the hand for the nearest emergency exit.
    After running six red lights, Johnny parked his gull-wing Porsche GT1 behind a beach house. The couple stumbled and giggled together as they struggled up the front porch steps facing the dunes and bright sun over the Atlantic. Liquor, anticipation. She embraced him hard, and they crashed against the gingerbread trim next to the front door. Her mouth went to his ear again. “I’ve never told anyone this before, but my secret fantasy is to . . .”
    The rest was inaudible except to Johnny’s eardrum. Bubbles hit his brain. Johnny fell one way, and Sasha the other, both landing on their asses. They stared at each other a second, then giggled even louder. Johnny dug in a pocket for house keys with renewed urgency. Yes! The streak is over!
    Sasha got up and looked around. “Where’s my shoe? I lost a shoe . . .”
    Johnny’s trembling hands fumbled with the keys, dropped them, and fumbled again. Sasha wandered in unsteady circles on the porch. “Where are you, shoe? . . . Come here, shoe . . .”
    Keys hit the ground again. Anxious fingers snagged them but had trouble aligning the end of the key with the lock. “Let’s goooooo , focus!”
    “Here shoey-shoey . . . Where are you, shoey? . . .” Sasha staggered around the corner of the house. “Motherfuckin’ shoe, where are you!”
    The lock finally popped. Hooray. The door creaked ajar, but Johnny wasn’t looking inside. He stared off the side of the porch. “Sasha,