Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey Read Free Book Online Page B

“It’s about class struggle. You sit in back like King Tut, and you’re saying, ‘Dance, monkey.’ But if you jump up front like equals, it’s a bold statement that you’ll tolerate B.O. to pull our country together.”
    Coleman got on an escalator under a sign: ALL GATES. “Then maybe it was when you handed him your gun.”
    “Could be a new driver,” said Serge. “Anyone who works the airport knows you can’t take guns on a plane. I could have just thrown it away, but I figured he’s got a dangerous job and could use a piece. Even mentioned the serial number had already been filed off.”
    “You were being considerate.”
    “Plus I gave him an ammo box to get started and explained that those hollow-point bullets fragment and rattle around inside the body, so there’s no way ballistic tests can connect him to anything I might have done.”
    “That’s when he totally wigged,” said Coleman. “Shaking real bad, nearly hitting that family unloading their car.”
    “Must have been carrying some emotional baggage from a domestic fight at home this morning over mysterious phone numbers on the bill that his wife called, and somebody named Loretta answered.” Serge got off at the top of the escalator. “Hey, I’m not the one fucking Loretta, so he shouldn’t be dumping his wife’s shit on me.”
    “I heard you tell him that,” said Coleman.
    A bustle of people crisscrossed the hub of the main terminal. Others stared up at arrival and departure screens. Serge stopped for coffee. “. . . And a cup of ice on the side please.”
    “Iced coffee is more,” said the young clerk.
    “I didn’t order that,” said Serge. “Just regular coffee with ice on the side.”
    “That’s still considered iced coffee.”
    “I don’t want iced coffee. I want temperature control. I want a lot of other things, too, but I won’t burden you with my agenda because there’s a really long line behind me, except if you don’t vote, please consider your grandchildren, who could end up in a bizarre futurescape with thought police zipping around ten feet off the ground on antigravity platforms, using pocket brain-erasers to curb individuality and coffee-clerk annoyance. Ice please.”
    She warily handed him a small cup. Serge walked to the preparation area, counted six cubes into his beverage, then drained the whole thing in one guzzle.
    “I love airports!” Serge briskly rolled a suitcase toward the security checkpoint. “All the norms from the regular world are out the window.”
    “How so?”
    “Like that tavern between those gates. People drinking in the morning.” He looked at Coleman. “Okay, bad example. Let’s go in this gift shop. To enhance the airport gift-shop experience, I pretend I’m a historical figure who’s just been time-ported to the twenty-first century. I’m Leonardo da Vinci now. What would such a quotable Renaissance man say in a place like this? ‘Five dollars for water from an atoll in the Pacific? Fuck me in the ass!’ ”
    “Serge, people are staring.”
    The pair walked to the back of the security line. They produced authentic state driver’s licenses with fake names acquired from a street broker who hooked them up with a contact in the motor vehicle office. Then they entered the queue leading to the X-ray machines.
    “Coleman, here’s another example of airport world. See that sign with pictures of prohibited items? Power tools, can of gasoline, a big ax, and my favorite: the Rocky and Bullwinkle bomb shaped like a bowling ball with the fuse actually lit.”
    “It’s pretty funny.”
    “It’s pretty freaky,” said Serge. “They don’t put up signs before there’s a demonstrated need. Terrorists obviously ignore them, so they’re meant to solve a problem from the law-abiding public. I mean, who were all these people bringing hatchets and chain saws to the X-ray machine?”
    “Sir, excuse me.”
    Serge looked up at the next security guy checking boarding passes.