The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey Read Free Book Online Page B

Serge. “I’m low on cash.”
    â€œThere’s one,” said Coleman. “But how do you get a bank account?”
    â€œMost people think that if you’re a fugitive, it’s harder than it actually is, but establishments aren’t as strict with ID when you’re giving them money,” said Serge. “Any kind of fake photo ID will suffice, like an annual pass at the zoo, and you rent one of those private PO boxes at a strip mall that appears to be a real street address. Does that answer your question?”
    â€œI meant an account in general,” said Coleman. “I’ve never had one. But I’ve heard about them. And I see people going in and out of banks. Just curious.”
    Serge parked at a slot right in front of the machine. “We’re in luck. Only one guy in line.”
    They jumped out, and Serge took up a spot at the edge of the curb.
    Coleman leaned sideways. “Why are we standing so far back?”
    â€œAnother tip to weld society together. Give the person up to bat at the ATM plenty of space so they’re not nervous about you peeking at their PIN number or slipping a blade between their ribs the second the money spits out.”
    â€œYou said that kind of loud,” said Coleman. “I think he heard.”
    â€œGood,” said Serge. “Then he’s happy to know the knife isn’t coming.”
    â€œWhat’s he doing?” asked Coleman. “He’s not even at the machine. He’s standing to the side at the little metal shelf that’s like a table.”
    â€œHe’s still at the ATM proper. It’s his until he relinquishes the zone.”
    â€œBut he’s just playing with his wallet.”
    â€œI think he’s looking for his card,” said Serge. “And making a deposit in my patience karma.”
    â€œI don’t think that’s it,” said Coleman. “I think he already used the machine and is now reorganizing all his shit. We may be waiting for nothing.”
    â€œCould be,” said Serge. “But there’s an appropriate social procedure to find out.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œWe clear our throats at super-high volume and then stare at him unflinchingly,” said Serge. “As a courtesy.”
    â€œThen what?” asked Coleman.
    â€œIf he’s into a wholesale spring cleaning of his billfold, he won’t look back. But if he really is waiting to use the machine and can’t find his card, he’ll reflexively glance up. Then he’ll hurry his search or wave us on. Either way, we’ll know the score so we can make the polite choice . . . Ready?”
    Coleman nodded.
    â€œAhem!” Cough, cough. “Clearing my throat now , ahem !” said Serge. “ That would be my throat clearing, ahem . . .”
    â€œClearing my throat, too,” said Coleman. “A-hem!” Cough. “And now a fart.” Pffffft  . . .
    â€œColeman!”
    â€œWhat?”
    Serge pointed. “He’s downwind. The national fabric.”
    â€œHe’s still going through his wallet,” said Coleman. “He’s not looking up.”
    â€œThere’s our answer,” said Serge. “But we give it another ten-second cushion as a fail-safe, and then move very slowly in case he misinterpreted what I meant about stabbing him.”
    . . . Eight, nine, ten. They crept forward. Serge slipped a magnetic card into the slot and began entering his pass code.
    From the side: “You are one rude motherfucker!”
    â€œUh-oh,” Serge said to himself. “A wild card.” He tried to hurry the transaction, but that only made him mess up.
    â€œYou deaf, too, motherfucker?”
    â€œWhat?” Serge turned. “But I didn’t mean—”
    The man crowded in from the left side, stretching to get his face between Serge and the machine. “Do you just cut in line whenever you