Behind Zargoza were two goons/bodyguards, also in street clothes, sitting on a beach blanket playing poker.

The goons saw someone violate their no-fly zone, and they went for rods inside their jackets. Zargoza turned when he heard the commotion. “It’s okay. Let him through.”

Serge pulled up a stray beach chair and sat alongside Zargoza. He stuck his camera bag under the chair and set the three-ring binder in his lap.

“What do you have there?” asked Zargoza.

“My sunset album.”

“Hmmmmmm.”

“The pictures are arranged geographically,” said Serge. “That’s up in sawgrass at Yankeetown, and these are the flats off Homosassa. Here, the sunset reflects in the bayou at Tarpon Springs, and here it is from the Hurricane bar just down the road. This is over Lido Key, and here’s Siesta Key and Boca Grande through the sea oats…”

Zargoza was looking, not listening. He felt spiked walls closing in.

Serge began pulling all the photos from their slots and rearranging them chronologically and then alphabetically, then by hue. He took them out again and shuffled them and stuck them back in the book under some other criteria. He looked at it, shook his head, and started pulling the photos out again.

Zargoza reached over and slammed his palm down on the book. “Stop it! Just stop it! I’m nervous enough as it is!”

“No problem,” said Serge. He put the book under his chair and pulled out his camera bag. Five minutes to sunset, the beach foot traffic slowed and then stopped. They produced binoculars and camcorders.

Serge aimed his camera at the sea and focused. He didn’t like the lens. He changed it, then changed it back and refocused. He adjusted the aperture. He tried the camera body vertical and horizontal. Then tried it both ways again with the other lens.

Zargoza didn’t even turn to face Serge. He hissed through his teeth: “Just take the picture or so help me I’m gonna hammer-throw that fucking camera in the ocean!”

Serge pressed the shutter button. Click. Again. Click. Advancing the film. Click, click, click, click, click. Zargoza closed his eyes and strangled the armrests of his beach chair.

26

The next day, Boris the Hateful Piece of Shit was wrapping up his morning shift in the heavily air-conditioned broadcast studios of radio station Blitz-99. “Remember, don’t let your parents give you any crap, because they don’t know squat! This is Boris the Hateful Piece of Sh-AHH-OOOO-GAH!”

As he stepped into the station’s parking lot, he pressed a button on his keychain and his new Corvette beeped that it was unlocked. Boris planned to head over to the beach and the Proposition 213 rally, where he was scheduled as the main speaker that evening. Boris was not political, but he latched on to the Proposition 213 spearhead when he found it was a great way to score with bigot babes, who tended to be easier.

Because of his bulk, Boris could only get into his Corvette through a deliberate, time-consuming insertion like Wally Schirra. It was at least a fifteen-minute effort, and that was with the custom detachable steering wheel that snapped back on the column once he was in place. Boris didn’t mind. The Corvette’s sleek lines and sharp, bullet exterior concealed the gelatinous lines of Boris’s decidedly parabolic fuselage. He had the driver’s seat rigged extra low, with as little of him visible above window level as possible. Once inside, Boris the Hateful Piece of Shit became Boris the Disembodied Head in a Sexy Sports Car. He pulled out of the parking lot. His bumper sticker read: “It sucks to be you.”

A crowd gathered immediately when Boris’s Corvette cruised into the parking lot at the Calusa Pointe condominiums. Boris got out of the car wearing dark sunglasses and a size XXXXXL metallic silver jogging suit that was designed to deflect heat and sometimes caused Boris to show up on radar. There were two Cuban cigars in the shirt pocket of the jogging suit, and he removed one and lit it. He signed dozens of autographs with a simple circle as he headed straight for the bar next door behind the Hammerhead Ranch Motel.

The Proposition 213 rally wasn’t for another four hours, and the bar was as good as place as any to get chicks. He walked inside and didn’t take off his sunglasses. He took a seat against the wall, leaned back, crossed his arms and thought: Come to Papa.

Boris had a few nibbles in the first hour. The teenage girls had been star-struck, but not quite enough to overcome the gag reflex to Boris’s appearance and hygiene. After the last gaggle walked away, Boris looked out the window to check the progress of the workers preparing the outdoor stage for the rally behind Calusa Pointe. He looked closer up the beach and saw smaller, separate preparations under way for another function-a VIP waterfront luau for the visiting Olympic delegation. There were a few rows of beach chairs, a small podium and a giant work-shaped dish that was a replica of the Olympic stadium torch and doubled as the barbecue.

Boris heard some laughing in the bar and turned his attention to City and Country. He liked what he saw. He realized they weren’t going to come to him, so he chugged another beer and began working his way to his feet.

“What’s shakin’?” Boris asked when he arrived at their table.

Country turned around and let out a startled yell upon first seeing Boris, which he did not take as a good sign. They tried to ignore him, but Boris couldn’t take a hint, and he hovered over their table like a weather balloon.

Art walked into the bar and sat down three tables away from City and Country. He placed a zippered leather pouch on the table and stared at Boris.

Serge sipped a mineral water at the end of the bar and heard a rumpus over in the corner. Boris was trying to grope Country and had her by the arm. It looked like he was leaning in to administer a hickie.

“Let go!” Country yelled, and pulled her arm away.

“Lesbians!” Boris shouted, and stormed out of the bar.

Boris went out on the beach, where a crowd again formed. A guy on a beach lounger was made to get up and offer his seat to Boris, who took off his jogging outfit to reveal an inadequate bathing suit, and he reclined in the glow of adulation.

Art picked up his zippered leather pouch and walked out of the bar down onto the beach. He got inside a portable toilet set up for the Proposition 213 rally.

Boris was having the time of his life. Teenage girls in bikinis surrounded him. Boris snapped his fingers and someone materialized with a cell phone. Boris chewed someone out for a minute, then tossed the cell phone over his shoulder. His Man Friday caught it on the fly, and a young girl handed Boris a fresh drink and her phone number.

Art Tweed peered out a small, screened vent in the side of the portable toilet. He ripped the screen out of the way. He unzipped his leather bag, took out the Colt Python and rested the barrel in the vent hole. An easy shot at that distance. Art began squeezing the trigger.

A high-pitched Latin twang came from the direction of Hammerhead Ranch. Boris and his retinue turned around to see where it was coming from. Art let off the trigger and withdrew the gun. He pressed his eyeball to the vent hole to get a wider view of what was going on.

“Lotion boy! Lotion boy!” said Serge as he hopped light-footed down the beach wearing a small, incredibly fake mustache. He stopped next to Boris’s lounger and set down a canvas beach bag. He pulled out towels and tubes of lotion.

“I didn’t know this place had a lotion boy,” said Boris, glancing back at Hammerhead Ranch.

“Sí! Sí! Lotion boy!” said Serge, rubbing lotion vigorously over his palms and smacking them together.

Boris laid his head back on the lounger and closed his eyes. “In that case, it’s about fucking time!” he said. “Give me the full treatment and make sure you get the pecs. But no faggot stuff or I’ll snap your neck.”