Three cocky types with red ties and American-flag lapel pins puffed big Hondurans grown from Cuban seeds. A waitress came by with their drinks. The men tipped well, which entitled them to ask her to bed. The seafood restaurant was called Barnacle Buddy’s. The trio blew smoke rings and faced the ocean. Serge faced them. Coleman sipped a rumrunner from a glass the size of a flower vase. “Serge, what are we doing here? Don’t get me wrong, I’m drinking.” “Multi-tasking,” said Serge. “The Master Plan is hitting its stride and working on three different levels. First, we’re in position again because Mahoney gave me the last critical details on the next targets, but it’s not going down until tonight. Second, in the meantime I’m continuing to recharge my idea reservoir because it looks like there’ll be a lot more jerks than I originally anticipated. And third, I’m scouring for a political infiltration point to track my elusive main quarry and achieve closure.”
