Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

Serge knelt behind them. “One last thing. Regardless of the game’s results, I built in a bonus round. I always like to give my students a way out. It’s a pretty obvious and logical escape, just as long as you remember what I said before: Don’t panic.”

He slid sideways behind the one with ice, and looked up. “Coleman, your opinion? Will it float?”

“I think so.”

“Me, too.”

He gave a hard push, and one of the carjackers splashed into the water. And went under the surface.

Serge stood and scrunched his eyebrows. “Could have sworn he’d float.”

“Look!” said Coleman. “He bobbed to the surface!”

“It floats!”

Serge moved to the remaining captive. “Coleman?”

“I don’t think it’ll float.”

“Me neither.”

Another shove and splash.

“Well, what do you know?” said Serge. “It floats. That’s two for two.”

The criminals stared up from the water, breathing heavy with relief. “Thank God! So you’ll release us now?”

“Absolutely,” said Serge. “You’re free to go, anytime you want.”

They looked around. “Uh, all right. Help us up.”

“That’s not the deal,” said Serge. “Your freedom is built into the bonus round. Figure it out and it’s joy time. Or come up with your own idea. Either way, I’ll keep my word and not do anything to hinder your escape.” He looked at Coleman and shook his head. “You give and give, but some people are never satisfied.”

“Hey, I’m getting lower,” said the one with the ice bags.

“I almost forgot,” said Serge. “Ice floats. It also melts. Even faster in salt water.”

“I’m begging you. Get me out of the water.”

Serge took a seat on the edge of the dock. “Then come clean. Who are you working for?”

“What?”

“Who sent you to take out the president of Costa Gorda?”

“Nobody. We were just robbing them.”

“Suit yourself,” said Serge.

“Wait.” The man had to tilt his head back to keep his mouth above water. “I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“Bullshit. You’re a spy!” said Serge. “For the last time, who put out the contract?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Coughing and spitting water. “You have to believe me!”

Coleman nudged Serge and whispered: “So he’s really a spy?”

“Naw,” said Serge. “Only another street-level stickup man. I’m just fucking with him.” He faced the water again. “I’ll make it simple for you. Was it the Marmoset or the Purple Gang?”

More coughing. “Okay, okay, it was the Purple Gang.”

“See?” said Serge. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“Now get me out!”

“You have everything you need to get yourself out. Remember the bonus round: Don’t panic.”

“Ahhhh!” Glub, glub, glub. He went under.

Serge and Coleman stared over the side of the dock. One minute. Two. Three. Then a burst of bubbles hit the surface.

“Guess he didn’t win the bonus round,” said Serge.

“What was that business about the Purple Gang?” said Coleman.

“Just proving a point in support of prisoner rights,” said Serge. “Torture doesn’t produce reliable confessions.” He swiveled his head left. “How are you doing with those loaves?”

“Pleeeeeeeeease!”

“It’s like the name of that movie,” said Serge. “ Hope Floats. Actually it dog paddles. Land’s that way. Only a few miles.”

“Little things are hitting me!”

“Those must be tropical fish. You should come out here in the daytime. Our coral reefs are magnificent!”

“More things hitting me! Are any of them dangerous?”

“Completely harmless. If I used meat, that would draw sharks. Bread only draws the little guys.”

“Draws them?”

“Yeah,” said Serge. “They like to eat it.”

The captive looked around in the water at a growing swarm of tiny fish nibbling through holes in the mesh bag.

Serge and Coleman hopped back in the boat.

“Wait!” yelled the man in the water. “You can’t leave me!”

Serge untied davit lines. “Remember the bonus round. Just stay calm.”

Coleman leaned over the bow. “Wow! Look at those fish go at it. The loaves are almost gone.”

Serge joined him up front. “They must love Cuban bread as much as I do.”

Like the first captive, the man’s head was tilted back, nose and mouth barely above the surface.

“Help-” Glub, glub, glub. Under he went.

The pair in the boat watched quietly. This time only two minutes until the bubbles came.

Serge started up the engine. “I would have bet anything at least one of them would win the bonus round.”

“What was the bonus round?” asked Coleman.

Serge slowly pulled away from the dock. “What’s the most logical thing to do in their predicament?”

“Hold your breath longer?”

“No, Coleman. Become buoyant again. Which means losing the weight belt.”

“But their hands were tied behind their backs.”

“And I put their belts on backward, so the release latch was right by those hands. If only they listened to me and remained calm.” Serge gave the engines full throttle back toward shore. “Panic causes more drownings. That’s what makes tonight’s tragedy especially senseless.”

The Next Morning

CNN.

“With the second oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico entering its forty-third day, Congressman Bugler continues drawing flak for apologizing to the drilling company during this week’s committee hearings, which political observers say could turn the balance in the upcoming elections… And now an odd news item from Tampa, where a dozen men are under arrest at a local hospital for illegally hunting coyotes within city limits.” The picture switched to a police spokesman. “I’ve never seen anything like it in the middle of a highly populated area. We caught them red-handed with banned game bait available on the Internet. They claim some mystery men gave them free mosquito repellent, but we’re not buying it. How do they explain the gun racks full of deer rifles in their pickups? And we’re tacking on littering fines for all the empty beer cans. Luckily they were too drunk to hunt effectively and the coyotes got the upper hand. We’ll be transporting them to jail as soon as their wounds heal.” The TV switched again to the anchor desk. “We’re going back again to Washington for continuing coverage of the political fallout from Congressman Bugler’s comments of sympathy for the oil companies… Wait a moment. We have breaking news. We’re taking you live to the Office of Homeland Security…”

Director “Rip” Tide walked briskly to the podium with a prepared statement. Behind him: twenty American flags and a large, vinyl thermometer.

“I’ve called you all here today to announce we’re raising the threat level. I can’t reveal the nature of our intelligence or where an attack is most likely, so all citizens must be on increased vigilance wherever they work, play, or sleep. God bless the United States.”

A reporter held up a hand with a pen in it. “But we’re already at the highest threat level.”

“That’s why I’m announcing a new color.” The director reached in his pocket, pulled out a plastic square, and stuck it at the top of the thermometer.

Another reporter raised his hand. “It’s red, like the other one.”

“It’s a darker red.”

“Not really.”

“No, see, it’s clearly darker.”

Reporters scribbled on pads. Another hand went up again. “What’s the name of the new threat level?”

“Red.”

“Won’t that be confusing?”

“No more questions…”

Malcolm Glide turned the volume down on his office TV and picked up the phone.