Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

The bus slowed at the next stop. Jimmy stood up. “Time to switch transpo.”

One block behind. A passenger in a black SUV with binoculars: “They’re switching again. First the People Mover, then a public bus, and now a jitney. How much training does Serge’s new contact have?”

“I don’t know, but do you see where we’re heading?”

The passenger lowered his binoculars. “Liberty City? At night?”

“The home of the Miami riots,” said the driver. “One of the highest crime rates in America, and birthplace of some of the biggest rappers ever to grab a mike. The contact agent is probably their go-between with that faction. They’ve diversified into all kinds of other underworld endeavors.”

“The rappers are involved? Christ!”

“Just keep watching.”

He raised them to his eyes again. “You sure you want to go into Liberty City? We can always say we lost them.”

The driver’s knuckles turned white. “Just don’t think about it.”

The passenger adjusted his binoculars. “They’re getting off the jitney. And running across a vacant lot to where another bus is just pulling up at that stop.”

“Standard evasion. Hang on!”

The driver raced to the next intersection and made a skidding turn, then another, putting them at the bus stop on the other side of the lot.

“Where’s the bus?” asked the driver.

“Up there two blocks. Stay with ’em.”

“I’m trying to, but there are a lot of cars.”

“Where could they be heading?”

The bus took a left on Seventy-ninth Street and drove beneath the interstate.

“We’re getting deeper into Liberty City.”

“And they’re getting off the bus. They’re starting to run again.”

The SUV blew a red light but got jammed up in traffic. Cars filled both lanes. The driver of the SUV leaned on the horn. Occupants of the vehicles in front of them got out…

Serge and the gang ran up a dark sidewalk. Shadows in alleys, vacant people milling outside a fortified convenience store. Youths in white T-shirts rode bicycles in circles. The bicycles were too small for them.

Three blocks back, traffic cleared. The SUV began moving again. It passed I-95 pawn and the Tropicana Club. “Where’d they disappear?” said the passenger. “We need to go faster.”

“You try driving with busted headlights and a cracked windshield.”

They stopped again behind other cars, but no horn this time. Some of the alley people approached the van.

“Screw this,” said the driver, making a screeching U-turn and racing back toward Biscayne. “I mean, we really did lose them, right?”

The passenger stowed his binoculars. “That’s what my report will say.”

Serge smiled. “Told you we’d lose them.”

Coleman looked around the inside of a dark room and clutched his buddy’s arm. “But where are we?”

“Hot Nitez.” Serge grinned again at the three unamused bouncers blocking their path. Thick, folded arms, neck tats, detachable brass-knuckle belt buckles.

“Serge,” whispered Ted. “We’re the only white people.”

“I’m not prejudiced.”

“I’m scared.”

The largest bouncer took a step forward. “What are you guys doing in here?”

“Just boys ’n the hood,” said Serge.

A stiletto snapped open. “And you just walked into the wrong club.”

“Oh, it’s the right club,” said Serge. “Bet Luther Campbell got his start here. Big Supreme Court case. I’m down with 2 Live Crew.”

“You’re 2 Dead Crew.” A lascivious grin with diamond teeth. “But the lady can stay for my personal tour.”

“Get your fucking hands off me,” said Felicia.

“A tiger. I like it.”

From behind: “Man, they’re cool! They’re cool!”

“Shut up, Jimmy!” said the bouncer. “You crazy bringing these crackers around?”

The new arrivals at the door had everyone’s attention. Conversation at all tables ceased. Even the rapper onstage stopped and strained for a view around his microphone.

Big hands began seizing them.

“Hold it a minute!” said Serge. “There’s no need for that. We heard it’s open mike night.”

The bouncers laughed. “Did you hear that shit? Our boy here thinks he can flow.”

“Oh, I can rap all right,” said Serge.

“And I’m George Wallace.”

“Make you a deal,” said Serge. “Give me the mike, and if I roast this joint, you let us go home.”

“Shit, you get over and we’ll give you a ride home,” said the first bouncer.

The second bouncer smiled with diamond teeth. “Even let you pick the cuts on the car system.”

Coleman tugged his shirt. “Serge, you know what you’re going to sing?”

“No idea.”

“Serge!”

“Relax. Rap is all about improvising, and I do my best work under pressure… I just need your help.”

“Me?”

“After each couple verses, we’ll do a short, two-part chorus. I’ll elbow you when it’s your part.”

“What do I say?”

“Whatever pops in your head.” He looked at the bouncers: “And I’ll need coffee…”

A minute later, Serge was at the mike. If the place was quiet before, it was now a tomb. A clubful of people stared with latent violence.

“Wow,” said Serge. “Tough room.” He killed his coffee and turned to a DJ at the turntable. “Give me something upbeat…”

Synthesized music throbbed from a dozen industrial speakers.

Serge shuffled quickly in place, shooting gang signs. Then a hyper set of jumping jacks and push-ups.

The audience exchanged odd looks.

Serge finished warming up with a series of somersaults toward the center of the stage, jumped to his feet, and grabbed the mike: Serge is back, Jack, with all new facts The South Beach Diet and bikini wax Burmese pythons, the pit bull attacks Cunanan, Shaq, German tourists in T-backs I roll like Ricky Martin in “La Vida Loco” Caught the Mariel down to Calle Ocho Dissed the TEC-9s, and the dealers with the blow And the motherfuckin’ drivers who have never seen snow.

Serge: Miami’s trivia pimp is just the way that I rap.

Coleman: Look at all the black people. I think I’ll crap. Brazilians, the Euros, and all the Latin foxes Winning their hearts with all my souvenir boxes The beautiful ladies are what propel my rants From The Golden Girls to the chicks with implants. Survived the hurricanes and the oil spills Syringes on the beach and OxyContin pills The hookers, crackheads, meth freaks with bad gums Saw the Orange Bowl come down with the Sterno bums.

Serge: I’m stormin’ ashore with all the rhymes you’ll ever need.

Coleman: Is anybody out there holdin’ any weed? Smacking down the predators with just one hand While rockin’ out to KC and the Sunshine Band The Dolphins, the Marlins, the Panthers, the Heat Geriatric brawls at the shuffleboard meets. Janet Reno, Don Johnson, cigarette boats City-hall bribes, stolen election votes Anglo flight, dos cervezas, por favor Got my OCD buzz on like an epileptic whore.

Serge: Packin’ cameras, my pistols, Florida DVDs.

Coleman: The other night I spit up in my BVDs. You’re welcome for a visit, but you better not laugh Carjackings, race riots, drug informants sawed in half Cavity searches and the AWACs aircrafts Bales in the surf and the refugee rafts. The Gables, the Grove, cruisin’ Biscayne Bay I float like a flamingo, and sting like a ray Givin’ preservationists all of my hugs And only anal love for the litterbugs…

Serge and Coleman bowed. The crowd came to its feet in wild, unending applause.

Ten minutes later. A low-riding Cadillac DeVille cruised out of Liberty City with the top down. Serge, Felicia, Coleman, and Ted all crammed in the backseat of the whip. Giant chrome hubs. Amped stereo system with magnum subwoofer in the trunk, pumping out the tunes: