16 Tiger Shrimp Tango Read Online Free

16 Tiger Shrimp Tango
Book: 16 Tiger Shrimp Tango Read Online Free
Author: Tim Dorsey
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next drink was half gone when she strained to peer inside the dark restaurant. Why is that phone call taking so long? She got up and tentatively stepped inside.
    The waiter approached. “May I help you with something?”
    She craned her neck to look past him into the narrow diner. “Have you seen Gustave?”
    “You mean the gentleman you were dining with?”
    She nodded and glanced around.
    “Not since he was sitting with you out there,” said the waiter. “He isn’t inside the restaurant.”
    “What?” said Courtney. “But I saw him come in here to take a call. And there’s no way he could have come out without me seeing him.”
    The bartender overheard. “If you’re talking about the French guy with the cell phone, I saw him go in the restroom.”
    “How long ago?”
    “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”
    Now the maître d’ overheard. He turned to the waiter. “Jerry, go check.”
    “Oh, thank you,” said Courtney. The maître d’ smiled warmly, but she misread his intentions.
    Jerry returned, shaking his head. “Empty.”
    “But that’s not possible,” said Courtney.
    The bartender wiped a glass. “There’s a back exit.”
    “But he couldn’t have left,” said Courtney. “His car is still out front.”
    “Which one?” asked the bartender.
    “The Bentley.”
    “That’s not his,” said the bartender.
    “How do you know?”
    “Because it belongs to the von Zurenburgs.” The bartender hung the dry glass in an overhead rack. “Old money. You’ve heard of shoelaces?”
    Even the waiter was impressed. “You don’t mean the shoelaces.”
    The bartender slowly picked up another wet glass and peered sideways with a glare that said, You’re starting to ask some dangerous questions.
    Courtney glanced back and forth with a near laugh. “What’s going on?”
    Everyone stood silent.
    She turned around. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”
    More quiet.
    She closed her eyes a moment. Oh, no. Then opened them again.
    “Ma’am,” said the maître d’. “There is still the matter of the check.”
    Courtney sighed in resignation. “How much?”
    It was not the Palm Beach Way to say such numbers aloud. He handed her a small leather folder and raised flared nostrils to deliberately expose unsettling dark bristles inside.
    “Six hundred and ninety-three dollars!” she blurted. “For two bites of food and a few mimosas?”
    “And a shrimp cocktail.”
    TAMPA
    A vintage Firebird rolled through noon sun on Busch Boulevard, named for the famous brewery that had since been shuttered. But still operating nearby was the theme park.
    Serge stopped across the street and checked his watch to see how long until Busch Gardens closed for the night.
    “Serge, I think the idea about Canada is good and all, but I don’t think it’s enough to stop all the fighting.”
    “It’s not.” Serge stared across the street with binoculars. “The second part of my Master Plan to reinstate domestic peace is one simple word: Music!”
    “Oh, yeah,” said Coleman. “That’s how they settle all serious shit on Glee .”
    “The Tea Party and the Occupiers are simply different twists on Parrot Heads and Dead Heads. At first impression, the Parrot Heads see a bunch of filthy people with bare feet and think, ‘Get a job.’ And the Dead Heads see all these wacky tropical hats and Buffett-licensed apparel and think, ‘Get a life.’ But the overwhelming common ground is obvious.”
    Coleman petted his hamster. “They both like music?”
    “If we can just sit them down and listen to a mash-up of ‘Margaritaville’ and ‘Casey Jones,’ we’re halfway home.”
    Coleman nodded. “Tequila and cocaine. I like it.”
    “You’re missing the point. This is about uniting our fractured nation, and I’ve come up with a unifying theory to explain all human behavior and achieve this harmony: the Empathy Continuum.”
    “What’s empathy?”
    “The ability to feel others’ vibes and follow the Golden
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