Pineapple Grenade by Tim Dorsey

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.”

Chapter Eight

    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