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beers, rummaging fifty-gallon coolers on the tailgates of pickup trucks with Marlin hunting rifles in the window racks—“Buccaneers Number One!”—throwing garbage over their shoulders.
    Serge and Coleman were noticed.
    A fan in a red-and-silver Afro wig elbowed his pal. “Hey Ralph, get a load of the goofy guys with the luggage.” He cupped hands around his mouth. “What’s the matter? Get lost on your way to the airport? Ha ha ha ha ha . . .”
    “Ha ha ha ha ha.” Serge laughed. “Actually we’re sales reps.”
    “Sales reps?”
    Serge nodded. “You know how companies are always dispatching employees to give away free samples outside stadiums?”
    “You got free samples of some shit?”
    Serge grinned. “Are the Bucs number one?”
    “Fuckin’ A!”
    Serge reached in his suitcase and pulled out an armload of foil pouches. “Bugs will eat you up something fierce in Florida, especially this side of the stadium with all the marshes.”
    The Afro scratched his painted belly. “They’ve been biting all morning.”
    “And what have you been doing about it?” asked Serge.
    A plastic mug rose in the air. “Drink beer!” The Afro high-fived a man wearing a construction helmet with cup holders.
    Serge rapidly flung foil pouches to the gang, left to right, like dealing cards. “Apply liberally to chest and arms, and your scratching days will be reserved for instant lottery tickets.”
    They began spraying. “You say this stuff really works?”
    “You’d be surprised.”
    “Gee, thanks, mister.”
    The pair rolled suitcases until they reached a sidewalk along Dale Mabry.
    “Serge, where’s the airport entrance?”
    “Around the right, five miles.”
    “Five freakin’ miles! That’s a long way to walk in this heat!”
    “Won’t have to. Tampa is the strip-club capital of America. You’re never more than spitting distance.”
    “What’s that got to do with walking?”
    “Every time we land a national convention or Super Bowl, TV pundits mock us for our titty bars, but you never have to worry about where to find a cab in this city.” Serge gestured at a nearby building with a giant silver disk on the roof, where people paid extra for lap dances inside a flying saucer. “There’s the closest taxi stand.”
    Coleman stared at a fleet of yellow cars on the other side of the road. “But why couldn’t we have just gotten a cab in the first place?”
    “Because we’re about to take a great vacation to Miami for the fabulous Summit of the Americas.” There was a break in traffic, and Serge trotted halfway across the highway to the concrete median. “Except everyone else just goes to the airport. I like to take the path less traveled.”
    An ambulance raced toward shrill screams from an overflow parking lot, and Serge and Coleman dashed across the street to a flying saucer.
    Washington, D.C.
    Office of Homeland Security.
    Glass doors, card readers, metal detectors. Bright walls and shiny floors. The lobby displayed the department’s official seal of a bald eagle in a fiercely protective pose, giving citizens increased peace of mind on the approximate level of a smoke detector.
    Malcolm Glide navigated a maze of hallways toward the center of the building, passing cordially through ascending security-level checkpoints. Even though he had no official identification.
    Because Malcolm had no official title in Washington. And total access.
    Because he was a puppet master. And no one was better.
    In the last midterms alone, Malcolm was the brains behind the election of six senators and fifteen congressmen, despite voter registration heavily favoring their opponents. Malcolm was the ultimate political partisan. To money. Eleven of his candidates were Republican, ten Democrat.
    Footsteps echoed through waxed halls. Glide dressed like his clients: tailored black suit, red or blue tie, banker’s haircut, and teeth-whitening treatments requiring ultraviolet beams and eye protection. At six one, his