Read The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins for Free Online

back in shape. Think you could maybe help me?
    — That’s what I do. When can you come in for a consultation?
    — I’m kinda in the neighborhood, well, North Miami Beach. Could I swing by sometime tomorrow morning?
    — Sure . . . and I’m looking up to a smaller screen, on the other wall of the office, where we’re back, on a different channel. This pink-clad turkey with a strap of reverberating flesh around her neck is gushingly describing me as a hero. — I’ll look forward to meeting you under calmer circumstances. How’s ten?
    — Ten’s good . . . she says without conviction.
    — Okay. Tomorrow we’ll get started, I tell her. Ten o’clock sharp.
    — Okay . . . an insipid victim voice wavers back down the line.
    I hang up and get my stuff together. I say goodbye to Lester at the juice bar. Then I get outside and walk down to the Miami Beach police station on Washington at 11th. I recognize a cop on the desk from last night, a short, fat, black guy, who just looks me over in vague disapproval, before asking me to sign a form, and eventually issuing me with my car keys. I follow his directions downstairs to the lot and find the Cadillac DeVille. I examine the indented collision area, feeling like I’m taking a much loved but dangerous rescue dog from the pound. I get in and start it up, and it turns over first time. I pull out of the dark basement lot, into the bright sunshine, turning onto my street and circling my block to make sure that no photographers are lurking. But the street is quiet, except for some palms swishing in the mild breeze, the light suddenly weak and fading as thunder clouds roll in from the ocean to block the sun. Have they lost interest so quickly? In the apartment, I’ve no time for any emails, as it’s the big one tonight. Michelle Parish is in town, talking about her new exercise and diet plan!
    By the time I’ve gotten ready, wearing white linen slacks and a blue tank top and—sick of the trainer’s ponytail—opting for hair pinned back in a classic chignon, the clouds have passed and it’s a beautiful Miami Beach evening. It’s still hot and balmy as the sun goes down and insects whir dreamily, and I’m wading confidently through that sexy, tropical air back into my car, content the coast is clear. The Caddy’s old stereo is broken, but I have my CDs and put on some Cuban hip hop I bought for five bucks from a hustler on Washington. I never usually do that but this kid had the most amazingly cute eyes. Musically, a gamble, but in this case it’s paid off, heavy samba rhythms filling the air as a sneakily cool Spanish vocal kicks in. I wish I knew what the fuck they were singing about.
    I take the MacArthur over the Biscayne Bay and down to Coral Gables, parking a block from the bookstore and walking there. I hate Miami proper, I’m a SoBe bum, but the Gables is one of the few mainland spots I can tolerate, and it’s largely due to this place. Books & Books is a classy store, with a great patio cafe, a corner of which is usually occupied by some cool musicians. I’ve even picked up a couple of guys and a chick here, on separate occasions.
    I’m sitting keying in my day’s calorie and exercise data on the Lifemap TM phone app, as the crowd fills up around me. A woman with frizzy dark hair and glasses steps up to the podium, and I can see Michelle Parish, a bit smaller than I imagined, sitting behind her, all frisky and enthusiastic, just like she is on
Shed That Gut!
    The other woman, sharp-faced with alert, keen, birdlike movements, prepares to intro Michelle, but to my shock, her face expands in recognition as she suddenly catches my eye. — I’d just like to say that we have a local hero in the audience tonight, and she points right at me. — The brave lady who disarmed the gunman on the Julia Tuttle!
    To avoid shrinking into my seat, I look around with a forced grin. There’s a split-second pause, before the whole room, about a hundred people, bursts into