Big Trouble (13 page)

When Arthur's thirty-five-inch Sony TV got assassinated, he had figured out that he was meant to be the victim, and that whoever fired the shot had been hired by Penultimate. But when Arthur walked into the Jolly Jackal, John and Leo did not know anything about this. As far as they were concerned, Arthur was connected to a valued customer, and so they treated him courteously, although like everybody else who dealt with him, they thought he was an asshole.

“Do you want something to drink?” asked John.

“Vodka,” said Arthur, who always wanted something to drink.

John said something in Russian to Leo, who brought over a glass of vodka. Arthur grabbed it, gulped the contents, set the glass down, and leaned in toward John. His eyes were red; his voice raspy.

“Like I told you on the phone,” he said, “I need a missile.”

“I see,” said John. “This is for you? This is personal missile?”

“What the fuck do you care?” said Arthur.

It was a good point. John did not really care. He was just curious, because Arthur had never before mentioned, let alone taken delivery of, a weapon. He always just dropped off the money.

“It must be missile?” John asked

“Is that a problem?” Arthur asked.

“Unfortunately,” said John, “right now we do not have missile. Missile is very hard to get.” It was true. The market for missiles was tight; somebody was snapping them all up. Rumor was that it was either Iraq or Microsoft.

“Well,” said Arthur, “I want you to try very fucking hard to come up with something for me.” Arthur mocked John's pronunciation of “very,” so it sounded like “wary.”

John, hearing the mockery, considered having Leo escort Arthur out. But John was a businessman, and a customer was a customer.

“How are you wanting to use this weapon?” he asked.

“Never mind how I am vonting to use this veppon,” mimicked Arthur. “Just gimme a serious veppon.”

Arthur did not plan to use the weapon as a weapon. He knew nothing about weapons. The whole reason he wanted one was that he was planning to save his butt by going to the feds and telling them what he knew about Penultimate—the contracts, the bribes, the Jolly Jackal, and anything else he could think up or make up. In his panicked, alcohol-impaired mental state, he had concluded that the surest way he could get the feds' attention would be to show up with an actual Russian missile.

“How much you pay?” asked John.

Arthur pushed the briefcase across the table. “Ten thousand,” he said. “You can count it.” Arthur himself had counted the briefcase contents earlier. At that time, there had been $15,000, in packages of twenties, but Arthur had taken $5,000 for himself, stuffing $500 in his wallet and the rest into his pants pockets. He was supposed to have delivered the $15,000 two days earlier to a Dade County commissioner, who was then supposed to cast the deciding vote to award Penultimate a contract to build fourteen bus shelters, every single one of which would, what with one thing and another, wind up costing the taxpayers of Dade County as much as a luxury two-bedroom condominium on Key Biscayne.

John opened the briefcase, glanced inside, then closed the lid. He continued looking at the briefcase as he considered the situation. On the one hand, this whole transaction stank. This idiot across from him was clearly way out of his league here. On the other hand, cash was cash. And if the idiot really didn't care what he was buying, John saw a way not only to make a little money, but also to solve a problem that had been bothering him.

“OK,” he said. “Maybe I have item for you.”

He led Arthur down the hallway to the back room, unlocked the door, and opened it. He went to a back corner room and grabbed the handle of what looked like a high-tech suitcase, a little bigger than a rolling carry-on bag, made out of a silver-gray metal. He dragged it toward the door, laid it on its side, undid the four heavy-duty latches, and lifted the lid. The inside of the case was lined with yellow foam padding; inside of that was a black metal box with some kind of foreign writing on it and a bank of electrical switches. Next to the box, connected to it by some electrical cables, was a steel cylinder that looked a little like a garbage disposal.

“What the fuck is that?” asked Arthur.

“Bomb,” said John.

“It looks like a fucking garbage disposal,” said Arthur.

“Is bomb,” said John.

“How does it work?” asked Arthur.

“Follow instructions,” said John, pointing at the foreign writing.

“That supposed to be funny?” asked Arthur.

“No,” said John.

“How do I know this is a bomb?” asked Arthur. “How do I know I'm not paying ten grand for a garbage disposal?”

“Take a look,” said John, deadpan.

Arthur, compelled by masculine instinct, leaned over and frowned at the contents of the case, exactly the way countless males have frowned at household appliances, plumbing, car engines, and all manner of other mechanical objects that they did not begin to understand. After a few seconds, as if he had seen something that satisfied his hard-nosed masculine skepticism, he straightened up and said, “OK.”

John nodded solemnly. He closed the case, relatched it, and called for Puggy to come carry it out to Arthur's car.

John was pleased. At one time or another, he and Leo had kept some very dangerous things in the back room, and none of them had ever bothered him. But this particular thing was different. This was the first thing they'd had back there that made him nervous. He was very glad to see it go.

AT 7:45 P.M., Matt was standing outside the Gap at CocoWalk in downtown Coconut Grove, waiting for Jenny to show up so he could kill her. His witness, Andrew, was across the street at Johnny Rockets, buying a milk shake. Matt was too excited about the prospect of seeing Jenny to be hungry.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself in the bustling open-air shopping complex, Matt had left his rifle-sized SquirtMaster Model 9000 at home, and instead was packing the handgun-style JetBlast Junior. It had nowhere near the water capacity or range, but it would do the job. Periodically, Matt pulled the black plastic water pistol partway from his pocket to check it for leakage, because he didn't want to look like he'd peed his pants.

Matt did not notice that he was being observed by a stocky, balding man sitting one level above him, in an outdoor bar called Fat Tuesday that served slushy, garish-colored alcoholic drinks from a row of clear plastic dispensers, each labeled with a wacky name such as You Gotta Colada. The man's name was Jack Pendick. He had just that afternoon lost his job as a salesclerk at a Sunglass Hut, after one too many women customers had complained about his flagrant attempts to look down their blouses when they leaned over to examine the display case.

Jack had not been happy in retail anyway. His dream was to pursue a career in law enforcement. He had twice applied to the Metro-Dade police department, but was rejected both times because his psychological profile indicated that he was, to put it in layperson's terms, stupid. But he remained obsessed with the idea of being a crime fighter, and, as he sucked down the last slurp of his third drink, an iridescent green concoction called the Vulcan Mind Melter, his attention was focused, laser-like, on the suspicious young man just below him.

Jack had watched many real-video police shows on TV, and he believed that he had a sixth sense for when a crime was about to go down. That sense was tingling now. This punk below him was acting nervous, and he'd been checking something in his pocket, something that Jack, through surveillance, had concluded was—there it was again!—a gun.

The punk was getting ready to pull something. Jack
knew
it.

In his mind, Jack started to hear the song. It was Jack's personal law-enforcement theme song; he'd first heard it in his all-time favorite episode of his all-time favorite show,
Miami Vice
. It was echoing in his brain now, the voice of Phil Collins, singing . . .

And Jack, as he observed this perpetrator getting ready to commit some felony, could feel it comin', too—his chance, finally, to step up to the plate; to prove that he was not a loser; to be a hero; to show the world, especially the management of Sunglass Hut, what kind of a man he was. With his right hand, he reached into his pocket and felt the smooth, cold, reassuring hardness of the pistol he'd purchased a week earlier at the Coconut Grove Gun and Knife Show. With his left hand, he signaled to the waitress for another Vulcan Mind Melter.

NINE blocks away, Henry and Leonard were sitting in their rental car, a few car lengths down the dark street from the entrance to the Jolly Jackal. They had tailed Arthur Herk there, and were waiting for him to emerge so they could continue tailing him. They were listening to a sports talk show on the radio. The host was talking.

Where are the Gator fans now? All you Gators call when you WIN, but now that you LOSE, you don't have the guts
.

“What the fuck are Gators?” asked Leonard.

“Football,” said Henry. “College.”

“Morons,” said Leonard, who could not imagine engaging in a violent activity unless he was getting paid.

The radio host took a call.

I'm a Gator fan. And I'm calling
.

You said we didn't have the guts to call, so I'm calling
.

I'm saying, here I am. I'm calling
.

You said we didn't have the guts
.

Well, I'M calling
.

Henry, shaking his head, turned off the radio.

“This country,” he said.

“No shit,” agreed Leonard.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them looking at the Jolly Jackal's crippled, grime-encrusted neon sign, beaming “ACKAL” into the night.

“Why'd he come here?” asked Leonard. “Guy like him, nice house, good job, plenty of cheese, what's he doing in a shithole like this?”

“Good question,” said Henry.

“How about we just bring him out here and find out?” asked Leonard.

Henry shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “I wanna see what he does.”

“Too bad,” said Leonard. “Because, you give me two minutes with him and this”—he pulled the car cigarette lighter out of its socket—“and he tells us whatever we want to know. He sings like whatshisname, Luciano Calamari.”

“Pavarotti,” said Henry.

“Whatever. He sings, we whack him, boom, we're onna plane back to Newark. No more mosquitos, no more guys in trees, no more Gators, no more . . .”

“Shut up,” said Henry.

Leonard followed Henry's gaze, and saw two men, one of them limping, approach the door of the Jolly Jackal. In the purple-red light of the ACKAL sign, Henry and Leonard could see that both men were wearing what looked like women's stockings over their faces. The limping one was holding a gun.

“Looks like it's happy hour,” said Leonard.