Pineapple Grenade (23 page)

She sipped a glass of sangria. “Yes.”

“Then you know what I mean.”

“I know you’re paranoid.”

“But the president likes him.” His head jerked back and forth looking for phantoms. “Why didn’t they ask
me
to run backup security from the airport? I’m the spy in the office.”

She set her fork down. “Listen, Scooter, your uncle’s the general. You worry too much.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” He leaned over the table and sniffed. “You have job security.”

She did.

Felicia Carmen. All curves and hips and luscious red lips. A beauty mark. Long, curling jet-black hair, designed to make any man swallow his tongue and spit out deepest secrets, which was her job. The local honey trap in the Costa Gordan consulate.

The consulate was the ultimate brass ring.

Everyone wanted the Miami gig. It was a sexy city with easy lifting and all the perks. The rest of the local staff wrangled their assignments through politics. Felicia earned hers. Top performance reviews during stints in St. Kitts, St. Lucia, Montserrat, and Trinidad. On the short list for Miami.

Then Scooter jumped to the head of the line.

It wasn’t fair.

Openings were few and far.

Then it accidentally became fair. Because . . .

Scooter arrived in Miami.

Word went back to the capital in Costa Gorda. “We’ve got a problem.”

They added another opening.

Scooter required a full-time job, just to chaperone Scooter.

So Felicia arrived in town.

And for the first time, the tiny Costa Gordan consulate had a backup spy. And a spy’s first priority is job security. She began spying on her consulate’s head attaché.

“I’m telling you,” said Felicia. “If they were sending anyone home, he would have mentioned something in bed.”

Scooter sniffled back tears. “Did you use the vibrator?”

Felicia lit a thin cigar. “When that thing’s in him, he tells me a bunch of secrets I don’t even give a shit about.”

“Was it on the high setting?”

“What’s with always asking about the high setting?” She reached for an ashtray. “You’re just trying to get a mental image of me.”

Scooter grinned sheepishly. He glanced around again and dumped a tiny pile of white powder on the edge of the table.

“Wonderful,” said Felicia. “That’s going to help.”

Scooter raised his face from the table and rubbed his nose. “I need it to calm down.”

She shook her head and blew smoke rings toward a ceiling fan.

Escobar did another toot, then pulled an envelope from his pocket. He unfolded a single sheet of paper and handed it to Felicia.

“What’s this?”

“The note Serge left for me at the consulate’s reception desk.” He tapped out more powder. “Remember? The first day he made contact, when our guys threw him out on the sidewalk. He said to give that note to the spy in the office.” Scooter raised his head up and pinched nostrils. “But it’s blank. I haven’t been able to figure out what it means.”

Felicia flicked her lighter and ran the flame back and forth under the paper. Tan lines slowly appeared on the page until they were solid brown.

“What are you doing?” asked Escobar.

“He wrote it in lemon juice. A child’s trick.”

“What’s it say?”

She turned the page toward him. A smiley face over words:

H
AVE A
N
ICE
D
AY.

Escobar slid his chair back on saltillo tiles. “He’s taunting me! He really is after my job!”

“That’s the coke talking.” Felicia crumpled the page and tossed it in her salad bowl. “You need to stop doing that shit.”

Didn’t listen. “I’m so screwed.”

“Yes, you’re a fuckup,” said Felicia. “But your uncle always gets you out of everything.”

“Not this time,” said Scooter. “He’s really pissed about those arm shipments.”

“You started mentioning that before,” said Felicia. “What shipments?”

“I did? I mean, I must have been thinking about the geology report.”

“Geology report?”

“Did I say ‘geology report’?”

“I’ll let you see the vibrator.”

Scooter brightened. “Really?”

“Sure.” She passed him her purse. “And do some more coke . . .”

Miami River District

A bottle of rye sat idle in a second-floor office.

Mahoney played solitaire.

The TV was on.

“Stand by for a CNN special report.”

An anchorwoman appeared.
“Breaking news at this hour, which was captured in this exclusive footage from a cell phone by a local resident . . .”

The picture switched to a shaky camera view of filthy, wild-eyed men in face paint and camouflaged military uniforms running through a peasant village, screaming and firing guns in the air.

“Give us your food! We need food!”

The anchorwoman provided voice-over:
“As you can see in these disturbing images, the rebel movement in Costa Gorda has launched a brazen offensive against the civilian population.”

Two of the men began chasing a goat.

“Next, you will clearly hear the rebels shouting slogans in denunciation of the regime of President Fernando Guzman and promoting Marxist food redistribution.”

“. . . Our government betrayed us! . . .”

“. . . We’re rationing Spam! . . .”

The anchorwoman filled the screen again.
“We’ll bring you more as it becomes available . . . And to our independent i-Reporter in the village with the cell phone, a coffee mug is on the way . . .”

The door opened.

Serge and Coleman came in and grabbed chairs. Mahoney looked up from the seven of hearts.

Serge pointed. “Nice bouquet.”

A vase with a dozen roses sat on the corner of Mahoney’s desk. Ribbons and a balloon: T
HANK
Y
OU
.

Serge read the gift card and slipped it back in the envelope. “Looks like your first client was a satisfied customer.”

Mahoney stared.

“What?”

“They found her ex-husband’s body.” He turned off the TV. “Ruled arson. Some kind of elaborate contraption with fans, gasoline, and bubble wands.”

“Not again.”

Continued staring.

“What?” asked Serge.

“Something else,” said Mahoney. “These two mugs came poking around this morning.”

“Arson investigators?” asked Serge.

Mahoney shook his head.

Across the hall:
“I can’t believe you punched me!”
A door slammed, running feet.

Serge glanced over his shoulder, then back at Mahoney. “So about these two guys?”

Mahoney reached in a drawer and tossed a thick brown envelope on the desk.

Serge peeked inside and whistled. “That’s a lot of money. What’s it for?”

“Said they wanted to hire me to be a dummy front company.”

“What did you say?”

“That I already was one.” Mahoney reached in the drawer and threw another fat envelope on the desk. “So they gave me that, too.”

“Told you,” said Serge. “What a city!”

A roar outside.

Serge glanced south. “That plane sounds awfully low.”

They all ran to the window. “It
is
low,” said Coleman. “It’s going to crash!”

“Stan’s got it,” said Mahoney.

“You know Stan?” asked Serge.

“Who’s Stan?” asked Coleman.

A twin-engine Grumman Mallard seaplane made an expert belly landing in the Miami River. Its amphibious wheels deployed, the aircraft rolled up a boat ramp, then taxied a short distance to the parking lot of Mahoney’s building.

The pilot climbed down from the cockpit and trotted into the building. Soon, another set of footsteps down the hall. The door opened.

“Guys, could I get a hand with the tarps?”

Everyone went downstairs and surrounded the plane.

Stan threw a pair of thick lines over the cowling. Serge caught them and unrolled the tarp. He stuck a finger through a hole near the propeller. “Were they shooting at you?”

“They usually do.” Stan threw more lines over the tail section. “Go-boat dropped me a thousand yards off a private island. Only took two rounds near the gas tank from private security while getting airborne. That’s a piece of cake next to getting a twin-engine off a grass mountain runway by a cocoa-leaf farm. Or cracking the jewelry safe in a Coconut Grove master bedroom.”

Coleman grabbed one of the lines. “So, Serge, what’s this guy’s deal?”

“He’s the guy I mentioned before.” Serge tugged hard on his own line. “Stan the High-End Repo Man.”

“He repossesses airplanes?”

“And yachts and race cars.”

“I didn’t know repo men did that.”

“Most don’t.” Serge tied a knot. “But it’s this economy. Even the rich are missing payments.”

“Former CIA,” added Mahoney. “Now fronting ‘Premier Acquisitions.’ Got an office down the hall from me.”

A commotion erupted at the corner intersection. Yelling.

Coleman lit a joint. “What’s going on over there?”

Serge glanced. “Those are the Aggressive Beggars.”

“Aggressive Beggars?” Coleman took a big hit and held the smoke.

“Miami phenomenon. Young, physically fit, capable of any work,” said Serge. “But instead they wash people’s windshields against their will.”

“Don’t be a dick!”
yelled a man with a squeegee and cardboard sign.
“Give me some fucking money!”

The light turned green. The beggar kicked a rear fender as the car took off.

“Serge?” Stan walked over with a set of keys attached to a small flotation device. “I’m slammed today. Going to pick up a Bentley, then two more planes. You game for freelance work?”

“I can’t fly planes.”

“Not a plane.” Stan tossed him the keys. “Offshore racing boat, twin V-hulls, three Merc engines. Think you can handle it?”

“With my eyes closed.”

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting to take her for a spin.”

“But that would be unprofessional.”

“It’s okay.” Stan secured the end of the tarp. “Just have her to Dinner Key by sundown.”

“Ow! Son of a bitch!”

Everyone turned toward the intersection. A young man dropped a squeegee and grabbed his bleeding nose.

Steve Dodd walked back from the street, shaking his right hand to get out the sting.

Stan handed Serge a briefcase. “Know your way around a TEC-9?”

Serge flipped the latches and pulled out the compact machine gun. “I may have picked one of these up from time to time.”

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Now I’ve gotta make a delivery.” Stan hopped in a Silver Cloud and sped away.

Coleman looked back and forth at the airplane, departing Rolls-Royce, windshield washers, Steve Dodd’s fist, Serge’s new machine gun. Three Nicaraguans came around the corner, tossed a shark in the intersection, and ran off. Coleman took another big hit. “Miami’s far out.”

“Mahoney,” said Serge. “I may need a favor. But it will probably never come up.”

“Oh, it’ll come up,” said Mahoney. “Mumble.”

“It’s my Secret Master Plan,” said Serge. “And in my new line of work, the Master Plan needs a Backup Plan. That’s where you come in . . .” And he laid it all out.

Mahoney tossed a toothpick. “That’s the dizziest scheme I ever heard.”

“But if I call you, you’re in, right?”

“Aces.” Mahoney began walking back to the building. “But I have one question. Those two jakes who paid for that dummy front business. Anything hinky involved?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s that mean?”

Serge just grinned.

Chapter Seventeen