by Tod Goldberg
Sherman swallowed hard. “His name is Robert Roberge.”
Not a name he wanted to give up. Interesting, Fi thought. Now that he was frightened, she had him precisely where she wanted him. Scared people think they can talk their way out of problems, think that by giving up the information you ask for that they’ll stay out of trouble, particularly someone like Sherman, who seemed like he had something to hide, or at least something he didn’t want to tell the kind woman from Allied Car Rental.
“Social security number?” Fiona said, thinking, what the hell, why not fish a bit. Besides, she needed to get him out of the office for a few moments so she could plant a wire in the room, since she figured the real interesting news would come after she left.
“Why do you need that?”
“Mr. Sherman, do you see this?” She waved the police report. “This is not a joke, sir. This is the police.”
“I’ll need to get his file,” he said. He was positively bashful as he walked out of his office, perhaps because he saw his entire career flashing before his eyes. Wait until he found out his race was fixed.
Fiona would have felt slightly sorry for him if he’d been gentleman enough to offer her two tickets for the yacht party; one ticket was just smarmy. And anyway, she didn’t have time to feel much of anything. She needed to get Sherman’s office rigged for sound.
It used to be that getting a surreptitious wire on someone took tremendous sleight of hand and incredible risk.
That was before cell phones.
Cell phones have two notable characteristics that make them excellent for use in clandestine operations in suburban settings: They are easily lost and entirely nonthreatening. So if you want to wire someone who wouldn’t normally be looking for such things, all you need are two cell phones, one to leave sitting open in the vicinity of the person you’re interested in and one pressed to your ear listening in.
A fully charged cell phone battery will last three days, which should be more than enough time to glean the information you desire.
Fiona opted for the fake tree sitting on top of the file cabinet just adjacent to Sherman’s desk. She noted the faux leaves were dusty, which meant it had probably been a good week, probably more, since the cleaning crew in the building had bothered to run a feather duster over the atrocity. Fiona thought that having a fake plant in Miami was a sin just as egregious as the fake tan out front. Some things just didn’t need to be replicated when the original was perfectly well and good.
A few moments later, Sherman returned holding Roberge’s file. It wasn’t terribly thick, though Fiona thought there was probably something of interest to be gleaned from having a look inside.
“His number is 534-24…” Sherman started.
“435, okay,” Fiona said. “What was next?”
“No,” Sherman said, “534.”
“534,” she said, writing while she spoke, “25, you said?”
“No,” Sherman said. He repeated it again and Fiona pretended to take it down, and then read it back to Sherman, all in the wrong order again, which seemed to frustrate poor Mr. Sherman.
When she couldn’t get the spelling of Roberge’s name down-nor his driver’s license, or his address, all information needed for the application, and so she could have one of Sam’s buddies run a background on him, provided she didn’t get everything she wanted just by asking Mr. Sherman-it appeared to Fi that Sherman was about to have a stroke.
Fiona could smell perspiration and not the healthy, clean kind, but the kind that is generated when your body goes into fight-or-flight mode. “Here,” he said, and tossed the file to Fiona. “It’s all right there on the front page. Just copy it yourself. Okay? Just copy it yourself!”
He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers on top of his head, gathered up his hair and tugged. Not a good day to be king.
Roberge’s employment file noted that he worked as security guard for the company. It also noted that he’d previously been convicted of a felony. On the line where it said, “If Yes, Please Explain” Roberge had scrawled, all in caps ASSAULT, EXTORTION, ETC. It shuddered Fiona to imagine what ETC. meant. If you put assault and extortion on an application, what aren’t you admitting? Drowning puppies?
She handed the file back to Sherman, who looked at it like it was contagious. “Job title?” Fiona said, even though she already knew. Didn’t want poor Mr. Sherman to know she’d been peeking, though it’s hardly covert activity when you do it right in front of someone; though it must have been hard for Mr. Sherman to pay attention to much of anything at that moment.
“Consultant,” Sherman said. “Security.”
Companies who hired ex-cons for security deserved all of the bad things that happened to them. Personally, Fiona thought she had a very strong work ethic and while she occasionally worked on the other side of the law, it wasn’t like she was breaking arms for drugs. Robbing a bank is a victimless crime, really. And selling guns, well, at least in America people had the right to bear arms. She was sure most people who purchased guns from her did so for perfectly reasonable purposes. And anyway, it wasn’t her commitment in question. If people needed guns, they’d get them from somewhere.
“And purpose of Mr. Roberge’s presence at the location?” Again, Sherman looked nervous, maybe on the verge of tears. “Sir, it’s required for the insurance. If we do this the right way, your insurance won’t be contacted, the police won’t press charges and everyone sleeps like little babies.”
“He was investigating a possible security breach,” Sherman said. “Look, Ms. Bowes? I can’t have this getting in the newspaper, okay? This is really sensitive. The slightest sense of impropriety and this whole race could go down the tubes. Did you see that yacht that blew up? Those are the kinds of people who want to breach security, ma’am. Mr. Roberge was sent to check out a possible negative, uh, person of interest. That’s all I can say.”
A negative person of interest. That’s all he had to say.
“All right,” Fiona said. She figured her ruse could only last so long and that if she kept hammering Sherman, he might not last much more, either. “All I need is Mr. Roberge’s signature on this form and I think we can avoid prosecution.”
“He’s not here,” Sherman said.
Of course he wasn’t. Fi suspected he was lurking about the city somewhere, however. And it would be good to know where that was. “Well, if you can fax the form back to our office by five this evening, I think that should be fine.”
“Yes, yes, fine,” he said. He stood up and Fiona decided to give the man his dignity and allow him to dictate when the meeting was over. Besides, she was eager to get to her car to hear his next conversation.
She walked back through the cubicle maze and into the foyer, where unfortunately the receptionist was back on duty and the security guard woman was now standing and looking threatening by the door, though when Fiona got near she gave her a nice smile. “Everything go well?” she asked Fi.
“Crisis averted,” she said. The guard looked saddened by this. “But I’m sure something bad will happen later.”
Unfortunately for the security guard, it turned out the bad thing wasn’t going to happen on her watch. This was made clear to Fi as she slipped her cell phone from her purse and listened in on Timothy Sherman’s conversation. He was screaming obscenities at someone, telling them they’d nearly destroyed the entire boating organization with their stupidity and that if he didn’t get a signature from him there was a good chance someone from “Catch A Predator” would be waiting for him at his shitty apartment when he got off work. He then told the man-presumably Roberge-to stay right where he was, that he was bringing the form to him.
Fi got into her car and waited for Sherman to appear, which he did a few moments later. He jumped into a matching Lexus-this one had the official seal of the race stuck to the side door, like he was a real estate agent-and pulled out of the lot.
Fi didn’t think she needed to be particularly savvy in her tail, since
it was clear Sherman wasn’t looking to be followed, particularly since he was talking into a cell phone the entire time he drove and nearly sideswiped a bus and then quite nearly rammed a Miata being driven by a woman who literally had blue hair.
While paying attention to surroundings was not Sherman’s strong suit, it was Fiona’s, and when it became clear after twenty minutes of driving that she was following Sherman back to a rather familiar destination-a loft above a nightclub in a not so nice part of town-she began to realize things we’re not going to be as simple as planned. So when Sherman made his final turn down the street where the loft is, Fi just kept going, especially since she could hear an ambulance siren in the distance and saw that people were mingling on the sidewalk and looking about with their hands over their mouths. Never a good sign.
Fi parked her car around the other side of the block and walked to the mouth of the street, where another group of people were already assembling.
There was a fire engine, a Lexus and quite a bit of mess on the street. And Timothy Sherman walking towards the scene in what looked to be a rather significant state of agitation. “What happened?” Fi said to a teenage boy wearing a backwards Marlins cap.
“Man got shot,” he said. He pointed to the Lexus. “Half his head is over there on the ground.” He was so nonchalant it almost startled Fi. She looked at where the kid was pointing and sure enough, a good portion of Roberge’s head was on the pavement, along with glass and blood and brain matter. Bad day to be Rob Roberge, Fi thought. After spending some time observing the scene, she decided it would be prudent to give me a call and fill me in.
“Still not seeing the funny,” I said when she was through.
“Neither was Mr. Sherman’s proxy,” she said.
“He look to be involved?” I said.
“He seems to be cooperating with the police, mostly by sobbing and shaking.”
“Who would have wanted us away from Gennaro?” I said, but even as I said it, I knew the answer. The only way someone would know about me as it related to Gennaro prior to my meeting with Bonaventura this morning would be if they were privy to our conversation at the Setai the night previous. Which meant Dinino. But it didn’t explain why this poor sap was dead on my street.
“I think you’ve been set up, Michael,” she said. “I think you’ve been given a nice round of diversions.”
“Seems that way,” I said.
“Who do I get to shoot?”
“I’ll let you know,” I said. “Stay close and I’ll call you when I know what the plan is.”
“Yay,” she said without much enthusiasm.
I hung up with Fi and looked back outside. Gennaro was still making adjustments on his boat. He was due to launch shortly.
“You need to stay here and watch Gennaro while he’s on land and on the water. He’s not safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s a good chance someone might shoot him.”
“What’s going on?”
“Timothy Sherman’s driver from yesterday is dead,” I said. “And I have a pretty good feeling that Dinino bugged Gennaro’s room at the Setai. We’re in the middle of something here, Sam, and it’s not just about this job.”
“Got it, Mikey.” He dusted off the rest of his beer and stood up. “Sea looks nice and calm.”
“That’s the bay. The sea is a little farther out.”
Sam seemed to consider this. “You think they sell Dramamine in this joint somewhere?”
“Maybe try the gift shop,” I said. “Maybe see if they have more appropriate clothes, too. When you get back, get your friend Jimenez on the phone and have him find out who planted this girl, who might have the juice to pull something like this on Dinino. I need a name.”
“Mikey, it’s nine hours ahead of us in Italy right now. It’s the middle of the night.”
“Your friend Jimenez got us into this,” I said. “He can have a sleepless night.”
Sam agreed, if begrudgingly. “Where you gonna be?”
“I need to have a conversation with Alex Kyle,” I said.
“You’re not going back to Bonaventura’s, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I’m pretty sure Alex Kyle will find me.”
“This boat you want,” Sam said, “can Virgil be on it?”
I liked Virgil.
Really.
It was just that Virgil meant my mother, and my mother meant problems.
“If he has to be,” I said.
“The man is a valuable asset,” Sam said.
“Make it happen,” I said, “however it happens.”
When Sam left, I called Nate and told him that I needed another favor.
“You need me or Slade Switchblade?”
“Slade Switchblade?”
“If you’re Tommy the Ice Pick,” he said, “I’m Slade Switchblade.”
“When was the last time you actually saw a switchblade, Nate?”
“When was the last time you actually saw an ice pick, Michael?” Nate said. I paused. The truth was that the last time I saw an ice pick, I was shoving it into a man’s chest in Siberia, so, best as I could recall, about the fall of 1999. But my hesitation was enough of an opening for Nate. “And anyway, it’s about reputation, right? Isn’t that what you said? So maybe Slade used a switchblade back in the day, and now, now he uses a howitzer, but no one knows. People are more scared of a switchblade than a howitzer, right? More personal, right? So that’s why he’s Slade Switchblade not Slade Howitzer.”
“Right,” I said. While I liked that Nate had actually thought through his own personal narrative, I wasn’t comfortable with it actually making sense. “Look, I don’t need Slade. But if I do, you give him whatever nickname you want.”
“Slade Six-Gun was another one I came up with,” he said.
“Great,” I said. “If Wyatt Earp comes through town, I’ll let him know you’re ready to mount up. In the meantime, I need you to talk to your friends in the betting industries. Find out who is putting money against the Pax Bellicosa in the Miami-to-Nassua. Not five hundred or even a thousand dollars, but numbers with lots of zeros.”
“Someone rich rolling,” he said.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Someone rich rolling. Anyone owes you any favors, I need you to call them in.” Nate was silent. I thought I heard him writing something down. “You still there?”
“Just getting this all on paper so I don’t forget anything.”
I’ve never, ever, seen Nate take a note, or make note, mentally, of anything. “Okay,” I said. “You run into a problem, let me know.”
“I got nintey-nine problems,” Nate said, “but this ain’t one of ’em.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “It’s a song, Michael. One day, when you’re free, we should sit down and I’ll catch you up on the parts of the twenty-first century you’ve missed out on.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
After I hung up with Nate, I watched Gennaro from the window of the Aground until I finally saw Sam striding through the marina. He had on a striped shirt, blue pants, a white baseball cap and bright red boat shoes, all of which made him look like a waiter at a nautical-theme restaurant at Disney World. He’d have to tell Gennaro’s crew some plausible story, but I wasn’t too worried. I had a good feeling that expert sailor Chuck Finley was about to be on the deck.
12
Anxiety-like its cousin, actual physical pain-is a natural occurrence. It’s your brain’s way of reminding you that even if your ancestors didn’t see a saber-toothed tiger lurking in the low underbrush, there was a high probability that the tiger was there, licking its chops, anticipating the rich and nuanced flavors found in your average austra lopithecine.
Where you might find a therapist to talk you through your anxiety, maybe find a way to medicate the fear of the tiger away, when you’re a spy, you learn to calculate your anxiety so that you can compartmentalize it in your mind and make decisions, so that if a house cat crosses your path you
don’t scramble an F-16 from an offshore aircraft carrier to take it out.
What are you afraid of?
Is the threat credible?
Can you take it out by yourself?
Unbounded anxiety creates mental isolation. Even a spy can go crazy if he’s not able to exercise his brain. If you’re captured by the enemy, hooded and shoved into a locked room, the first thing you should do is start talking to yourself. Even if you’re speaking gibberish, you want to use the only weapon you have-your intellect-to turn your fear into your asset. Language and thought and reason will focus you, will break down your anxiety into workable parts, until you see your anxiety for what it ultimately is: a desire not to die or suffer terrible pain. Once you recognize the danger and the possible outcomes, it’s easier to fight, even if the fight is all in your head.
If someone really wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.
While I didn’t know precisely what I was facing, I knew that the players on my radar were not much to be afraid of personally, but for Gennaro and his wife and child, however, they were the epitome.
I had to remember that.
I was also aware that positions were aligning in such a way that even if I was able to save Gennaro’s family, I might very well be in the crosshairs of the bad guys, the good guys and probably a few opportunists, too.
That meant the threat was credible.
And that meant I needed help.
The sun was already down, but Bayfront Park, Miami’s own central park, was lit with glittering white bulbs strung tree to tree to highlight a free show given by the Flying Trapeze School housed on the park’s grounds. There were booths selling corn dogs, pork sandwiches, funnel cakes and sweet corn on the cob, others offering hand-churned ice cream, fried plantains and guava marmalade served over pound cake. Young couples and families sat on blankets and watched the spectacle as the trapeze students sailed through the air, catching each other by the ankles and flying back again, flipping, twirling, and even falling occasionally to the mesh net below, to the ooohs and ahhhs of the crowd. There was that whirl of expectation in the air that comes from shared excitement and fear.
