by Tim Dorsey
Then he grabbed several pages of background workup. With the demise of Felicia, everyone thought a neat little bow had been tied on a quite messy mission at the hemispheric summit. It had been designed to take out an incorruptible undercover American agent who was getting too close to an arms pipeline from Miami to Latin America. And it worked. The agent was neutralized. But in the process, way too much collateral damage and an avalanche of unwanted media attention. Then it quieted down. Two years had passed without any blowback, and all the mistakes were considered ancient history.
Then a loose end.
Enzo had been hired by a South American junta from the tiny nation of Costa Gorda. Actually a secret junta within the junta, who made their fortunes by allowing wholesale money laundering and letting all manner of contraband find safe harbor on the way to somewhere else. Oh, and open arms to any rogue CIA operation.
The junta’s clandestine service had its own version of Big Dipper Data Management, but one that was far more effective. And the correlation of their data had just reached a tipping point beyond coincidence. They’d recently noticed a new spate of Web hits on the sites of several U.S. senators and congressmen, all with corresponding Freedom of Information Act requests. They came from a cluster of IP addresses in South Florida, and all the politicians had cozy, clandestine ties to the junta. They knew the secrets. Not big stuff like the assassinations of the agent and Felicia. They didn’t want to know that. But they knew.
There could be only one conclusion: Someone, somehow, had begun snooping around about that two-year-old debacle in Miami. The junta’s intelligence service dug some more . . .
Enzo set down the eight-by-ten photo of Serge. The target was far too mobile, but there was one known associate with a static address on the Miami River, and the wiretap on Mahoney’s phone had yielded a mother lode. Enzo knew about all the clients, and about Serge picking off members of the gang, as well as the recently verified address of a fake DEA agent, and even about Sasha and South Philly Sal.
The junta never told Enzo how to accomplish his missions. Just get results. And Enzo now had sufficient information to rough out his plan on a legal pad. He picked up an untraceable cell phone and dialed.
“Hello? Is this Mahoney and Associates? . . . My name isn’t important. This involves the safety of one of your employees named Serge Storms . . . Well, I’ll tell you . . . I was discreetly working with him two years ago. Remember that sordid affair at the summit? Turns out they’ve sent someone back to Miami to tie up loose ends . . . Yes, I know who. His name is Enzo Tweel, but he’s using the cover of a local scam artist named South Philly Sal.” Enzo abruptly hung up.
Then he listened to the tap on Mahoney’s phone and the outgoing call that he knew would be placed immediately to the consulate of Costa Gorda. The late Felicia still had friends there sympathetic to Serge’s cause. They told Mahoney they would call him back, and when they did, they confirmed a bogus Bolivian passport issued in the name of Enzo Tweel and believed to be in the possession of an unknown gun for hire.
Enzo had heard enough. He packed a small leather satchel and tore a page off the legal pad with the address of the ersatz DEA agent.
Down on the hotel’s ground floor, Enzo exited the elevator and walked with purpose past the open door of the Flamingo conference room, where a lively debate was in progress.
“But we need guns.”
“No, absolutely no weapons.”
“Why not?”
“Because we want to get our money back, not go to jail.”
“We don’t have to use them. Just scare him.”
“We’ll scare him instead with the power of our rhetoric.”
“What if he tries something?”
“There’s twenty of us. We’ll hit him and stuff and then lay on top of him in several layers.”
At the front of the room, the Mets jersey tapped the microphone to restore order. “We’ve heard enough from everyone now. Let’s put it to a vote. How many for violence?”
It was a close tally, but the group narrowly opted for the weight of words.
A hand went up. “So what do we do now?”
“Wait until dark,” said the Mets jersey. “Until then, there’s free wings in the bar.”
DARK
Serge and Coleman lay on their respective motel beds along the budget end of Biscayne Boulevard north of downtown.
A fully charged cell phone sat on the nightstand between them.
Because they were waiting for The Call.
Mahoney.
Coleman pointed at the old tube television with his beer. “It’s the new Beavis and Butt-Head. I never could figure this show out.”
“Me neither,” said Serge. “And here’s another music video they’re making smart-ass comments about.”
“Bono sure likes to lunge at the camera a lot.”
“Then there’s the other guy who has to be called the Edge,” said Serge. “What’s his deal? I mean how much attention do you need? You’re already in U2!”
“It would be like if the president of the United States changed his name to the Edge.”
“Actually, that would be cool.”
“And what do the drummer and bass player think about all this?” said Coleman. “ ‘Hey, how about us back here in the rhythm section? From now on, we’d like to be called the Pussy Magnets.’ ”
“And Bono goes, ‘No, no, no, we’ve already discussed this thoroughly,’ ” said Serge. “ ‘Only two obnoxious nicknames per band. That’s the rule. There was going to be just one, but remember how the Edge made that big stink in Glasgow and started crying and wouldn’t come out of the bathroom?’ ”
Coleman grabbed the remote control to change channels. “I’m bored watching Beavis and Butt-Head. Just a couple of losers watching TV and making lame remarks—”
The phone rang.
“That’s the call!” Serge flipped open his cell. “Speak . . . I see . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . Right, just as planned . . . We’re on it. Later— . . . What? One more thing? . . . But I don’t know any Enzo. Who cares if he’s going by South Philly Sal? What’s that got to do with me? . . . Felicia?” Serge listened mutely and hung up without saying anything more.
“Serge, did I hear you say ‘Felicia’?”
Serge remained a statue.
“Uh-oh,” said Coleman. “I’ve seen that look before.”
“We’ve got work to do.” Serge went to the dresser with resilience. “Mahoney just gave us the green light, so suit up and stay focused. This could be a big one.”
“You got it.”
Serge diligently rechecked weapons and electronics a final time, then began strategically filling pockets for the assignment.
“Okay,” said Coleman. “I got my joints and one-hitter, speed, Vicodin, a beverage . . .”
“Coleman!”
“What?”
“I said for you to get ready.”
“I am.” A miniature bourbon went into his hip pocket.
“Get ready for work!”
“This is how I always get ready for work.”
Serge slapped himself in the forehead. “Just don’t screw this up. Lives may hang in the balance.”
Soon the Firebird crept along a dark residential street.
“Serge, you keep zoning out,” said Coleman.
“I know. I just didn’t expect Mahoney to bring up Felicia like that. But I’m good.” He blinked hard a few times. “It’s just that now I have a name and can’t get it out of my head.”
“Who?”
“Enzo Tweel, also known as South Philly Sal.”
“The guy who runs the gang of scam artists?”
“And this fake DEA agent works for him. I plan to sweat him down good for where I can find this Enzo or Sal or whatever.”
Coleman grinned and took a
haughty sip. “Been meaning to ask: What’s with your costume?”
“Element of surprise.”
Coleman giggled over another sip. “I think it works.”
They parked at the end of the block. Serge raised binoculars.
“What are you doing?”
Serge adjusted the focus. “Surveillance.”
“But I thought we were going to—”
“We are,” said Serge. “Just had to make an extra stop first.”
“Why?”
“Because Mahoney was a little concerned about the latest scam victim who hired him to get her money back.”
“Concerned how?”
“Just a hunch from her tone and emotional state. She might not wait for you and me to do the heavy lifting and instead take matters into her own hands.” Serge rolled down his window for a better view. “That would put her in grave danger. She’d be out of her element and not thinking straight. She paid handsomely for the mark’s home address, and Mahoney’s going to hold up his end of the bargain. He’s just building in a delay before he calls her to give us time to get in position and gauge her reaction.”
“I don’t understand,” said Coleman. “If he’s so concerned, why not forget the deal and don’t call?”
“No good.” Serge kept the binoculars glued. “People have been known to hire more than one private eye, and who knows what or when she’ll find out. We definitely can’t take the chance of a civilian like her walking in on the middle of our party. This way her reaction will no longer be an unknown variable. If she stays put at home in the condo for a reasonable period after Mahoney’s call, we know it’s a false alarm.”
“What if she doesn’t and goes after the guy?”
“Then we intercept before she’s out of the neighborhood, and assure her we’re on top of everything.”
Coleman prepared another jumbo beverage from his portable bar designed specifically for stakeouts.
“Coleman,” said Serge. “This is one time you must slow down on your drinking.”
“I have slowed down,” said Coleman. “Didn’t you notice? I’m rationing my drinks to half as often.”
“But the cup you’re using is twice as large.”
“How does that figure in?”
“Just stay sharp.”
Coleman chugged and began pouring again. “So when’s Mahoney supposed to make this call, anyway?”
Serge checked his glow-in-the-dark atomic wristwatch. “Two minutes ago.”
A cell phone rang. Before Serge could answer, Coleman gestured at the house with a cocktail strainer. “The front door’s opening.”
“She’s not staying put.” Serge threw the car into gear. “Time to talk some sense into her.”
“Wow,” said Coleman. “She really looks pissed. Did you see how she whipped out of the driveway?”
“Just what I feared.” Serge hit the accelerator. “This is going to be a hot intercept.”
“Serge, look! She just blew through that stop sign at the end of the block.”
“And took out a mailbox.” The Firebird raced without stopping through the same intersection and scattered sparks bottoming out over a speed bump.
Coleman’s eyes got big. “A station wagon’s pulling out!”
Serge slammed on the brakes with both feet, throwing Coleman into the dashboard.
“Hey, I got a beverage here.”
“Shut up! This other asshole’s driving too slow and she’s getting away . . .”
“Can’t you get around him?”
“The street’s too narrow and some other bozo who lives around here is having a party: Look at all these parallel-parked cars . . . Damn, and now I’ve lost sight of her. I need you to spot me through the gauntlet.”
Coleman hung his head out the passenger window and looked down as they passed parked vehicles. “Three inches clearance . . . Still three inches . . . Alllllllmossst . . . Now!”
Serge worked the pedals with heel-toe precision, whipping around the station wagon and getting back over the line before rear-ending the next parked car.
“You did it,” said Coleman.
“I haven’t done anything until we catch up with her, and I don’t see her taillights,” said Serge. “She’s going to get herself killed for sure, all because of me.”
They started through another intersection. “There she is!” yelled Coleman. “I just saw her taillights when we were crossing that last street. She made a left turn.”
Serge screeched in reverse and spun out across the intersection, leaving their car pointed in the desired direction. He floored it again, barreling down on the tiny Ford Focus four blocks ahead. Then three blocks, two, one . . . Now only car lengths, closing fast.
The Firebird was finally right up on her bumper.
“We did it!” yelled Coleman. “She’s not going to die.”
“All that’s left now is a tactical traffic stop, which I’ve done a million times in my sleep.” Serge stared down over the dash at Brook’s taillights a few yards ahead. “Nothing can possibly go wrong now . . . Coleman, what are you drinking?”
“What?”
“That drink.”
“Just a little Jack Daniel’s.”
“And?”
“And Coke.”
“And?”
“That’s it, just Jack and Coke.”
“What’s floating in it?” said Serge.
Coleman stared into the glass. “Huh?”
“Where’d you get those ice cubes—”
Blooooooooossssshhhhhhh!
Foam sprayed everywhere. On the windshield, in their eyes . . .
“Coleman, get that shit out of here!”
“I can’t see!”
The Trans Am slalomed wildly back and forth across the road, threatening to go up on two wheels. Serge steered into the skid. “Coleman! It’s still spraying!”
Coleman covered his face. “It stings!”
The Firebird whipped across the road a last time before jumping the curb, taking out a hedge and crashing head-on into a coconut palm.
Steam spraying from the radiator, but the foam had stopped.
Coleman looked over at the driver’s seat. “Serge, didn’t you see that tree?”
“You idiot.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
MIAMI
An hour after dark, an oil-dripping Ford Focus cruised down a residential street a mile east of the turnpike.
Brook Campanella glanced in her rearview mirror again. She had grown suspicious of a Firebird that she could have sworn was following her, but now there was nothing back there. She’d heard the sound of a wreck and checked a side mirror to see the car a half block back, crashed into a tree.
Tough luck. Bigger things on her mind.
She headed south on I-95 and took an exit ramp six miles later. There was a hitchhiker heading to Key West, a homeless guy waving a cardboard sign and a broken-down Beemer with the hood up and someone bent over the engine.
Brook drove by. The man slammed the hood, jumped in the Beemer and hit the gas.
She found her way through a modest middle-class neighborhood outside Miramar. Brook cut the headlights and drove the last hundred yards in the dark before easing up to the curb. She unzipped a leather tactical bag in her lap and removed the sawed-off, pistol-grip shotgun. Then she grabbed the door handle. Headlights hit her car from behind. She took her hand off the handle and watched in the mirror.
At the end of the block, a Beemer rolled to a stop five homes back and cut its lights. The driver didn’t get out of the car. Maybe he was waiting for someone to emerge from the house. Maybe he was getting a hummer. Who cared? The important thing was his lights were off her. She grabbed the door handle again.
Lights hit her again. This time a Camaro. Then a Datsun. �
�How busy is this street?”
Brook suddenly jumped as she heard gunfire. But it was just a loud TV across the street where the windows were open to save on A/C. The street may have been dark, but it was a noise fest on a Friday night. Multiple stereos, people laughing and yelling at a backyard pool party; other televisions were tuned to more networks that decided they needed even more weapon fire.
Every sound made Brook flinch. She reached in the glove compartment for an airline miniature of banana-flavored rum, her first drink of the day. She made a wicked face and began coughing as it went down like any non–call brand of well liquor.
She waited for the effect. Headlights appeared again at the end of the block, this time facing Brook and making her lie flat across the front seat. The lights passed, and she straightened up to reach for the door handle. And withdrew her hand again. She grabbed another miniature from the glove compartment and made another face.
Brook lowered her head with self-anger. “I just can’t do it.”
The car remained still while she flipped through photos in her wallet. Mostly of her parents. Emotion spiked in two directions, sorrow and rage. She nodded at a new idea. “But I can at least scare the shit out of him, just like he did to my father.” She ejected the twelve-gauge’s shells and opened the driver’s door. “If he has a heart attack, it’s fucking karma.”
She reached the front steps with the shotgun slung under a light jacket. But now what? Did she ring the doorbell? Or find a darkened side door and bust out some jalousie glass. This clearly wasn’t thought through.
For reasons known only to the rum company, something told Brook to try the knob. Unlocked. She gave the door a gentle push and poked her head inside. Lights blazed throughout the residence. Somewhere inside, a TV’s volume was way up. That’s where he must be. Brook silently slipped the door closed behind her, raised the shotgun from under her coat and followed the sound of a cop show where someone was being interrogated. She found herself in a hallway and concluded that the TV and fake Rick Maddox must be in the den.
Brook crept forward, chest pounding, sweat starting to trickle into her eyes, every inch forward an undertaking. She reached the edge of the den’s door, and her legs began to buckle. She got mad at herself again, thought of her father and forced her muscles to steel themselves.
