by Tim Dorsey
“You’re so kind.”
They left.
Mahoney leaned back with his book. Coleman grabbed the bottle.
A clock ticked.
Mahoney looked up. “What’s taking him so long?”
They walked to the window. The detective parted blinds with his fingers. “Unbelievable.”
Down in the gravel parking lot, in the backseat of a ’57 convertible Ford Skyliner, two long legs in stilettos pointed skyward. Between, Serge’s bare, bouncing derriere.
Mahoney drew back his hands, letting the blinds snap shut. Coleman opened them again.
Fifteen minutes later, Serge walked back in, whistling “Papa Was a Rolling Stone.” He stopped at their stares. “What?”
“How’d you bang her?” asked Coleman.
“Why’d you bang her?” asked Mahoney. “Now she’ll scram.”
“No, she’ll come back.” Serge handed Mahoney a two-hundred-dollar retainer. “Besides, she asked me to. ‘The customer is always right.’ Right?”
“I’ll give you a mulligan this time,” said Mahoney. “But no more T-shots.”
“Fair enough.” Serge stood. “Guess I need to go have a friendly little chat with her ex.”
Shouting from across the hall. One of the only other occupied offices.
“Oh! Jesus! Why’d the hell you do that?”
Serge turned around and looked out the window into a hall. A door slammed. A man ran by cupping hands to his nose. “I’ll sue you for every last penny.”
Serge faced Mahoney again. “Whose office is that?”
“The Guy Who Punches People.”
“You call him that because he has a temper?”
“No,” said Mahoney. “It’s what he does. Here’s his business card.”
One Mile Away
Seventh floor of a towering office building on Flagler Street.
The entire consulate staff sat anxiously around a massive oak conference table.
The protocol chief opened the door. “The president of Costa Gorda.”
Everyone jumped sharply to their feet and stared straight ahead.
Fernando Guzman entered and grabbed the empty chair at the head of the table. “Please be seated.”
They sat back down with synchronized precision. Before the meeting, rampant watercooler buzz about the foiled attack on Guzman near the airport. Heads sure to roll. They dreaded the moment the president would bring it up.
He didn’t.
Instead, diplomatic minutiae and scheduling. Courtesy calls, cocktail parties, speech writing, an interview with the Spanish-language version of the Miami Herald.
A half hour later, it was over. The president closed a leather organizer and passed it back over his shoulder to his traveling secretary. Then he stood quickly—“Thank you for your attention”—and departed with the same abruptness.
The entire room exhaled with relief and began filing out with thoughts of liquid lunch.
President Guzman stood in the lobby with his mobile staff, running down afternoon appointments. He looked up. “Oh, Felipe? Could I have a word? In private.”
Deer in headlights. “Me?”
Felipe Chávez. Consulate director and head attaché. Rumored to be heir apparent for the Washington ambassadorship. Or first in line for the chopping block over . . . well, anything that needed a scapegoat. Part of the job description.
Perspiration trickled into Felipe’s starched collar as the pair arrived back in the conference room. Guzman closed the door. Then placed a hand on Felipe’s shoulder.
Here it comes, thought the diplomat. Fired. Or worse, reassignment to Canada . . . The Canadians! Christ! The collar became soaked.
“You okay?” asked Guzman. “You’re sweating like a pig.”
“Just ate something hot.”
“Good, because we’ve got a lot of work to do.” Guzman’s arm went all the way across Felipe’s shoulders as he began walking the attaché in circles around the conference table. “I need someone like you close to me.”
“You do?”
“Ever thought about a cabinet post? And not one of the little ones that runs the bus system.”
Air sucked out of Felipe. The cabinet? That was bigger than an ambassadorship.
“Don’t answer now,” said Guzman. “Because that’s in the future. I’ve got the rebels and traffickers to worry about, not to mention the generals. Right now I need someone I can trust who sees five moves ahead.”
Chávez thinking: He can’t possibly be talking about me.
“I’m talking about you.” Guzman squeezed his shoulder. “You’re why I’m standing here alive today. Razor-sharp instincts beefing up security.”
“Security?”
“That crack field operative you sent as backup in case my idiot bodyguards weren’t up to task, which they weren’t. But you already knew that. You’re going places.” He pointed at the ceiling. “The top. But don’t be looking at my office until I’m ready to retire.”
“I wouldn’t!”
“That was a joke,” said Guzman. “So where’d you find this new agent.”
Felipe blinked hard a couple times. “You mean Escobar?”
“Who’s Escobar?”
Scooter Escobar, the young guy from the mail room, who was the spy in the consulate.
“I’m talking about Serge,” said the president. “On loan to us from the CIA. Tell me—and this is very important—did they approach you first, or the other way around? Because if they came to us, especially in light of last night, it means they know more about my enemies than I do . . . So tell me, who approached you?”
“I . . .”
“Well?”
“I—I—I . . .”
“You can’t answer a simple question like that?” He turned and pointed aggressively in Felipe’s face. “This is exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about!”
Felipe lost color.
Guzman slapped him sharply on the back. “Always putting your president first. You know I can’t be linked to the CIA or my opposition would rake me over the coals for being a Yankee stooge. You’re willing to take the fall for me, and I’ll never forget it. So before I forget, here’s what I need concerning Serge . . .”
Chapter Twelve
Scooter Escobar
A sidewalk bistro in downtown Miami.
“You have to help me find out more about Serge.”
“Why?”
“Because President Guzman asked the consulate director, and he asked me,” said Scooter. “And because you’re the only person I know who’s actually met him. I think he’s after my job.”
“But your uncle’s one of the generals. Your job’s safer than anyone’s.”
“I don’t know. He was pretty sore about the RPG explosion.” Scooter tossed back another shot of tequila. “I think those arms deals he’s running are pretty important.”
“What arms deals?”
“Forget about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Then find out about Serge yourself,” said the woman. “You’re supposed to be the spy in the consulate.”
That was the problem.
Always had been, even back in the old country . . .
. . . The top of the mountain sat in a cloud. A misty rain weighed down tree branches with dripping water. The jungle was thick, but the path clear.
An army detail hiked single file up the rocky trail in Costa Gorda. They weren’t on guard. Didn’t need to be.
Rustling in the brush off the sides of the trail. Twigs snapped. A louder sound. “Ow! My ankle.” “Shhh! They’ll hear you. They’re right there on the trail.”
The platoon commander at the front of the line smiled and kept marching. “Gee, I wonder where those dangerous rebels could possibly be hiding.”
The soldier behind him tapped the commander on the shoulder. “Sir, they’re right in those bushes. I can see their eyes.”
“Pipe down,” said the commander. “Just stay near me like we’re
joined at the hip. Anything happens to you and I’ll lose this cushy job.”
“But aren’t we supposed to crush the rebels?”
“Shut up, Scooter.”
Because if they did, they’d all lose their cushy jobs.
The rebels were down to a couple dozen. Low on food, out of ammo. They stopped reading poetry and had smoked so much dope that they’d forgotten where they put their guns.
It was the plum assignment. The entire platoon knew their rebel “search-and-destroy” missions were a joke and the lightest duty in their tiny army. Just stroll through the hills each day and head back to camp at night for steaks and beer. Nothing could mess it up as long as nothing happened to the rebels.
No rebels, no more missions. The platoon became the insurgents’ fiercest protectors. Every last soldier was thrilled with the arrangement.
Except the one marching behind the commander.
“I hate all this hiking around.”
“Quit complaining!” snapped the leader. “And don’t do something stupid to hurt yourself.”
It was the one burden the commander had to shoulder to keep his prized assignment.
The safekeeping of Scooter Escobar.
Escobar’s father had been a territorial police chief until his untimely death involving a steep road, chickens, and Jeeps. Scooter was taken in as a youngster by his wealthy uncle, General Montoya Escobar, the most famous of all the generals, widely known for his vast landholdings, a consuming fascination with Baywatch, and herpes.
Scooter had always been the shame of the family, racking up school suspensions and hospital stays. The latter stemmed from his fondness for weapons. Any kind. He was obsessed and couldn’t find his way around one if he had an extra set of hands.
They gave him a diploma for attendance, and Escobar began spending all his time partying in the beach nightclubs with knee-walking-drunk kids on spring break.
Then the scandal.
A gun went off in one of the clubs. Escobar’s. He was the only person hit, left-hip cargo pocket, sending twenty packets of cocaine scattering across the dance floor and sparking a stampede, also involving chickens.
The general had seen enough. He decided Escobar needed some manning up.
“I’m cutting you off! You’re going in the army first thing tomorrow!”
“But I don’t want to go in the army.”
“My decision’s final! It’s that or the street.”
The youth pouted, then looked up. “Will I get a gun?”
Escobar was short, soft, and plump, but made up for it by being stupid and pushy about it. A light bronze complexion with black hair and silly bangs. He grew the first wisps of a mustache that looked like he needed a napkin. With family influence, he received extra attention at basic training. Three classes of recruits had passed through and Escobar was still there, dangling like a gourd from the chin-up bar. The training instructor went to his supervisor.
“I can’t do anything with him. He’s failed every physical.”
“But he’s the general’s nephew.”
“He’s going to cripple himself on the obstacle course.”
The supervisor sat back under a plantation fan. Then he waved his right arm in frustration. “Give him a pass and throw him in with a platoon. Who’s got the lightest duty?”
“D Company.”
And so Escobar marched through misty mountains, fiddling with his assault rifle and bitching nonstop.
“And stop bitching!” said the commander. “You’re giving me a headache.”
Escobar snarled and mouthed silent insults. He kept marching and watching the eyes in the jungle that nobody else wanted to see.
“Sir?”
“What!”
“Are you sure the rebels are harmless?”
“What rebels?”
“But they’re so close. They could easily wipe out the whole platoon.”
“Keep it in your pants.”
Suddenly a deafening burst of automatic-weapon fire.
“Everyone down!” shouted the commander.
The platoon flattened on the dirt.
Except Escobar, who struggled to maintain a grip on his rifle, which was stuck on automatic and twirled him around in the middle of the trail.
The commander tackled him. “Gimme that thing!” He ejected the magazine and stuck it in his pocket, then shoved the rifle back in Escobar’s stomach. “No more bullets for you.”
From the back of the platoon: “Sir.”
“What is it?”
A soldier pointed off the side of the trail. Muffled screams.
The commander made a quick hand gesture, and they charged the brush. Soldiers broke into a clearing, where rebels ran in circles of panic. The commander looked down, then up in astonishment at Escobar. “You killed a rebel. Do you have any idea how endangered they are?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Back at base camp, the commander marched into a major’s office, dragging Scooter by the scruff of his neck.
“I can’t do anything with him.”
“But he’s the general’s nephew.”
“He killed a rebel.”
“What!”
“The other rebels were so scared they ran off into the woods. My platoon had to hunt them down and force them back to their camp at gunpoint.”
“We can’t be having that.” The major rubbed his whiskered cheeks in consternation. “But what about the general?”
“There’s got to be some job that’s idiot-proof.”
“Wait.” The major nodded and raised a finger. “I got it.” He picked up the telephone. “Military intelligence.”
The next day:
A plain, pastel-green government building in the capital of Costa Gorda.
“This is where you’ll be working.”
Escobar looked at an empty desk. “What do I do?”
“Sit.”
The captain of intelligence left.
Escobar sat.
He looked out his door at a hum of diligent activity from some of the nation’s top espionage minds.
He frowned.
A look around his office. Something in the corner. “What’s that?”
Escobar walked over. He threw a switch on and off. He liked it. Next stop, a filing cabinet.
The captain of intelligence was deep in thought over reports of rebel desertion. Something had been gnawing at him for the last half hour. “What’s that sound?”
The captain tracked it across the office until he arrived at the source. “What the hell is going on? I told you to sit!”
“Huh?” said Escobar, standing over a running document shredder.
The captain dragged him into the office of the director of Costa Gordan intelligence. “I can’t do anything with him!”
“But he’s the general’s nephew.”
“He shredded most of our files.”
The director knew Escobar’s entire history. He thought a moment. “I’ve got it.” Quick scribbling on a memo pad. He tore off the top sheet and handed it to the captain. “Take care of this pronto.”
“But I’ve wanted that job for years,” said the captain.
“So have I,” said the chief. “But none of us will have any job if we don’t stop the bleeding.”
They both looked at Escobar. He was bleeding. A stapler.
The captain nodded in resignation. “I’ll handle it immediately.” He stood at attention and snapped a salute. “First flight to Miami . . .”
Midnight
“Put on your uniform,” said Serge.
“Can’t I just wear this?”
“First impressions are important,” said Serge. “If I can wear the cape . . .”
An orange-and-green Road Runner drove west across Miami out to Sweetwater on the edge of the Everglades. A modest neighborhood of well-kept ranch houses and thriving palms that didn’t need to be kept. Toys in yards. Above-ground pools.
Serge found a street running along the turnpike
. He checked his notepad again and parked. “This is the place. We’re on.”
They strolled up the walkway. Serge knocked hard on a door that was rotten along the bottom from absent rain gutters.
A bowling-ball-gut resident answered with a Miller in his hand.
Serge elbowed Coleman. “He’s even wearing a wife-beater.”
“Wife-beater?”
“That stained tank-top T-shirt.” Serge grinned big at the resident. “Are you Jethro Comstock?”
Jethro swayed on beer legs. “Whatever you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’.”
“Oh, we’re not selling anything,” said Serge. “Okay, we are. We’re selling wishes. The first one’s free. You wish we’ll leave you alone.”
Jethro drained his beer and stared at the cape. “Who the hell are you?”
Serge pointed at the S in the middle of his chest. “I’m Super-Serge and my sidekick is the Human Torch.”
Coleman raised a Bic lighter and flicked it.
Jethro looked at the flames drawn in Magic Marker on Coleman’s T-shirt, then back at Serge. “Get the fuck off my property!”
He started closing the door, but Serge threw out an arm and slammed it open against a wall.
“We’re leaving,” said Serge. “Right after you promise to leave Sally alone.”
“Sally? The bitch!”
“Actually, that’s a politically incorrect term,” said Serge. “Chicks don’t dig it.”
“I’m going to seriously fuck you up if you don’t get out of here right now.”
“Sure thing.” Serge flipped open his notepad. “Right after a few last details. Sorry, it’s my job.” He looked down at the pad and began reading. “You’re not to go near your ex-wife ever again. Or call her on the phone. Or contact her in any way for the rest of your life. Or else.” He smiled again. “Well, that about does it. We good?”
“Or else what?”
“Or else this!” Serge reached atop his head and flicked a switch, activating the revolving red beacon on his helmet.
“Blow me!”
The door slammed.
Chapter Thirteen
South America
Surf crashed from the Pacific.
A beach house somewhere near the unmarked border of Chile and Peru.
