Pineapple Grenade

by Tim Dorsey

  Curtains flowed gently out a bedroom window.

  Inside, a tall, wiry man with muscular shoulders from ocean swimming. He sat in boxer shorts at a computer. Fingers tapped. An Internet mail account opened.

  Behind him, a local beauty slipped into a short, lavender sundress and counted out a thousand dollars on the dresser. “Same time next week?”

  The man’s head stayed toward the computer screen. He had a blond crew cut like the bass player in U2.

  “You’re definitely not the chatty type.” The woman pocketed the cash. “I guess that’s good.”

  More typing on the keyboard. The woman left. The computer screen displayed a folder from the account. The man opened a draft e-mail. He hadn’t written it. Only three trusted people had passwords to the account, and messages were delivered by saving them in draft form. So they wouldn’t have to be sent by e-mail. So they couldn’t be monitored.

  He finished reading the message and hit delete. His expression never changed. He stood and began packing for Miami again.

  Again.

  And he was forced to discount his services this time. The last trip to Miami had been his first failure. Or half failure. The front end went seamless as usual, and the rest should have been even easier. That was the mistake. He underestimated. And he would never do it again. He folded socks into a suitcase and ran the details of the last job through his head . . .

  . . . It all started with another typical Miami lunch crowd that filled an outdoor café and wrapped around the corner of the sidewalk. A valet hopped in a car. The maître d’ carried leather-bound menus and led a party of four to a table with an umbrella.

  A couple stopped talking as a waiter arrived with salads.

  They watched him leave, then leaned forward and whispered.

  Odd bookends. The kind where you look at the guy and wonder, How’d he get her? She downplayed the sex appeal with a white blouse, pink skirt, office shoes without heels, and black hair pulled back in a ponytail. But no disguising the exquisite Latin features. Across the table, none of the clothes fit right. Tie askew. His haircuts cost ten dollars, and he hadn’t gone to his prom.

  The woman slid a legal-size envelope across the table. “You sure they can’t trace this to me?”

  “Give you my word.” The man stuffed the envelope in a canvas shoulder bag. “Is it all there?”

  She nodded. “Balances, transfers, everything.” She glanced around. “Now, what’s this geology report you mentioned? I hadn’t heard anything.”

  It was the man’s turn to glance around. “Not here.” He got up without touching his salad. “My contact’s delivering it to me at the other place. Let’s meet there at seven. I’ll need your help finding out what it means.”

  He placed a pair of twenties on the table, climbed over the rope around the sidewalk tables, and headed up the street talking on his cell. “Carson? It’s me, Randy. I’m just about finished with the story . . . Yeah, I’ll be in tonight to file . . .”

  Two hours later, the skyline glowed.

  Restaurants filled.

  A no-frills fish joint on the shore of the Miami River was busier than most. The wind carried a sizzling, fried aroma to the outdoor tables. Cajun spice. A man with a loosened tie and canvas shoulder bag sat in back with an open menu. He waved off the waiter for the fourth time and checked his watch again. He dialed his cell again. No answer.

  The waiter returned. He looked at the customer’s third glass of water. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Give me another moment.”

  “Sir, we really appreciate you coming tonight, but we have a lot of people waiting for tables.”

  “My date’s supposed to meet me. Must have been delayed.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to order or give up your table.”

  He looked at his watch. “Fine. Bring me something.”

  “What?”

  Randy Swade handed the menu back. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The waiter left.

  The reporter opened his phone again. Something caught his eye. “There you are. I thought you weren’t going to make it.” He closed his cell. “Did you bring . . .”

  “This restaurant’s too exposed,” said the contact. “It’s in the car.”

  “And I thought I was cautious.” Randy slid out his chair and stood. “Lead on.”

  The guest did. He’d parked an extra block away under a drawbridge over the Miami River. Randy Swade got in the passenger side. And a man with a blond crew cut got in the other.

  Fifteen minutes later, hands rubbed soap under the faucet of a restroom behind a fish restaurant. A man with a blond crew cut checked his face closely in the mirror. Only a slight fingernail scratch under his left eye. He turned off the faucet and returned to the dining room.

  A woman with a black ponytail looked around like she was waiting for someone.

  “Are you waiting for Randy?”

  “Who are you?”

  “His contact.”

  “Where’s Randy?”

  “Waiting in my car.”

  “But he told me to meet him here.”

  “I know, but he thinks he was followed. I told him he was imagining things.”

  The woman grabbed her purse and stood. “This is getting ridiculous.”

  He led her around the parking lot and up the empty street.

  “Where the heck is your car?”

  “Just a little farther.”

  The woman looked back, restaurant now out of sight around a bend, voices faint.

  Her pace slowed. “I think I’m going back.”

  “My car’s right there.”

  “Under the bridge? I don’t see Randy.”

  “He’s inside waiting for you.”

  She stopped and looked at drops on the ground under the car’s trunk.

  Red.

  A man zipped a suitcase closed in a beach house on the Pacific coast of South America. What a screwup back under that bridge in Miami. His memory delivered a phantom pain to his healed left shoulder, where it had been dislocated. From now on, every woman, no matter how delicate in appearance, was to be considered a black belt.

  He grabbed the phone and called a taxi for the airport.

  Miami River District

  Serge sat across the desk from Mahoney. Feet propped up, hands interlaced behind his head.

  From the other side of the hall: “Ow! Shit, you broke my nose! Why’d you do that?” A man cupped hands to his face. Footsteps trailed toward the stairs.

  Serge jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “How does that work, anyway?”

  Mahoney shuffled playing cards and pointed outside through the window at the office building’s sign.

  Serge stood and walked to the blinds. “Been meaning to ask about that. This building’s almost empty, but the sign is full of company names. Pan-Global Enterprises, Consolidated Associates, Biscayne Trading Partners, the Dodd Group, and on and on. Did they forget to take them down?”

  The king of hearts went on the desk. Mahoney shook his head. “That’s our friend across the hall.”

  “The Guy Who Punches People? Which company?”

  “All of them,” said Mahoney.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mahoney placed a queen on the king. “Real name’s Steve Dodd.”

  “And he just punches people?”

  Mahoney shuffled again. “Started as a hobby. Big attorney with the prosecutor’s office, but the pressure of plea bargains and assholes got to be too much.”

  “I can relate,” said Serge.

  “Steve told me he quit his job, cashed in all his stocks for bail money, and whenever someone got on his nerves, he’d punch ’em. Said he used to take Prozac, but this is more effective. Blood pressure’s down, never felt better.”

  “You mentioned hobby, but what about the business?”

  The jack of clubs. “Word got around,” said Mahoney.
“If you want someone punched, you send them to Steve. Concoct some ruse about signing papers to get money or whatever.”

  “Sounds like a sporadic business,” said Serge. “Constant interruptions for bail, court appearances, stays in county lockup.”

  “Used his criminal law experience and found a loophole. Now he’s raking it in. Apparently there’s a big market.”

  “What kind of loophole?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  The door opened. Steve stuck his head inside, rubbing knuckles. “Got any ice?”

  Mahoney pointed toward the bucket next to the bottle of rye. “Have at it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Excuse me,” said Serge. “Mahoney was saying that you found some kind of loophole to punch people.”

  Steve wrapped cubes in a washcloth. “That’s right. Supreme Court decision just a few years back declaring corporation same as people. So I created a bunch . . .”—pointing at the sign out the window—“. . . firewalled assets and liability among them, and moved everything important offshore. Now the only people they can go after are the owners of the corporations.”

  “But you own the corporations,” said Serge.

  Steve shook his head and pressed the washcloth to his fist. “Another guy in Venezuela is doing the same thing. We own each other’s companies. There’s no extradition treaty.”

  Serge whistled. “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “Thanks again for the ice.” He left.

  Serge shrugged at his brother. “It’s Miami.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Mahoney. “How are you coming on my first case?”

  “Definite progress,” said Serge. “I don’t think she’ll be having any more trouble from him.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He thought he was dealing with amateurs until I turned on the red beacon—”

  The phone rang.

  “Mahoney here . . .” He listened, and listened. Mouth turning grim. “. . . Very sorry to hear that . . . Yes, we’ll definitely do something.”

  Mahoney hung up and poured a stiff one.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You don’t look so good.”

  Mahoney stuck the bottle back in the desk drawer. “Just got off the phone with our first client.”

  “And?” Serge raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Bet she was thrilled.”

  “Not thrilled.”

  “Really?” Serge looked baffled. “What’s she say?”

  “Hard to make out because I think her mouth was swollen.” Mahoney swirled the drink in his glass. “Sounded like her ex banged her up pretty bad.”

  “Motherfuck—” Serge dashed out the door, and Coleman followed.

  “Serge!” Mahoney called after him. “Where are you going?”

  A Plymouth screeched out of the parking lot.

  Ten minutes later, Serge mashed the elevator button in a motel lobby. Over and over. “Screw it!” He ran for the stairwell and bounded up to the fourth floor three steps at a time.

  Knocking on a door. Serge pressed his eye to the peephole. “Come on, Sally, open up. I can hear you in there.” More knocks.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “I hear footsteps.”

  They backed up. The sound of someone fumbling with the chain and locks. The door opened. She already had her back to them, walking across the room with arms folded tight. Stopped next to a broken lamp.

  “Sally.” Serge moved forward. “What’s going on?”

  She stared out the window with no reply.

  “Sally, please look at me.”

  Then her head began shaking with sobs.

  Serge lightly touched her from behind on the arm. A big flinch, pulling away.

  “Sally . . .”

  She finally turned around.

  Serge stepped back with a gasp and bit his fist.

  “Serge!” She stepped forward. Her tear-streaked face went into his chest with a desperate hug. But not before he saw the busted lip and the old, faded black eyes that had recently been replaced by new ones.

  “Shhhh,” said Serge. “Now just tell me what happened.”

  It took a long moment, but she regained her composure and slowly looked up at him.

  Serge gasped again. “What are those red marks around your neck?”

  “It’s where he kept strangling me.”

  “Kept?”

  “The first time I thought I was dead for sure. But he just wanted me to pass out, because I came to and he did it again, four or five more times. Said he wanted to show he had total control and could kill me anytime he wanted, which he definitely would do if I contacted you or anyone else again. And if I ran, he’d never stop looking for me no matter how far or long. And when he found me, he’d heat up a fire poker and . . . and . . .”

  Serge’s eyes clenched shut at what she told him next. His hands covered his ears. “No, I can’t hear any more!” He pulled her arms away.

  “Serge! I need you!”

  But he was out the door.

  Coleman caught up to him in the parking lot. He climbed in the passenger side of the Road Runner. Serge stared forward in the driver’s seat. Rapid, shallow breaths.

  “I’ve seen that face before,” said Coleman. “What are you going to do?”

  “We gave him a chance to listen to reason.” He threw the car in gear. “But now it’s Home Depot . . . and the toy store.”

  Part II

  The Parallax Enigma Jackal Manchurian Sanction

  Chapter Fourteen

  South of Miami

  Building 25.

  Afternoon briefing.

  Oxnart looked out across school desks. “Mandrake?”

  An agent opened a file. “Maintained surveillance from Biscayne to the cultural center. Here are some pictures of him exchanging briefcases in the Museum of Art.”

  “Standard spycraft.” Oxnart nodded.

  Mandrake handed another photo.

  “What’s this?”

  “He has a shoe phone.”

  “Old school.” The chief handed the photo back. “Who’d he make the briefcase drop with?”

  Another photo. “The chubby guy he was with at the carjacking.”

  “Then things are looking up,” said Oxnart. “He might not be working for Lugar after all.”

  The agent stared down at his desktop.

  “What is it?” asked Oxnart.

  “There was a second briefcase transfer. A dead drop in a trash can at the corner of Miami Avenue.” A hesitation before Mandrake produced more photos of a black SUV. “Lugar’s boys picked it up. We saw the drop while taking surveillance photos.”

  “And you didn’t try to intercept?”

  “Of course we did, but their SUV was closer and got there first. We almost crashed into each other.” Mandrake reached in his file. “Here’s a photo of them giving us the finger as they sped away.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  The door opened. A breathless agent.

  “Sinclair, you’re late!”

  “Sorry, Chief, but I just got the workups on those mystery phone calls to our station.”

  “And?”

  Sinclair unfolded a printout. “Traced to this sketchy office building on the river. Then there’s that beeping message—our sound guys are still working on it. And a bunch of other calls made to consulates. Bolivia, Costa Gorda, Colombia, Canada—”

  “The Canadians! Christ!” said Oxnart. “Who’s behind it?”

  The agent glanced back at his notes. “Office rented to a private investigator, former state police agent named Mahoney.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Sinclair held up another photo. “Someone with an office that Serge was seen leaving.”

  “Of course!” Oxnart smacked a fist into his hand. “Now it all fits together. The airport, the phone calls, Serge. And an ex-law enforcement agent is the typical profile for someone behind a front corporation.”

  “Or a dummy front,” said Sinclair.


  “And Lugar’s definitely running it! As if his horning in on my arms shipments wasn’t enough!” He took a deep breath and made a sweeping wave in the air. “Fuck it. Go visit this Mahoney. Whatever they’re paying him, we’ll pay more.”

  “For what?” said Mandrake.

  “Make it a front-dummy-front. That’ll put a burr in Lugar’s ass . . . And, Mandrake?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get a team together and work up intel on Serge.”

  “In case we need to take him out?”

  “No, hire him. We can’t let Lugar keep somebody like that . . . Everyone, get moving!”

  Meanwhile . . .

  In a converted safe house in Coral Gables.

  An emergency meeting.

  “Dunbar,” said Station Chief Lugar. “What have you got on this briefcase?”

  “Tailed Serge from the art gallery and intercepted it after he made a dead drop in a trash can, probably for Oxnart.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Their SUV was already waiting, but we got the jump and cut ’em off at the intersection,” said Agent Dunbar. “Almost crashed into us.”

  “Hope you flipped them off,” said Lugar.

  “Just like you ordered.” Dunbar set the briefcase on his desk and flipped the latches. “Simple three-digit combination lock, so only a thousand permutations. I started with all zeroes and, well, it didn’t take long. Double-O-Seven.” He pawed through contents. “Souvenirs, postcards, and matchbooks and bar coasters—I’m guessing locations of more drops and meets—a tip sheet of places to eat like the twenty-four-hour Cuban sandwich shop at the corner of First and Third, probably a document exchange. And an invisible message. I was able to raise the ink with a thermal decrypter.”

  “Thermal?”

  “A candle.”

  “Let me see that.” Lugar stared at a smiley face and some words:

  HAVE A NICE DAY—JM/WAVE.

  “We’re still trying to decipher that last part.”

  “You can stop,” said Lugar. “It confirms he’s working for Oxnart.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Dunbar,” said Lugar. “You actually have no knowledge of the history of the agency you work for?”

  The agent shrugged.

  “In 1961, JM/WAVE was the secret code name for the anti-Castro operation run out of Florida.” Lugar handed back the message. “Headquartered south of Miami near the zoo in something called Building Twenty-five, where Oxnart’s station is now located.”