by Tim Dorsey
“Trippy,” said Coleman. “Especially in the candlelight.”
“Candles are the key,” said Serge.
The wands dipped down again. More soap bubbles. They began popping on Jethro’s chest and arms.
“So what’s the deal?” asked Coleman. “We make him damp and sudsy?”
“No,” said Serge. “This is just the trial round. And put that joint out!”
“But, Serge.”
“No buts. You want to end up like him?”
“How can that happen?”
“Because the real lesson is about to begin.” Serge clicked off the fans and dumped out the soap-water trays. Then he refilled them from a gallon jug. A familiar smell filled the air.
“I get it now,” said Coleman. “When did you think it up?”
“You know how those big soap bubbles have a swirling, rainbow sheen on the surface?” asked Serge. “Got to thinking, where else have I seen that chromatic effect? Then it hit me. Time to go shopping!”
He approached Jethro. “I know you can hear me, but I need to make this quick because the summit’s in town. You don’t want to miss the summit! So here’s the deal. Keep trying to move and maybe you can get away before my contraptions take effect. Or maybe not. Who knows? I just spitballed the calculations. But if you do get away, no more funny stuff with Sally or I’ll come back and crunch the numbers with a computer. Any objections? Good . . . Oh, and one last kicker from the archives: Don’t you love those great History Channel shows about B-17 Flying Fortresses making bombing runs over German ball-bearing factories? But you ask: How is that relevant? . . . Showtime!”
Serge walked back and switched on the fans.
The wands dipped into their pans.
They raised up. New, rainbow-hued bubbles floated toward Jethro.
The room grew slightly brighter in a series of tiny flashes. Then a big one.
“Cool,” said Coleman. “Gasoline bubbles.”
“Remember, the key is the candles,” said Serge. “They don’t have to actually touch the bubbles because the fumes are what ignite.”
“Fumes?” said Coleman. “Are we in danger?”
“Of course not,” said Serge. “Proper handling of flammable liquids requires plenty of ventilation. And I’ve got two fans. It’s amazing how many people conduct unsafe lifestyles.”
“The bubbles are exploding a foot or more away from him,” said Coleman. “Isn’t that too far?”
“Like when the Germans fired anti-aircraft guns, and the sky flashed nonstop with exploding flak during the B-17 raids,” said Serge. “Throw up enough and some are bound to hit.”
The living room: flash, flash, flash . . .
“Some hit,” said Coleman. “But the bubbles are too small.”
“I still wouldn’t like it.”
“Oooooo!” said Coleman. “A big one just singed him good.”
“They’re getting closer to the target.”
“Some of the bubbles aren’t going off. They’re just hitting Jethro and making his shirt wet. Others are popping on the wall behind him.”
“Not a good sign,” said Serge. “They could be ignited by later bubbles.”
“Cool! I gotta see that!”
“You won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re leaving.”
“Again? You never let me watch!”
“Coleman, this could get unpleasant. I’d rather watch bunnies and chickadees.”
Flash, flash, flash . . .
“But, Serge!”
Too late. He was already out the door and running to the car.
Coleman lit a joint in the passenger seat and grumbled. Serge drove a short distance and parked at the end of the street before the turnpike entrance.
Coleman flicked an ash out the window. “Why are we stopping?”
“Plan our next spy moves.” Serge opened a map. “The seasoned spy brings all of Miami into play . . .”
Behind them, the sky grew brighter.
“Why all of Miami?” asked Coleman.
“To provide the cover of confusion.” Serge pointed at spots on the map. “This city’s like Europe—all these utterly distinct cultural districts with severe borders.”
Neighbors began walking out on lawns, pointing and dialing cell phones.
Coleman tapped another ash. A fire engine raced by. “But how do the different sections of Miami give us cover?”
“Throw off the enemy,” said Serge. “The more places you conduct your ops, the more factions they think are involved.”
Coleman leaned toward the map. “Like where? . . .”
The sky raged with light in the rearview. Sprays of high-pressure water. Another siren as an ambulance flew by. Onlookers yelling.
“Well,” said Serge, counting on his fingers. “You got Little Havana, Little Haiti, Liberty City, South Beach . . .”
Three police cars zoomed past with all the lights going.
“. . . Coconut Grove, downtown, Brickell, and the MiMo architecture district, to name but a few.”
“What’s that racket?” Coleman turned around and looked out the back window. “There’s all kinds of cops and emergency vehicles. Everyone’s standing on their lawns.”
“This is kind of a rough neighborhood.” Serge threw the car in gear. “We probably should get going before something bad happens.”
Chapter Sixteen
Costa Gorda
Another moonless night in the mountains.
“I’m hungry,” said one of the rebels.
“I told you, we have to ration staples until they make another supply drop,” said the squad leader. “Two spoons of Spam a day.”
“Henry,” whispered Ralph. “When is that next drop?”
“Don’t know. Can’t reach them on the high-band.”
“We were only able to salvage two boxes from the last drop. The rest landed on the others still burning from the napalm.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Ralph looked back at a waning campfire and audible groans. “The men are starving. Some are getting sick from eating the berries . . .”
On the other side of the encampment, more whispering among the lower ranks:
“I can’t take this anymore.”
“I’m so weak I can barely stand up.”
“Guys!” Someone ran over with a small shortwave. “Just picked up the BBC. The intelligence subcommittee canceled our funding.”
“But they wouldn’t just leave us here . . . right?”
“What do you think? This is an illegal operation. We’re expendable.”
Eyes darted round the circle. Panic. “They’ve abandoned us!”
“What are we going to do?”
“I know this village at the edge of the next province. They must have food.”
“How far?”
“About ten clicks past the river.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Back on the command side: “Ralph, what are those guys doing?”
Ralph turned around. “Hey, where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“We’re hungry.”
Downtown Miami
This time, a shark was dropped in front of a Cuban deli with plastic Italian tablecloths. The chalk menu sat under a painting of a rooster.
A light afternoon crowd. In the back of the deli, at the very last red-and-white-checkered table, sat a young man from a mail room on the seventh floor of an office building across the street. His face was in his hands. Pork sandwich untouched.
“They’re going to send me home!” said Scooter Escobar. “I just know it!”
“They’re not sending you anywhere,” said the woman seated across from him, picking through her avocado salad. “You’ve got the safest job in the whole consulate.”
“But you’ve met this Serge character.”
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:
HAVE A NICE DAY.
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: THANK YOU.
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?”
