by Tim Dorsey
The sizzling electrical arc missed him. And hit something else . . .
Back in the main room, President Guzman watched a screaming, panicked crowd stampede through the doorway. Followed by Serge, atop a wildly galloping horse with a fresh stun-gun burn on its hind quarter.
Felicia held on tight from behind. “Chandelier!”
“Got it,” yelled Serge. They ducked.
The trusty steed took the corner, continued galloping down the lobby carpet and out the front doors of the Olympia Theater.
Two tourists stood on a street corner.
“There’s a guy in a white tuxedo racing up Flagler on horseback.”
“It’s Miami.”
Chapter Thirty
The Next Day
South of Miami.
Felicia checked her watch.
Serge checked his camera. “This is going to be so cool! I haven’t taken pictures here since they filmed the TV show.”
“We’re not doing this for your entertainment.” Felicia watched traffic signs. “Take a left.”
“I know the way.” Serge slipped the camera in his pocket. “You sure have a hard-on for this Evangelista character.”
“He’s the biggest arms dealer in Miami, and he’s threatening to destabilize my country!”
“Maybe that’s a tad dramatic,” said Serge. “Ow, you popped me in the ribs.”
“Your own government is in bed with him!”
“Now wait a minute. That would be illegal.”
“The Iran-Contra Affair was illegal and look where that led.”
“Ollie North got a cable-TV show. Haunting.”
“I’m not amused.” Felicia pulled out a scrap of paper with coded times and locations. “We need to finish tracking these shipments before the big summit finale.”
The Road Runner turned into a wooded entrance and pulled up to a booth. “Four tickets, please.”
Felicia looked up the road. “There’s another black SUV. Give me your camera.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Felicia snapped photos as they drove by.
Serge parked with the rest of the tourists. Actually only two others because it was an educational Florida attraction with no water slides or tiki bars.
Coleman hopped from the backseat. “I’ve seen this place before.”
“Television.” Serge began walking. “It’s the historically designated Charles Deering Estate, over four hundred majestic acres on the shore of Biscayne Bay. Now a museum. The ceiling of the south porch is inlaid with seashells.”
“Check the size of that freakin’ lawn!” said Savage.
“And to the left are the landmark rows of palm trees made famous every Friday night in the opening credits of Miami Vice.” Serge stroked one of the trunks. “It’s like I’m at the Vatican.”
“Stop screwing around!” yelled Felicia. “Let’s go!”
Serge caught up with her at the front door. “Where are we heading?”
She marched inside. “The wine cellar.”
The quartet trotted down stairs.
A Latin man in a guayabera came the other way up the steps. He glanced suspiciously at Felicia, then looked back down at a tourist pamphlet.
Serge turned and watched the man depart. “You know him?”
“In passing.”
Serge winked at Coleman. “Told you spies meet in museums.”
“Wine cellar?” asked Coleman.
“Deering liked his grapes, but it was Prohibition.” Serge grabbed a wooden support and swung it back and forth. “So he built this bookcase that secretly rolls out to reveal that giant safe door.”
“The wine is in the safe?”
“The safe is a subterranean party room.”
They slipped inside the half-foot-thick metal door with ancient tumblers and entered the clandestine space. Curved, concrete bunker roof supported by brick arches. Walls covered with custom woodwork creating a thousand individual slots.
“Whoa!” said Coleman. “Look at all the wine bottles!”
“And recessed tables that conveniently fold down for festivities.”
“What’s Felicia doing?”
She was at the back of the room, reaching in a cubbyhole. Four rows down, sixth wine bottle from the left. A tiny square of paper unfolded in her hands.
Serge went over. “Fan mail from some flounder?”
“My friend in the stairwell.” She mentally decoded the symbols, then handed the paper to Serge. “Destroy that.”
He tore it in pieces and handed them to Coleman. “Eat these.” Then back to Felicia: “What did it say?”
“It’s happening sooner than I thought.”
“Where?”
“Right here, right now.” She looked around. “But why this place?”
“Maybe because it’s got spy history. At least in fiction.” Serge looked up at the ceiling. “The estate is all coming back to me now. In Season Two of Miami Vice—eighth episode titled ‘Bushido’—Lieutenant Castillo used the estate as a safe house before retreating to the grove of palms for his climactic confrontation with a Russian secret agent named Surf . . . Where’d Felicia go?”
Coleman dropped an antique wine bottle, but Savage made a nice save with his foot. It bounced harmlessly. “She ran up the stairs.”
“You two stay here.” Serge took off. He reached the front steps and made a sharp right for the logical location. Sprinting across the expansive open lawn that stretched down to Biscayne Bay.
“There you are.” Serge ran up to where Felicia was hiding behind one of the palm trees in the landmark grid. “This is exactly where Castillo hid from Surf.”
She grabbed a fistful of his tropical shirt and yanked him behind her. “Get out of sight.”
“What’s going on?”
“Hear that?”
“Yeah, sounds like an aircraft . . . And there it is. A seaplane.”
Another sound.
The pair scooted farther around the tree. Two heads peaked out from behind the trunk, stacked on top of each other, as five black SUVs raced past them toward the waterfront.
“This is my favorite feature of the estate,” said Serge. “On the outcropping at the very back of the lawn, Deering built a seawall inlet from the bay in the shape of a giant keyhole.”
“Quiet!”
“The airplane’s too loud.”
It was. The plane did a belly flop in the boat channel and motored through old coral heads into the keyhole. The SUVs were already backed up with open doors. Crates came out.
So did members of the museum staff, who trotted down to the shore wanting answers.
Badges flashed. Federal.
Good enough answers. They left.
“Did you see who that was?” said Felicia.
“Agent Lugar again,” said Serge. “What the hell is going on?”
The plane finished loading and began taxiing away for takeoff. It lifted from a froth of waves, banking serenely over Key Biscayne before catching a flash of sunlight and disappearing into the clouds.
“Get back,” said Felicia.
The pair ducked behind the palm as five departing SUVs sped away.
Miami Morgue
Two bodies on metal slabs.
A homicide detective burst through the doors.
The medical examiner put down a sandwich and grinned. “Good news. No sharks today.”
“I’m not laughing. What the hell happened at the summit ball?”
“Two dead guys.”
“Already know that,” said the detective. “I was there when they wheeled them out of the restroom.”
The examiner gestured at one table. “That guy was a doctor from Costa Gorda. Identification in his medical bag. He took a large injection of tranquilizers and potassium. Knocked him out and stopped his heart like that.” A snap of his fingers. “We found a hypodermic gun half full of the stuff”—he pointed at the other body—“in that guy’s medical bag. Been used in assassinations.”
&nbs
p; “So dead guy number one killed dead guy number two?”
“Looks that way.”
“Then who killed the first guy?”
“Don’t know, but I’d love to meet him,” said the examiner. “Haven’t seen this technique before. Heard about it from TV as a kid, but thought it was just make-believe theatrics.”
“TV?”
“Florida Wrestling. Practically the granddaddy of the sport in America. Broadcast in the sixties from the Fort Hesterly Armory and the Sportatorium in Tampa. Gordon Solie, Jack and Jerry Briscoe, the Army of Darkness—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I grew up here, too. What’s that got to do with the stiff?”
“One of the most feared maneuvers was the dreaded sleeper hold. Someone like Dusty Rhodes would apply it with forearms on the top and bottom of the head. Then the nemesis passed out, and an antidote maneuver had to be applied to wake him up. Except that last part really was showbiz. The ‘sleeper’ is a choke hold, but it doesn’t cut off air like the others; it cuts off blood. If the hold actually was applied, the victim would wake up on his own when blood returned to the brain.”
“Then why didn’t our pal here wake up?”
The examiner giggled. “This is where it gets cool.” He held up an evidence bag containing random everyday items. “These were used as braces and placed under this blood-pressure tester that was wrapped around his neck. Next to the windpipe.”
“What the hell for?”
“Why else? So he could apply a sleeper hold, of course. Once I saw the Great Malenko—”
“You’re driving me insane! What killed him?”
The examiner raised another bag.
The detective scrunched his eyebrows. “Lipstick and a pen?”
“That’s why I want to meet this guy. We’ve got a new, more exciting version of the ‘sleeper’ on our hands.” He tossed the evidence bag aside. “The whole contraption was designed not to cut off blood to the brain, but from the brain.”
“You lost me.”
The coroner stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and talked as he chewed. “Compress everything, and you got a classic ‘sleeper’ pass-out. But compress only the jugular, and leave the carotid open . . . Blood keeps flowing upstairs with no place to go.”
“That’s a murder?”
“Ever had your car radiator boil over?” The examiner wiped mayo off his mouth with surgical gauze. “In his case, ultramassive intracranial hemorrhage.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“His head exploded from the inside, like a stroke, except times a hundred.”
“And that makes you smile?”
“Must have been interesting to watch.”
Chapter Thirty-One
That Night
A camera flashed, illuminating blue-and-gold bas-relief friezes along the top of a vintage Art Deco landmark.
Another flash. This time from a Bic lighter. Coleman fired up a toke from a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker. “What is this place?”
“Historic Dinner Key.” Serge raised his camera again. “Just south of downtown on the shore of Biscayne Bay. Used to be an island, but they filled the gap to Coconut Grove.”
“What’s that building you keep taking photos of?”
“Miami city hall.” Another camera flash. Serge uncapped a thermos of coffee. “Wasn’t always city hall. That just started in the fifties, but—and this staggers the trivia-hungry mind—it used to be one of the largest airports in the world!”
Smoke drifted across the parking lot. “That little building?”
“The old Pan Am terminal was the main connection between North and South America.” Another camera flash, swig of coffee. “And the other structure over there used to be an airplane hangar that became the public arena where Jim Morrison of the Doors was arrested for exposing himself in 1969, and later the Floridians of the ill-fated American Basketball Association played home games. Can you freakin’ dig it?”
“Yeah, buildings.” Coleman exhaled. “But where are the runways?”
“Weren’t any.” Serge drained the rest of the thermos and raised arms. “It was the golden age of seaplanes, like the Sikorsky F-40s and of course the Brazilian Clipper. Passengers boarded from floating barges. Charles Lindbergh landed his Lockheed here in ’33 after a transatlantic flight.”
Felicia came running around the corner of the building. “What’s with all the camera flashes? We’re supposed to be on surveillance. And I could smell the dope all the way down to the dock!”
Coleman and Savage waved and smiled. Serge ran in a circle.
“Serge!” she snapped. “What are you doing?”
“Dribbling an invisible basketball and grabbing my crotch. It’s a history mash-up.”
Coleman took another hit. “The Doors.”
“Knock it off!” said Felicia. “Just got a tip from the Canadian consulate. Might be our big break.”
“The antique, winged Pan Am clock still hangs in the city council chambers.” Serge pointed. “Let’s take a look through the windows, shall we?”
“No!”
Serge pointed another direction. “Then can we fuck behind the hangar?”
“No! . . . How can you be aroused at a time like this?”
Serge looked down at his sneakers. “I drank coffee and there’s a bunch of old stuff around. That usually does it.”
“Hurry! They should be here any minute.” She looked back up the road. “And we already have company. Don’t turn around.”
Coleman turned around. A black SUV sat in the darkness on the shoulder.
“Are they the people we’re waiting for?” asked Serge.
“No, another interested party taking surveillance photos. If my hunch is right, that’s part of their plan.” Felicia ran around the side of city hall and led them down to the waterfront. Binoculars went to her eyes. “Coleman, what the hell are you doing?”
Coleman was down at the edge of the bay, floating something out into the water. “Catch and release. I’m setting the fake-leg bong free so it can drift to distant places where someone else can enjoy it. That would be far out.”
“Just stay alert.” A propeller sound in the distant sky. Felicia raised her binoculars again. “There it is now, on schedule . . . Oh, Serge, take me!”
“I thought you said this was an inappropriate time to be aroused.”
She caressed her left breast. “Espionage, danger, remember?”
“Right.” He pointed. “Behind the Jim Morrison hangar.”
The pair took off in a sprint. Serge stopped and turned around. “Coleman, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Coming with you.”
“Coleman!”
“I won’t watch. Much.”
“Go back to the parking lot with the walkie-talkie and do what I said.”
“Poo.”
Moments later:
“Oh God! Oh yes!” shrieked Felicia. “Faster! Faster! . . .”
Serge was on top, thrusting at maximum speed and looking out over her head with binoculars. A Grumman Mallard made a splash landing in the unseen waters, one of the few seaplanes in recent years to visit Dinner Key.
“Don’t stop!” Felicia dug her fingernails into Serge’s neck. “I’m coming! I’m coming! Oh my God! I’m coming! . . .”
A walkie-talkie squawked next to her head.
He grabbed it. “Serge here. Come in, Coleman.”
“Are you still fucking?”
“Yes, what’s up?”
“Nothing. I was just trying to picture it.”
“. . . I’m coming! . . .”
“Was that Felicia?” asked Coleman.
“She’s busy.”
“Can I listen?”
“No. Call back when you have something.”
Serge set the walkie-talkie down and grabbed the binoculars again. The Grumman eased up to the dock . . .
Over in the parking lot, Coleman kicked a pebble.
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Three white vans pulled up the circular drive and took a side road that led around behind city hall.
Coleman keyed his walkie-talkie. “Serge?”
“What?”
“I’m hungry.”
“So am I, but you don’t see me stopping what I’m doing.”
“Hold on,” said Coleman. “I couldn’t hear you. Three white vans just drove by.”
“Did you say three white vans?”
“Yeah, like we saw at that other place. Can we order a pizza?”
“Coleman, you were supposed to be on the lookout for three white vans.”
“I thought it was six polka-dot cement mixers.”
“Coleman . . .”
“The vans are heading your way. Now they are becoming polka-dot cement mixers, melting together in a big, glowing blob that’s yodeling through a ‘crazy’ straw to my soul.”
“You dropped acid, didn’t you?”
“No, I would never . . . Is it obvious?”
“Dammit, Coleman!” Serge jumped to his feet.
Felicia sat up with a wild mane of sex-hair. “What’s the matter?”
“Here come the vans.” They watched from the shadows until the vehicles passed. “And Coleman’s tripping. Hope you enjoy surprise parties.”
“Tripping?”
“It’s like herding infants in traffic. Last time he filled his underwear with lightbulbs and played a solitaire version of ‘duck-duck-goose’ for two hours.”
“Why?”
“I don’t even ask anymore. There’s Victor Evangelista.”
They looked down toward the dock and couldn’t miss Vic’s billboard of a Tommy Bahama shirt. Van doors opened.
“Look,” said Serge. “It’s Agent Oxnart again.”
“They’ve started unloading the plane,” said Felicia. “. . . Six, seven, eight . . .”
“What are you doing?” asked Serge.
“Counting . . . eleven, twelve, thirteen . . .”
“Why are you counting?”
“Shhhhh, you’ll mess me up . . . seventeen, eighteen . . .” She zoomed in with the binoculars. “And the branded codes in the wood. I just figured it out. I can’t believe it.”
“Figure out what?”
“Those are the same crates.”
