by Tim Dorsey
“It wasn’t,” said Felicia. “Remember when I thought the guns were just a means to something bigger? They were. The business with the dead reporter that kept nagging me. The geology report he was supposed to slip me before they killed him.”
“That’s right,” said Serge. “You mentioned it.”
“I finally got a copy from one of my sources in our interior ministry.”
“So spill.”
“Oil,” said Felicia. “They discovered a new field off our coast. I guess the petroleum companies are getting too much grief from your country over what’s happened in the Gulf. So they went looking for an easier government to ply.”
“And Glide?”
“All his candidates are backed by huge oil lobbyists. He simply expanded his dealings offshore to Costa Gorda. The guns never had to leave Miami. That was just designed to raise money and pay off the generals, because no matter how big that oil field is, Guzman wasn’t about to let those drilling rigs anywhere near our coral reefs.”
Serge looked oddly at the tiny TV screen. “But . . . if Glide actually was trying to set me up . . .”
Then a flash of recognition. His eyelashes fluttered as recent images strobed through his brain: the security film at Hooters, the photo of Felicia in the hotel room window, more probable images yet to come from stage cameras.
His eyes shot toward Felicia. “Oh my God, you’re right! Evangelista really was the target!”
“So you finally believe me?”
“Except you’re wrong. They weren’t setting me up. They were setting you up. You’re the patsy.”
“Me?”
“Works better. You’re a foreign national. Probably dummy bogus evidence linking you to the rebels. Think: Who sent you to Miami in the first place?”
“Scooter’s uncle, the general, to watch out for him . . . Oh my God.”
TV: “. . . Authorities are looking for this woman caught on various security cameras . . .”
“That’s me!”
Serge stood. “We have to get you out of here.”
“This can’t be happening.” She rested her forehead on the table.
“It’ll be okay. We’ll talk to Guzman.” He stroked her hair. “Felicia?”
Blood ran between his fingers. A man ran across the street.
“Felicia!” He shook her hard. Down to the ground she went.
A curdling yell echoed off the Art Deco hotels and sidewalk restaurants.
“Nooooooooooo!”
Biscayne Bay
Midnight. A million stars.
Several serious yachts anchored in one of the few deep channels.
Lights on. Music carrying across the water. People in evening wear filled the back deck of the largest vessel. Slow dancing. A radar dish rotated above the cabin.
One of the couples climbed off the stern and onto the swim platform, then into a smaller boat that ferried them back to their own yacht. Other couples followed. Vague voices calling back to their host as lines cast off.
A party winding down.
“Thanks for having us, Mr. Glide . . .”
“Congratulations on the funding bill . . .”
“Here’s a check for the best candidates money can buy . . .”
Laughter at the last remark.
A magnum of Dom Pérignon hung by Malcolm’s side as he waved toward the last guests motoring off into the dark bay. He went back inside and plopped onto a spacious leather couch. A radar screen showed tiny blips where his visitors made their way back to their respective boats. A sixty-two-inch plasma TV was on CNN.
“. . . In other news, fifty thousand barrels of oil a day continue to spew into the Gulf of Mexico, while cleanup crews prepare for a spectacular nighttime burn of a corralled section of the petroleum, which should be visible from Pensacola to Fort Myers . . .”
Another laugh from Malcolm. He emptied the rest of the magnum. Three people appeared in front of him. The live-aboard captain, mechanic, and cook.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Glide?”
“No, that’s it. Good night.” He tilted his head, indicating that they were blocking his TV view.
They disappeared to their berths below.
“. . . Breaking news at this hour: Authorities are reporting the discovery of a body believed to be that of the foiled assassin from the Summit of the Americas in Miami. Speaking off the record, officials have identified the deceased as Felicia Carmen, a member of Costa Gordan intelligence who is suspected of being a double agent with recently uncovered ties to the country’s Marxist rebels. With shades of the Versace slaying, Ms. Carmen herself was gunned down in a brazen daylight attack on Ocean Drive. Police are seeking this man . . .”
Serge’s face filled the screen.
A sedate smile from Glide as he drained the last of the champagne—“never saw it coming”—then rested his head back over the couch and closed his eyes.
A new green dot blipped on the edge of the radar screen.
Gulf of Mexico
Another yacht.
No running lights. Drifting in blackness fifty miles off the coast of Tampa Bay.
“How long you going to need it?” asked Stan the High-End Repo Man.
“We’ll be heading back before you know it.” Serge glanced at a seaplane moored to the bow. “Thanks for flying us over. We never could have made it in time from Biscayne to the Gulf in that speedboat.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Stan. “But next time give me a little advance warning when we’re transporting some guy who’s tied up.”
“I didn’t think it was unusual.”
“In your case, you’re right.”
Serge looked over the rear of the vessel at a small, shore-excursion boat lashed to the stern. “How much does one of these dinghies cost?”
“Why?”
“It won’t be coming back.”
“Don’t you ever change?” The repo man wiped his hands on a rag. “Forget about it. I’ll just file insurance, lost at sea.”
“I owe you.”
“Yes.”
“You might want to get back to the plane,” said Serge. “Some people don’t want to see—”
“Already on my way.” The repo man climbed down onto a pontoon, then into the cockpit.
Lines cast off. A propeller began to whirl, and the plane scooted across the water until it lifted off into the unseen night over the Everglades.
Serge turned the other way. “Now, as you were saying?”
“I swear I didn’t betray you!” pleaded Malcolm Glide. “I thought we discussed the risks—that you might be the fall guy if things turned sour.”
Serge had been disappointed. It was almost too easy kidnapping Glide off his boat near Stiltsville in Biscayne Bay. But irony always brought his spirits back. He grabbed the handle of a large crank, making one slow clockwise turn.
Iron gears clicked. The dinghy lowered a foot.
Serge leaned toward Malcolm. “Except you planned for everything to go sour all along.”
“Stop cranking!” yelled Glide. “On my mother’s grave! Espionage has many layers, very complex. It’s not what it seems!”
“It seems Felicia’s dead. She was my almost-fiancée.” Another crank.
The small boat lowered another foot and stopped with a shudder.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen!” said Glide. “I told them to leave her out of it, but those generals are crazy. You try dealing with Latins.”
“What am I? An Eskimo?” Crank.
“I didn’t mean it that way!” Malcolm looked down at his trussed-up body, fastened securely in the dinghy’s middle seat with boat straps and chains, no hope of movement. “I’ll give you money!”
Serge looked behind him. “Coleman, you want money?”
“Sure!”
Serge turned back and grinned at Glide. “Too bad you didn’t double-cross Coleman.” Crank, crank, crank . . .
“Please stop cranking! . . .”
Serge stopped
cranking and placed a hand on his heart. “Okay, you’ve touched me.” He grabbed something from the bilge and vaulted over the stern into the dinghy. “I’m going to show you mercy.”
“You are?”
“I know, I should have my head examined.”
“Thank God!” said Malcolm. “You won’t regret this!”
“Lift your feet.”
“What?”
“Just lift them.”
He did, and Serge unrolled something. “You can put ’em down now.”
Malcolm rested his feet on a new surface. “What’s that?”
“The red Star-Elite Club carpet.” Serge climbed up from the dinghy and back over the stern. “Now you’re traveling in style.”
Glide began blubbering again.
“Jesus, be a man!” Serge resumed cranking. “It’s not that bad.”
“It isn’t?”
“Not for me. You’re pretty fucked.” Crank, crank, crank . . .
Tears flowed with abandon. “What are you going to do?”
“Teach you about nature. Like this holy body of water and all the majestic shorelines surrounding her . . . Isn’t it peaceful?”
“I had nothing to do with the oil spill! I just lobbied candidates with scientific facts!” Glide wriggled in vain against his bindings. “It’s never happened before! It was the scientists!”
“Scientists told you that all the other countries were wrong when they demanded PB install a remote-controlled shutoff valve?” Crank, crank, crank. “And your candidates voted to let them go without valves to increase profits? And cap liabilities in case of a spill?”
“I’m begging you. Don’t kill me!”
“Oh, I won’t kill you . . . I’m not that upset about the Gulf.”
“You aren’t?”
Serge set the lock on the winch and leaned against the lever, staring up at constellations. “That would be egotistical. Humans tend to view everything in terms of their own insignificant life spans. But in the long run, Mother Earth takes care of herself. The big wheel keeps on turning.”
Malcolm sniffed back sobs. “That’s what I always say.”
“Right-o. Nature spawned you to pee in the pool. And nature created me to cross your path. See? Mother’s always right . . . Or at least: When she’s not happy, nobody’s happy.” Cranking resumed without stopping. So did the crying.
The hull hit the water. Serge hopped down into the dinghy again and pull-started the engine. “I know what you’re thinking? How in heaven’s name can I steer?” He stepped back onto the yacht. “Fret not. Serge is your pilot. I drilled bolts, freezing the rudder, so you’ll sail straight as an arrow.”
Malcolm choked back emotion. “To where?”
“Your crowning achievement!”
Coleman stood in the yacht and shielded his eyes. “It’s started. I need to smoke some dope to dig this.” He rolled a number.
Serge looked up and squinted. “You can almost feel the heat from here.” He reached into the small boat and slammed the throttle forward. “I love an oil burn just before dawn.”
The dinghy sped away as screams trailed off into the distant waters.
“Look at him go!” Coleman took a deep hit. “But he’s heading right for the flames.”
“Imagine the view.”
“Didn’t think we’d be able to still hear him yelling from this far . . . Oooo, he just caught on fire.”
“That’s rarely positive,” said Serge.
“Still screaming,” said Coleman. “How long will he be alive?”
“Longer than you’d actually think.”
A ring of fire engulfed the western horizon. In the middle, a spike in the flames, and a screaming voice heading toward the center of the burning oil.
“How’d you think of doing this to him.”
“Actually he’s doing it to himself. If it wasn’t for his political shenanigans, he’d just be on a long, windy ride until the gas tank ran out and someone found him drifting in the morning.”
“But the gas tank won’t run out?”
“No, it will,” said Serge. “But all at once. You get such bad gas mileage in a burning spill.”
Coleman exhaled a toke. “Still screaming.”
“Ahhhhhhh! . . .”
“Coleman, what are you doing?”
Coleman was hanging over the side of the boat. “I see something floating.” He retrieved a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker and packed it with pot.
“Ahhhhhhh! . . .”
Boom.
Serge smiled at the rising fireball. “Energy for a brighter tomorrow.”
About the Author
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of thirteen novels: Electric Barracuda, Gator A-Go-Go, Nuclear Jellyfish, Atomic Lobster, Hurricane Punch, The Big Bamboo, Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, Cadillac Beach, and Torpedo Juice. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Tim Dorsey
Florida Roadkill
Hammerhead Ranch Motel
Orange Crush
Triggerfish Twist
The Stingray Shuffle
Cadillac Beach
Torpedo Juice
The Big Bamboo
Hurricane Punch
Atomic Lobster
Nuclear Jellyfish
Gator A-Go-Go
Electric Barracuda
When Elves Attack
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover illustration by Stanley Chow
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PINEAPPLE GRENADE. Copyright © 2012 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dorsey, Tim.
Pineapple grenade : a novel / Tim Dorsey. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-06-187690-5
1. Storms, Serge (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Florida—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3554.O719P56 2012
813'.54—dc22
2011022711
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780062100733
12 13 14 15 16 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77-85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd S
treet
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com
