by Tim Dorsey
News flash: We out here in the Heartland care infinitely more about God-and-Country issues because we have internal moral-guidance systems that make you guys look like a squadron of gooney birds landing facedown on an icecap and tumbling ass over kettle. But unlike you, we have to earn a living and can’t just chuck our job responsibilities to march around the office ranting all day that the less-righteous offend us. Jeez, you’re like autistic schoolchildren who keep getting up from your desks and wandering to the window to see if there’s a new demagoguery jungle gym out on the playground. So sit back down, face forward and pay attention!
In summary, what’s the answer?
The reforms laws were so toothless they were like me saying that I passed some laws, and the president and vice president have forgotten more about insider trading than Martha Stewart will ever know.
Yet the powers that be say they’re doing everything they can. But they’re conveniently forgetting a little constitutional sitcom from the nineties that showed us what the government can really do when it wants to go Starr Chamber. That’s with two rs.
Does it make any sense to pursue Wall Street miscreants any less vigorously than Ken Starr sniffed down Clinton’s sex life? And remember, a sitting president actually got impeached over that—something incredibly icky but in the end free of charge to taxpayers, except for the $40 million the independent posse spent dragging citizens into motel rooms and staring at jism through magnifying glasses. But where’s that kind of government excess now? Where’s a coffee-cranked little prosecutor when you really need him?
I say, bring back the independent counsel. And when we finally nail you stock-market cheats, it’s off to a real prison, not the rich guys’ jail. Then, in a few years, when the first of you start walking back out the gates with that new look in your eyes, the rest of the herd will get the message pretty fast.
Have a happy…
S——
CRISP FOOTSTEPS DOWN a bright white hall. Dress shoes. Black.
Agents Miller and Bixby pushed through a set of swinging doors and made a hard left down another corridor. Gurneys lined the walls, patients strapped down, screaming, crying, rambling about transmitters implanted in their heads, soiling themselves. A gaunt, whiskered man on one of the stretchers looked upside-down at Miller as he passed—“Your mother sucks cocks in hell!”—then geyser-vomited pea-green sewage all over himself.
Miller reached in his jacket and held something out to the man.
“Mint?”
“Oh, thank you.”
The agents entered the next wing. A doctor checked their credentials against a clipboard and opened a door.
Mahoney was pacing his cell, fedora and tweed jacket, but a different tweed this time. The necktie had bowling pins. A Wall Street Journal lay on a table, folded over to Serge’s letter. “Should have strapped iron and put daylight in the hinky shamus who dropped the dime….”
The agents pulled chairs up to the Plexiglas partition. Miller removed a thick set of black-and-white glossies from an envelope and slid them through the slot.
Mahoney picked up the photos and flipped through. Buildings around South Florida. Motels, diners, bars, bus stations.
“What jumps into your head?” asked Miller.
“Chicago overcoats, Harlem sunsets, a jorum of skee, a chippie with boss getaway sticks, giving a canary the Broderick…”
“I mean the photos.”
“You want me to pick the ones Serge would pick.”
“These are tour stops from his website. But there are hundreds. We don’t have that kind of time.”
“And you want to know where to run the rolling stakeout.”
“That’s the idea.”
Mahoney slapped a series of photos on the table. “This one, this one, this one, and this one.” Just like that. He pushed the whole stack back through the slot. “You want the ice.”
“What are you talking about?” said Miller.
Mahoney just smiled.
Miller stood. “We have to go now.”
Mahoney nodded. “Blow, hoof, dust, fade, breeze, slide, heel and toe, grab sidewalk, leave leather, drivin’ the shoe car…”
BASED UPON THE photos selected by Mahoney, Agents Miller and Bixby conducted a rolling stakeout along Collins Avenue, from the twenties to the forties. They passed the Eden Roc, northbound.
“We really should alert the locals,” said Bixby, filling the chambers in his service revolver.
“And let the newspapers pick my career clean?”
The Crown Vic navigated a knot of pedestrians and mopeds in an intersection.
“I don’t believe it,” said Bixby, turning as he watched something pass in the opposite lane. “There’s the limo!”
Miller made a wide, silent U-turn and fell in two cars back at a red light.
The light turned green. The black stretch continued south, Chi-Chi and his toothpick behind the wheel. Serge was in back with his clipboard, checking numbers on buildings. Mick Dafoe talked on the phone with his bookie and watched Norwegian log hurling on ESPN2. Lenny handed him a cheeseburger from a Jimmy Johnson’s paper sack. City and Country braided each other’s hair with beads. Rusty and Doug had the million-mile stare.
On the little console TV, officials held a tape measure to the end of a log. “Sven just passed Olaf,” said Mick, handing Lenny a shot. “You have ten seconds.”
Lenny tossed it back and turned to Serge. “Where are we going now?”
“Working on that. Have to figure out where Lou went to.”
Mick handed Lenny another shot glass.
“Again?”
“Sven’s in the zone.”
Lenny downed the drink and looked out the window at sidewalk traffic, beach babes in thongs, bodybuilders on Rollerblades, retirees with walkers. “I can see where Florida gets its old-age reputation. We were just at a Cuban home, Mort’s in a Jewish one. And we must have seen twenty more driving around.”
“Florida has ’em in every flavor,” said Serge. “They’re like living monuments to the state’s history: the retirement community of ex-CIA agents near Fort Myers, aging industrialists in Palm Beach, TV and movie people put out to pasture in Fort Lauderdale, circus midgets in an aluminum Airstream encampment south of Tampa, even a home for elderly space chimps up at the Cape.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“Who would have thought they’d live this long? But it would be wrong not to care for them. They’re national treasures. Same goes for the convalescent colony of 1972 Miami Dolphins.”
“They can’t be that old.”
“It’s thirty-two years since the unbeaten season. Some are getting up there. You don’t hear a lot about them because they’re well behaved and keep to themselves with their stamp collections and prize gardenias. But every few years, when the Dolphins are playing some NFL team deep into the season without a loss and threatening the perfect record, they wheel them out to the Miami sidelines for good luck.”
“Hey, I got a good Jewish joke,” said Lenny.
“I used to tell Jewish jokes, too. Before I got into history.”
“What does that mean?”
“Where do you think the Jewish people in Miami Beach came from?”
“Beats me. Cuba?”
Serge nodded.
“No, really,” said Lenny.
“Many did come from Cuba.”
“I was just joking,” said Lenny. “I said Cuba because of all the Cubans in Miami.”
“When things were the worst in Europe, they fled any way they could,” said Serge. “Many made it to the states, but others couldn’t get their papers right away, some not for years. The boats dropped them in Cuba to wait.”
“Now I feel bad.”
“On the other hand, I always like a good joke. If it’s a ‘laughing with you, not at you,’ then you may proceed.”
Two cars back, the Crown Vic ran a yellow light, staying close. At the next intersection, the car between them made a right, p
utting the agents directly behind the limo and giving Bixby a clear shot inside the stretch with his binoculars.
“What’s going on?” asked Miller.
Bixby adjusted the focus. “Looks like some kind of important discussion.”
“Probably a life-or-death strategy session,” said Miller. “This is crunch time, the intense personal danger of the moment distilling thoughts to pure clarity, communication stripped to the essentials of survival. I’d give anything to hear what they’re saying.”
“A rabbi is on a motorcycle…” said Lenny.
“Orthodox?”
“What?”
“Is the rabbi Orthodox? It’s funnier that way. I need to get the picture in my head. Those Hasidic curls always leave me doubled over.”
“I don’t know.”
“Two things you can never go wrong with in comedy: neck braces and Orthodox rabbis. Say you got a movie with a dead spot that needs a gag. Send in a guy with a neck brace. It’s always priceless—he’s walking real careful and slow down the street with a cervical fracture, millimeters from total paralysis, and here come the construction workers carrying a bunch of huge ladders. I’m wiping tears after that. Same with Orthodox rabbis. All they can do looking like that is be very serious and pray. Put ’em on a trampoline and it’s all over.”
“Never thought of it like that,” said Lenny. Mick handed him another shot.
“So what’s your joke?”
“Okay, the rabbi, I mean, wait, I…I think I’m getting a little fucked up here.”
“Report in later when you reestablish contact.”
“Ten-four.”
Serge clapped his hands in front of Rusty and Doug. “Back to live action.” He inserted a silver disc in the limo’s DVD.
“This is just going to be a drive-by,” said Serge. “Ever see Raging Bull?”
Nothing.
“Good. Remember the nightclub Jake LaMotta had in Miami Beach near the end? It’s coming up. I recently located the address in the bowels of the First Avenue Library.” Serge’s arms pointed in opposite directions, one out the window, the other at the TV. “I’m sure it’s another club now, but hopefully they’ve kept the history intact.”
Serge’s face was at the window as the limo approached Twenty-first Street. “Here comes the place now….” His mouth fell open. “Oh, my God! Stop the car! Stop the car!”
Chi-Chi eased up to the curb.
A Crown Vic with blackwalls pulled over and parked a half block back.
CHICK RENFROE ARRIVED back at CIA field headquarters.
“Find out anything?” asked Agent Schaeffer.
“Nothing I didn’t already suspect.” Renfroe hung up his coat. “The FBI knew something, but not much. Webb tried to bluff.”
“I thought you’d be mad.”
“Are you kidding? This is great news. After all these years, we’re finally going back to Havana.”
“But if the FBI isn’t behind it, who? Peterson?”
“Doubt it,” said Renfroe, loosening his tie. “Don’t think anybody’s running it. Looks like it’s coming together all by itself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Think of it like Miami in general. On the surface, a beautiful city: modern, sophisticated, fast-paced. But underneath, nobody’s in control. Spend two days here and you figure that out. Everything happening on its own. People are always looking for conspiracies when it’s usually the conspiracy of anarchy. In this particular case, the timing and conditions are just right for spontaneous combustion. Growing frustration in the exile community, Soviet collapse, Castro’s advanced age, and poof—a bunch of boats start sailing south. Surprised it didn’t happened sooner.”
“But why so happy?”
“You young guys weren’t there.” Renfroe sat down at his computer and began surfing. “The sixties were a horrible time for the agency. The FBI had been the golden boys for years. Dillinger, Bonnie and Clyde, Alger Hiss, the Rosenbergs. Then what do we get? The Bay of Pigs and the Kennedy hit, newsreel footage of Oswald handing out Fair Play for Cuba pamphlets. The morale was terrible. If you were there, you never forgot it. This is our shot at redemption.”
“You aren’t thinking of getting involved, are you?”
“Of course not. We stay completely uninvolved. If it tanks, we had nothing to do with it. If it works, we’re poised to swoop in and take credit. It’s a win-win.”
“I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Here it is,” said Renfroe, scrolling down Serge & Lenny’s home page. “Hand me the phone.”
MILLER AND BIXBY kept an eye on the parked limo as they slipped into body armor and checked their ammunition.
“We really should call for backup,” said Bixby.
“Shut up.” Miller stuck his head through the hole in a Kevlar vest. “Hand me the shotgun.”
Serge stepped out of the limo in a horrified trance. He looked up at the former home of Jake LaMotta’s Lounge. “A Lum’s Hot Dogs?”
“He’s out of the car!” said Bixby.
“Now’s our chance!” They jumped from the Crown Vic and ran to the edge of a building. They started up the sidewalk, pressing against the store windows for concealment, hiding twelve-gauges by their sides. Senses alert, advancing like cats.
“What’s he doing now?” whispered Bixby.
Serge furiously punched the concrete exterior of Lum’s Hot Dogs with both fists—“Why! Why! Why! Why!”—then butted it with his forehead—“Why! Why! Why! Why!” Blood started running.
Miller was twenty yards away, inching closer. He clicked the safety off his gauge. The cell phone on Bixby’s belt began vibrating.
“I got a call.”
“Don’t answer it.”
Bixby checked the numeric display. “It’s Webb.”
“Shit.” They backed into the doorway of a car rental. “Give it.” Miller put the phone to his head.
A cell phone began ringing in the limo. Lenny stepped out the back door. “Serge, it’s for you.”
“…Why! Why! Why!…” He turned. “What?”
“You got a call.”
“Oh.” He took the phone in a bloody hand. “Serge and Lenny’s.”
A few yards up the sidewalk, Miller slammed the cell phone closed and tossed it to Bixby. “Politics!”
“What is it?”
“Webb ordered us not to apprehend. Wants to give the CIA enough rope to hang itself. ‘Hands off Serge and Lenny.’ His exact words.” They headed back to the Crown Vic and stowed the weapons.
Lenny tapped Serge’s shoulder. “Who is it?”
Serge covered the phone. “Joe’s Dry Cleaning.”
“Who’s that?”
“The CIA…. Yes, I’m back. You say you have some trousers ready? For Chi-Chi?…Yes, he’s right here…. Just a second.” Serge stuck his head in the limo. “It’s for you.”
Chi-Chi grabbed it. “Hello…Who?…Renfroe?…Not the Renfroe from the safe house…You asshole! Never call me!” He hung up.
The phone rang again. Serge got it.
“Serge and Lenny’s…Yes, I think I can get him to talk.” Serge covered the phone. “Why won’t you talk to him?”
Chi-Chi folded his arms sternly. “Those bastards screwed up the best chance we had to get Castro.”
“Just hear him out,” said Serge. “The country’s in a whole new state of mind now. You never know.”
Chi-Chi sighed and snatched the phone. “Make it snappy!…No!…No!…That’s the stupidest—…No, I don’t see the point…. Look, if it’ll get you off my back, I promise to at least think about it.” Click.
“What did he want?” asked Serge.
“To meet.”
“Great!”
“I’m not meeting that twit.”
“But we have to meet, just like in the Master Plan. Remember what we talked about?”
“I’m too old for this shit.”
“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”
39
&n
bsp; 1964
I N THE EARLY sixties, Miami had the largest CIA field office in the world, thanks to the Cuban Missile Crisis. The field office supported an array of safe houses scattered throughout Dade County.
Chi-Chi hated going to the safe house.
He cursed under his breath all the way over, driving his ’58 Cadillac convertible with the top down, wearing the flat-brimmed straw hat he only took off when he showered or slept.
Chi-Chi Menendez, Mr. Cynic. Thin, five-foot-six frame. Brown eyes, beady, the whites slightly yellowed from forty-five hard years that left him with blotched, prematurely leathered skin. Some of the wear had come during training under the Company on Useppa Island near Fort Myers. Chi-Chi was one of the few members of Brigade 2506 who wasn’t captured or killed at the Bay of Pigs. It was more than enough to explain Chi-Chi’s bitterness. Except he’d always been bitter. It’s what made him happy.
Chi-Chi made a right on LeJeune Road just before noon, rumba music from the AM. The Cadillac headed south into a neglected neighborhood of vandalized duplexes, Spanish restaurants and dejection. It parked behind an orange apartment building. The radio went silent. Trickles of perspiration ran down Chi-Chi’s cheeks as he started up concrete stairs. He came to a landing and knocked on the door.
The hip-high balcony wall was a grid of decorative gardening blocks mortared together and whitewashed. Chi-Chi leaned over and saw lizards scampering through weeds and brittle, sunbaked newspapers. His teal guayabera flapped in a breeze that didn’t make it cooler, just pushed the heat around.
“Who is it?”
“Chi-Chi.”
“You’re supposed to use your code name.”
“Open the fucking door!”
Slats of jalousie glass slowly cranked open. A pair of eyes stared out at Chi-Chi. “What’s the password?”
“That’s it. I’m leaving.”
The door quickly opened. “Come back!” A young agent stepped onto the landing in an untucked golf shirt and amber sharpshooter sunglasses. Agent Renfroe.
Chi-Chi muttered as he turned and went back up the steps.
