by Tim Dorsey
They walked down a staircase into the Poodle Lounge. The wall behind the bar was thick glass with an underwater view of the swimming pool. They grabbed five stools. Chi-Chi spread out his newspaper.
“I sure wish Lou would hurry up and get here,” said Tommy.
“Maybe the paper will take our minds off it,” said Mort. “Chi-Chi, anything in there?”
“Still looking for those three missing civil-rights workers in Mississippi.”
“They’re dead.”
“No shit.”
“Okay, the paper’s not helping,” said Mort.
Another diver knifed into the water behind the bar, leaving a thin ribbon of bubbles. Someone grabbed the empty stool next to Chi-Chi. The guys turned.
“Lou!”
Lou looked like she hadn’t slept. She sat down and chain-lit a cigarette.
“Lou, what’s going on?”
“Tell us what to do.”
She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Shut up! I’m trying to think.”
“Where are the gems?”
“Sergio has them. I sent him into hiding. He’s our ace in the hole until I figure some stuff out.”
“Where did all those giant stones come from?” said Mort. “Something’s seriously wrong.”
“Don’t you think I fuckin’ know that?”
The bartender was watching something on the TV in the lounge.
“Turn it up!” said Coltrane.
The bartender turned it up. A news report out of New York. Footage from the Museum of Natural History. Ropes dangling from the roof, smashed glass cases in the rare-gem room. A reporter with a microphone talked into the camera: “…Acting on a tip, authorities have traced the crime back to Miami Beach and are already making arrests.”
Lou’s face fell in her hands. “Oh, no.”
41
Present
A SMALL PLANE PULLED a banner through the clear blue sky over the Atlantic: WELCOME TO MIAMI BEACH.
The landmark Fontainebleau Hotel came into view. Orchestra music played. A man on the high dive did a triple somersault into the pool.
Serge hit pause on the hotel suite’s VCR, suspending the diver in midair.
“This was the opening of the blockbuster 1964 hit Goldfinger.” Serge pressed play again. “And here’s where Gert Fröbe makes his dramatic entrance outside the cabanas at this very hotel. It was the third film in the series, the one that ignited the whole James Bond phenomenon.”
Serge hit fast forward with the remote and trotted across their suite. It was a big one, airy and curved, following the architecture of the hotel. They were on the concave side. Lenny sat in a corner, scraping out a bong but getting only plastic shavings. Mick Dafoe had ordered up a putter from the pro shop and tapped a golf ball across the carpet. A Frisbee sailed by. City caught it and threw it back to Country. Chi-Chi sat at the kitchen counter with a big cigar in his mouth and a pile of dominoes. Doug perspired on the couch next to the gagged hostage tied to a chair, wearing only undershorts.
“Dr. No and From Russia with Love weren’t shabby, but Goldfinger put all the ingredients of the double-O-seven formula together for the first time. The gadgets, larger-than-life villains, Sean Connery’s glib dialogue in the face of death, those Bond women with the sophomoric names, and glamorous locales—like Miami Beach!” Serge had the hostage’s pants under his arm, going through the wallet. Nothing interesting. He threw it all aside and pulleyed open the balcony curtains. “Jerry Lewis also favored this place, before the French got hold of him.” Serge pointed the remote at the TV and hit play. A blonde in a white bathing suit lay on the balcony, looking down at the pool with binoculars and talking into a microphone.
Serge smiled proudly at Doug, gesturing at the balcony with one arm and the TV with the other. “Get it?”
Another empty stare.
“You’re in Goldfinger’s room!”
A Frisbee hit the hostage in the head.
“I studied the film exhaustively, triangulating views off the balcony, then went down to the patio and traced the vectors back with a stolen surveyor’s scope. Those things are so accurate now!”
Doug spoke like a peeping bird. “…I don’t want to die….”
Serge chugged a bottle of water and tossed it in the trash. “Sure, we’ve got a few things to tidy up, but the secret of true happiness is to enjoy the process. Rule Number One: Life is like an orgasm. It’s here and then it’s gone, so you better be paying attention.”
A knock at the door.
Serge grabbed his pistol, rolled twice on the floor, and sprang up into a tight shooter’s crouch. “Who the fuck can this be?”
“My pizza,” said Lenny, opening the door. “Can I borrow some money?”
The pizza boy came in. Lenny handed him a joint. Serge put his gun on the counter and grabbed his wallet.
The pizza boy handed the joint back to Lenny, caught a Frisbee. He looked over at the bound and gagged hostage in his undershorts.
“What’s with that dude?” He threw the Frisbee back to Country.
“Says it gets him off,” said Serge. “What’s the harm?”
“It’s Miami.”
Serge handed him a twenty. “You’re in Goldfinger’s room.”
“Right. Later…”
The door closed.
City, Country, Mick and Lenny sat down in the kitchen nook and went at the pizza like hyenas on a limping wildebeest.
Serge was in front of the TV, working with the remote to find a particular spot. “C’mon, Doug, cheer up. You have to enjoy the moment. You’re in the fabulous Fontainebleau. It’s a great place. I’ve only been kicked out once. I was taking my contingency photos in the Tropigala Lounge downstairs, where they have a running stage show called Latin Fever, the last Havana-style revue in Miami. Of course it was off hours, but the door was unlocked, so I didn’t think twice. And I’m walking around the empty room, not bothering anyone, taking my pictures. Security comes in. They ask if they can help me. And I say no and go about my business. But they keep following me. They ask me to go with them and say they don’t want any problems. So I say, ‘Well, I have a problem. I don’t feel so well. I think I’m coming down with a case of…Latin Fever!’…Believe me, some people have no sense of humor.” Serge pressed a button on the remote.
“This is the part I’ve been waiting for. I’ve always wanted to do this.” Goldfinger stood over Bond, tied down on a table.
Serge walked over to the hostage and ripped the tape off his mouth. He pressed a gun to his forehead. “Are you working for the Palermos?”
The man didn’t answer.
Serge cocked the pistol and pressed it harder.
Still nothing.
Serge leaned and whispered, “You’re supposed to say, ‘You expect me to talk?’”
The man remained silent.
Serge smacked him upside the head with the pistol. “Say it!”
“Uh, you expect me to talk?”
“No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die!”
CIA STATION, MIAMI
Renfroe hung up his coat, started the coffee.
Schaeffer came in. “Wanted to see me?”
Renfroe sat down at his computer. “It’s going to be a long night. I just found out the mob is involved with the invasion.”
“How do you know?”
“One of the exiles told me personally. I have to make sure they succeed. Put all agents on standby.” He picked up the phone.
“WHAT A MESS,” said Lenny.
“I don’t get it,” said Serge. “They did it so neatly in the movie.”
Mick Dafoe poked the hostage in the head with his putter. “Is he dead?”
“Don’t think so,” said Serge. “Probably just passed out from the fumes.”
They moved closer for a better look. The hostage lay on the bed with an uneven pattern of gold paint over most of his body, matted in his hair, dripping off his shoulders onto the sheets. More gold paint on the side of the bed
, paint overspray on the walls and curtains, a film of dried gold dust on the furniture, and gold footprints on the carpet, leading back to Serge, reading the label on the can of gold spray paint in his hand. “These things don’t give nearly the coverage they advertise.”
“He doesn’t have enough on him?” asked Lenny.
“Not yet. See these flesh-colored spots on his legs? The pores can still breathe. You don’t see those in the movie.” Serge pointed at the TV and the gold woman lying in the exact same position on the bed. “I think I have another can in my duffel bag.”
“I’ll get it,” said Lenny.
“It’s by the bathroom.”
Lenny rummaged. “I can’t find it.”
“It should be right there on top.”
“It’s not here.”
“Jesus.” Serge went over to the bathroom.
They tore through the duffel bag. “I put it right on top. Where can it be?”
“I told you it wasn’t here,” said Lenny.
Serge stood up. “Lenny, what’s that sitting on the table?”
“Oh, the spray paint. That’s the first thing I took out of the bag to give me room to look.”
“How did you ever survive to breeding age?”
Serge got the metal ball rattling in the can as they headed back across the suite. “…must have used a drop-cloth in the movie….”
They stopped in the doorway. The gold outline of a person on the bed. No person. The sliding glass doors were open. Gold handprints on the frame and another set on the balcony railing. Then screaming.
They ran out onto the balcony.
“There he is!” said Lenny, pointing toward the pool.
“He must have climbed down balcony to balcony.”
More yelling. People scattered. Women grabbed their children. The gold man staggered toward them for help, arms out like a mummy, throwing up.
“It half worked,” said Serge. “Didn’t kill him but made him real sick.”
A MARATHON GIN game was under way in a penthouse suite at the Fontainebleau. A phone rang. A man in Sansabelts answered.
“Yes, yes, I’ll see if he’s here.”
The man covered the phone and approached Mr. Palermo.
“Who is it?”
“Joe’s Dry Cleaning.”
Mr. Palermo took the phone.
“Well, if it isn’t my old friends at Joe’s Dry Cleaning. It’s been a long time. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Mr. Palermo’s face changed. The other gin players stopped. They could tell it was important.
The old man turned away from the table and spoke quietly into the receiver. A few moments later, he hung up. The gin players were waiting. Mr. Palermo snapped his fingers. “Scotch. The good bottle.”
A bodyguard opened the liquor cabinet. There was distant shouting outside by the pool.
Anticipation built around the green-felt card table. They searched the old man’s face for a clue.
Mr. Palermo just smiled. One bodyguard arrived with the old scotch, another with a set of crystal glasses and ice bucket. A third looked off the balcony. “There’s a gold guy down there.”
Drinks were poured. Mr. Palermo held up his glass.
“Gentlemen, I never dreamed I would live to see this moment. It is the one thing I thought I would have to leave to the others after me. But this day we have made peace with our old friends at the CIA.” He raised his glass higher.
“We return to Havana!”
SERGE AND LENNY stood on their balcony, watching the gold man. The shrieks from the patio got louder, the people down below appearing tiny like ants scattering in alarm, pandemonium spreading, tourists running every which way, crashing into each other, knocking over tables full of drinks and falling into the pool.
“I shouldn’t say this,” said Lenny. “But from way up here, it actually looks kind of funny.”
“Where’s he going now?”
The man stumbled off the patio and thrashed around in some tropical landscaping before punching through the shrubs and into a service driveway, where he was run over by a catering truck with a logo of a dancing wedding cake.
“Show’s over,” said Serge.
They went inside.
Mick was in the kitchen showing Chi-Chi how they play dominoes in the press box. Lenny drifted over. The table was covered with black rectangles standing on end in a complex formation of interlocking figure eights that finally ran up ramps built from playing cards and ending at a little row of shot glasses. Mick carefully set the final piece in place. “You should have seen when we played this at the Rose Bowl. The wire guy got so fucked up he couldn’t file.”
City and Country came through the room kicking a hackeysack.
Doug cried quietly.
Serge paced the suite with his clipboard. He circled an item on the Master Plan. “Lenny, any pizza left?”
“I think there’s a slice. I got a jumbo. But it’s cold now.”
“That’s okay. It’s still good,” said Serge. “Rule Number One: Pizza is always still good. Left out all night, under the couch, in the rain, backed over by a car. Doesn’t matter. Just reheat. The most resilient food source on the planet.”
Mick’s finger set the dominoes in motion, tumbling and clicking around the table.
Serge tossed the clipboard aside and opened the flat pizza box. “Somebody picked all the stuff off.”
“Sorry,” said Lenny.
“It’s still good.” Serge lifted a chair and placed it on the kitchen counter. He piled more stuff on top. Footstool, telephone books, suitcase, towels. Soon, he had a teetering tower reaching for the ceiling. He grabbed the microwave oven.
The final rows of tumbling dominoes ran up the ramps and into two of the shot glasses. Mick grabbed the Jack Daniel’s. “Now I get to punch you both in the shoulder and pour shots in your mouths….”
Serge looked up at his tower on the kitchen counter, swaying left and right. “Come onnnnnn…Easy now…” The tower stopped moving. “There!” He climbed up on the counter with the microwave and carefully placed it at the very top, wedged against the ceiling. Then he stuck a slice of pizza in the oven and set the timer.
Mick opened an ice chest. “Who wants a brewski?” He began tossing beer cans around the room. Serge stood atop the kitchen counter and aimed the remote control at the TV, restarting Goldfinger. City and Country came through kicking the small leather ball, catching cans of beer as they went. Lenny began setting up the dominoes again. A fat Asian man on TV threw a razor-edged derby at Sean Connery. A can of Coors flew by Doug and broke a lamp. The microwave went ding.
“My pizza’s done.” Serge opened the oven. He took a big bite and yanked the slice away fast, snapping off a cheese string. He opened his mouth and breathed in and out fast. “Ow…hot, hot…burning tongue…ow…”
“You left it in too long.” said Lenny.
Serge shook his head and swallowed. “Food’s always better when it reminds you you’re alive.”
A loud thud from the ceiling.
Doug jumped up. “What was that?”
Serge hopped down from the counter again and took another bite. “My guess would be Mr. Palermo after his pacemaker gave out.”
There was a flurry of heavy footsteps from the ceiling, muted yelling.
“Mr. Palermo’s in the room above us?”
Serge nodded and chewed. “Oh, yeah. Everybody knows that. His gin games are legendary—same time, same place, every week for fifty years. If you’re familiar with the Fontainebleau’s floor plan, you know the card table is right above our kitchen counter.”
“You knew he was up there all along?” said Doug. “You were planning to kill him with the microwave this whole time?”
“Of course. It’s in the Master Plan. Why did you think we’re in this room? Because I was hung up on Goldfinger or something?” Serge took another bite of pizza and hit eject on the VCR, substituting tapes. “This is a rare copy of Surfside 6, one of the campiest sh
ows ever aired. It was the Florida knockoff of 77 Sunset Strip, starring Troy Donahue and featuring Margarita Sierra as ‘Cha Cha O’Brien’ from the fictitious ‘Boom Boom Room’ in the Fontainebleau….” Serge grabbed his former hostage’s trousersand began going through the billfold again. “…They ran a detective agency out of a houseboat parked in the waterway across the street.”
Mick, Lenny and Chi-Chi were out on the balcony, raising drinks.
“Wooooooooo! Miami!”
“Wooooooooo! Goldfinger’s room!”
“Wooooooooo! Cuba Libre!”
Serge segregated the wallet’s credit cards from worthless video memberships. He turned the billfold inside out. “What’s this?” A folded scrap of paper hidden under a flap. “How could I have missed it before?” He opened it. Something in code. There was a number: the limo’s license plate. And another number, seven digits. Serge picked up the phone for reverse directory assistance.
He wrote down an address.
42
C IA STATION, MIAMI. Agent Schaeffer appeared in a doorway. “You wanted to see me?”
Renfroe picked up the phone. “Mr. Palermo’s been assassinated!”
“What!”
“The Cubans,” said Renfroe. “Preemptive strike to cripple the invasion.”
“You sure?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Things are going to start happening fast now.” He handed Schaeffer a piece of paper. “Set up another meet with our field contact. I need to make a call.”
A phone rang in one of the Fontainebleau’s majestic penthouse suites. Two dozen men milled around in black funeral attire and shoulder holsters, eating potato salad from paper cocktail plates. A man in Sansabelts answered.
“Joe’s Dry Cleaning?…Yes?…Yes?…What!…Where’d you hear this?…That can’t be true!…I see…. I under-stand…. Yes, thank you for the condolences.” He hung up.
The others were all staring at him.
“Mr. Palermo was assassinated. Comes straight from the CIA.”
“I thought it was his pacemaker.”
“Cuban intelligence used a new state-of-the-art microwave device.”
