‘Uh, yeah. He does. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’ Her accent was attractively southern, but not so much a drawl as to imagine a Stetson and a nodding donkey.
The barman passed across Sam’s Bacardi and coke. The glass was almost pint-sized, the lemon twist was as big as a quarter of orange, and it was finished off with a purple-and-white paper umbrella and two avocado-coloured straws.
‘Thanks.’
She turned to the Farah Fawcett look-a-like who was still smiling. All teeth, but beautiful with it.
Grrrr.
‘Can I get you something?’
‘No, thanks. I have a coke,’ pointing to a glass on the bar. ‘I’ve not seen you before. Why are you in town?’
That’s a good question.
A better question was ‘why have I come to Miami Vice, when there’s no sensible intelligence-gathering reason to do so?’ Müller was dead. There would be no leads here. Who would she ask - and what would the line of questioning be?
Why had she come?
Because she was bored. And she didn’t do boredom well. After her call with Wolfgang, by the time she’d showered and done her hair badly, it was lunchtime. She’d crossed over the road to a deli and bought some salad - and some more coffee. Then wide awake she’d kicked around her hotel room for a couple of hours, watching the latest on CNN and Fox News (it’s always good to get a balanced opinion). The commentary was mostly about the dire straits of American politics, and the chasm that had rifted through American society in the past year or so: the multi-raced, liberal elite versus the predominantly white, working class conservative right. It would take a very special person with big needles to sew those two back together.
By 5.00 pm. she was going stir crazy. Wolfgang had asked her to stay put for 24 hours, until he’d had chance to look at the two phones she’d stolen in The Bahamas. Twenty-four hours was a lifetime in Sam’s world. OK, so there was Wi-Fi - and she could use her phone securely without a SIM fitted. But that was not enough to keep her mind busy. At one point she’d found herself in front of an open wardrobe turning all the coat hangers around so that they faced in the same direction.
By 5.20 she was out of the hotel room with her rucksack (just in case), via the local Western Union office to pick up the two grand, she popped into a phone shop to get a new cell, and then off to find Miami Vice. It wasn’t the most sensible of options - staying put would have been. But, the way she persuaded herself was that you never know what you might find. Something might happen. She’d get in the club, wait for an appropriate moment and then maybe ask a few questions.
Whatever, anything was better than staying in that box - and she’d be back in the box in time to talk to Wolfgang.
‘Uh, I’m looking for someone. What about you?’
‘Oooh, that’s interesting.’ The girl was flirting with her, for sure. And it was working. But Sam didn’t feel threatened. ‘Me?’ The husky voice was accompanied by a theatrical ‘hand on chest’ from the Charlie’s Angel. ‘Oh, I’m just having a bit of fun. You know. Relaxing, dancing ... talking to interesting strangers.’
Sam was more at sea now than she had been on the powerboat. There were two reasons for this. The first was because the woman was enchanting; a siren with the pull of an electromagnet. And the second because Sam was no longer sure that her new friend was wholly, or originally, a she. There was something about her hands - their long, slender but bony fingers, which lacked the grace and femininity of the rest of her. Sam wanted to look at the woman’s feet - because that was often a telltale sign.
Sam, of course, couldn’t have cared less. Gender, race, creed, religion, sexual orientation - they were an irrelevance to her. People should be what they felt comfortable with being. Although, she wasn’t convinced she could share a bed with someone whose gender was not necessarily completely specific.
‘Oh. OK. I’m Sam, by the way.’ Sam held out her hand.
Farah Fawcett took Sam’s hand, ‘I’m Ginny. Nice to meet you, Sam. Now, who are you looking for?’
She wasn’t attracted to Ginny - it was just the way she, Sam, was wired. And the buttocks had disappeared down the other end of the bar.
Sam relaxed. Phew.
All clear. Concentrate.
Sam concocted a story around Lukas Müller, aka R. Wilder. That he was a German on business from Frankfurt. She was an English solicitor trying to track him down because a long-lost British relative had left him something in his will.
‘What’s his first name?’
Sam had hoped Ginny wouldn’t ask her that.
‘Robert.’ She lied. She had no idea.
She was a rubbish liar. Her brain hurt every time she told an untruth. It didn’t work with her. The flipside was her wiring made her very adept at spotting liars. She had a knack.
‘Can you describe him to me? People here use so many aliases.
Ginny wasn’t lying. Sam was warming to her.
Sam described Müller to an inch. The easiest bit was his limp. As she spoke she glanced around the room; the club was filling up. It was only 6.30 pm. What would it be like at midnight? It clearly catered for every age group. Müller wouldn’t have stood out here anymore than any of the other clientele.
‘Are you sure his first name’s Robert? You’re describing a Ralph - old, a limp and a blotchy face?’
Of course.
‘That’s him. Sorry. I’m dealing with a number of clients at the moment. Ralph, yes, that’s him.’
‘Haven’t seen him for a while. Had a thing for younger looking men, if you know what I mean.’
Sam did. And she hated him for it.
She finished her Bacardi.
‘OK. Thanks, and, well, never mind.’ She waved at the barman. He started to saunter Sam’s way.
I wonder where he keeps his horse?
Flippancy. She couldn’t stop herself.
She smiled at Ginny.
‘Can I get you another coke, or something else?’
Ginny finished her drink, placing the glass on the counter with a firm hand.
‘Why not! I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
‘Two more, please.’
Sam turned to Ginny and in a whisper said, ‘Do you think if I ask for the drinks separately we might get twice as much arse?’
Ginny screeched an almost male-like laugh and slapped Sam on the thigh.
‘You are funny!’
You wait ‘til I’ve had a couple more.
The barman came back with the two large drinks, and both she and Ginny took a sip.
‘Mmm, that’s good. Now, tell me about yourself, Sam.’
‘I’m much more interested in what your story is.’
Three drinks later, Sam and Ginny were chatting away like lifelong friends. Sam’s brain was befuddled with alcohol, but she still kept an edge. She was having a ball - more relaxed than she had been in ages. Ginny may not press all her buttons, but she was great fun.
Ginny had brought up sexuality early on and Sam had given her an honest reply. From that point both were clear that this evening wasn’t going to end between the sheets, and they both relaxed further because of it. Ginny was very open about her gender and the operations she’d had, and was going to have in the future - to complete the exquisite work that had been carried out so far.
‘You are gorgeous.’ Sam had complimented her.
‘Thank you. I like to think so. You wait until I’ve got rid of Mr Big and replaced him with Mrs Tight. You might be interested then?’
Sam laughed as Ginny finished her drink.
‘Two more?’ Sam asked. She thought she could just about manage that - and stagger home.
She turned to the bar and stuck her hand up like a child asking teacher if they could be excused. Hopefully The Lone Ranger would get her signal.
And then she dropped her hand, and hunched her shoulders - as her heart rate picked up. The wooziness that accompanies four large cocktails didn’t evaporate - co
mpletely. But her pupils widened to take in as much light as they could, and she instinctively placed a hand on the cloth handle on the top of her rucksack.
‘Are you OK, Sam?’
She didn’t answer. Not initially. The reason for her change of demeanour was due to a man she’d spotted out of the corner of her eye. He was white, mid-40s and too casually (but expensively) dressed to be in the club for an evening of debauchery. He was standing at the entrance searching - looking for something across the now very busy club.
For me?
How would they know where to look?
Sam shook her head, trying to clear the fog.
White mountain-man - checking my card. Recognising the name? Not recognising the face?
‘Sam?’ Ginny placed a hand on her arm. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
The man was still searching. Sam was registering - she didn’t know who he was, but she would recognise him forever. She was all focus now. She snatched a look at Ginny.
‘Don’t stare. Look through me.’ Ginny did as she was told. ‘Can you see the white guy? 40s. Inappropriately dressed. Long-sleeved beige shirt; brown slacks. Brown gilet waistcoat?’
Ginny tilted her head.
‘Hog-ugly? Looking for something?’
Sam was still looking away. Staring at Ginny’s fabulous light blue, if slightly bleary, eyes.
‘That’s him. He’s looking for me.’
Ginny shot a glance at Sam.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s too difficult to explain. I don’t know how they found me, but I’m pretty sure he’s after me.’
‘What do you mean “they”?’
Sam didn’t answer Ginny’s question, she just squeezed her arm.
‘I need you to do me a favour.’
Ginny didn’t hesitate.
‘Sure. What?’
‘What’s he doing now?’
Ginny looked beyond Sam again.
‘He’s still looking. No. He’s moving this way.’
Sam was off her stool, rucksack in hand.
‘Is there a way out of here that isn’t through the front door?’
Ginny took a split second.
‘There’s a shoulder-height window in the gent’s restroom. You should be able to squeeze out.’
‘Good. Where is he now?’
Ginny looked. ‘Pushing his way through the crowd. He’s heading this way. I think he’s onto you.’
Sam took Ginny by the shoulders.
‘Intercept him, please. Find me a minute. Maybe two? Can you do that?’
Ginny smiled, her most sexy smile - and used both hands to push her breasts up and over, creating a cleavage to get lost in.
‘Go, Sam. Go!’
And with that order, Sam was off. She didn’t look back. She didn’t see the man spot her movement, lift his chin up and start to head Sam off at an angle through the crowd. As Sam negotiated the dance floor, getting far too much of a large white man’s naked belly than was comfortable, she missed Ginny intercept him - the pair becoming a spaghetti plate of arms and legs; her lips on his, her hand down his trousers. He tried to get away, but he didn’t factor in that he was wrestling with what used to be a man. Ginny used all her charms - and all her strength - to find Sam some space. When he managed to force her away, Ginny screamed, ‘stop - rapist!’, at the top of her voice. There was a murmur of discontent from a couple of men closest to Sam’s pursuer. ‘Him! Him!’ Ginny pointed at the back of the man as he pushed past a couple of revellers. The two men chased after the man with the brown waistcoat, catching him, each of them holding a shoulder.
Sam was at the far end of the club when the man, with the efficiency and strength of a trained boxer, floored the two gay men. The action created more of a kerfuffle, but her pursuer was too focused and too strong. He barged his way through the crowd, screams and yelps sounding in his wake.
Sam had visited the loos a couple of drinks previously so she knew where she was going. The inside of the gents, though, was new territory to her.
Three cubicles left; urinals right … ‘Oops, sorry. Excuse me.’ … and sinks right. No window. What’s round the corner?
Sam sprinted, skidded and turned. In an enclave on the right was a waist-high cupboard, above which was a slim window.
She jumped on the cupboard and forced the window open. She peered out. Darkness.
What’s outside? Someone else?
She had no choice. She heard the gents’ door open. She launched her rucksack out of the window.
Now!
Up and out.
Her head and arms were out. It was definitely dark outside, her night vision lost. She had no idea what she was escaping into.
The window frame was sharp on her stomach. She couldn’t turn. She’d have to let gravity take its course. Head, torso, legs. In that order. Get a leg up first.
Now!
But she couldn’t go anywhere. Someone had hold of her dangling leg. That someone was strong - pulling at her.
Come on! Sam couldn’t see what was happening on the wrong side of the window. She could only feel. She dropped her leg that was on the ledge.
Kick!
Nothing. She was struggling; writhing. The someone was still pulling. The window ledge was crushing her stomach, pushing against old wounds. Hurting.
Kick! Smack!
Contact. Foot against face?
A grip was released.
Push!
And she was out.
Thud!
Ouch!
She landed on her hands, a finger bending the wrong way. Shit! Ignore it. She felt around on the floor for her rucksack. Got it.
Then she was up, her eyes compensating nowhere near fast enough for the enveloping darkness.
Tarmac. And road.
Light off to the left.
It was another road, perpendicular to the one she was on, 30 metres distant. Away from the front entrance to the club. Decision made.
Brrmm.
The sound of an engine. Off to her right.
Move!
She ran as fast as she could in the direction of the other road.
But she couldn’t outrun the noise. It gained quickly on her, but didn’t knock her down. She darted, left and right, expecting the worst. The noise closed. On her. It was loud. Booming. Like a big car. Or a motorbike?
And then a tinny hooting noise. A horn. Definitely not a car. Getting her attention. Then shouting, struggling to be heard above the thud, thud, thud of the blood racing inside her head.
‘Sam!’
She heard that. And ignored it. She’d reached the corner, instinctively she turned right - she had no idea why. The road was wider. Lighter. There were some parked cars. She was on a pavement. That’s all that registered. Sam couldn’t take any more in. She was working on her next move. Moving too quickly.
The engine noise followed her. As loud as it could be.
‘Sam!’
It was parallel with her now. On the road.
She glanced left.
Sam took it in.
She slowed to a jog.
‘Get on, Sam!’
It was Ginny. She was on something the likes of which Sam had never seen. A trike - straight out of Bladerunner. Two wheels at the front, an engine in between, easy-rider handlebars, then two seats - one behind the other, and a drive wheel at the back. It was big, muscular - and black. It was the sexiest motorbike Sam had ever seen. And it suited Ginny ‘down to a T’.
Chapter 12
Brickell Avenue, Downtown Miami, Miami, Florida
Ginny pulled the Slingshot onto the side of the street, stopping the trike just short of where the red BMW 320 had pulled across the carriageway into a side road. Without the need of encouragement she nudged the trike forward so Sam could see what the Beemer was going to do next.
It had stopped by a garage entrance just off the junction. The car was waiting for the door to lift. When it did, the Beemer pulled into the gap
and the door closed behind it.
Sam checked the road signs. They were on Brickell Avenue, one of those all-American, downtown, city roads with a grass island separating two lanes with well-to-do office and apartment buildings rising up to meet the sky.
She knew nothing of Miami, other than the route from the creek to the hotel, and from the hotel to the club. She should have spent more time rehearsing the map. Idiot. She’d been too keen to get out of her room and do something.
They’d not got on the tail of the Beemer by accident. As soon as Sam knew she had wheels and a willing driver, she’d screamed for Ginny to stop. Once the combined noise of the throaty engine and the roar of angry, displaced 50-miles-an-hour air had died down, Sam had instructed Ginny to go back to the club.
‘We need to find the bloke who followed me. And then follow him. Are you up for that?’ She’d pushed herself forward so her mouth was next to Ginny’s ear. Neither of them was helmeted. Sam assumed that was OK in Florida. On a trike.
Ginny didn’t need any encouragement. She’d spun the Slingshot round although, with the turning circle of a narrowboat, ‘spun’ was an exaggeration, and headed back the way they’d come. She pulled up short of the club in the shadows and switched off the trike’s engine. The club’s car park was 20 metres in front of them, between two houses.
Good work, Ginny.
‘Is this a one way street?’
‘Yeah. Any car would have to head down towards the beach from here.’ Ginny unnecessarily pointed away from them.
‘I’m going forward. Stay here. If you see a car take off and me running back, meet me halfway, OK?’
‘Nought to 60 in 3.4 seconds, Sam. I’ll be with you before your sneakers get warm.’
Sam smiled a smile she knew would be lost in the dark. She then jogged down to the car park and found a covered spot with good arcs.
It took her pursuer five minutes to return to the entrance of the club. He was jogging and had been on his feet hoping to find her. With only a silhouette to work on Sam was still sure it was him. She was even more certain when he took a couple of deep breaths and put a flat hand on his forehead, reconciling his failure. Then he was on his mobile; she was too far away to pick up what was being said. She considered moving forward, but by then he’d finished the call and headed towards the car park.
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