My friend Rink had encouraged me to move nearer Tampa, closer to our base of operations, to cut down on the commute time. In the past I’d refused, countering that the drive allowed me to put the necessary space required between my day job and where I laid my head at night. But the hundreds of miles were moot when trouble rode my shoulder, as heavy a burden as a sack of bricks.
Before reaching home I stopped off at a beer and oyster bar on Highway 98, where you could buy T-shirts emblazoned with the legend ‘I Got Shucked In Mexico Beach!’ but I didn’t need a new shirt or oysters. In fact, following wisdom Squint-eye and his pals should have heeded I made do without beer, electing instead to nurse a large black coffee. I sat in the shade of a porch so that the screen on my smartphone didn’t reflect the glaring sun, and logged on to their free Wi-Fi. My mind wasn’t fully engaged on perusing the real estate webpages I’d bookmarked, and I kept gazing out to sea, or observing the vehicles passing by on the highway, or the diners coming and going to the adjacent parking lot, the reptile part of my brain anticipating further trouble.
I almost dropped my phone when it rang unexpectedly, but settled down quickly when the caller ID flashed up Rink’s grinning face.
‘Enjoying your weekend off, brother?’ he asked without preamble.
‘I was.’
‘Geez, Hunter, and I thought you’d be happy to hear my dulcet tones.’
I grunted in humour. ‘It’s not you, Rink.’ I told him about how my lunch had been spoiled. ‘These days I seem to knock more heads here than I do at work.’
‘And you don’t even get paid for your services. Those bar owners up there should send around a hat and ask for donations for you.’
‘It more likely they’ll ask for donations for a bus ticket out of town for me.’
‘Nice to be appreciated, huh?’ Rink brushed off the matter. ‘I’m gonna ask you a ridiculous question I already know the answer to.’
‘If you must.’
‘Do you own a tuxedo?’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘There was always the long shot you’d have one packed away in mothballs somewhere.’
‘Yeah, it’s hanging alongside yours, hidden behind all those Hawaiian shirts and board shorts in your closet.’
‘Warned you it was a ridiculous question. You’re gonna have to rent one once we get down to Miami.’
‘What’s the gig?’
‘Remember when McTeer was on that minding job down there a few months back?’
‘The one where he was supposedly rubbing shoulders with the Beckhams?’ Jim McTeer was an employee of Rink and a good friend. He was an ex-cop, and during this downtime with Rington Investigations he’d worked private security for some visiting sportsman down in Miami. He hinted he was looking after David Beckham while he was in town trying to set up a soccer team, but I thought he was pulling my leg. Football in Miami? I didn’t see it working out.
‘He wasn’t blowing smoke up our asses,’ Rink said. ‘He genuinely was part of Beckham’s entourage, and must have made a good impression. He’s been asked to supply some extra guys to work security at a gala dinner evening in some swanky hotel on South Beach. He thought we might enjoy a coupla days in Miami on somebody else’s ticket. What do you say, brother?’
‘Swanky hotels aren’t my scene.’
‘You’re just afraid I’ll make you shave and have a haircut.’
‘Is that part of the deal?’
‘It’s easy money, Hunter. Our remit is to be there, fill out a coupla suits, and look mean and moody. It reassures the celebs that they won’t be bugged by the great unwashed while they eat abalone and drink champagne.’
‘Do we have to eat sea snails?’
‘No.’
‘OK then. My palate has grown more refined in the past few years but I still won’t put a bloody snail in my mouth.’
‘The things you’ve eaten in the field…’
‘That was different, Rink. That was about survival, not choice.’
‘I hear you.’ He was silent for a few seconds, as he contemplated the things he too had been forced to devour while on deep cover missions. He once admitted to me that swallowing a handful of beetle larvae wasn’t so bad; swilling them down with his own recycled urine was what had left a bitter aftertaste. ‘Kind of gives you an appreciation for momma’s home cooking, right?’
‘When are we needed?’
‘I’m flying down tonight with Raul.’ Raul Velasquez was another of Rink’s employees. Some time back he’d been severely injured during the rescue of an abducted kid from his Mexican cartel boss father, and Rink had kept him off the front line while he recuperated: that meant Rink didn’t foresee this job as too strenuous or risky, an ideal way to get Raul back in the field. ‘We’re meeting with McTeer this evening. Think it’s doable from your end?’
‘We’re working tonight?’
‘No. If you can be in Miami for early afternoon tomorrow it’ll do. I’ll have a suit ready for you, but the haircut and shave’s over to you, brother.’
‘You’d best give me an address.’
‘I’ll email the details across to you.’
‘Good stuff,’ I said with no sentiment in my tone. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Great to hear you’re already working on mean and moody,’ Rink chuckled. He hung up.
Mean and gloomy, more like. Ennui had been my frame of mind for some time. Not only was I growing unwelcome in my hometown, I didn’t want to be there any more. Although I’d joked with Grant about feeling old, I wasn’t quite over the hill yet, just acting like a surly washed-up fighter looking for one last battle. I needed to get moving, kick my butt into gear and shake off the doldrums. Standing around at a gala evening wasn’t exactly the kind of action my heart sung for, but it was preferable to waiting to be shucked in Mexico Beach.
My phone defaulted back to the webpage I’d last been perusing, but I’d no interest in it now. I swiped it off-screen, and looked up a flight to Miami. I was tempted to drive, I enjoyed being behind the wheel rather than cramped on a plane, but Rink had intimated that he wanted me wide-eyed and bushy-tailed for the job. I found a six a.m. Delta Airlines flight out of Panama City that would get me to Miami for lunchtime, despite having to make a connection in Atlanta, Georgia. All told, a journey time of less than five hours wasn’t too bad for a Sunday. By the time I’d finished booking, Rink had emailed over the details of the swanky hotel, plus the less salubrious one where we’d be staying for the duration of the trip. He also reminded me to bring my Speedos with me for a day on the beach the guys were planning. Yeah, right. Getting me in a tuxedo was pushing things as it was.
3
The hotel commanded a position at the centre of the Art Deco District adjacent to Ocean Drive, overlooking Lummus Park and the world-famous beach. It wasn’t one of the massive edifices of steel, glass and concrete I had expected, but was housed in a luxurious mansion setting that made the term ‘opulence’ redundant. It reminded me of an Italian villa, formed of arches and mezzanine floors around a central courtyard: everywhere I looked there were fountains, mosaics and gilt and plush wood that glowed under soft lighting. It was exclusive, boutique-style, with only a small number of sumptuous suites. Even dressed for the occasion in my rented tux I was as conspicuous as a blind cobbler’s thumb. This was the domain of the uber-rich, not some ex-squaddie who’d grown up on a tough housing estate in Manchester in the north of England. Saying that, there were others at the gala evening that hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in their mouth, but had worked their way up to an elite status through hard graft or great looks. I’d be name-dropping if I mentioned some of the famous faces in attendance: just let it be said that a certain rap artist was so enamoured by his girl that he had put a ring on it.
A-list celebrities rubbed shoulders with sports stars, politicians, mega-successful business people and other bright and shiny individuals whose inclusion I couldn’t work out. Perhaps they were talent agent
s, literary editors and movie producers: that, or they were criminals. Some of the guests had arrived with their own retinues, and some of those included security details, but their remit was different from ours. The boys from Rington Investigations were largely expected to man the doors, stay in the background and remain beneath the notice of those dining on Michelin-quality food and drinking champagne. Reading between the lines, this was supposed to be a sponsorship drive to help fund a charitable institute: in my opinion the dinner and bar tab would keep a Third World country afloat for a year.
Earlier we’d met at another hotel, ours. It was part of a chain affiliated to the Hilton brand, four stars at a push and all the buffet breakfast you could eat. Even so, it was plush compared to some of the dives I’d stayed in during other jobs. Because our employer was covering expenses, we’d taken a room each, but had met in Rink’s for a job briefing and last-minute instructions from McTeer. Primarily he asked me to try not to break anything, and I promised I’d keep my hands to myself. He was only partly joking. We were subcontracting to the hotel security team, and McTeer was hopeful of further contracts in the coming months; the last thing he wanted was to be struck off their approved supplier list because we didn’t meet their high calibre of service staff. ‘Mean, moody, hands in pockets,’ I reassured him. ‘I get it.’
‘Actually, keep your hands out of your pockets,’ he countered, with a grin, ‘or you’ll make the place look untidy.’
Once we’d got suited up, and the James Bond jokes were out of the way, we reported for duty at the villa, and were directed to the rooftop lounge – the regular dining room wasn’t spacious enough to contain the numbers at the gathering – and shown our posts by one of the in-house security men who reminded me more of a butler than a bouncer. He even had a fake British upper-class accent, and when I asked where he was from he looked at me as if I were the one speaking a foreign language. I guessed he was a Yank who spent his spare time watching reruns of Downton Abbey on BBC America.
The rooftop lounge was only partly open to the elements, a portion of it enclosed by a retractable marquee-style roof usually employed should one of the frequent lightning storms blow in from the Caribbean. Tonight it was in place to ward off the prying camera lenses of paparazzi buzzing overhead in helicopters. Ceiling fans worked to keep the guests cool as they imbibed over-priced plonk, but I was stationed very near to the door that gave access to the elevators, so was a victim of the sultry heat: the humidity was a swine, and I was frequently in need of a mopping down so that I didn’t look as if somebody had upended their champagne flute over my head. I tried to remain surreptitious as I dabbed sweat from my eyes, and blew it out the corners of my mouth. Velasquez and McTeer were on the far side of the roof, but Rink was stationed near to me. When I looked over at him he appeared cool and detached, untroubled by the heat. Dressed in his tuxedo he cut a dashing figure, and on one occasion I’d overheard a Botox-enhanced beauty ask her girlfriend if she was positive Rink wasn’t actually Dwayne Johnson, the movie star and ex-professional wrestler. He had the physique, the tawny skin tone and exotic looks, though on closer inspection Rink’s features were more Eastern, with the epicanthic folds of his eyelids denoting a Japanese rather than Samoan heritage. I grunted in mirth at the girl’s star-struck wonderment as she sidled past Rink a few times, and was tempted to ask her who I reminded her of, but was afraid she’d respond with ‘My grandfather’.
The girl was one of about a dozen young women in attendance whose reason for being around was simply to be pretty and laugh in all the right places. Some of them would be professional star chasers – hoping to snag themselves a husband or a sugar daddy – and some I guessed were there on another professional basis. They called themselves escorts but they were still hookers, however they dressed and preened for the occasion. But good luck to them. They were employing their assets to get them through life; was that much different than me hiring out my fists because I could throw, and take, a punch or two? However I looked at it we were all whoring our skills.
Servers minced around the guests, both male and female, all of them as pretty as the celebrities and escorts alike, but were largely invisible until a glass required replenishing or grape required peeling. As they passed me I nodded in greeting, but I was beneath their notice. If there was a scale by which those on the roof were measured, me and my colleagues stood on the lowest notch. But that suited me, because I thought every last one of them were pretentious sons of bitches playing at giving a shit. Deliberately, I noticed, the fame-hungrier of the guests made it their mission to periodically step from under the anonymity of the marquee to ensure the paparazzi got a good shot of them posing in the glare of strategically placed flora and furniture. As often as I mopped my face, I glanced at my wristwatch, counting down the hours until I could go off-duty and return to the real world.
As more alcohol went down, the volume levels rose. I could barely hear the string quartet that played on – as ignored as I felt – under a pavilion at the far end of the roof. Conversation was now at an excitable, tipsy buzz interspersed by stilted laughter, and once by an angry bark when a narcissistic prick commanded his female companion to shut her mouth while he was talking, which she did. The babble was getting on my nerves, as was the trickle of sweat rolling down my back, and I was pleased of the respite when finally it was speech time. The organiser, who reminded me of one of those plastic-faced cosmetic surgeons that advertise their services on the cable channels, thanked and fawned, made a few lame jokes, then thanked and fawned again for a few minutes before he received a hearty round of applause and then was instantly forgotten as glasses were again replenished. His speech was largely pointless, but had been delivered to remind his guests that signatures on cheques were a requisite parting shot at the end of the gala evening. I made myself a silent bet that more than a few of those swilling down Dom Pérignon or whatever were freeloading or would have an unfortunate lapse of memory before skipping off to their waiting limousines. The charity drive was as much a show as any of the posturing of the rich and glamorous, anyway. Any donations given would be to offset tax bills, not out of philanthropic generosity. The entire pathetic and facile disguise to the event sickened me to the stomach: this was pretence, the rich and famous acting rich and famous while protecting their wealth and fame.
I was happy when the midnight hour finally approached. I suspected that the guests wouldn’t hang around; they’d be scooting off to other parties held in exclusive clubs in other parts of the city, and good riddance. Apart from non-reciprocated greetings, I’d barely shared more than a few passing words all night. Ordinarily I was happy with my own company, but it was different when ignored by those who believed themselves my betters. My father, a hard-working man who’d scraped a living all his shortened life, used to tell me that wealth didn’t make a man better, all it meant was he could afford softer toilet paper. ‘We all squat to take a crap, our kid,’ he told me, ‘and never forget it, and I think the man who has to have his arse wiped for him is the lesser for it.’ He had a way with words did my dear old dad.
Keeping my word, I kept my hands to myself. Even when tipsy dinner guests tripped past, still aloof to my presence, on their way to the elevators down, I stood unmoving, hands clasped at my waistline. A quick glance at Rink showed he was more comfortable with the job, and appreciated the parade of beauties strolling by. The girl who had mistakenly believed he was The Rock sidled up and passed him her phone number, and Rink gave her one of his patented grins and an arched eyebrow as he placed her card in his front breast pocket, the sly devil. As the girl sashayed past me, Rink offered a surreptitious wink that said ‘What happens in Miami stays in Miami.’ Good luck to him; he was currently romantically unattached, so there was no need for him to be a monk. I was only pleased that we’d booked separate rooms back at our hotel.
Once the majority of guests had left, McTeer and Velasquez meandered over, McTeer via one of the servers who still held a tray of canapés. He approached me w
ith flakes of filo pastry dotting the corners of his mouth, and holding aloft something unidentifiable on a cocktail stick. My best guess was escargot, and I had to swallow down on a little bit of bile that made its way up my throat.
‘Perks of the job,’ he announced as he wagged the snail – or whatever it was – at me. ‘Go grab yourself a snack, Hunter. It’s delicious and free.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but no thanks.’
‘Your loss, Hunter. Leaves more for me and the guys.’
‘Knock yourselves out,’ I said. ‘I’ll grab something from room service when we get back. Is this us done, Mack?’
‘Yeah. Told you it was easy money.’ He took an approving look around at our surroundings – the detritus of the evening was rapidly being spirited away by the servers – and nodded in satisfaction. ‘I could get used to this line of work. You did an exemplary job, guys, thanks. I’m pretty sure there’ll be more where this came from.’ He wasn’t talking about the escargot he wagged again, but future employment at similar events. He then glanced sheepishly at Rink. ‘If it comes to it, you sure you can spare me, boss?’
Marked for Death Page 2