Pineapple grenade ss-15

by Tim Dorsey

  Pineapple grenade

  ( Serge Storms - 15 )

  Tim Dorsey

  Tim Dorsey

  Pineapple grenade

  Prologue

  A prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker washed ashore on the beach, which meant it was Florida.

  Then it got weird.

  Homicide detectives would soon be stumped by the discovery of the so-called Hollow Man. Empty torso with no external wounds, like all his organs had been magically scooped out. Little progress was made in the case until a TV station began calling him the Jack-O’-Lantern Man, which immediately doubled the number of nicknames.

  But right now, the victim had yet to be found. In fact, he was still breathing.

  A finger tapped a chin. “Should I kill the hostage back at our motel room?”

  Coleman surveyed topless sunbathers and swigged a secret flask. “You never asked that question before.”

  “I know.” Serge looked at his sneakers. “But this would make four guys in the last two months. I wouldn’t want to be accused of over-reacting.”

  “I did notice you’ve been wasting a lot more dudes lately.”

  “I blame my environment.” Serge picked up a piece of litter. “Oil spills in the Gulf, foreclosed homes in Cape Coral, voting machines held together with paper clips, rising crime, falling landmarks, that structured-settlement asshole on TV yelling, ‘It’s my money and I want it now!’ ”

  “Who can take it?” said Coleman.

  “I live for Florida.” Serge stuck the piece of trash in his pocket. “And she’s been disintegrating for decades. I’ve tried sounding the alarm.”

  “Remember the time you actually used a real alarm?” said Coleman. “That handheld siren and a helmet with a revolving red light on top. Everyone scattered and screamed when you ran through.”

  “They’ve become blind to the darkening spiral.”

  “But it was a baby shower in a restaurant.”

  “Because I care about future generations,” said Serge. “If we don’t act fast, they’ll never know the majesty of this sacred place. But recently, the decline has accelerated far beyond anything I imagined possible, and the Florida of my youth may be gone in my own lifetime. I won’t survive-it’s like oxygen to me.”

  “Then what will happen?”

  “I could become unstable. So to keep pace with the deterioration, I’m forced to kill more of the fuck-heads who blight my fine state.” He turned and looked at Coleman. “Is that selfish?”

  “I say the guy back in our room has it coming.”

  Serge nodded. “And I respect your opinion because you smoke marijuana. You’re chemically biased against violence and job applications.”

  “I’m only against taking part. But I still like to watch.”

  “Which? Murder or people working?”

  “Both.” Coleman picked up a prosthetic leg and tucked it under his arm. They continued walking along the surf.

  “We need to get back to the motel and prep the patient,” said Serge. “I’ll call the county agricultural department to learn who handles bull semen.”

  “What’s jism have to do with croaking him?”

  “Ever make a jack-o’-lantern?”

  The Day Before… 12 DEC-0800-MIAMI SECTOR URGENT Echo: Intercept unsuccessful. Sanction proceeding. Repeat. Sanction proceeding. Target: Unknown Asset: Unknown Protocol: Omega Germination: Data Corrupted ALL SECTIONS: TOP PRIORITY

  Rush hour.

  A river of headlights inched through the humid dusk along the Palmetto Expressway. An inbound Continental jet from Houston cleared the highway and touched down at Miami International. Then a United flight from Oklahoma City.

  Serge snapped a photo out the window of a green-and-orange 1968 Plymouth Road Runner. They took the next exit.

  Coleman looked around a dark neighborhood of burglar bars and darting shadows, then back up at the parallel, elevated expressway with a row of reassuring streetlights. “I’d feel a lot safer if we were still on that other road.”

  “And that’s exactly why we’re down here.” The needle dipped under thirty as Serge leaned over the steering wheel.

  Coleman leaned over his bong. “Why are we down here?”

  “Miami’s gotten an unfair reputation just because of all the tourist murders. I blame the media.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “And ground zero of this herd-thinning epidemic is the ancillary roads around the airport, where roving bands of land pirates cruise for unsuspecting visitors in rental cars who get lost and take the wrong exit. So we took the wrong exit.”

  “But we’re only two guys,” said Coleman. “How can we change things?”

  “All it takes is one headline.”

  Coleman looked down at himself. “Is that why we’re dressed like this?”

  Serge floored the gas and cut his lights.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Here’s our headline.”

  On the shoulder of a dim and deserted access road, a retired tool-and-die salesman from Bowling Green stood next to his wife behind their rented Taurus.

  At gunpoint.

  The carjacker heard something and turned. “What the-?”

  A screech of brakes. The assailant went up over the front bumper, then bounced off the windshield and landed at the feet of the shaken couple.

  Serge jumped out with his own gun.

  The couple’s hands went back up.

  “Put your arms down,” said Serge. He grabbed the wrist of the would-be thief for a pulse. “I’m not robbing you. I’m rescuing you.”

  The man squinted in the darkness at Serge’s leotard and flowing red cape. Then his chest. “Superman?”

  “No, that’s a different S. I’m Serge.”

  The woman stared at a passenger climbing out the other side of the Plymouth. “Who’s that?”

  Serge glanced over the roof at Coleman, wearing a plain white T-shirt with flames drawn in red Magic Marker. “The Human Torch.”

  Coleman waved cheerfully and lit a joint.

  Serge dragged the carjacker by the ankles and threw him in the trunk. Then he walked back to the driver’s door. “Shit, I got a run in my tights.” He looked up. “Welcome to Miami! Please tell the media.”

  “Tell them what?”

  Serge gathered up his cape and put on a helmet with a revolving red light. “Everything’s normal.”

  A Plymouth Road Runner raced east on the Palmetto Expressway.

  Another overhead thunder of Pratt amp; Whitney jet engines.

  Outside the airport, people on cell phones covered free ears. Arriving passengers looked up from the curb as an Aeromexico 747 roared on takeoff.

  The airliner quickly gained altitude. It reached the edge of the Everglades and banked over a patchwork of water-filled, limestone quarries.

  Between two of the quarries, a dozen men in jumpsuits looked up at the drone from the Cancun-bound flight. Its moonlit contrail disappeared in the clouds. The sound faded to crickets.

  Back to work.

  It was an old barn of a warehouse. Sunbaked, remote, corrugated aluminum. Used to be an airplane hangar with two huge doors that slid open on rusty tracks. The doors had a single row of windows, long since spray-painted black.

  Three white vans sat in the back of the building. Magnetic catering signs suggested they knew what they were doing with wedding cakes. Men unloaded wooden crates under fluorescent lights. Every tenth one went to a table for inspection.

  Crowbars, sawdust.

  Two large hands pulled out an SKS assault rifle, the cheap Chinese knockoff of the Russian Kalashnikov. The man shouldered the weapon, checking sight lines and placing his ear close as he dry-fired the trigger
. Then back in the box. A slight nod. Jumpsuits replaced the lid and hammered flat-head nails.

  The man reached for the next crate. He stood six three, with one of those massive stomachs that started just below the neck and involved the chest. It was covered by a custom, five-XL Tommy Bahama tropical shirt, which hung loose at his waist like a tarp covering a vintage Volkswagen. An unseen wrestling-style belt buckle said V ICTOR in sparkling diamonds. Light olive skin, not quite the local Latin, maybe Mediterranean. He was thinking again of quitting the Hair Club.

  The warehouse doors creaked open. Headlights. Another van.

  A jumpsuit: “Mr. Evangelista, here comes the rest of the shipment.”

  Victor set the rifle down and rubbed his palms. “The good stuff.”

  This time, all crates went to the table. Everyone gathered round.

  Out came a much larger weapon that pressed down on the shoulder of the tropical shirt. A bulbous, pointed projectile perched on the end of the muzzle.

  The men finished their count from the crates. Forty-eight factory-fresh RPGs diverted from an army base in the Carolinas.

  Victor slapped the side of the last box. “Move it out!”

  The only other person in the warehouse not wearing a jumpsuit was a young man wearing gold chains and a single stud earring. He compensated for his uncommonly short stature with tight slacks, wispy mustache, silk nightclub shirts unbuttoned to the navel, and tall hats.

  Victor turned toward the young man. “Scooter, are you standing on your tiptoes again?”

  “No.” He slowly eased down onto his heels.

  “Just don’t touch anything,” said Victor. “It’s like I can’t take my eyes off you.”

  He took his eyes off him.

  When he looked back: “Scooter! That’s not a toy! Put it down this instant!”

  “Shut up, old man.” Scooter rested the weapon on his own shoulder. “I’ve handled these a thousand times.”

  “Don’t touch that switch!” Victor lunged. “It’s armed!”

  Woooooosh.

  Luckily, the rocket-propelled grenade threaded through the slit in the warehouse doors. Unluckily, the gravel parking lot was a target-rich environment.

  Boom.

  A chassis blew ten feet in the air and crashed back down. Tires sailed like discus.

  “You idiot!” Victor snatched the weapon. The front hood of a Ferrari clanged down onto the warehouse roof. “That was my car!”

  Scooter nonchalantly strolled away. “My uncle will buy you a new one.”

  “You’re damn right,” yelled Victor.

  One of the jumpsuits came over. “Shouldn’t we get the hell out of here? That was loud. And a big fireball.”

  Evangelista shook his head. “It’s Miami. People don’t even notice anymore.”

  The jumpsuit looked toward the departing Scooter. “Why do you let that pussy come along?”

  “Politics,” said Victor. “It’s the business we’re in.”

  The Next Afternoon

  A scorched tropical motel with an empty signpost sat behind the demolished ruins of the Orange Bowl. An old chain-link fence that surrounded the swimming pool had been pushed down in places, but the pool was drained and filled with broken bottles. The office showed hints of a recent altercation that involved shovels and fire. When it rained, the guests subconsciously thought of childhood, but not theirs.

  Tourists didn’t stay at the motel, although it was quiet, except when junkies knocked on random doors with a range of requests representing the width of

  the human condition. In the swimming pool’s deep end was a ripped-in-half poster of a sailboat crew that said TEAMWORK.

  A knock on a door.

  Serge answered. “Hello, junkie!”

  The man swayed off balance. “Have any yarn? Blue?”

  “No, but here are some postcards.”

  The door closed.

  A minute later:

  Knock, knock, knock…

  “Another junkie?” asked Coleman.

  “Probably the deliveryman.” Serge opened the door and his wallet. “Right on time. Just leave the tank there. And here’s a little extra for your trouble.”

  The deliveryman hesitated at the sight of Serge’s cape. Then took the money and left quickly.

  “What now?” asked Coleman.

  Serge headed out the door. “Welcome our guest.”

  A key went into the trunk of a Plymouth Road Runner.

  The hood popped.

  Blinding sunlight.

  Serge waved his gun. “Rise and shine!”

  A bruised carjacker shielded his eyes with one hand and raised the other in submission. “Don’t shoot!”

  “And ruin all my fun?”

  Serge marched him toward the motel.

  “I swear I’ll never rob anyone again!”

  A poke in the back with the gun barrel. “I know you won’t.”

  The captive stopped just inside the motel room. “What’s the metal tank for?”

  “Cow jism.” Serge grabbed a mug of cold coffee off the dresser and downed it. “Actually bull jism. Cows are chicks, I think. Who cares? It’s a cryogenic tank, but there’s no bull spooge in there either. So I put in some of my own, because when do you ever really get the chance? I’m just that kind of cat. It’s my new hobby. The tank, not the other. Hobbies are important. And you’re about to become the star in my latest episode of World’s Most Dangerous Hobbies!”

  “You’re insane… Ow!” The man grabbed his shoulder. “What the hell?”

  Serge pulled back the syringe. “Just a prick for a prick.”

  “What was in that?… Whoa…” He grabbed for the bed.

  “Better sit down,” said Serge. “It gets on top of you pretty fast.”

  Moments later: The hostage lay stretched out across the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Still breathing.

  Moments after that:

  “Far enough,” said Serge. “Now roll him back the other way.”

  “He’s heavy.”

  “We need to go slow anyway.” Serge reeled in the hostage by his belt. “The key is to keep him constantly turning like a rotisserie.”

  “For how long?”

  “A few minutes each time.”

  “Time?” Coleman grabbed the man’s sleeve. “How many times?”

  “At least twenty.” The captive reached the edge of the bed; Serge rolled him back the other way. “This must be a layered, even application, or we have a serious breach in our guest that’ll ruin my hobby.”

  “Which hobby?”

  “The human version of building a ship in a bottle.” Serge slipped on thick rubber gloves. He reached in a shopping bag, removing an aluminum cooking tray and a turkey baster.

  “What are those for?” asked Coleman.

  “Just hand me that gas can by the door and grab his feet.”

  Miami International Airport

  Assorted travelers scurried along sidewalks and ignored the deep boom of a distant explosion. The fireball rose above the parking decks.

  A bonded courier in Miami for the first time looked out the back of a cab. “What on earth was that blast?”

  “I didn’t notice,” said the driver.

  Others rolled luggage as wind carried the smoke plume toward Hialeah. Families huddled at curbs and studied rental-car maps. The loading zone abuzz in eleven languages. A police officer made a car move by blowing a whistle.

  Then more cops on motorcycles. Flashing blue lights. Limos arrived.

  News teams from local affiliates already there. TV cameras on tripods.

  A woman raised a microphone.

  “Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from the airport with the latest on the upcoming Summit of the Americas. As you can see behind me, heads of state and top diplomats from across the hemisphere are beginning to arrive at this historic event, which is returning to the Magic City for the first time since thirty-four nations attended its inaugural gathering in 1994…” />
  The terminal’s automatic doors opened. Air-conditioning and security people rushed out. They made a quick sweep of the street, then hustled a man with a bushy mustache into the back of a stretch.

  “… I believe that was the president of Bolivia…”

  Another security detail. Another limo. So on.

  “… The presidents of Uruguay and Belize…”

  Police held off onlookers as the rest of the dignitaries were swept into backseats.

  The motorcycle cops sped away, followed by limos. TV crews packed up.

  Non-VIP airport hubbub resumed. Luggage and courtesy vans.

  Automatic doors opened again.

  A pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses looked left and right. Picking up surveillance cameras. The man crossed the street for the Flamingo parking garage.

  He stopped on the opposite curb and removed his glasses, wiping the right lens while mentally mapping police locations. He put the shades back on.

  Another typical afternoon, everyone rushing about in that irrational state of mild alarm from being at an airport, checking watches, rechecking flight times, worried about the length of X-ray lines, herding toddlers and golf clubs. Distracted. Except the stationary man across the street. Minor details tallied behind designer sunglasses. A briefcase with a broken latch, a suitcase with a sticker from Epcot, license plates, levels of suntans, duty-free bags, the brand of cigarettes a Taiwan executive rapidly puffed after a Detroit flight, a chauffeur with the left side of his jacket protruding from a shoulder holster. Whether the shoes of skycaps and other badged employees matched their station in life. Anyone else in Ray-Bans.

  He was satisfied.

  The man crossed back to the original side of the street and stood at the curb. His shirt was sheer, formfitting, and Italian. The form said athletic. Could be mistaken for a European cyclist or soccer goalie. Three-hundred-dollar loafers with no socks. A stylish crew cut, dyed blond like the bass player for U2. He didn’t waste motion and seemed like one of those people who never laugh, which was correct.

  A cell phone vibrated in his pleated pants. He flipped it open. A text message:

  “+.”

  He closed it and waved for the next taxi.

  Biscayne Boulevard