Pineapple grenade ss-15

by Tim Dorsey

  “Yes.” Serge unpacked the rest of his luggage.

  “What kind of people stay here?”

  “Two camps: the shoppers, and out-of-state tourists who book sight unseen, then huddle all night in mortal fear of crime and flesh-eating bacteria and flee at dawn.”

  The rotary phone rang.

  Serge stared.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Coleman.

  “This could be the call I’ve been waiting for my entire life.” Serge placed a hand gently on the receiver. “I hope it’s the Wish Man. And I’m ready in case he only grants one wish. I’ll say, ‘More wishes.’ Then I’ve got him. He’ll have to answer to his people.”

  “You say that almost every time a motel phone rings, but usually it’s just a complaint from another room. Or a hooker.”

  “Or both.” He picked up the receiver on the ninth ring. “Serge here. Is this the Wish Man?”

  “Sanchez from the front desk.”

  “Grant my wish.”

  “Got you plugged in for a shipment. Pick up the shopping list in the lobby.”

  “Be right down.” He hung up. “We’re on.”

  Costa Gorda

  Midnight.

  Moonless. The mountain highlands rose ruggedly in the center of the small Caribbean nation.

  Silence under the stars except for croaking tree frogs and nocturnal, cawing birds.

  Then: the distant drone of a C-130 Hercules air transport plane. No tail markings. Registered to a nonexistent consortium in El Salvador. The back-bay door wide open.

  A crew member in a harness yelled over the engines and wind. “Thirty seconds!”

  Next to him, a crouching row of camouflaged men with parachute static lines hooked overhead.

  “Five seconds!” yelled the harness man. “Go! Go! Go!..” — slapping each man on the leg as they jumped out the back of the plane.

  The aircraft quickly emptied, banked hard, and climbed steeply until it couldn’t be heard.

  Across the sky below, a sea of parachutes sprouted and drifted peacefully like airborne mushrooms. The drop zone was tricky in size and terrain, but the pilot was good. Only two guys had to be cut down from trees.

  They gathered silk chutes and began a downhill trek behind their squad leader, who charted the way with a GPS. As they neared the coordinates of the reported rebel encampment, the leader called their translator to the front of the platoon.

  He began shouting in Spanish: friendlies, allies, brothers, and most importantly, don’t shoot.

  Ahead, in an unseen configuration of pup tents, men stirred from sleep. “Everyone up! Someone’s coming!”

  When the paratroopers finally broke into the camp, they were met by a ragged, elements-beaten gang of insurgents pointing cocked Russian AK-47s.

  The head of the paratrooper team whispered to the translator again. “Tell them we’re on their side. We’re here to help their struggle.”

  The translator translated.

  The rebels looked confused.

  “What’s the matter?” whispered the squad leader.

  “I’m not sure,” said the translator.

  “Tell them again.”

  He did.

  More puzzled looks. The head rebel: “I’m sorry, we don’t speak Spanish.”

  The squad leader took a step forward. “Ralph?”

  “Henry?”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “We’re on a secret mission to train the rebels.” Henry glanced around. “Where are they?”

  “You’re looking at them.”

  “ You’re the rebels?”

  “Station in Fort Myers sent us down last month.”

  “Where are the real rebels?”

  “Got bored and left two weeks back.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “I heard them mention a bachelor party.”

  “This can’t be the whole rebellion.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “What about the cocaine traffickers?”

  “They also split.”

  “But intelligence says coke’s still coming through.”

  Ralph grabbed a canteen off his belt. “We’ve had to start making their deliveries ourselves. I’m telling you, it’s getting exhausting.”

  One of the other rebels raised a hand. “I want to go home.”

  Henry tossed his parachute aside in disgust. “Typical government operation.”

  A droning sound from above. They looked up.

  Ralph raised night-vision goggles and peered through a break in the trees. “I don’t see any tail markings.”

  “It’s okay,” said Henry. “That’s our plane. It’s circling around again for the supply-and-ammo drop.”

  “Covertly beefing up the revolution so the generals can seek military aid?”

  Henry nodded.

  Minutes later, large pallets of food and weapons floated down on giant parachutes and crashed through the trees.

  “At least there’s a silver lining,” said Ralph. “We’re sick of eating Spam.”

  He started toward the boxes. Henry grabbed him from behind.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Ralph.

  Henry pointed skyward. Another drone from above. “Our plane again.”

  “Thanks,” said Ralph. “Don’t want me to get hit by more pallets.”

  “That’s not it,” said Henry.

  “Why are you crouching down?” asked Ralph.

  Boom.

  A flaming explosion in the trees.

  Everyone hit the ground.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  More trees ablaze.

  Ralph turned his face sideways in the dirt toward Henry. “That’s naplam!” He looked up at all the just-dropped pallets, engulfed in flames. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Blowing up the rebels’ supplies,” said Henry. “We have to disrupt their supply lines.”

  “They’re hitting a little too close for comfort.”

  “Don’t worry. They have our coordinates,” said Henry. “Just a symbolic strike so the generals can show the people they’re taking a strong hand to the revolution. They’re supposed to miss the camp.”

  Boom.

  A cluster of pup tents exploded in fire.

  “They just hit the camp,” said Ralph.

  “They missed.”

  Ralph jumped up, yelling at his brigade. “Get that fire out before it reaches the ammunition.”

  The drone of airplane engines grew louder again.

  “He’s circling back!” yelled Ralph, hitting the ground again. “He’s making another strike!”

  Henry remained standing. Another wave of pallets floated down and crashed through the trees.

  “More supplies?” said Ralph.

  “For the rebel counter-offensive.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Downtown Miami

  Rusty trawlers and cargo boats sailed along the Miami River. Some going fishing, others destined for Hispaniola with crates of merchandise from Sam’s Club to restock the bodegas.

  On the southern shore of the river sat a mixed collection of warehouses, mechanics shops, and low-rent office buildings.

  One of the buildings backed up to a marine repair yard surrounded by barbed wire. Stark concrete, tattered awnings, gravel parking lot, no outward hints of what might be happening inside. It had opened on Pearl Harbor Day. Occupancy hadn’t topped 20 percent since 1967. It was about location.

  Two stories, but the elevator was broken. A hallway ran down the middle of each floor, rows of offices on both sides. Windows facing the hall, shades drawn. In the middle of each door, another window with gold lettering. Most of the letters had chipped away, but some of the outlines remained. Bail bond, travel agency, title insurance, attorney-at-law.

  The last door on the second story was the exception. Fresh gold letters:

  M AHONEY amp; A SSOCIATES, P RIVATE I NVESTI
GATIONS

  Mahoney sat inside. The only associate was the fifth of rye residing in his bottom desk drawer.

  The bottle currently rested atop the desk blotter, next to a rocks glass with two fingers of amber reinforcement. Next to a pair of crossed feet propped up by the black rotary phone. The sole of his right shoe was worn through. Adlai Stevenson.

  The phone rang. Mahoney stared at it cynically. “Some boozy broad in a tight sweater with a weakness for the ponies?”

  He answered on the sixth ring.

  “Mahoney and Associates. Discreet investigations. Mumble to me… No, I don’t need a free air-vent inspection for mold that could make me constantly tired.” He slammed the phone down. “Shyster.”

  Since his fishing sabbatical in the Keys-and early retirement from Florida law enforcement-former agent Mahoney had returned to the mainland and set up shop with his dream job.

  Unfortunately, it remained a dream. Two months, not a single case.

  But if Mahoney wasn’t making a living, at least he was living the life. An antique hat rack stood in the corner, topped with a lone, rumpled fedora. The desk chair creaked as he leaned back and propped his feet again, a wooden matchstick wiggling between his teeth. His necktie had a pattern of Route 66 signs. He opened a dime paperback to a dog-eared page.

  Heavy footsteps approached from the stairwell at the end of the hall. Mahoney’s eyes rose from the book. The toothpick stopped wiggling.

  Footsteps grew louder. Mahoney’s right hand silently slid open the top desk drawer, revealing a snub-nose. 38 Police Special.

  The brass doorknob jiggled.

  The snub-nose cocked.

  The door opened. Serge spread his arms. “Brother!”

  A corner of Mahoney’s mouth curled up in a rare smile. He slipped the gun back in the drawer and came out from behind the desk for a backslapping hug.

  Coleman pointed at the bottle. “Can I have a drink?”

  Mahoney produced another dirty glass. “Knock yourself out.”

  “He will,” said Serge, grabbing a wooden chair from the wall and scooting it forward. “How’s business?”

  Mahoney went back and took his own seat. “Like selling turds to Roto-Rooter.”

  “Can’t be that bad.”

  “Stinkaroo.”

  Serge looked back at the door and gold letters in reverse. “What about your associates?”

  “That’s show business.”

  “Then can I be an associate?”

  “No cases.” Mahoney shuffled a deck of playing cards. “And behind on rent. I can only pay you with the air in this office.”

  “You don’t have to pay me. It’ll be fun, get to hang out, reminisce old days.” Serge picked up the hand Mahoney dealt. “Bet I bring you luck.” He laid out a straight flush.

  Mahoney threw down his own hand and dealt again.

  Serge picked up the cards. “I know how you can score some money in the meantime to make the rent. And no work involved.”

  “Sounds shaky.”

  Serge pointed at the phone. “May I?” He picked up the receiver and dialed…

  … South of Miami, a phone rang in an old building near the Metrozoo. “Allied Imports,” said Station Chief Oxnart.

  Serge hung up.

  “No answer?” asked Mahoney.

  “No, someone answered.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Serge. “I just found a generic number for the CIA in the phone book.”

  “They’re in the book?”

  “Have to be in case someone wants to defect.” Serge discarded the jack of spades. “They always answer like it’s a wrong number in case it’s a wrong number.”

  “Why’d you hang up.”

  “Now they’ll trace your line.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and picked up the phone again.

  Mahoney watched as Serge made another dozen hang-up calls.

  “Who are you phoning?”

  “Consulates, for when they track your call logs.” Serge pulled his digital camera from another pocket and set it on a ten-second, self-timed shot. Beep-beep-beep…

  He dialed again…

  “Allied Imports…”

  Serge held the camera to the receiver. Beep-beep-beep-beep. And hung up. “Their sound technicians will be working on that for weeks.”

  “How’s that score us moola?” asked Mahoney.

  Serge waved around the inside of the office. “You’ve already hung a shingle with a physical business address. The CIA has front companies all over Miami doing clandestine work that they can’t be connected to. But they can’t stay open too long or they’ll risk discovery, so they’re always needing more. Eventually you’ll be contacted.”

  “To be a front company?”

  “Or a dummy front company.”

  “How’s that different?” asked Mahoney.

  “Dummy fronts don’t do any clandestine work. They divert attention from the real fronts.” Serge drew another card and laid out a full house. “So in a way, you’re already a dummy front. Remember to mention that when you ask for money.”

  Another set of footsteps down the hall. Mahoney opened his drawer again.

  The steps grew closer. Mahoney shut the drawer, recognizing the trademark sound of stiletto heels.

  A knock on the door.

  Serge opened it.

  A boozy broad in a tight sweater with a weakness for the ponies. Dark sunglasses. She plopped down in Serge’s empty chair and began crying.

  Mahoney pushed a glass of rye forward.

  “Thanks.” She drained it.

  “See?” said Serge. “Told you I’d bring you luck. Your inaugural case.”

  “First things first,” Mahoney told the woman. “Two hundred smackers a day plus expenses.”

  She nodded. “I’m good for it.”

  Mahoney flipped open a notepad. “Spill.”

  “It’s my ex.”

  “What about the mug?”

  She removed her sunglasses.

  “Nice shiner,” said Mahoney. “This a habit?”

  “I keep changing apartments, but he always finds me.” Sobs again.

  “A man who manhandles women,” said Serge. “That’s my turf.”

  “But it’s my first case,” said Mahoney.

  “Still is,” said Serge. “I’ll just do the preliminary legwork.”

  Mahoney turned to the woman. “You’ll need to check into a hotel for a couple nights. We’ll call.”

  Serge offered her his hand. “Let me walk you back to your car. I’ll need to ask a few questions about this jerk.”

  “You’re so kind.”

  They left.

  Mahoney leaned back with his book. Coleman grabbed the bottle.

  A clock ticked.

  Mahoney looked up. “What’s taking him so long?”

  They walked to the window. The detective parted blinds with his fingers. “Unbelievable.”

  Down in the gravel parking lot, in the backseat of a ’57 convertible Ford Skyliner, two long legs in stilettos pointed skyward. Between, Serge’s bare, bouncing derriere.

  Mahoney drew back his hands, letting the blinds snap shut. Coleman opened them again.

  Fifteen minutes later, Serge walked back in, whistling “Papa Was a Rolling Stone.” He stopped at their stares. “What?”

  “How’d you bang her?” asked Coleman.

  “ Why’d you bang her?” asked Mahoney. “Now she’ll scram.”

  “No, she’ll come back.” Serge handed Mahoney a two-hundred-dollar retainer. “Besides, she asked me to. ‘The customer is always right.’ Right?”

  “I’ll give you a mulligan this time,” said Mahoney. “But no more T-shots.”

  “Fair enough.” Serge stood. “Guess I need to go have a friendly little chat with her ex.”

  Shouting from across the hall. One of the only other occupied offices.

  “Oh! Jesus! Why’d the hell you do that?”

  S
erge turned around and looked out the window into a hall. A door slammed. A man ran by cupping hands to his nose. “I’ll sue you for every last penny.”

  Serge faced Mahoney again. “Whose office is that?”

  “The Guy Who Punches People.”

  “You call him that because he has a temper?”

  “No,” said Mahoney. “It’s what he does. Here’s his business card.”

  One Mile Away

  Seventh floor of a towering office building on Flagler Street.

  The entire consulate staff sat anxiously around a massive oak conference table.

  The protocol chief opened the door. “The president of Costa Gorda.”

  Everyone jumped sharply to their feet and stared straight ahead.

  Fernando Guzman entered and grabbed the empty chair at the head of the table. “Please be seated.”

  They sat back down with synchronized precision. Before the meeting, rampant watercooler buzz about the foiled attack on Guzman near the airport. Heads sure to roll. They dreaded the moment the president would bring it up.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, diplomatic minutiae and scheduling. Courtesy calls, cocktail parties, speech writing, an interview with the Spanish-language version of the Miami Herald.

  A half hour later, it was over. The president closed a leather organizer and passed it back over his shoulder to his traveling secretary. Then he stood quickly-“Thank you for your attention”-and departed with the same abruptness.

  The entire room exhaled with relief and began filing out with thoughts of liquid lunch.

  President Guzman stood in the lobby with his mobile staff, running down afternoon appointments. He looked up. “Oh, Felipe? Could I have a word? In private.”

  Deer in headlights. “Me?”

  Felipe Chavez. Consulate director and head attache. Rumored to be heir apparent for the Washington ambassadorship. Or first in line for the chopping block over… well, anything that needed a scapegoat. Part of the job description.

  Perspiration trickled into Felipe’s starched collar as the pair arrived back in the conference room. Guzman closed the door. Then placed a hand on Felipe’s shoulder.

  Here it comes, thought the diplomat. Fired. Or worse, reassignment to Canada… The Canadians! Christ! The collar became soaked.

  “You okay?” asked Guzman. “You’re sweating like a pig.”