Pineapple grenade ss-15

by Tim Dorsey

  She laughed and flirtatiously touched his arm. “I love a man with a sense of humor.”

  “Women always say that so they don’t appear superficial,” said Serge. “But it’s only true if Brad Pitt is telling knock-knock jokes. Don Rickles eats alone.”

  “There’s a place up the street I like,” said Felicia.

  They walked three blocks to a newly opened bistro. The maitre d’ appeared with hands folded in front of his stomach. “Will it be dinner or the bar?”

  “The bar,” said Serge. “We’re playing spy.”

  The man gestured with an upturned palm. “That way. Enjoy.”

  They entered the lounge, and Felicia hopped on a stool like it was a horse she’d ridden her whole life. “Serge, what’ll you have?”

  “Water. Stirred, not shaken.”

  Felicia never had to wait for a bartender. He stood before her at the ready.

  “Perrier for my friend,” said Felicia. She ordered a fruity umbrella drink.

  “What about me?” asked Coleman.

  “And me?” said Ted.

  “She didn’t bump into you,” said Serge.

  “That’s fine,” said Felicia. “Whatever they want.”

  Two hours later:

  “Oh, Serge!..”

  “Oh, Felicia!..”

  “Faster! Harder! Faster!..”

  Serge thrust like a stallion in a ritzy hotel room across from Bayfront Park.

  “Oh, Serge! Whatever you do, don’t stop!”

  “I think I can handle that.”

  “Oh, yes! Faster! I’m almost there!..”

  Serge went even faster.

  “Oh God! Oh God! Say something horny!..”

  “Knock-knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Brad Pitt. I brought my cock.”

  “Oh God!..”

  Behind his back, a hand with ruby nail polish clawed his shoulder blades. A second hand rose in the air, gripping a syringe with a glistening needle.

  Miami International

  An eight-seater prop jet took off from a short runway on a little-used corner of the airport. The all-white plane had no markings except a small tail number registered to a PO box in Key Biscayne. But it belonged to the U.S. government.

  Binoculars followed the aircraft as it ascended into the clouds toward Florida Bay. The binoculars swung back to the foot of the runway as another pair of engines revved until the tower gave the go sign. The plane accelerated down the tarmac and lifted off in the same direction. Then another plane. And another, all banking south, with six more stacked up on the taxiway and others still arriving.

  The binoculars lowered and hung by a cord around Oxnart’s neck. He rubbed his head. “Are all these planes ours?”

  “No,” said Mandrake. “Maybe half, tops.” The agent held an intercepted shipping manifest out of Miami. As each plane departed, he checked off another destination.

  “The congestion’s delaying our mission. I’ve never seen this part of the airport so busy.” Oxnart raised the binoculars again and panned the distance across an open expanse of runway, heat lines wavering up from pavement. Mirage puddles. Weeds through concrete cracks. A lone, lost jackrabbit. Twin tanks of jet fuel anchored next to a small, rusty hangar. A departing plane filled his field of vision.

  “Where can all these other flights be coming from?”

  Another takeoff. Then a high-decibel shock wave. The jackrabbit stood on its hind legs in the middle of the runway and looked around, hundreds of yards from safety in every direction. In rabbit thought: Fuck me.

  Oxnart’s binoculars backed up.

  “See something?” asked Mandrake.

  He focused on the hangar at a thousand feet. “Uh-oh.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Through high magnification, Oxnart watched another pair of binoculars staring back at him. “It’s Lugar. That son of a bitch must have intercepted our intercepted manifest.”

  Across the runways, Lugar lowered his binoculars. “Oxnart. Shit. Must have gotten the manifest.” He turned to a case agent: “Priority dispatch, all operatives. We have company. Code red…”

  The agent took notes. “Which red? The darker one?”

  “Shut up. Just tell ’em to be careful.” Another jet roar. “Hit the ground fast and cover tracks.”

  From opposite sides of the runway, Oxnart and Lugar aimed binoculars skyward as the last of the planes flew off in a loose pelican-like formation toward the sunset.

  Meanwhile…

  A shout in a ritzy hotel room across from Bayfront Park.

  Serge jumped out of bed and grabbed his ass with both hands.

  “What the hell just bit me?”

  Then he noticed the dripping syringe in Felicia’s fist.

  “I knew it!” Serge went for his pants bunched on a chair. And the gun in the pocket.

  Felicia monitored her wristwatch.

  Serge reached the chair. Then stumbled backward a couple steps. Stumbled forward. “Whoa, a little dizzy here…”

  Felicia took him by the arm. “Why don’t you lie down in bed before you hurt yourself.”

  “What did you stick in me?”

  “That’s not important. It’s time to rest.”

  “But I’m not tired.”

  He fell facedown on the mattress.

  Time passed.

  Serge lay on his back. Eyelids finally cracked open a slit. Felicia dragged a chair to the bed: “That was just a little harmless truth serum. It’ll wear off soon, and you’ll be good as new. So let’s start with the basics. What’s your real name?”

  He slowly licked dry lips. In dream-state slur: “Serge… Serge Storms.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “People in need, future generations, endangered species, lost tourists, the disenfranchised underclass, strippers with hearts of gold trying to support a child on a single income…”

  “What is your mission?”

  “To save the republic, cheer on the home team, stay ahead of the curve, read the warning signs, respect my elders, support the troops, spend more time thinking about landfills, harness the untapped power of avoiding all your relatives, try not to fart around women…”

  Felicia looked toward the syringe on the dresser. “Maybe I gave him too much.”

  “Souvenirs, sunblock, sesquicentennial…”

  Felicia sighed and looked at her watch again. Waiting for his gibberish to subside. “… Fancy fucking bathroom guest towels

  …” Finally the drug fell within parameters. She turned back to the bed: “What do you know about the plot?”

  “Plot? Let’s see, erratic time line, disjointed geography, arrive from Tampa, save Guzman, sink-or-float, blah blah blah, establish Scooter as the undependable wild card, introduce burned agent Savage as possible scapegoat, escalate CIA rivalry between Oxnart and Lugar as tension builds toward assassination at the Miami summit, some kinky stuff with a tree, bump into you, knock-knock…”

  “Okay, that’s enough…”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Two hours later

  Serge and Felicia strolled through chic South Beach. Beautiful people crowded sidewalk cafes along Ocean Drive. Every table a different language. German, French, Swedish, Portuguese from Brazil. Tiny portions of nuevo cuisine with sprigs of garnish arranged in tripods.

  “Was that really necessary?” asked Serge.

  “Sorry about sticking you,” said Felicia. “Could have sworn you were a double agent sent to assassinate President Guzman. I had to make sure.”

  “But what would give you such a crazy idea?”

  “Scooter Escobar.” She lit a thin cigar.

  “That idiot?”

  “And he’s getting stupider, arranging secret meetings with people he shouldn’t.”

  “Exchanging newspapers on park benches?”

  “It would be funny if it wasn’t.” She blew out a thin stream of smoke. “That’s where he heard about the plot-from your peop
le-and that you might be involved. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but he tells me everything.”

  “So you believe now that I’m on the level?”

  Felicia smiled. “You were pretty funny when you were under. What’s the whole anger issue with guest towels?”

  “Used to be married. Long story,” said Serge. “I don’t approve of Tiger Woods, but I heard he had like eighteen bathrooms. How much can a man take?”

  More gorgeous people in thongs and T-backs rollerbladed by. On the ocean side of the street, bodybuilders flexed at women in convertibles. Pink and lime lifeguard shacks shaped like time machines. A film crew from Japan shot a TV commercial for sake.

  At one of the alfresco tables, a deal was being closed. A ruggedly handsome man with striking Latin features and long, sexy black hair dined with an equally attractive woman in a swimsuit. In two months, her Sports Illustrated photos would hit the stands, and she’d become a supermodel. But right now she was still an Above-Average Model.

  The man reached across the table between their wineglasses and held her hand. She gazed dreamily into his eyes. Another typical Miami Beach afternoon tryst was about to spawn. In the Art Deco hotel rooms above the strip, 136 were already under way.

  Men at other tables stewed with envy. The Latin hunk could have any woman in the place. What they didn’t know-and the source of universal disbelief if they did-was that the oncoming liaison would be the playboy’s first. Ever.

  Oh, he could line them up in stunning volume and variety, but he’d just never been able to land them in the boat. Had nothing to do with his appeal or bedside manner. It was luck. The wrong kind. Always some crazy, blind-side against-the-odds interruption before consummation. And as with any statistical sample, somewhere in the world was the man who ranked absolute last on the standard-deviation coitus graph. That was this guy.

  Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.

  But hope springs eternal, and Johnny was at bat again with the bases loaded. As he held her hands and stared into those emerald-green eyes, it seemed nothing remotely could go wrong. The sun was high, and a balmy breeze ruffled the fringe of their table’s umbrella. Sinful desserts arrived on a cart.

  Three blocks south, Serge and Felicia strolled past the Colony Hotel.

  Ahead, two men on the sidewalk, staring stupidly at the diners. A waiter asked them to move along.

  “There you are,” Serge called out. “We were supposed to meet at that corner.”

  “Serge!” Coleman came running over with Ted Savage. “I’ve never seen such great tits. There’s been like forty-three so far.”

  “It’s Ocean Drive,” said Serge. “Nipple City.”

  “Serge!” scolded Felicia.

  “Baby, don’t crowd my facts.”

  Coleman stared at more breasts. “I never want to leave this place.”

  “Coleman, there’s more to Miami than silicone.”

  “Like what?”

  “Stay here long enough and anything can happen.” Serge swept an arm over the beach mating frenzy. “Look at all these people. Their backstories are arguably the most diverse and compelling in all the country, an international roll call of intrigue: TV producers, exotic-animal smugglers, money launderers, foreign agents, people on the run from Interpol, the ShamWow Guy. I’m getting pumped just thinking about all the secret life arcs surrounding us. Except in real life, it’s impossible for me to know what’s ticking behind all these five-hundred-dollar sunglasses. That’s why I love to read novels about Miami.”

  Coleman’s eyes seized on a passing bikini top. “Novels?”

  “In novels, the omniscient narrator knows all secrets and reveals them.” Serge watched a Lamborghini being valeted. “Sometimes I like to pretend that my own life has a narrator. I wish I could meet him someday.”

  “Why?”

  “Because to me, narrators are the most impressive people on the planet. Every one of them outrageously intelligent and perceptive. They’re like gods.”

  Serge was clearly a genius in all respects. They continued up the sidewalk. The group didn’t know it, but they had, in succession, just passed the woman with the highest number of Botox injections, the largest wholesaler of human-growth hormone on the beach, the hotel with the top frequency of burglaries by maids, and the Most Laid Guy in Miami, which placed him thirty-fourth nationwide.

  The Most Laid Guy was also the most unlikely. Just a regular Joe, maybe the corner barber or H amp;R Block man. Statistics again. Someone has to be the anomaly. Women didn’t understand why, but they found themselves magnetically drawn to him in astounding numbers. A million males would have killed for what fell off his truck, but to him it had all become a burden. He sat alone with coffee and a copy of Florida Architecture.

  “Pardon me,” said a college cheerleader in town for a game. “Is this seat taken?”

  “I’m trying to read.”

  And so on, until he’d eventually relent just to release the pressure.

  The gang continued up the sidewalk, past a DEA agent on the take, an indicted boy-band manager, a paparazzo with inside information, a transgender with second thoughts, and a spy from Costa Gorda peeking over the top of a menu. He got up and began following.

  Coleman bumped into Serge’s back as they prepared to cross Thirteenth Street.

  “Coleman, watch where you’re going.”

  “I was looking up.” He shielded his eyes. “These are some outrageous hotels.”

  “And every room holds a story.” Serge gazed toward the top floor. “Things you could never imagine are going on right this second. Like that window there. I’d love to know what’s happening inside.”

  Inside, someone had tied himself up with intricate knots and a gag ball in his mouth, where he’d remained alone and happily still for the last six hours.

  Coleman looked around. “Who said that?”

  “Said what?”

  “Knots and gag balls.”

  “Maybe my narrator,” said Serge. “Actually the proper term is the narrator. My implies a demeaning, possessive relationship, like he’s an organ-grinder monkey. Narrators don’t like that.”

  They don’t. The spy from Costa Gorda grew closer. Felicia turned around. The agent ducked behind a potted tree at the News Cafe.

  Coleman resumed walking. “Remember when they found the star of Kung Fu tied up and dead in that motel closet.”

  “David Carradine,” said Serge. “Bangkok. The namesake of the Kill Bill movies.”

  “They said he accidentally got strangled during freaky sex with himself.”

  “Coleman, that’s a private matter. He should be remembered for his impressive body of work.”

  “But it’s so embarrassing.” Coleman looked back up at the window. “If I ever thought I might die while playing with my dong, I’d make sure I could throw any devices across the room.”

  “That might just be the first time you’ve planned for the future.”

  “Planned? I’ve actually been practicing it. You were asleep.”

  “You thought I was asleep,” said Serge. “I was wondering why I kept hearing bedsprings and then these little fur doughnuts began flying over my head and hitting the wall.”

  “I just don’t want to be found in a motel room like Kung Fu,” said Coleman. “How’d you like to be found in a motel room?”

  “Let me take a wild stab at that,” said Serge. “Alive?”

  They started across the street. Three men approached from the opposite curb. White face makeup, black-and-white-striped shirts, and red berets. The trio tipped their caps in recognition as they passed Serge.

  “You know those guys?” asked Coleman.

  Serge nodded. “You heard of the Guardian Angels?”

  “Yeah, vigilante group that protects people.”

  “Those three guys are from Tampa. They started their own group, the Guardian Mimes.”

  “You mean like the dudes from when you filmed those Clowns-versus-Mimes underground fight videos?”r />
  “The same,” said Serge. “I was worried they’d disband after we hit the road. Fortunately they’ve come back stronger than ever.”

  “Do you keep in touch?”

  “Still got their numbers in my cell. I thought they tried calling a few times, but there didn’t seem to be anyone on the other end.”

  Three more men in red berets came toward them on the sidewalk. Big, floppy shoes and rubber-ball noses. An exchange of knowing looks with Serge.

  “The Guardian Clowns?” asked Coleman.

  “I feel like a father.” Serge unfolded his scavenger-hunt checklist and made an X next to “Wise Latina T-shirt,” from the confirmation hearings of Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor. He returned it to his pocket. “This is the end of Ocean Drive… Felicia, where to now?”

  Felicia was facing the other way in frustration, hands on sensuous hips. “Scooter! Stop messing around! Get over here!”

  The spy from Costa Gorda popped up from behind a Dumpster, glanced around, and ran across the street to them.

  “What’s with you?” asked Felicia. “When I said to meet us, I didn’t mean follow us.”

  Escobar’s eyes were still darting around. “They’re everywhere. A spy can’t be too careful.”

  “You’re coked out of your skull.”

  “No, I’m not.” Scooter gnashed his teeth. “Not a lot.”

  “Just don’t do any more,” said Felicia. “We’ve got important business.”

  Scooter took a step back. “That’s Serge!”

  “Everything’s cool.” Felicia set a brisk foot pace for the gang. “He’s with us. Someone’s been feeding you bad information, and I have a pretty good idea what’s going on. I’ll lay it all out when we get to our destination.”

  Serge walked up alongside. “What is our destination?”

  “Spy.”

  “Not what we’re doing. Where we’re going.”

  “That is where we’re going. But it doesn’t open till late.”

  Back up the street, the Above-Average Model got an odd look on her face. She glanced around from their sidewalk cafe table.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Johnny Vegas.

  “I don’t know.” She turned and looked the other way. “Just this strange paranormal feeling.”

  “What’s it like?”