by Tim Dorsey
With his left hand, Chabot removed the stock of an Israeli sniper rifle; with his right, he called room service.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spy
The DJ petted his cat.
A new song cranked. The Mission: Impossible theme. A giant laser lit up. Men in lab coats scurried around checking pressure gauges.
The men’s room in the back of the nightclub was even busier.
Ted Savage, Coleman, and Escobar had made a beeline for the handicapped stall and barricaded themselves.
Escobar extended the Phillips-head on a utility knife and, moments later, Ted and Coleman pulled the mirror off the wall. It lay across the sink.
“Break that shit out!” said Savage.
Escobar dumped a baggie of white powder. “Hold on to your fuckin’ heads, dudes. This is hundred-percent pure Peruvian flake. Couple lines of this primo blow and you won’t be able to find your own nuts.” He flicked open a giant barber’s straight razor.
“Now, that’s a freakin’ blade!” said Coleman.
“Cut those cocksucking rails!” urged Savage.
Escobar sliced and diced. He pulled back the blade. “Who’s first?”
Savage dove forward with a rolled-up twenty. A hard snort, then his head snapped back. Nose pinched between his fingers. “God damn. Where’d you get this shit?”
Escobar was already cutting Coleman’s lines. “Had it flown up in the diplomatic pouch. Nobody checks. Nobody’s allowed to… Your turn.”
Coleman bent over…
Back in the lounge:
Serge drained a bottle of water. “So the consulate sent you to check up on me?”
“No, that was on my own,” said Felicia. “With the generals and that dead reporter, I can’t trust anyone. And Guzman’s still a little naive. I’m doing this for my country.”
“What makes you think you can trust me?”
“Because you’re not in the spy business. You aren’t connected to anybody, and I need independent help to see this through.”
“But of course I’m a spy,” Serge protested. “You injected me. That’s like spy baptism.”
“Come on.” Felicia laughed. “That was when I thought you were hooked up. But you told me a lot when you were under the serum.”
“Like what?”
“You’re just a local guy who foiled a random carjacking. But everyone now thinks you’re working for someone else, so you’re playing along.”
“What about me showing up earlier in your office?”
“Saw right through that.”
“You did?”
“Of course. You noticed me on the street and wanted a date. Happens a dozen times a week. All kinds of stupid excuses to talk me up, like delivering a package to the wrong address… Except you were actually pretty funny-and cute-but I didn’t want to let on.”
“I can live with that account… So you know it was just a typical carjacking?”
“The simplest explanation is usually the right one. But in the diplomatic world, imaginations run wild.”
“But you won’t tell them, right? I’d kind of like them to go on thinking I’m Jason Bourne.”
“I don’t think I could convince them otherwise.” Another laugh. “You’ve created quite a circular firing squad.”
“How so?”
“Guzman likes you, because you saved his life from a so-called hit squad, and the head of my consulate likes you because Guzman likes you, but he hates you because he doesn’t know your game and you might threaten his cushy gig in Miami, and Escobar thinks you’re after his job-or used to-but he’s more of a threat to himself and is now being courted by the CIA to find out more about you. And of course there’s the local boob twins, Oxnart and Lugar. Then Victor Evangelista, who’s dick-deep in gunrunning.”
“Please keep talking to me like that.”
“It’s no joke. Vic’s the key. We need to trace his shipments backward to the source and figure this whole thing out before another democracy’s overthrown by multinationals.” Felicia craned her neck around Serge, squinting toward the back of the club. “What’s taking those guys so long?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”
What she didn’t want to know:
“Dear God, help me!” screamed Escobar.
“Holy crap!” yelled Savage. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
“Wasn’t on purpose.” Crying now.
“What do we do?” whimpered Coleman.
“Okay,” said Savage. “Uh… Uh… First we have to remain calm.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Back in the lounge, Serge stretched and arched his back. “How do you get all your information?”
“Mostly from the head of our consulate. He’s chatty in bed. Guy goes through Viagra like popcorn.”
“Don’t you love those TV ads for the stuff?” said Serge. “Especially the medical warnings: ‘Discontinue use if experiencing diminished eyesight.’ I mean, who’s schlong out there is so limp it requires blood to be diverted in such quantities that the room starts to go dark?”
“Serge, come back to me,” said Felicia.
“What?”
She gently placed a hand on his. “I know who you are.”
“Right, I’m not a spy.”
“No, I’m talking about everything.” She lit a dark brown cigarette. “Police records, psychiatric diagnosis, the bodies.”
“How’s you learn all that-allegedly?”
“I’m a spy.”
“But if you know my whole history, you’re… not afraid to be sitting here?”
She formed her mouth into a circle and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. “Natural attraction has no master. You can’t diagram it logically.”
“You’re attracted to me?”
“Jesus, Serge. You’re otherwise so intelligent.” She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“I don’t… I mean, you… me?”
She stubbed the cigarette. Her hands disappeared.
“What are you doing?”
A huskier voice. “What do you think I’m doing?”
Serge seized the sides of the table with his hands. “Whoa!” He glanced around to see if anyone was watching.
The voice became even throatier. “You enjoy that?”
“But we’re in the middle of a club full of people.”
“I like it that way. Public places.”
“Paraphilia?” said Serge.
“And dangerous situations, particularly espionage. That’s why I was so good wrecking political careers.” Felicia’s mouth neared the side of Serge’s head. “Are you getting in the mood? I’m in the mood. In fact…” She whispered the rest, then plunged her tongue in his ear.
Serge watched her other hand move to her own lap. He gulped with diminishing eyesight.
“Serge, let’s do it right now, right here! I’ve never been so ready! Nothing could turn off my-”
A restroom door crashed open. Three men ran screaming back into the lounge.
“Serge!..”
“Help us!..”
“We’re in trouble!..”
Serge’s head slumped to his chest. Eyesight returned.
“Serge!” yelled Coleman. “You have to do something!”
Serge closed his eyes. “Go away.”
Felicia grabbed Serge by the arm. “Look at all the fucking blood!”
“What?” His head perked up. “Holy shit, all three of you are covered in it! Where’s it all coming from?”
“Mainly Escobar,” said Savage.
“Where’s he hurt?”
Savage and Coleman pointed at Escobar’s left hand, wrapped in a giant toilet-paper ball like a red boxing glove.
“What the heck happened to his hand?” said Serge.
“He cut his finger off,” said Coleman.
“Call 911!” Felicia shouted to the bartender.
Houselights came on.
&n
bsp; “How’d he cut his finger off?” said Serge.
All three went back to crying and stomping their feet.
Felicia jumped up and applied pressure to Escobar’s hand. She looked back at Serge. “They’re ripped on blow.”
“For openers,” said Serge. He grabbed Escobar by the shoulders. “The doctor is on the case. This can be fixed with microsurgery. Where’s your finger?”
“Got flushed down the toilet,” said Escobar. “You really believe they can fix it?”
Serge closed his eyes tight again. “Why did you flush your finger down the toilet?”
“Wasn’t on purpose,” said Escobar.
“Yeah,” said Coleman. “We were dumping all the coke to get rid of the evidence because of the problem with his finger, and it just fell in.”
“But Coleman really tried to save it,” said Savage. “His arm even got stuck.”
“That’s why there’s so much blood,” said Escobar. “We had to stop and get Coleman’s arm out of the toilet first, and couldn’t attend to the other wounds.”
“Other wounds?” said Serge.
Savage displayed his left hand. “Me and Coleman cut ourselves on the broken mirror. That’s why Scooter lost his concentration and cut his finger off.”
“Back up,” said Serge. “How did the mirror break?”
“I leaned against the sink,” said Coleman.
“How did you break the mirror leaning on the sink?”
“The mirror was lying across it,” said Escobar.
“Why was the mirror on the sink?”
“There was no other place to put it,” said Coleman.
Ambulance sirens. A burst through the club’s secret door with a stretcher. “Who’s hurt?”
Serge pointed in different directions. “Those two are just scraped. The short one lost a finger.”
“Where is it?” asked an EMT.
“On the way to Biscayne Bay.”
They hoisted him onto the gurney. The lounge’s door flew open again.
Ambulance sirens faded into the breezy night.
Felicia looked at Serge with regret. “Rain check?”
Serge managed his best smile under the circumstances. “I’ll look forward to it.”
She headed toward the door. “I need to check a few things out. Let’s meet again tomorrow and put my plan in motion.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Next Day
Edge of the Everglades.
Isolated. Buzzing insects. Melting heat.
A cloud of chalky dust kicked up in the distance and drifted west behind an orange-and-green Plymouth.
The gravel road swung south. A lone metal building appeared.
“That’s the warehouse,” said Scooter.
Felicia gestured toward a smaller dirt road. “Go around back.”
Serge pulled up tight along the rear of the structure and parked beneath a ventilation fan frozen with rust. “You sure this is the place?”
Felicia grabbed a crowbar and opened her door. “We’ll soon find out.”
They walked around the front to a gravel lot. Coleman took a slug of Southern Comfort and passed it to his new buddies. Serge picked up a charred hubcap. “This used to be a nice car…”
“… And here’s one of the bumpers,” said Coleman.
“And a blast crater,” said Savage.
“Scooter,” said Felicia.
“What about him?” said Serge.
Felicia approached the warehouse entrance. “He blew it up.”
“Scooter blew up a Ferrari?”
“It was an accident,” said Scooter. “The thing just fired.”
Felicia jammed the iron bar in a latch and popped off the padlock.
“Coleman,” said Serge. “Stand lookout by the car. Just knock on the metal wall three times if you see anyone.”
They slid open a door on screeching tracks. Shafts of sunlight hit the floor.
Serge stopped in the middle of the empty building and looked around. “You probably didn’t know this about me, but I have a thing for women with crowbars. Actually not a thing. Crowbars just seem to come into play.”
Felicia wasn’t listening. She squatted down near the back.
“What is it?” asked Serge.
She stood and rubbed something between her fingers. Tiny pieces fluttered to the floor. “Sawdust.”
“I’m guessing they weren’t making cabinets.”
“That’s the spot,” said Scooter. “Where they were checking the crates. I told you.”
Felicia reached down again and picked up a scrap of plastic. “Packing shims from an RPG.”
“The one that malfunctioned,” said Scooter.
Felicia turned slowly and nodded. “Evangelista’s place.”
“Victor Evangelista?” said Serge.
“Ostensibly a respected businessman, highly connected politically. Rumors have been rampant for years, but nothing proven. And a lot of people who were doing the talking aren’t able to anymore.”
“I know his backstory,” said Serge.
“Then you know he’s arguably one of the biggest gunrunners in the hemisphere,” said Felicia. “According to the rumors, Victor’s been playing all sides for years. The generals, CIA, even the rebels.”
“That’s a short life expectancy.”
“Normally,” said Felicia. “Except everyone wants him to play all sides.”
“I don’t understand.”
“CIA fronts pay him to secretly arm the generals, because Congress won’t let ’em do it themselves. And both the generals and the CIA want him to arm the rebels.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Welcome to spy town.” Felicia lit a thin cigar. “The rebels are a joke. Unless our governments arm them, they’re worse than harmless, except when they come out of the mountains to beg for food or wash people’s windshields.”
Serge whistled. “If we armed all the windshield guys in Miami, you got an apocalyptic wasteland. Or more so.”
“They have no choice but to arm the rebels.”
“Why?”
“Because any regime bankrupt of even the slightest intelligent ideology needs to see enemies where there aren’t any.”
Serge nodded. “Glenn Beck.”
“These are volatile times for my country,” said Felicia. “It’s no secret that for decades, our government-make that the generals-has been on the take. First it was letting drug smugglers pass through. And now guns. Except the volume of the traffic is far more than the junta and rebels could use in ten lifetimes. It’s obvious that Costa Gorda has become a weapons pipeline and money-laundering haven for every tinhorn south of Mexico-and brings great shame to me and my homeland.”
“Shades of Noriega.” Serge placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “But isn’t it good that at least the guns are moving on and not staying in your country.”
“No. It means more millions to skim for the generals, which means more power, which means they’re able to override any legitimate democratic vote of the people. That’s why the election of President Guzman worries so many.”
“He’s a good man,” said Serge.
“Incorruptible,” replied Felicia. “But he didn’t get elected without also being an expert politician. Everyone’s holding their breath over just how long his finesse can juggle the generals. Especially the generals.”
“And I thought our politics was rough.”
“I’m betting the military will eventually get too nervous and do something stupid, like a coup. Or a bullet.” Felicia dropped the cigar and crushed it out with her foot. “My country’s biggest hope is to expose the generals’ financial network to the world. Except that seemed impossible until now. We’ve got to follow this trail wherever it leads.”
“So you’re a patriot,” said Serge. “Even shorter life expectancy.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You’re the one who mentioned a bullet.”
“But we’re
way up here in Miami. What can happen?”
Suddenly a crash through a side window of the warehouse. Serge knocked Felicia to the ground and shielded her with his body. “Stay down!”
He pulled a. 45 pistol from behind his back and twisted toward the window.
Someone was crawling through the small opening.
“Coleman!” yelled Serge. “What the hell are you doing in the window?”
“I think I’m stuck.” A grunt.
“You were supposed to stand lookout by the car.”
“I got lonely.”
Serge pointed the gun toward sunlight. “But the door’s wide open.”
A pause. “Serge?”
“Yes?”
“What am I doing in the window?”
“Talking to me.”
“Does Felicia have any weed?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to wiggle back out now,” said Coleman.
“Hope it works out for you.”
A grunting sound. Then Coleman thudded to the ground outside. “Ow.”
Felicia got up and brushed off. “We probably need to get moving.”
“What was that?” asked Scooter.
“What was what?” said Serge.
“Thought I heard voices.”
“I hear them, too,” said Savage. “Does Coleman talk to himself?”
“Yes,” said Serge. “But it’s the language of children raised in the forest by animals.”
From the rear of the warehouse: three knocks on a metal wall.
From the front: “Who left the door open?”
“Shit.” Felicia spun. “The back door! Hurry!”
They raced outside. Serge quietly eased the exit shut, just as the first backlit silhouettes slid the front doors the rest of the way open for a motorcade of white vans.
Felicia crouched behind the Plymouth. She looked up at the ventilation fan. Voices again: “We don’t have all day. Get busy with those crates.”
“The planes are waiting. It’s a tight window.”
Serge whispered sideways. “Recognize them?”
“The first sounds like Victor,” said Felicia. “The second’s familiar, but I can’t place it… Where are you going?”
“Follow me.” Serge crawled on hands and knees to the corner of the building. He flattened himself and peeked around the side.