Pineapple grenade ss-15

by Tim Dorsey

  “Maybe because it’s got spy history. At least in fiction.” Serge looked up at the ceiling. “The estate is all coming back to me now. In Season Two of Miami Vice — eighth episode titled ‘Bushido’-Lieutenant Castillo used the estate as a safe house before retreating to the grove of palms for his climactic confrontation with a Russian secret agent named Surf… Where’d Felicia go?”

  Coleman dropped an antique wine bottle, but Savage made a nice save with his foot. It bounced harmlessly. “She ran up the stairs.”

  “You two stay here.” Serge took off. He reached the front steps and made a sharp right for the logical location. Sprinting across the expansive open lawn that stretched down to Biscayne Bay.

  “There you are.” Serge ran up to where Felicia was hiding behind one of the palm trees in the landmark grid. “This is exactly where Castillo hid from Surf.”

  She grabbed a fistful of his tropical shirt and yanked him behind her. “Get out of sight.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hear that?”

  “Yeah, sounds like an aircraft… And there it is. A seaplane.”

  Another sound.

  The pair scooted farther around the tree. Two heads peaked out from behind the trunk, stacked on top of each other, as five black SUVs raced past them toward the waterfront.

  “This is my favorite feature of the estate,” said Serge. “On the outcropping at the very back of the lawn, Deering built a seawall inlet from the bay in the shape of a giant keyhole.”

  “Quiet!”

  “The airplane’s too loud.”

  It was. The plane did a belly flop in the boat channel and motored through old coral heads into the keyhole. The SUVs were already backed up with open doors. Crates came out.

  So did members of the museum staff, who trotted down to the shore wanting answers.

  Badges flashed. Federal.

  Good enough answers. They left.

  “Did you see who that was?” said Felicia.

  “Agent Lugar again,” said Serge. “What the hell is going on?”

  The plane finished loading and began taxiing away for takeoff. It lifted from a froth of waves, banking serenely over Key Biscayne before catching a flash of sunlight and disappearing into the clouds.

  “Get back,” said Felicia.

  The pair ducked behind the palm as five departing SUVs sped away.

  Miami Morgue

  Two bodies on metal slabs.

  A homicide detective burst through the doors.

  The medical examiner put down a sandwich and grinned. “Good news. No sharks today.”

  “I’m not laughing. What the hell happened at the summit ball?”

  “Two dead guys.”

  “Already know that,” said the detective. “I was there when they wheeled them out of the restroom.”

  The examiner gestured at one table. “That guy was a doctor from Costa Gorda. Identification in his medical bag. He took a large injection of tranquilizers and potassium. Knocked him out and stopped his heart like that.” A snap of his fingers. “We found a hypodermic gun half full of the stuff”-he pointed at the other body-“in that guy’s medical bag. Been used in assassinations.”

  “So dead guy number one killed dead guy number two?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Then who killed the first guy?”

  “Don’t know, but I’d love to meet him,” said the examiner. “Haven’t seen this technique before. Heard about it from TV as a kid, but thought it was just make-believe theatrics.”

  “TV?”

  “Florida Wrestling. Practically the granddaddy of the sport in America. Broadcast in the sixties from the Fort Hesterly Armory and the Sportatorium in Tampa. Gordon Solie, Jack and Jerry Briscoe, the Army of Darkness-”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. I grew up here, too. What’s that got to do with the stiff?”

  “One of the most feared maneuvers was the dreaded sleeper hold. Someone like Dusty Rhodes would apply it with forearms on the top and bottom of the head. Then the nemesis passed out, and an antidote maneuver had to be applied to wake him up. Except that last part really was showbiz. The ‘sleeper’ is a choke hold, but it doesn’t cut off air like the others; it cuts off blood. If the hold actually was applied, the victim would wake up on his own when blood returned to the brain.”

  “Then why didn’t our pal here wake up?”

  The examiner giggled. “This is where it gets cool.” He held up an evidence bag containing random everyday items. “These were used as braces and placed under this blood-pressure tester that was wrapped around his neck. Next to the windpipe.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Why else? So he could apply a sleeper hold, of course. Once I saw the Great Malenko-”

  “You’re driving me insane! What killed him?”

  The examiner raised another bag.

  The detective scrunched his eyebrows. “Lipstick and a pen?”

  “That’s why I want to meet this guy. We’ve got a new, more exciting version of the ‘sleeper’ on our hands.” He tossed the evidence bag aside. “The whole contraption was designed not to cut off blood to the brain, but from the brain.”

  “You lost me.”

  The coroner stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and talked as he chewed. “Compress everything, and you got a classic ‘sleeper’ pass-out. But compress only the jugular, and leave the carotid open… Blood keeps flowing upstairs with no place to go.”

  “That’s a murder?”

  “Ever had your car radiator boil over?” The examiner wiped mayo off his mouth with surgical gauze. “In his case, ultramassive intracranial hemorrhage.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “His head exploded from the inside, like a stroke, except times a hundred.”

  “And that makes you smile?”

  “Must have been interesting to watch.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  That Night

  A camera flashed, illuminating blue-and-gold bas-relief friezes along the top of a vintage Art Deco landmark.

  Another flash. This time from a Bic lighter. Coleman fired up a toke from a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker. “What is this place?”

  “Historic Dinner Key.” Serge raised his camera again. “Just south of downtown on the shore of Biscayne Bay. Used to be an island, but they filled the gap to Coconut Grove.”

  “What’s that building you keep taking photos of?”

  “Miami city hall.” Another camera flash. Serge uncapped a thermos of coffee. “Wasn’t always city hall. That just started in the fifties, but-and this staggers the trivia-hungry mind-it used to be one of the largest airports in the world!”

  Smoke drifted across the parking lot. “That little building?”

  “The old Pan Am terminal was the main connection between North and South America.” Another camera flash, swig of coffee. “And the other structure over there used to be an airplane hangar that became the public arena where Jim Morrison of the Doors was arrested for exposing himself in 1969, and later the Floridians of the ill-fated American Basketball Association played home games. Can you freakin’ dig it?”

  “Yeah, buildings.” Coleman exhaled. “But where are the runways?”

  “Weren’t any.” Serge drained the rest of the thermos and raised arms. “It was the golden age of seaplanes, like the Sikorsky F-40s and of course the Brazilian Clipper. Passengers boarded from floating barges. Charles Lindbergh landed his Lockheed here in ’33 after a transatlantic flight.”

  Felicia came running around the corner of the building. “What’s with all the camera flashes? We’re supposed to be on surveillance. And I could smell the dope all the way down to the dock!”

  Coleman and Savage waved and smiled. Serge ran in a circle.

  “Serge!” she snapped. “What are you doing?”

  “Dribbling an invisible basketball and grabbing my crotch. It’s a history mash-up.”

  Coleman took
another hit. “The Doors.”

  “Knock it off!” said Felicia. “Just got a tip from the Canadian consulate. Might be our big break.”

  “The antique, winged Pan Am clock still hangs in the city council chambers.” Serge pointed. “Let’s take a look through the windows, shall we?”

  “No!”

  Serge pointed another direction. “Then can we fuck behind the hangar?”

  “No!.. How can you be aroused at a time like this?”

  Serge looked down at his sneakers. “I drank coffee and there’s a bunch of old stuff around. That usually does it.”

  “Hurry! They should be here any minute.” She looked back up the road. “And we already have company. Don’t turn around.”

  Coleman turned around. A black SUV sat in the darkness on the shoulder.

  “Are they the people we’re waiting for?” asked Serge.

  “No, another interested party taking surveillance photos. If my hunch is right, that’s part of their plan.” Felicia ran around the side of city hall and led them down to the waterfront. Binoculars went to her eyes. “Coleman, what the hell are you doing?”

  Coleman was down at the edge of the bay, floating something out into the water. “Catch and release. I’m setting the fake-leg bong free so it can drift to distant places where someone else can enjoy it. That would be far out.”

  “Just stay alert.” A propeller sound in the distant sky. Felicia raised her binoculars again. “There it is now, on schedule… Oh, Serge, take me!”

  “I thought you said this was an inappropriate time to be aroused.”

  She caressed her left breast. “Espionage, danger, remember?”

  “Right.” He pointed. “Behind the Jim Morrison hangar.”

  The pair took off in a sprint. Serge stopped and turned around. “Coleman, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Coming with you.”

  “Coleman!”

  “I won’t watch. Much.”

  “Go back to the parking lot with the walkie-talkie and do what I said.”

  “Poo.”

  Moments later:

  “Oh God! Oh yes!” shrieked Felicia. “Faster! Faster!..”

  Serge was on top, thrusting at maximum speed and looking out over her head with binoculars. A Grumman Mallard made a splash landing in the unseen waters, one of the few seaplanes in recent years to visit Dinner Key.

  “Don’t stop!” Felicia dug her fingernails into Serge’s neck. “ I’m coming! I’m coming! Oh my God! I’m coming!..”

  A walkie-talkie squawked next to her head.

  He grabbed it. “Serge here. Come in, Coleman.”

  “Are you still fucking?”

  “Yes, what’s up?”

  “Nothing. I was just trying to picture it.”

  “… I’m coming!..”

  “Was that Felicia?” asked Coleman.

  “She’s busy.”

  “Can I listen?”

  “No. Call back when you have something.”

  Serge set the walkie-talkie down and grabbed the binoculars again. The Grumman eased up to the dock…

  Over in the parking lot, Coleman kicked a pebble.

  Three white vans pulled up the circular drive and took a side road that led around behind city hall.

  Coleman keyed his walkie-talkie. “Serge?”

  “What?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “So am I, but you don’t see me stopping what I’m doing.”

  “Hold on,” said Coleman. “I couldn’t hear you. Three white vans just drove by.”

  “Did you say three white vans?”

  “Yeah, like we saw at that other place. Can we order a pizza?”

  “Coleman, you were supposed to be on the lookout for three white vans.”

  “I thought it was six polka-dot cement mixers.”

  “Coleman…”

  “The vans are heading your way. Now they are becoming polka-dot cement mixers, melting together in a big, glowing blob that’s yodeling through a ‘crazy’ straw to my soul.”

  “You dropped acid, didn’t you?”

  “No, I would never… Is it obvious?”

  “Dammit, Coleman!” Serge jumped to his feet.

  Felicia sat up with a wild mane of sex-hair. “What’s the matter?”

  “Here come the vans.” They watched from the shadows until the vehicles passed. “And Coleman’s tripping. Hope you enjoy surprise parties.”

  “Tripping?”

  “It’s like herding infants in traffic. Last time he filled his underwear with lightbulbs and played a solitaire version of ‘duck-duck-goose’ for two hours.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t even ask anymore. There’s Victor Evangelista.”

  They looked down toward the dock and couldn’t miss Vic’s billboard of a Tommy Bahama shirt. Van doors opened.

  “Look,” said Serge. “It’s Agent Oxnart again.”

  “They’ve started unloading the plane,” said Felicia. “… Six, seven, eight…”

  “What are you doing?” asked Serge.

  “Counting… eleven, twelve, thirteen…”

  “Why are you counting?”

  “Shhhhh, you’ll mess me up… seventeen, eighteen…” She zoomed in with the binoculars. “And the branded codes in the wood. I just figured it out. I can’t believe it.”

  “Figure out what?”

  “Those are the same crates.”

  “What do you mean?” said Serge. “They’re refilling similar boxes?”

  “No, they’re the exact same ones. See for yourself.” She handed him the binoculars. “From the warehouse to Opa-locka to the Deering Estate to here. Lugar, Oxnart, Lugar, Oxnart.” She shook her head. “None of the arms ever left the city. They’re just running laps around Miami. And every time Evangelista gets paid on both ends… That’s the real reason we were detecting so many more guns than my country would ever need.”

  “Told you it was a typical CIA operation.”

  Felicia took a hard breath. “This is worse than I thought.”

  “What?” said Serge. “I thought you’d be happy the weapons aren’t reaching Costa Gorda.”

  “That’s when I thought the arms were the goal. But they’re just a means to an end, and I don’t know what the end is.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Evangelista would be dead for sure if he was pulling this double rip-off on his own. Our generals and your agents would be tripping over each other to put a bullet in him.” She stared at the stars. “Someone much bigger is behind this, with a bigger agenda.”

  “And you don’t think it’s the generals?”

  Felicia bit her lip. “Just this feeling I have. Something the dead newspaper reporter mentioned that I can’t get out of my head.”

  Serge covered his eyes with both hands. “Please, God. This isn’t happening.”

  “I didn’t know you cared so much about my people.”

  “Not that.” Serge nodded toward the dock. “Infants in traffic.”

  “Coleman’s going down there and talking to them? What the fuck!”

  “Surprise.”

  “Do something!”

  Serge raised his walkie-talkie. “Coleman, you need to get out of there!”

  Felicia tugged Serge’s sleeve. “Why isn’t he answering his walkie-talkie?”

  “It’s in his underwear.”

  Coleman looked down at his talking crotch. “Trippy.”

  Felicia jumped up. “I’ve got to stop him!”

  Serge grabbed her arm. “Beyond the point of no return. Best to let it play out.”

  “But he could wreck everything.”

  “Usually it gets so weird, people just dismiss him as a street loon.”

  “He’s patting them on their heads.”

  “Duck-duck-goose.”

  “They’re aiming guns at him!” said Felicia.

  “The game is more competitive than I remember.”

  The
hatch closed on the plane. Mooring lines uncast for emergency takeoff.

  “See?” said Serge. “Evangelista’s intervening and trying to cool them out. Maybe he’s done LSD and knows the score.” Serge keyed the walkie-talkie again. “Excuse me, Mr. Evangelista. Please don’t harm my docile friend. He’s just on acid.”

  Felicia and Serge watched in the distance as Victor stared down at Coleman’s pants. “Who the hell was that?”

  “Uh-oh,” said Serge. “More guns.”

  Shouting in the distance again. Evangelista firmly extended his arms to regain command of the troops. “No! No shooting! It’s a critical time for our operation back in Washington. Put the safeties back on-now!”

  A goon in a jumpsuit pointed an Uzi at Coleman. “But he saw everything. First Scooter and now this.”

  “He’s just a drug addict!” yelled Vic.

  “What about the voice in his pants?…”

  The arguing between Evangelista and his men escalated. The plane began taxiing off in Biscayne Bay. A heated shouting match.

  Felicia squinted from behind the hangar. “What on earth is he doing now at the back of that van?”

  “Oh, Coleman,” said Serge. “Not even you…”

  One of the jumpsuits pointed. “Look!”

  Everyone turned to see Coleman with an RPG on his shoulder.

  Victor held out a calming hand. “Easy with that. Try not to make any sudden moves. You don’t want to touch anything.”

  The Grumman lifted off from the water.

  Coleman touched something.

  Woooooooshhhhhhh.

  Everyone ducked.

  The rocket-propelled grenade streaked across the night sky, exploding through the seaplane’s left wing and fuel tank. The fireball lit up everything for miles, and debris plunked down into the water like flaming rain.

  The launcher hung loose by Coleman’s side. “Far out.”

  The Road Runner screeched up. Felicia jerked him into the car. Tires squealed.

  Evangelista: “They’re getting away!”

  Everyone ran to the vans and patched out, but the Plymouth was already gone.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Royal Poinciana

  The elevator reached the bottom floor, and Serge opened the accordion cage.