by Tim Dorsey
He led Coleman and Ted through the lobby. They suddenly froze.
“Felicia,” said Serge. “What are you doing here? We weren’t supposed to meet for another two hours.”
“You’ve picked up a tail. The guys we ditched last night at Dinner Key must have traced your hotel.” Her eyes shifted. “And one of them is already in here. Tan windbreaker. Don’t look.”
Coleman looked.
“Dammit,” said Serge. “He always does that.”
“It’s moot anyway.” Felicia felt inside a shoulder bag for her purse gun. “They know you’re staying here. You were made before you got off the elevator.”
“Suggestion?”
“The only option is a shake. And since they’ve already acquired us visually, it’ll be a hot pursuit.” Felicia made sure her shoulder bag was zipped tight and clutched fast to her side. “From your police record and knowledge of Miami, I’m guessing you’ve been here before.”
“My specialty.” Serge bent down to double-tie his sneakers. “Everyone ready?”
Felicia looked toward the lobby door and took a deep breath. “Lead the way.”
From the rear: “Excuse me?”
They turned. The hotel manager waved a stack of note cards behind the bulletproof glass. “Mr. Storms, you have a message. Actually several.” He slid them through the metal slot. “From the owners of those bodegas you shipped all that stuff to.”
Serge sighed. “I told you I’d get all their money back. I just need a little more time.”
“It’s not that,” said the manager. “They canceled the refund requests. And want to double their next orders.”
“What happened?”
“Completely sold out,” said the manager.
“Which ones?”
“Every island. Said they’ve never seen merchandise move so fast.”
“Serge!” said Felicia. “We have to get going!”
They did, hitting the sidewalk in a sprint and making a sharp right behind Serge’s lead.
Seconds later, a man in a tan windbreaker ran out to the curb. He waved hard for a black SUV parked across the street. The vehicle screeched up.
One block west, Felicia hit her aerobic jogging pace, one of the few ever to keep up with Serge. “Where are we headed?”
“Foolproof way to lose a tail in Miami.” He dashed through an empty intersection without breaking stride. “We’re bringing another of the city’s cultural districts into play.”
“How far away is it.”
“Pretty far.”
“I don’t think Ted and Coleman will make it.” She looked back. “And here comes the SUV.”
“No problemo,” said Serge. “The final destination is miles off, but the star gate’s coming up quick. Fifty feet.”
“Star gate?”
“The free People Mover.”
Serge and Felicia ran up the stairs to the monorail platform. She looked down over the railing. “The SUV’s parked right below the station.”
Serge hopped on the balls of his feet. “This is going to be so much fun!”
Ted and Coleman finally staggered up the steps. “We can’t go on.” “We’re gonna die!”
A monorail pod pulled up. Doors opened. Serge gave them a shove. “In you go.”
The tram pulled out. An SUV began rolling on the street below.
“We’re moving too slow,” said Felicia. “And there are so many stops. We’ll never lose them.”
“Yes, we will,” said Serge. “That’s the job of our escape guide. He’ll be our control agent. I just need to make contact.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then how will you recognize him?” asked Felicia.
“Random street person. Preferably homeless.”
“You’re looking for someone in disguise?”
“No, the real thing,” said Serge.
“I don’t understand,” said Felicia. “Is he expecting you?”
“No,” said Serge. “We’ve never met. And probably never will again.”
“Now I’m totally confused.”
Serge surveyed fellow commuters in the pod. “Street people are the best to help you navigate a city’s underbelly and lose tails. Plus they don’t cost much, but you have to break the payment up in small pieces or they’ll simply run away. Just as long as you keep feeding them ones and fives like bread crumbs, they’ll remain loyal protectors like the family dog with bacon treats.”
Felicia stood up. “This is ridiculous. We’re getting off, and I’m taking charge.”
“Trust me,” said Serge. “It’s one of Miami’s untapped resources, convenient and ubiquitously located all over the city like newspaper boxes or trash cans. And especially in the People Mover because it’s free and air-conditioned, like a mobile public library.”
Felicia stepped to the doors as they approached the next station. “Coming with me or not?”
Serge’s eyes locked on the rear of the pod. “Here’s our guide now.” He walked to the rear of the car and took a seat next to a lean, forty-year-old black man with bloodshot eyes and laceless sneakers. His tattered Miami Hurricanes jersey had been selected from the bottom of a storm-water culvert. Clutching a brown paper bag.
Serge smiled and extended a hand.
The man stared at it with disdain. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Serge Storms. You must be my contact agent.”
“Agent?” The man’s eyes widened as he shrank back into the corner of the molded bench. “Don’t hurt me! Don’t take away my thoughts!”
“Why would I do that?” asked Serge.
“Because you’re with the CIA. I told them at the shelter, but nobody would believe me.”
“I believe you,” said Serge. “I’m not with the CIA, but I am running from them.”
“You, too?”
Serge spread his arms. “It’s exhausting.”
The man tapped his left temple. “They have implants.”
Serge rubbed the side of his own head. “Mine still hurts.”
“It’ll go away.” The man removed a grungy Marlins baseball cap. “I lined the inside with tinfoil. You should get one.”
Serge held out his hand again. This time they shook.
“Name’s Jimmy,” said the man.
“Jimmy…” Serge pointed at the brown paper bag. “Can I buy you another?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, we’ll need to find a liquor store.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your bag.”
“I don’t have booze in here.”
He handed the sack to Serge, who glanced oddly at Jimmy before reaching inside and pulling out five paperbacks. “Kurt Vonnegut?”
“I read all the time.” Jimmy nodded at the books in Serge’s hands. “And that guy knows the real shit, man! The whole fuckin’ lay-down: time travel, other planets, alternate planes of existence. You need those if you’re going to survive in Miami.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
Jimmy took the books back. “So when was the last time you saw the agents?”
Serge pointed down out the window at a side street running parallel to the monorail. “There they are now.”
Jimmy leaned toward the safety glass, then covered his mouth in horror. “One of the black SUVs! We have to get out of here. Follow me!”
The next platform approached. Serge waited with Jimmy just inside the pod doors and grinned at Felicia.
She exhaled with dwindling patience.
The doors opened…
Five minutes later, Coleman looked out the back window of the city bus. “Still following us.”
The bus slowed at the next stop. Jimmy stood up. “Time to switch transpo.”
One block behind. A passenger in a black SUV with binoculars: “They’re switching again. First the People Mover, then a public bus, and now a jitney. How much training does Serge’s new contact have?”
“I don’t
know, but do you see where we’re heading?”
The passenger lowered his binoculars. “Liberty City? At night?”
“The home of the Miami riots,” said the driver. “One of the highest crime rates in America, and birthplace of some of the biggest rappers ever to grab a mike. The contact agent is probably their go-between with that faction. They’ve diversified into all kinds of other underworld endeavors.”
“The rappers are involved? Christ!”
“Just keep watching.”
He raised them to his eyes again. “You sure you want to go into Liberty City? We can always say we lost them.”
The driver’s knuckles turned white. “Just don’t think about it.”
The passenger adjusted his binoculars. “They’re getting off the jitney. And running across a vacant lot to where another bus is just pulling up at that stop.”
“Standard evasion. Hang on!”
The driver raced to the next intersection and made a skidding turn, then another, putting them at the bus stop on the other side of the lot.
“Where’s the bus?” asked the driver.
“Up there two blocks. Stay with ’em.”
“I’m trying to, but there are a lot of cars.”
“Where could they be heading?”
The bus took a left on Seventy-ninth Street and drove beneath the interstate.
“We’re getting deeper into Liberty City.”
“And they’re getting off the bus. They’re starting to run again.”
The SUV blew a red light but got jammed up in traffic. Cars filled both lanes. The driver of the SUV leaned on the horn. Occupants of the vehicles in front of them got out…
Serge and the gang ran up a dark sidewalk. Shadows in alleys, vacant people milling outside a fortified convenience store. Youths in white T-shirts rode bicycles in circles. The bicycles were too small for them.
Three blocks back, traffic cleared. The SUV began moving again. It passed I-95 pawn and the Tropicana Club. “Where’d they disappear?” said the passenger. “We need to go faster.”
“You try driving with busted headlights and a cracked windshield.”
They stopped again behind other cars, but no horn this time. Some of the alley people approached the van.
“Screw this,” said the driver, making a screeching U-turn and racing back toward Biscayne. “I mean, we really did lose them, right?”
The passenger stowed his binoculars. “That’s what my report will say.”
Serge smiled. “Told you we’d lose them.”
Coleman looked around the inside of a dark room and clutched his buddy’s arm. “But where are we?”
“Hot Nitez.” Serge grinned again at the three unamused bouncers blocking their path. Thick, folded arms, neck tats, detachable brass-knuckle belt buckles.
“Serge,” whispered Ted. “We’re the only white people.”
“I’m not prejudiced.”
“I’m scared.”
The largest bouncer took a step forward. “What are you guys doing in here?”
“Just boys ’n the hood,” said Serge.
A stiletto snapped open. “And you just walked into the wrong club.”
“Oh, it’s the right club,” said Serge. “Bet Luther Campbell got his start here. Big Supreme Court case. I’m down with 2 Live Crew.”
“You’re 2 Dead Crew.” A lascivious grin with diamond teeth. “But the lady can stay for my personal tour.”
“Get your fucking hands off me,” said Felicia.
“A tiger. I like it.”
From behind: “Man, they’re cool! They’re cool!”
“Shut up, Jimmy!” said the bouncer. “You crazy bringing these crackers around?”
The new arrivals at the door had everyone’s attention. Conversation at all tables ceased. Even the rapper onstage stopped and strained for a view around his microphone.
Big hands began seizing them.
“Hold it a minute!” said Serge. “There’s no need for that. We heard it’s open mike night.”
The bouncers laughed. “Did you hear that shit? Our boy here thinks he can flow.”
“Oh, I can rap all right,” said Serge.
“And I’m George Wallace.”
“Make you a deal,” said Serge. “Give me the mike, and if I roast this joint, you let us go home.”
“Shit, you get over and we’ll give you a ride home,” said the first bouncer.
The second bouncer smiled with diamond teeth. “Even let you pick the cuts on the car system.”
Coleman tugged his shirt. “Serge, you know what you’re going to sing?”
“No idea.”
“Serge!”
“Relax. Rap is all about improvising, and I do my best work under pressure… I just need your help.”
“Me?”
“After each couple verses, we’ll do a short, two-part chorus. I’ll elbow you when it’s your part.”
“What do I say?”
“Whatever pops in your head.” He looked at the bouncers: “And I’ll need coffee…”
A minute later, Serge was at the mike. If the place was quiet before, it was now a tomb. A clubful of people stared with latent violence.
“Wow,” said Serge. “Tough room.” He killed his coffee and turned to a DJ at the turntable. “Give me something upbeat…”
Synthesized music throbbed from a dozen industrial speakers.
Serge shuffled quickly in place, shooting gang signs. Then a hyper set of jumping jacks and push-ups.
The audience exchanged odd looks.
Serge finished warming up with a series of somersaults toward the center of the stage, jumped to his feet, and grabbed the mike: Serge is back, Jack, with all new facts The South Beach Diet and bikini wax Burmese pythons, the pit bull attacks Cunanan, Shaq, German tourists in T-backs I roll like Ricky Martin in “La Vida Loco” Caught the Mariel down to Calle Ocho Dissed the TEC-9s, and the dealers with the blow And the motherfuckin’ drivers who have never seen snow.
Serge: Miami’s trivia pimp is just the way that I rap.
Coleman: Look at all the black people. I think I’ll crap. Brazilians, the Euros, and all the Latin foxes Winning their hearts with all my souvenir boxes The beautiful ladies are what propel my rants From The Golden Girls to the chicks with implants. Survived the hurricanes and the oil spills Syringes on the beach and OxyContin pills The hookers, crackheads, meth freaks with bad gums Saw the Orange Bowl come down with the Sterno bums.
Serge: I’m stormin’ ashore with all the rhymes you’ll ever need.
Coleman: Is anybody out there holdin’ any weed? Smacking down the predators with just one hand While rockin’ out to KC and the Sunshine Band The Dolphins, the Marlins, the Panthers, the Heat Geriatric brawls at the shuffleboard meets. Janet Reno, Don Johnson, cigarette boats City-hall bribes, stolen election votes Anglo flight, dos cervezas, por favor Got my OCD buzz on like an epileptic whore.
Serge: Packin’ cameras, my pistols, Florida DVDs.
Coleman: The other night I spit up in my BVDs. You’re welcome for a visit, but you better not laugh Carjackings, race riots, drug informants sawed in half Cavity searches and the AWACs aircrafts Bales in the surf and the refugee rafts. The Gables, the Grove, cruisin’ Biscayne Bay I float like a flamingo, and sting like a ray Givin’ preservationists all of my hugs And only anal love for the litterbugs…
Serge and Coleman bowed. The crowd came to its feet in wild, unending applause.
Ten minutes later. A low-riding Cadillac DeVille cruised out of Liberty City with the top down. Serge, Felicia, Coleman, and Ted all crammed in the backseat of the whip. Giant chrome hubs. Amped stereo system with magnum subwoofer in the trunk, pumping out the tunes:
“Sweet home Alabama…”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Next morning
Felicia had the wheel.
Ten more blocks, then a red light at Eighth Street, more commonly known as “Calle Ocho,” the main drag and social artery through L
ittle Havana.
“Where’d you get this tip?” asked Serge.
Felicia sped up to make a yellow light. “Someone deep in our military.”
“That you slept with?”
“Don’t be disgusting. It was a hand job.”
Coleman tapped Serge’s shoulder. “I miss Ted. Why’d we leave him at the motel?”
“Because you gave him all those pills. He’ll regain consciousness.” Serge turned back to Felicia. “So where’s this fool’s errand taking us?”
“Fifteenth Avenue.”
“Fifteenth?” said Serge. “You don’t mean Maximo Gomez?”
The next thing Serge knew, Felicia was pumping quarters into a parking meter. “We need to keep an ultralow profile. I can’t stress that enough. There are way too many people around. Absolutely no unnecessary attention.”
Serge stood on a street corner, staring at a gold bust on a marble pedestal. A man in a military jacket with a wildly bushy mustache. A brass plaque:
GENERALISSIMO MAXIMO GOMEZ, 1836–1905, LIBERTADOR DE CUBA.
His trance shifted to the public park behind the statue and a living tradition of the old days. Under the shade of awnings, dozens of old, espresso-fueled Cuban men in straw hats sitting around special tables, playing furious games of dominoes.
“Serge!” said Felicia. “Were you listening?”
“Right, no extra attention.”
Minutes later: Everyone’s attention on one particular table. An excited crowd clustered tight behind the chair of the man holding court.
“Now, this is how you play dominoes!” said Serge, lining up the little white rectangles. A chorus of urgent Spanish whispers.
In the background, a wall with a mural of Latin leaders from some past hemispheric summit. In front of the wall, a bench. Felicia sitting, shaking her head.
Serge extended an arm without looking. “I need more!”
Someone slapped a leather case in his hand.
“Espresso me!”
Someone else held a tiny thimble of jet-fuel coffee to Serge’s mouth.
Felicia sagged.
It took another ten minutes, but Serge finally reached the last domino, gingerly setting it on end. “Now observe and regale.”
His index finger dramatically reached for the last rectangle, slowly tipping it over. And they were off! The initial row of dominoes fell like, well, dominoes, then forked and broke into multiple lines, snaking, curving, making jumps, reaching another table that had been pushed over, until they were all down, and the underlying pattern took shape: the island nation of Cuba in red, white, and blue, below a motto. C ASTRO S UCKS C OMMIE C OCK.