by Tim Dorsey
A mighty cheer went up.
Everyone pressed forward to shake Serge’s hand and slap him on the back.
“I’m his best friend!” said Coleman, who immediately had a giant cigar stuck in his mouth while another person lit it.
Felicia remained alert. The crowd began to disperse, revealing someone she hadn’t detected before. A bulbous man in a Tommy Bahama shirt wiped his brow, departing toward Calle. She stood up on her bench, drawing on years of surveillance training, taking in the audience as a whole and filtering its movement for the one who stood out.
She found him.
Another bench near the gold statue. A man rose with a folded newspaper, pulled the brim of a Panama hat down low over his eyes, and headed in the same direction as Evangelista. Carrying a briefcase.
Then she saw Coleman weaving erratically across the patio. “Uh-oh.”
He crashed into Serge, knocking him against the table and scattering the dominoes that spelled cock. Cuban expatriates scrambled to realign them.
“Coleman!” said Serge. “Watch it, man.”
Coleman wavered on his heels, pupils like pinholes. He held out the cigar. “What’s in these things?”
“Where’d you get that?”
Felicia ran over. “We gotta split. They’re on the move.”
“Who is?”
“Evangelista and his contact.”
“You saw the contact?”
“Not his face. They’re heading west on Ocho.”
Serge jumped up. “Coleman, we have to-” He looked around. “Coleman?”
Coleman stared upward with a smile of total peace. “My nuts like this.” His eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled over.
“Coleman!”
Felicia dashed for the street. “I’m going ahead. Call you on your cell…”
Calle Ocho
Coleman grabbed a lamppost and panted. “Why did Felicia have to take the car?”
“Coleman, you never smoke a cigar in Little Havana. They’re stronger than the coffee.” Serge shielded his eyes against the sun and looked up the street. “Enough rest. We need to shake a leg!”
Coleman pushed off from the pole and began staggering again. “How much further?”
“Farther. Three blocks.”
“I don’t think I can make it.”
“You’re acting like vultures are circling.”
Coleman pointed at the sky. “What are those?”
“Vultures. Don’t look up anymore.”
“I think I’m going to faint.”
“See the restaurant sign up there?” Serge dragged him toward it. “Cuban cuisine.”
“Versailles?” asked Coleman. “Is that Spanish?”
“No, ironic,” said Serge. “Like back at the Official Little Havana gift shop-in arguably the most virulent anti-Communist enclave in the world-selling souvenir domino sets ‘Made in China.’ My own people no less… Just keep walking.”
“Serge?…”
“Whoa!” Serge dashed over and yanked him back onto the sidewalk. “Try to stay out of traffic.”
Coleman tripped over the curb. “How come you always know where you are in Florida?”
“Lots of hours with maps, photos, and an aggressively encouraged obsessive-compulsive order.”
Coleman stumbled forward. “Don’t you mean dis order?”
“Only when it’s a bad thing,” said Serge. “But those people have problems. Like the ones who hoard newspapers and magazines until their homes are stacked to the ceiling with little place to walk until the piles eventually collapse, and the bulldozers find them crushed to death by their own shit. That’s why I only collect small souvenirs like pins and matchbooks.”
“Has it ever collapsed on you?”
“Yes, but I only twisted an ankle,” said Serge. “Speaking of geography awareness, did you notice all the double street signs around here?”
“Double?”
“Saturating idiosyncrasy throughout Little Havana.” Serge steadied Coleman by the arm and continued west. “There are the regular designations on the signs like Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street, and then second memorial names, mainly Cuban patriots, prominent politicians, a Brothers to the Rescue pilot shot down by a MiG, and Jose Canseco. The sign for Miami Sound Machine Boulevard kept getting stolen until Gloria Estefan’s solo career took off. Her father actually participated in the Bay of Pigs.” Serge pointed various directions. “They’ve used up so many signs that they’re running out of space and starting to triple up, like Southwest Seventh Street/Claude Pepper Way/Calle Simon Bolivar… Don’t think too hard about it and just let the magic wash over you…”
Coleman stopped at another lamppost. “How come Little Havana looks so different from all the other places we go in Florida?”
“All the signs are in Spanish?”
“No, I get that,” said Coleman. “Just something… off.”
“I know what it is,” said Serge. “Look around and it’ll hit you.”
Coleman slowly rotated in place on the sidewalk. Transmission shop, pawnshop, bakery, nail salon, farmacia, meat market. He stopped turning when he was facing Serge again. “Still can’t place it.”
“No chain stores!” said Serge. “All independent mom-and-pop’s. Not a single Rooms-to-Fucking-Go in sight. Isn’t it heaven?”
“I think I’m dying.”
Coleman didn’t die. But he wasn’t attractive when they finally reached air-conditioning and the maitre d’s stand inside Versailles.
A spiffy-dressed man cradled menus. A professional smile. “Two for lunch?”
“Three.” Serge angled his head toward a table. “The rest of our party’s already here.”
“Right this way…”
The maitre d’ led them on a winding course through the dining room, toward a seated woman staring daggers at them.
“Great,” Serge said sideways to Coleman. “Another chick pissed at me. The pattern of my life.”
“Maybe she has gas,” said Coleman.
“No, it’s chicks. I’m always in trouble without a clue. Married men are geniuses.”
“Could be her time of the month.”
“You might have something there.” Serge nodded to himself. “That would explain it. When it’s the wrong day-grab a helmet! I just give ’em all my money, point at the door, and say, ‘Call me when The Exorcist is over.’ Now I feel guilty for misjudging her… On the other hand, if she isn’t on the rag, I’m unfairly being taken advantage of for my sensitivity.”
“Why don’t you just come right out and ask her?”
“Used to do that, but funny thing: Even if the answer’s no, it only seems to make things worse. You and I freely exchange information without getting huffy.”
“I always warn you not to come in the bathroom when I’m spanking my monkey.”
“Exactly,” said Serge. “But women clearly don’t want that kind of data. And then they barge in without knocking and have a problem with that.”
“They don’t understand because they use appliances.”
“Better pipe down now-we’re almost there.”
They arrived at the table.
Serge manufactured his most engaging smile and pulled out his chair. “Sorry, we’re late.”
Coleman pulled out his own chair. “Are you on your period?”
“What!”
Serge chuckled awkwardly and punched Coleman in the shoulder.
“Ow.”
Serge scooted his chair in and opened a menu. “What looks good?”
Felicia stared down at her own menu. “Notice the corner booth by the front window?”
“Yeah,” said Serge. “Evangelista, eating alone.”
“The contact went to the restroom before you arrived.”
Coleman nudged Serge and giggled. “Spanking it.”
“Serge!” said Felicia. “What’s wrong with your friend?”
He shrugged. “I keep trying to explain the off-limit topics around women, lik
e how a lot of guys walking down the street are mentally undressing you gals and fantasizing tittie-fucks.”
“Serge!”
“Just giving an example of an off-limit. How else will you know what a gentleman I am?”
“This is serious.” She glanced again at Evangelista’s table. “That’s the contact’s briefcase next to his chair.”
“Recognize this contact?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember where.” Felicia turned a page in her menu. “American. I think he’s famous or something. Was hoping you could peg him when he comes back.”
“Do my best.” Serge squeezed lemon into his water. “Whoever it was did me a favor by picking this place as the meet point. I could eat anything in here, especially the palomilla steaks.”
Coleman knocked over a glass. “Didn’t break. No foul… What’s so special about the joint?”
“Versailles is the cultural dining epicenter of Little Havana. It’s an off hour right now, but at peak times, this place is a humming hive of exile political debate.”
“Looks like a regular restaurant.”
“You know how CNN sends reporters to barbershops in Iowa and interviews customers for the common man’s opinion of current events?”
“You mean the customers who wear fishing hats that say ‘Kiss my bass’?”
“Those are the ones,” said Serge. “And whenever something happens in Cuba, they send the camera crews here.”
“Don’t look,” said Felicia. “But his contact just came back.”
Serge intentionally knocked his fork on the floor, copping a glimpse as he bent down.
Felicia pretended to read her menu. “Know him?”
“Uh, yeah.” He looked down at his own menu. “I think you might want to consider dropping this business.”
“What business?”
“The whole thing. Your arms pipeline and whatever mystery’s behind it.” Serge reached across the table and placed a hand on hers. “Might be a good time to walk away. Make that run.”
She pulled her hand back. “This isn’t like you. What’s the problem?”
“Evangelista’s contact. I know him.” Serge shifted his eyes toward the other table. “And you don’t want to.”
“I’m not backing off. It’s my country.”
“And this is my country,” said Serge. “I know how the game is played. And the players.”
“So bail out if you’re scared. I’ll go it on my own.”
“I’m not scared. But I wish you’d be just a little bit.”
Felicia dismissed him with an offhand wave. “The generals disappear people all the time in Latin America.”
“Trust me on this. The guy has so much money and influence, he could make an entire city block in Miami disappear, no questions asked.”
Felicia picked up her menu again. “So who is this prince of darkness?”
Serge picked up his own. “Good way to put it…”
While they were talking, Evangelista picked up the briefcase and left. He strolled west up the sidewalk past the restaurant’s windows. A few minutes later, the contact finished a glass of water and departed eastbound.
Felicia threw a twenty on the table and got up. “We need to get moving.”
They reached the front door. A call from behind.
“Excuse me,” said the maitre d’. “You have a message.”
“I do?” said Serge.
He handed him an envelope.
Serge tore open the flap. “Who’s it from?”
“The gentleman at that table.” He tilted his head toward the empty one that had yet to be bussed.
“Which gentleman?” asked Serge. “The big one in the tropical shirt?”
“No, the other.”
Serge unfolded the note and read. He didn’t speak.
“What is it?” asked Felicia.
Serge looked up. “You’re not going to believe this…”
Chapter Thirty-Four
One hour later
A ’68 Plymouth rolled through a quiet neighborhood in Little Havana. Modest ranch houses and haciendas. A dog barked, trash cans at the curb for pickup, chain-link, Mexican tiles. The Road Runner continued, only one occupant in the car.
Serge slowly turned onto Southwest Ninth Street (also Brigade 2506 Way) and pulled to a stop in front of a quiet stucco home with the address 1821. He unlatched a gate, walked up the steps, and opened the front door without knocking.
Inside: long rows of bookcases, tables with maps, walls covered in photos and flags. At the rear of the room, a solitary man in a business suit stood with hands clasped behind his back. Reading a plaque.
Serge stepped beside him and stared at the next plaque. “Nice day.”
The man laughed. “Kind of weird meeting in the Bay of Pigs Museum. But from everything I’ve heard about you, actually not. How’d you find this place?”
“It’s on my rounds. And I could count on it to be empty. No respect for history.” He pointed through double glass doors. “See all the color pictures of older men on the side walls in that meeting room? They’re the patriots. The black-and-white photos of younger men behind the podium are the martyrs.”
“Whatever. The whole reason I wanted to meet-”
Serge interrupted by holding up a hand. He looked down at his own tropical shirt and the invasion brigade souvenir pin affixed over the pocket. Then at his contact’s empty lapels. “Where’s your pin?”
The man laughed again. “I know you must recognize me. Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
Serge cleared his throat and tapped the top of a small glass souvenir case. “The pin. It’s our signal.”
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke about national security.” Serge turned around. “I’ll go back outside, and we’ll start again.”
The man sighed as Serge left the building.
Moments later, the door opened again. Serge crossed the room.
The man tapped his lapel pin. “Happy?”
“Yes.” Serge fiddled with the area over his own pocket. “Now take off your pin before our code signal is detected by enemy agents.”
“We’re in an empty freakin’ house.”
“Ahem…”
“For the love of… Fine, whatever you say.”
The pin came off and went in a pocket.
Serge smiled. “So imagine my surprise when I got your message at Versailles. What on earth could the one and only Malcolm Glide want with me?”
“We’ve been watching you.”
“I’ve seen the black SUVs.”
“You’re good,” said Glide. “And President Guzman trusts you. That’s important.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You may scare other people.” Serge formed a steely glare. “I know you’d like nothing better than for his administration to topple so you and the generals can have the whole sandbox to yourselves again.”
Glide nodded with pursed lips. “I know why you think that. Because that’s exactly how I want it to look.”
Serge’s eyebrows knotted. “What?”
Malcolm gestured at the map table. “Have a seat. What I’m about to tell you has the highest security classification. Not even the FBI. And only the very top of the CIA.”
“Right, and you’re just going to spill it to me.”
“Guzman’s in extreme danger.”
“From you.”
“Like I said, I know how it looks.”
“It looks like you’re a disgrace to our political system. All those smear campaigns, preying on voters’ worst fears.”
“What can I say? I’m the best.” Malcolm sat back with a coy grin. “I know we’re on opposite sides of the philosophical aisle. But I was hoping that would make my proposition seem all the more credible.”
“You mean work with you? Now you’re joking.”
“That right-wing political stuff is just business. It’s also the reason why they came to me.”
“Who did?”
Malcolm sh
ook his head. “Can’t reveal that. But they said it was the perfect cover. You know about the arms shipments?”
“Yeah, you’re ripping off the American people and destabilizing the legitimate democracy of one of our neighbors. You should go to jail for life.”
Malcolm leaned forward and folded his hands. “Have you ever asked yourself why none of the weapons ever leave Miami?”
“You’re in cahoots with Evangelista ripping off your partners in crime?”
“Serge, the arms can’t leave Miami. That would be destabilizing. Meanwhile, I’ve gained the trust of the generals and Evangelista in a way no covert agent ever could.”
Serge formed a sarcastic mouth. “They came to you because you’re a prick?”
“Precisely. We’re building an airtight case. Bank transfers, taped conversations, everything.”
Now Serge leaned forward. “Okay, purely for sporting value, what’s this proposition? But realize that if I get half the chance, I’ll use it against you and nail your ass.”
“Fair enough.” Malcolm nodded again. “The case is coming together like planned. Except things have started moving too fast in Costa Gorda. Guzman’s pushing through all these reforms. I told him it was crazy. Just wait and be patient, and he’ll get everything he wants. Right after our case…”
Serge’s eyebrows went up. “You talked to Guzman?”
Malcolm nodded harder. “He knows everything I’m doing. And he’s got the generals shitting themselves.”
“So where do I come in?”
“The summit. The best time for a coup is when the president is out of the country. And after that idiot Scooter killed himself, the generals moved up the schedule. They already tried to hit him at the Diplomats’ Ball.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. I sent in a capture team for you,” said Glide. “But lucky for us-and Guzman-we didn’t succeed. That was some nice work of yours taking out the asset.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“In any case, what you did at the ball changed my mind about you,” said Malcolm. “And I need your help.”