by Tim Dorsey
“Hold up,” said Serge. “There’s one more thing I have to do . . .”
The last passengers exited the aircraft, which was the signal for a standby tactical unit in body armor to rush aboard. They swept the plane and reached one of the restrooms. On the mirror, drawn in soap:
A bowling ball with a lit fuse.
Back in the airport, total chaos. News crews surrounded passengers getting off the monorail for firsthand accounts. “. . . You wouldn’t believe the smell! . . .”
And at the departure gate, calm was finally restored. A woman with four-inch nails headed back to her desk. She stopped and gasped. On the ground, a clean rectangle indicated the outline of a missing Elite Club doormat.
Chapter Five
Miami International Airport
Blinking lights in the night sky toward the Everglades. A distant drone. Another Beechcraft full of weapons on its way to points south.
Limos continuously left the airport.
An orange-and-green Road Runner sat at the curb outside arrivals.
Coleman killed a Schlitz. “That really blew, driving all the way from Tampa.”
“But it took less time than we sat on that runway yesterday. Planes are now dead to me. I hate airports.”
“Me, too,” said Coleman. “The magic toilets always flush before I can squat and get fully situated, and it sucks down the little paper covering I laid out, because the paper tongue in the middle hangs in the water, and then I have to get another, and it sucks that one down, too.”
“Coleman, the whole key to airport life is tearing off the paper tongue first,” said Serge. “It’s against the rules, but you have to start fighting back somewhere.”
“Serge?”
“What?”
“Then if we both hate it so bad, why are we at another airport?”
“My new job.” Serge adjusted small opera binoculars.
“Job? Who hired you?”
“Those guys who threw me out in the street. Remember? Just after we got into town and I started taking photos of consulates.”
“I thought you were kidding about getting hired. They told you to come to the airport?”
Serge shook his head. “When you’re hired for such a sensitive intelligence position, they trust your judgment.” He set the binoculars down and opened a laptop.
“What are you doing now?”
“Killing time until my mission starts.” He began typing. “I’m writing to a pen pal.”
Coleman cracked another beer. “You mean that guy whose family got abducted.”
Serge shook his head. “Someone else.”
“You’re cheating on your pen pal?”
Serge continued typing. “I know it’s not right, but the heart wants what it wants.”
“Can I see?”
“Just let me finish this.”
More typing. Serge finally hit the save button and passed the laptop across the front seat.
Coleman leaned closer and began reading . . .
Dear Sarah Palin, Almost President
Going Rogue . . . and making it look so hot!
First, I know others say it all the time, but I’m your number one fan. And I’ll straight-talk like you always do: I’m writing you for a date. I’ve been following your career and there’s no stopping the Palin juggernaut if you’ve got the right man behind you (which you don’t). We both know the marriage is finished. You’re so past that Alaskan Urban Cowboy phase. So here are my plans to manage your life. Next phase: blockbuster movie star! It’s a natural—all you need is the right vehicle. And I’ve got it! Are you ready? Are you sitting down? All in the Family: The Movie. Can’t believe nobody’s thought of it before. To update the show for our times, we gender-shift and make you Archie Bunker. They wouldn’t even have to write your lines, just tape-record the speeches. Remember “Drill, baby, drill”? You pushed for offshore drilling, then after the spill you opposed offshore drilling, saying it was a dangerous idea that was forced by restrictions on arctic refuge exploration. No screenwriter in Hollywood has that kind of imagination. From there, everything falls into place. Instead of Edith, the guy you live with who drives the snowmobiles would be “Ed” the dingbat. And of course Levi is “Meathead.” So let’s start making some calls!
Meanwhile, I’ll work on your PR. If we’re going to be seeing each other, we have to be honest, so don’t take this the wrong way: You tend to polarize people. There, I said it. But it’s not your fault. The people polarize themselves. Everyone thinks baseball’s the national pastime, but a big chunk of the constituency has always had a dick-hard need for second-class citizens, and the loss of white-only drinking fountains has finally caught up and made them lose their fucking minds. To watch the news (if you did), you’d think half the country was illegal Latin Muslims from Arizona holding gay marriages at the World Trade Center. But back to your polarity, which I’ll boomerang to a super advantage. People think you’re only about money. And just because you quit your old job. What’s wrong with that? It’s the all-American story. Hundreds of campaign volunteers working tirelessly on your campaign, residents counting on a diligent administration to steer the ship of state, but you saw Russia out your window and took a valiant stand against communism by selflessly bagging your responsibilities for millions in book deals and appearance fees. Now, that’s character.
And if money’s what it will take to get you to go out with me, so be it. I know this guy in Africa named Bobo, and I’m just about to come into $50 million, which I’ll gladly split with you. In fact I might need your help on that because I think it’s supposed to be hush-hush. I’m sure you have contacts who can help me move the money, and we’ll probably also need to get Bobo out before they use the face-spreaders. If I’m going too fast, you can just write all this on your hand.
Finally: the press. They’re so unfair: “Which newspapers do you read?” “What parts of the Bush Doctrine do you support?” Those are disingenuous “gotcha!” questions. If they possessed any honesty or courage, they’d directly ask, “Do you read?” and “Do you know what the Bush Doctrine is?” So next time they give you some bullshit pop quiz, here’s what you do, and trust me: America will be totally behind you on this. You kick ’em in the balls! (Or in Katie Couric’s case, the twat. You know you want to. And then you can yell at her, “That’s my Bush Doctrine, bitch.”)
Can’t wait for our first date! Please wear those jeans. Rrrrrrrrow!
The Next Mr. Palin,
Serge
Coleman finished reading and looked up. “How are you going to get this to her?”
“I’ll just send it through her website.”
“So you really think you’ll get a date? . . . Serge?”
Serge had become locked on the view through his binoculars. He tossed them in the backseat and threw the Road Runner in gear. “We’re on!”
Fifteen minutes and ten miles later:
A limo sat on the side of a dark access road next to the Dolphin Expressway.
A carjacker with a shaved head threw the chauffeur over the trunk and stuck a gun in his ear. “Don’t move!”
A second assailant in dreadlocks ran to the side of the stretch and aimed a TEC-9 in the back window. “Get the fuck out of the car or I’ll blow your motherfucking heads off!”
The limo people watched the man outside with the submachine gun as if he were on TV.
“What are we going to do?” said the chief of staff.
“Is this glass bulletproof?” asked the president of Costa Gorda.
One of the bodyguards shook his head.
“Then I suggest we get out of the car.”
A fist banged a window. “I said get the fuck out right now!”
A back door slowly opened. “We’re coming out. Don’t shoot.”
The president emerged with raised hands. He was seized by his jacket and thrown face-first against the side of the vehicle.
Soon they were all lined up, hands against the roof. The shaved head grabbed two briefcases from
the backseat, then went down the row taking wallets and watches.
In the commotion of the blitz attack, nobody had noticed an orange-and-green Plymouth roll up quietly without headlights and park on the shoulder under petticoat palms.
Serge reached in his backpack. “We’ll have to move fast.”
“What do we do?”
Serge pulled a pair of items from the glove compartment and slapped one in Coleman’s hand. “Remember when we apprehended those thieves in Orlando? Just take this and do what I do.”
Back at the limo, a bodyguard made a false move, and the dreadlocks gave him a skull crack with his gun butt.
Two dark forms staggered and swerved up the street toward the robbery.
The shaved head turned. “Yo! Reggie, check it out. It’s our lucky night.”
Serge and Coleman stumbled closer to the group.
A MAC-10 swung toward them. “Give it up!”
Serge staggered a few more steps, covered his mouth, and bulged his cheeks. “My tummy doesn’t feel so good.”
The dreadlocks kept his own gun aimed at the entourage and looked over his shoulder. “They’re drunk.”
“Stop right there!” ordered the shaved head.
But the pair continued weaving and stumbling, each headed toward one of the assailants.
When Serge was a few feet from the shaved head, he grabbed his stomach and bent forward.
“Don’t you dare puke on me!” The robber jumped back a step, reflexively pulling up his arms, which meant the weapon was momentarily aimed at the sky.
“Coleman,” Serge slurred. “Now.”
“Now what?” said the robber.
“This!”
He got an eight-hundred-thousand-volt stun gun to the chest, dropping him to the street in a flopping seizure.
Midway up the side of the limo, someone else hit the ground with violent tremors.
Serge looked down at Coleman twitching on the pavement. “Shit.”
The battle would be decided in milliseconds. The dreadlocks realized the ruse and began swinging his TEC-9. Serge hit the ground and grabbed the other robber’s gun.
Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow . . .
Before the carjacker had a chance to fire, the pavement around his feet was raked with Serge’s salvo. He promptly dropped the machine gun and raised his hands.
Serge stood back up.
The Costa Gordan entourage went slack-jawed as Serge marched the attackers at gunpoint back to the Road Runner and forced them into the trunk. He slammed the hood and looked over at the group with a happy smile. “Show’s over. You can relax now.”
Heavy traffic whizzed by, out of sight, up on the expressway. An inbound 737 roared overhead as Serge strolled back to the limo past a row of shocked faces. He leaned down and helped a woozy Coleman to his feet: “You okay, buddy?”
Coleman nodded.
“What happened?” asked Serge. “Did he take it away from you?”
“No, I Tased myself.” He rubbed the middle of his chest. “Forgot which way to point it.”
“Don’t embarrass me,” whispered Serge. “These are important people.” Then he turned toward a tall man about sixty, balding on top with a thick gray mustache. “President Guzman?”
“Who are you?”
“Storms. Serge Storms.” He extended a hand. “I’m attached to your consulate down here.”
The president tentatively shook it. “In what capacity?”
“Security.”
“I haven’t heard of you.”
“Just got assigned today.” He bent down and picked up Coleman’s dropped stun gun.
“So you work in our consulate?”
“No. In fact, it’s best I not be seen near there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“By attached, I mean unofficially. As far as you’re concerned, I’m not attached at all.” He winked. “And I was never here.”
“So what are you doing here?” asked the president.
“Extra protection for the summit.” Serge glanced back at his Plymouth’s banging trunk. “Which you can never have too much of.”
A block east, a black SUV rolled up and parked without headlights.
President Guzman rubbed his chin. “So you’ve been following us since the airport?”
“Just keeping a friendly eye.”
The president joined Serge in looking back at the Plymouth. “That was close. I’ve heard of the crime around here.”
“This might not have been a robbery,” said Serge.
“Then what was it?”
“Who knows?” Serge made a lobbing motion with his arm like he was tossing a hand grenade. “Heard you’ve been having a little trouble with some rebels.”
“My generals have all that under control now,” said Guzman. “It’s been blown way out of proportion by the press.”
“Let it be blown,” said Serge. “You’ll get more foreign aid.”
A block west, a second black SUV pulled up.
President Guzman squinted into Serge’s eyes. “Foreign aid. Who are you really with? You’re Latin, but the accent’s American.”
“Born and raised an hour north of here.”
“So you’re actually on loan from . . . the CIA?”
Serge just smiled again.
The president nodded solemnly. “I understand.” He turned to his bodyguards in disapprobation. “You could learn something from this guy about real security. If it wasn’t for him . . .”
Serge began walking back to his car with Coleman.
“Excuse me?”
Serge turned around. “Yes?”
“What are you going to do with the guys in your trunk?” asked Guzman.
“I need to find out who was behind this. We’ll debrief them.”
“But I mean after that?”
Another grin. “What guys in the trunk?” He resumed walking back to the car.
“One more thing,” said the president. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job.”
Chapter Six
Miami Morgue
The lieutenant stared in defeat at a shark and partially digested arm. “Is it too decomposed to get an ID?”
“Definitely.”
The officer took a deep breath. “Then I guess it’s the missing-persons files.”
“Randy Swade.”
“Who?”
“That’s his name.”
“But I thought you said—”
The M.E. stuck his pen into a tray and lifted a wristwatch. “Engraved.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner? . . . Wait, where have I heard that name before?”
“Journalist for the New Metro Loafing Times.”
“That weekly rag with ads for sex-chat lines and kits to clean urine samples?”
The M.E. dropped the wristwatch in the pan. “Went missing a couple weeks ago in Costa Gorda. Found a passport and junk in his room.”
“Now I remember,” said the lieutenant. “They thought he got drunk at one of those spring-break bars that caters to underage American kids and then went swimming at night or some other misadventure.”
“They got the misadventure part right.” The M.E. snapped off his gloves and began washing up in the sink.
“You’re saying the shark swam all the way back to the Miami River?”
“Of course not.” The M.E. turned off the faucets. “I don’t think Randy ever left Miami.”
“But his passport and luggage . . .”
“Remember the investigative series he was working on for the paper?”
“I don’t read that trash,” said the lieutenant. “Nobody takes those conspiracy nuts seriously. All their articles about the CIA dealing crack.”
“I know most of it’s baloney, but still entertaining.” He grabbed a hand towel. “Randy was writing about Miami being the arms-smuggling capital of the Caribbean basin. Fancied himself landing the next Iran-Contra scoop. He was naming some pretty big fish, excuse the pun.”
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“Luckily it’s a matter for the Costa Gordan police.”
The M.E. glanced toward the tray with the severed hand. “Looks like it just swam back into your jurisdiction.”
“Great.” A deep sigh. “Couldn’t he have gotten robbed somewhere else?”
The examiner walked over and tossed the towel in a bin. “Lieutenant, if it really was his stuff in that Costa Gordan motel and he never left Miami, someone went through a lot of trouble.”
Biscayne Bay
Midnight.
All quiet on the water. The bay had been dark toward the east, but now a thin line of alabaster light appeared on the ocean’s horizon, where a full moon prepared to rise over the Atlantic.
Toward the north, a magical white aura from the distant Miami skyline and, closer, the lights of Key Biscayne with the outline of the Cape Florida lighthouse anchoring its southern tip.
But the island remained a ways off, as did the mainland. Even farther to the south, the Ragged Keys and Boca Chita, the first dribbling specks of exposed coral that grew into the Florida Keys.
A luxury fishing boat drifted silently with the tide in one of the isolated spots of Biscayne National Park. Serge stood up on the bridge with a nautical map and a flashlight, waiting for the moon. Two would-be carjackers lay by the bilge, wiggling with hands tied behind their backs.
“We weren’t going to hurt anyone!” “I swear we’ll never do it again!”
“All my guests say that.” Serge unloaded scuba equipment from one of the oversize duffels in the boat. “And they’re always right.”
The assailants stared at weight belts and mesh gear bags. “W-w-what are you going to do to us?”
“Thought we’d play a little game. You watch David Letterman? He leaves me in stitches!”
“Please let us go! We’ll do anything! We’ll pay you!”
“Shhhhh.” Serge repacked the bag. “You won’t be able to experience the peace out here.”
A beer cracked. “Where’d you get this boat?” asked Coleman.
“Stan.”
“Stan?”
“The High-End Repo Man. He owed me. You’ll meet him later.”
The moon finally rose, giving Serge needed illumination. He raised binoculars.