by Tim Dorsey
Coleman guzzled. “What are you looking for?”
Serge scanned the water. “A house.”
“House?” Coleman crumpled the aluminum can. “But we’re in the middle of the sea.”
“It’s one of our state’s most fascinating and historic features.” The binoculars stopped. “And there it is.”
“What?”
“Stiltsville.” Serge cranked the twin inboards and began motoring east just above idle speed. “A village of old wooden shacks on piers in the water.”
“Way out here?” said Coleman.
“That’s the coolest part.” Serge pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up on a plane. “Most pier houses simply extend from shore, or sit just a short distance from it. Not Stiltsville! In the 1930s, these crazy pioneers started building them far out in the bay on the edge of the open Atlantic, a harrowing distance from nearest land. At its peak there were dozens, but neglect and hurricanes thinned their numbers until now only seven are left standing. If it was daytime, you’d see a colorful collection of eclectic huts with wraparound decks perched in bright emerald-and-turquoise water.”
The boat continued across the water without running lights except for the orange glow from Coleman’s joint. “But why’d they build them so far from shore?”
“To party.” Serge brought the boat around starboard.
“Hold it,” said Coleman. “For a second I thought you said ‘party.’ ”
“It was the first of many wild eras in Miami. The well heeled needed places to keep law enforcement at bay, and they held wild affairs at since-forgotten icons like Crawfish Eddie’s, the Quarterdeck Club, the Bikini Club, and the Calvert. The area used to be called ‘the Flats’ and ‘the Shacks,’ until ‘Stiltsville’ stuck. Despite its remoteness, there still were frequent raids over alcohol and gambling. One outside porch got so crowded with partiers that it collapsed under the weight. They filmed episodes of Miami Vice there.”
Coleman leaned eagerly and strained his eyes. “Do they still party?”
“No, most are now just private homes.”
“Damn.” A frown. “I wish I lived back then.”
“You do in spirit.” Serge looked back toward the bilge. “Guys, you might want to sit up or you’ll kick yourselves for missing this. Actually you won’t be able to miss it, thanks to my plan.”
Coleman pointed with the joint. “Serge, I think I see one.”
“Our destination.” The boat came to port on dead reckoning. “Although most of the shacks are residences, I did a property-record search and this baby’s only occupied a couple weekends a month. Some boating club owns it.”
Coleman looked around. “Where are the others? You said seven.”
“Spread out for privacy. Just like I’ll need tonight. Plus it has the deepest channel.”
The boat completed the rest of the journey without conversation, until Serge pulled off the throttle and threw a line around a pier. He lashed the vessel fast to the cleats.
“Everyone out!”
Serge hoisted his prisoners and rolled them onto the dock. Then unloaded gear. “Coleman, give me a hand with this cooler. It’s super-heavy.”
Soon, they were all snuggled inside the Stiltsville shack. Serge walked around the perimeter, propping open shutters, and soothing views of moonlit water poured in.
Silence. Only lapping waves against the piers.
Serge set a portable, battery-powered TV on the counter and raised the antenna.
Captives flopped around.
Serge rotated the antenna, trying to get snow off the tube. He looked back at the floor. “All that worrying isn’t good for your blood pressure. We’re in one of the most picturesque places on earth. You should look out the windows—very easy on the nerves. I’ve been waiting my whole life to get inside a Stiltsville shack.”
A final twist of the antenna. Serge stepped back as the picture cleared. “There we go.”
Coleman lit another joint. “It’s Letterman.”
“I saw previews this afternoon.” Serge stood with hands on hips. “He’s going to do one of my favorite bits.”
On the tiny screen, Letterman tapped an index card: “And now another edition of ‘Will It Float?’ . . .”
Stage curtains parted to reveal a large, clear tank of water. Statuesque assistants stood on each side.
“Tonight’s item is an Ionic Breeze Air Purifier . . . Paul Shaffer, think it will float?”
“There’s a lot of plastic. I think it’ll float.”
Serge looked at the carjackers. “Well? Is it going to float? Come on—play along.”
No response.
Coleman raised his hand. “I think it’ll float.”
“Me, too,” said Serge. “Let’s watch.”
The models next to the tank threw the ionizer in the water. It immediately went to the bottom.
“Ooooo.” Serge turned to the hostages. “Bad omen.” He flicked off the set and unloaded the duffel bags. “But maybe you’ll have better luck.”
Their eyes only held questions.
“What?” said Serge. “You don’t get it? We’re going to play the home version of ‘Will It Float?’ Tonight’s items? You!”
Meanwhile . . .
Spies never sleep.
Lights burned bright inside a converted 1960s safe house in Coral Gables. Cracked plaster, termite damage, boarded windows, new locks.
An emergency briefing.
The door flew open. Station Chief Duke “Nuke” Lugar. The nickname wasn’t a compliment. His temper. “What the hell was this business near the airport tonight?” Fiery eyes swung toward a junior agent in the first row. “Belcher!”
The agent’s hands shook as he opened his report. “Acquired subjects outside Miami International, 2108 . . .” He passed forward eight-by-tens.
“A black SUV?”
Belcher nodded. “That’s Station Chief Oxnart’s surveillance team. We took those from our own black SUV.” He produced more photos.
“The president of Costa Gorda?” asked Lugar.
The agent nodded again. “We think they’re working an arms deal with Oxnart. Probably using a front corporation.”
“But I thought we were working the arms deal with them?”
The agent shrugged.
Lugar kicked over a chair. “That weasel’s moving in on my turf—and my promotion!” The station chief looked back at Belcher. “And what was this silliness you blathered on the phone about a carjacking?”
The agent fumbled more photos. “Here’s Oxnart’s black SUV on an access road near the Dolphin Expressway.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Looks like there was an attempt on Guzman’s life, but it was foiled.”
Lugar threw up his arms. “Great! Now he also gets commendations!”
Belcher timidly raised a hand.
Lugar clenched his teeth. “This better be good.”
“Sir,” said Belcher. “I don’t think Oxnart foiled the attempt.”
“Then who did?”
Trembling hands produced more photos. Night-vision close-ups of two faces.
“Who the hell are these guys?” asked Lugar.
“Nobody knows,” said Belcher. “But we ran facial recognition and got a hit. The tall one was photographed taking photographs outside the Costa Gordan consulate yesterday.”
“So Oxnart is working the arms deal! And he’s now got his own man inside the consulate!”
“Doubt it,” said Belcher. “These other photos show guards ejecting him from the building. They threw him to the ground really hard.”
“You idiot! That means they hired him.” The chief began pacing in thought. “This is a nightmare.”
The door opened at the back of the room. A man in a hat took a seat.
“You’re late,” snapped Lugar.
“Sorry,” said Mandrake. “Just got back from the bay. Picked up Oxnart’s surveillance team near the waterfront and spotted two unknowns, but th
ey had a boat and slipped our tail.”
Lugar punched a wall. “Can’t anyone do anything right?”
“I think this is important.” Mandrake handed forward his own photographs.
“More mystery players?” said Lugar. “Dreadlocks and a shaved head?”
“The ones that attacked Guzman’s limo. Here’s another photo of them being marched onto the boat at gunpoint by our unknowns.”
“Hey,” said Belcher. “Those are the same guys from the consulate.”
“You’re a genius.” Lugar resumed pacing. “Okay, we need to get out in front of this. What have we got so far? Oxnart’s new agents are in bed with Costa Gorda, and they intercepted a hit team on Guzman. Then took them out on the bay at night. Standard procedure for interrogation and disposal . . .”
A new hand went up in the back of the room.
“Yes, Blankenship?”
“Sir, I think we may have this all wrong. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one.”
“What are you talking about?”
Another file opened. “After the facial recognition hit, I searched some databases and came up with a name. Serge A. Storms, wanted by state authorities for questioning in at least two dozen murders.”
Lugar nodded. “Professional assassin.”
“Don’t think so.” Blankenship flipped pages in a computer printout. “These look like garden-variety homicides. None of the victims appears to have any link to the intelligence community.”
“That means he’s good,” said Lugar. “Maintained cover to protect the Company. If he ever goes down, it’s just the work of one of this state’s countless psychotic serial killers.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“You said two dozen murders?”
“Yes?”
“And he’s never been caught? How’s that possible unless he’s sanctioned? With a sanitation team working behind him. I’m thinking Oxnart.”
“So what do we do?”
“Cancel all vacations.” Lugar uprighted the kicked-over chair. “Maybe we can turn this Serge character.”
“Turn him?” asked Belcher. “But if you’re right, he’s already working on our side.”
“Not turn him from the enemy. From Oxnart. Somebody with his talents needs to be working for my station.”
Chapter Seven
Biscayne Bay
Serge walked across the Stiltsville shack and strapped something around the first captive’s waist.
The man squirmed violently. “Dear God! Not in the water!”
“Relax.” Serge snapped a latch. “Most people don’t drown because they’re bad swimmers. They drown because they panic. Humans are naturally buoyant. So as long as you keep your heads . . .”
“You just put a scuba weight belt around me!”
“That’s right.” Serge strapped a belt on the second hostage. “Now you’re not naturally buoyant. Otherwise there’d be no point in the game.”
Uncontrolled screaming and weeping.
“Jesus!” said Serge. “I’m never kidnapping you guys again. They’re just five-pound belts, so you’re only slightly non-buoyant . . . And that’s what these are for . . .”
He smiled and held up mesh diving gear bags.
One of the captives stopped crying and sniffled. “What are those?”
“Your life preservers,” said Serge. “Maybe.” He opened the cooler. “All depends on what you put in them. Who wants to pick first?”
“What are our choices?” asked the second hostage.
“Tonight’s ‘Will It Float?’ theme is Florida cuisine, starting with yummy tropical drinks like the mojita. And you can’t have them without ice.” Serge pointed down in the cooler. “There’s a half-dozen ten-pound blocks in there. Who wants it?”
In rapid succession: “Me!” “Me!”
“I made that one too easy,” said Serge. “Anyone who’s had a tropical drink sees the cubes floating at the top of the glass, except weight belts aren’t involved. So is their buoyancy enough? You make the call!”
“Can I change my answer?” asked the hostage.
“No,” said Serge. “You buzzed in first. I don’t make the rules.” His head turned toward the remaining contestant. “That leaves you with this . . .” He opened another duffel and pulled out several shopping bags with loaves poking out the tops. “Miami is famous for her deeeeeee-licious Cuban sandwiches.”
Coleman burped. “I had one of those once.”
“I remember,” said Serge. “You embarrassed the hell out of me.”
“How’d I do that?”
Serge turned to his captives. “Dig this: We’re on Calle Ocho in Little Havana, and Coleman points up at a menu board and says, ‘What’s a Cuban?’ ”
“I want to know what’s going in me,” said Coleman.
Serge rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Anyway, there’s twenty loaves of Cuban bread here. I let them get extra stale and hard to resist sogginess . . . Okay, everyone back out on the deck.”
They had to be dragged.
Fifteen minutes later, Serge attached a final clamp and stood up. “Let the game begin!”
The captives sat with legs hanging over the side of the dock, hands still bound behind their backs. Each had a pair of mesh bags tied to their weight belts, respectively filled with ice blocks and loaves.
Serge knelt behind them. “One last thing. Regardless of the game’s results, I built in a bonus round. I always like to give my students a way out. It’s a pretty obvious and logical escape, just as long as you remember what I said before: Don’t panic.”
He slid sideways behind the one with ice, and looked up. “Coleman, your opinion? Will it float?”
“I think so.”
“Me, too.”
He gave a hard push, and one of the carjackers splashed into the water. And went under the surface.
Serge stood and scrunched his eyebrows. “Could have sworn he’d float.”
“Look!” said Coleman. “He bobbed to the surface!”
“It floats!”
Serge moved to the remaining captive. “Coleman?”
“I don’t think it’ll float.”
“Me neither.”
Another shove and splash.
“Well, what do you know?” said Serge. “It floats. That’s two for two.”
The criminals stared up from the water, breathing heavy with relief. “Thank God! So you’ll release us now?”
“Absolutely,” said Serge. “You’re free to go, anytime you want.”
They looked around. “Uh, all right. Help us up.”
“That’s not the deal,” said Serge. “Your freedom is built into the bonus round. Figure it out and it’s joy time. Or come up with your own idea. Either way, I’ll keep my word and not do anything to hinder your escape.” He looked at Coleman and shook his head. “You give and give, but some people are never satisfied.”
“Hey, I’m getting lower,” said the one with the ice bags.
“I almost forgot,” said Serge. “Ice floats. It also melts. Even faster in salt water.”
“I’m begging you. Get me out of the water.”
Serge took a seat on the edge of the dock. “Then come clean. Who are you working for?”
“What?”
“Who sent you to take out the president of Costa Gorda?”
“Nobody. We were just robbing them.”
“Suit yourself,” said Serge.
“Wait.” The man had to tilt his head back to keep his mouth above water. “I swear I’m telling the truth.”
“Bullshit. You’re a spy!” said Serge. “For the last time, who put out the contract?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Coughing and spitting water. “You have to believe me!”
Coleman nudged Serge and whispered: “So he’s really a spy?”
“Naw,” said Serge. “Only another street-level stickup man. I’m just fucking with him.” He faced the water again. “I’ll make it si
mple for you. Was it the Marmoset or the Purple Gang?”
More coughing. “Okay, okay, it was the Purple Gang.”
“See?” said Serge. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“Now get me out!”
“You have everything you need to get yourself out. Remember the bonus round: Don’t panic.”
“Ahhhh!” Glub, glub, glub. He went under.
Serge and Coleman stared over the side of the dock. One minute. Two. Three. Then a burst of bubbles hit the surface.
“Guess he didn’t win the bonus round,” said Serge.
“What was that business about the Purple Gang?” said Coleman.
“Just proving a point in support of prisoner rights,” said Serge. “Torture doesn’t produce reliable confessions.” He swiveled his head left. “How are you doing with those loaves?”
“Pleeeeeeeeease!”
“It’s like the name of that movie,” said Serge. “Hope Floats. Actually it dog paddles. Land’s that way. Only a few miles.”
“Little things are hitting me!”
“Those must be tropical fish. You should come out here in the daytime. Our coral reefs are magnificent!”
“More things hitting me! Are any of them dangerous?”
“Completely harmless. If I used meat, that would draw sharks. Bread only draws the little guys.”
“Draws them?”
“Yeah,” said Serge. “They like to eat it.”
The captive looked around in the water at a growing swarm of tiny fish nibbling through holes in the mesh bag.
Serge and Coleman hopped back in the boat.
“Wait!” yelled the man in the water. “You can’t leave me!”
Serge untied davit lines. “Remember the bonus round. Just stay calm.”
Coleman leaned over the bow. “Wow! Look at those fish go at it. The loaves are almost gone.”
Serge joined him up front. “They must love Cuban bread as much as I do.”
Like the first captive, the man’s head was tilted back, nose and mouth barely above the surface.
“Help—” Glub, glub, glub. Under he went.
The pair in the boat watched quietly. This time only two minutes until the bubbles came.
Serge started up the engine. “I would have bet anything at least one of them would win the bonus round.”