by Tim Dorsey
Coleman looked around. “Who said that?”
“Said what?”
“Knots and gag balls.”
“Maybe my narrator,” said Serge. “Actually the proper term is the narrator. My implies a demeaning, possessive relationship, like he’s an organ-grinder monkey. Narrators don’t like that.”
They don’t. The spy from Costa Gorda grew closer. Felicia turned around. The agent ducked behind a potted tree at the News Café.
Coleman resumed walking. “Remember when they found the star of Kung Fu tied up and dead in that motel closet.”
“David Carradine,” said Serge. “Bangkok. The namesake of the Kill Bill movies.”
“They said he accidentally got strangled during freaky sex with himself.”
“Coleman, that’s a private matter. He should be remembered for his impressive body of work.”
“But it’s so embarrassing.” Coleman looked back up at the window. “If I ever thought I might die while playing with my dong, I’d make sure I could throw any devices across the room.”
“That might just be the first time you’ve planned for the future.”
“Planned? I’ve actually been practicing it. You were asleep.”
“You thought I was asleep,” said Serge. “I was wondering why I kept hearing bedsprings and then these little fur doughnuts began flying over my head and hitting the wall.”
“I just don’t want to be found in a motel room like Kung Fu,” said Coleman. “How’d you like to be found in a motel room?”
“Let me take a wild stab at that,” said Serge. “Alive?”
They started across the street. Three men approached from the opposite curb. White face makeup, black-and-white-striped shirts, and red berets. The trio tipped their caps in recognition as they passed Serge.
“You know those guys?” asked Coleman.
Serge nodded. “You heard of the Guardian Angels?”
“Yeah, vigilante group that protects people.”
“Those three guys are from Tampa. They started their own group, the Guardian Mimes.”
“You mean like the dudes from when you filmed those Clowns-versus-Mimes underground fight videos?”
“The same,” said Serge. “I was worried they’d disband after we hit the road. Fortunately they’ve come back stronger than ever.”
“Do you keep in touch?”
“Still got their numbers in my cell. I thought they tried calling a few times, but there didn’t seem to be anyone on the other end.”
Three more men in red berets came toward them on the sidewalk. Big, floppy shoes and rubber-ball noses. An exchange of knowing looks with Serge.
“The Guardian Clowns?” asked Coleman.
“I feel like a father.” Serge unfolded his scavenger-hunt checklist and made an X next to “Wise Latina T-shirt,” from the confirmation hearings of Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor. He returned it to his pocket. “This is the end of Ocean Drive . . . Felicia, where to now?”
Felicia was facing the other way in frustration, hands on sensuous hips. “Scooter! Stop messing around! Get over here!”
The spy from Costa Gorda popped up from behind a Dumpster, glanced around, and ran across the street to them.
“What’s with you?” asked Felicia. “When I said to meet us, I didn’t mean follow us.”
Escobar’s eyes were still darting around. “They’re everywhere. A spy can’t be too careful.”
“You’re coked out of your skull.”
“No, I’m not.” Scooter gnashed his teeth. “Not a lot.”
“Just don’t do any more,” said Felicia. “We’ve got important business.”
Scooter took a step back. “That’s Serge!”
“Everything’s cool.” Felicia set a brisk foot pace for the gang. “He’s with us. Someone’s been feeding you bad information, and I have a pretty good idea what’s going on. I’ll lay it all out when we get to our destination.”
Serge walked up alongside. “What is our destination?”
“Spy.”
“Not what we’re doing. Where we’re going.”
“That is where we’re going. But it doesn’t open till late.”
Back up the street, the Above-Average Model got an odd look on her face. She glanced around from their sidewalk café table.
“What’s the matter?” asked Johnny Vegas.
“I don’t know.” She turned and looked the other way. “Just this strange paranormal feeling.”
“What’s it like?”
“An unusual pulling sensation,” said the woman. “And I’m not one to believe in the supernatural, except I’ve never felt anything stronger . . .”
Later That Evening
An eight-seater prop jet landed on a narrow dirt runway. Dense coconut palms. A small island with an inactive volcano.
Stairs flipped down from the side of the plane. A golf cart broke through palms on the edge of the clearing and gave the passengers a lift into town.
The driver smiled with a gold tooth. “Where to, señor?”
“Bodega,” said one of Oxnart’s men in a tropical shirt.
“Which one?”
The agent looked up. Blinking lights as another plane approached for landing. “Start with the closest . . . And step on it!”
The golf cart rolled back into the jungle.
The same scene repeated across the Caribbean Basin. Clandestine white Lears landing on dubious runways that rarely saw anything bigger than tourist puddle jumpers and smugglers’ Cessnas. Then golf carts and antique jeeps appeared from the jungle, and more racing around the islands.
Two of Lugar’s men entered a tiny sundries store on Costa Gorda. Cages of chickens, banana chips with Spanish labels. Guava paste. Santería candles. Cans of Coke for five dollars. The owner was a short, trim older gentleman in a lightweight yellow shirt and plaid shorts. Thin hair on top covering a port-wine birthmark shaped like a voting district. He parted rows of hanging beads from the back room and stepped up behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
The agents looked back and forth. Solemn mouths. “Souvenirs.”
“Souvenirs?”
“Whatever you got.”
Vague bewilderment from the owner. “We don’t carry souvenirs.”
One of the agents leaned over the counter and fiddled with a faded cardboard display that held two disposable lighters and twenty empty slots. In a low voice: “We understand you received a shipment from Miami.” He pulled out a manifest and winked like they had a long-standing relationship.
“Oh, that.” The owner chuckled. “Completely ridiculous. We’re shipping it all back.”
“Is it still here?”
“But it’s taped up.”
“We’ll pay for the tape.”
“Suit yourself.” Back through bead strands.
He reappeared with a large, sturdy box and sliced open flaps. The agents dug through ashtrays, postcards, dashboard hula dancers, hourglass egg timers encased in Lucite, crucifixes made of seashells. The agents packed everything back up.
The owner laughed again. “Told you it was ridiculous.”
“We’ll take it all.”
“You’re kidding.”
A pair of hundred-dollar bills said they weren’t.
The owner folded the money and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Nice doing business.”
The first agent leaned forward again, holding another hundred out straight between his index and middle fingers. “If anyone asks, we were never here. And you never saw any souvenirs.”
The owner pocketed the tip. “Who’s going to ask?”
The men took their box and left without answering. The owner smiled to himself and shook his head, straightening the cardboard display on the counter.
Two more gringos came through the doorway and glanced around. “Have any souvenirs? . . .”
Part III
CLUB SPY
Chapter Twenty-Four
Miami Beach
Ocean D
rive.
Changing of the guard. Nightlife. The sidewalk smelled like sex.
Lunch fare turned to fashionably late dinner. The jet set sniffed wine corks at outdoor tables facing the Atlantic. Haute cuisine. Micro-portions of pan-seared albacore, showcased with decorative, Spirograph swirls of lemon and raspberry sauce reaching the edge of the china, creating the illusion of a meal.
Someone had a more satisfying amount of eggs Benedict at the News Café. Cameras flashed. People still taking photos of the mansion steps where Gianni Versace was gunned down by Andrew Cunanan.
Johnny Vegas banged his forehead on a restaurant table as the Most Laid Guy in Miami left arm in arm with an Above-Average Model. They strolled one street over to Washington Avenue.
Club row.
The scene didn’t start until midnight . . .
12:01 A.M.
Every block, velvet ropes held back crowds pleading with bulky men in black shirts. Wires running from their collars to earplugs. Staring over the crowd’s heads with stone expressions. From time to time, one of the security men pointed into the pulsing mob. The rope opened. A gleeful group ran inside. The rope closed. Ugly people stood for hours and went home.
Felicia and Serge strolled north on the sidewalk. She radiated the kind of visceral aura that meant never having to wait behind velvet cords. Serge was debonair, with enough poised carriage to ride her coattails. Not so with the trio trailing behind.
Coleman, Escobar, and Savage already contained a half-dozen drinks each, stumbling and weaving through waiting crowds.
“Hey, watch it, asshole!”
Serge turned to Felicia. “Sorry about that. They’re a little rough on the edges but generally harmless.”
“Forget it,” she said. “I know men. Much worse. Those guys are lovable in their own way.”
Serge looked back as the threesome divvied up pills. “They do seem to be hitting it off.”
“Common interests.”
The next club didn’t have ropes to keep people out, so nobody wanted to get in.
Excitement built. Some kind of music video shoot in the street with ostriches, backup singers painted silver, and a giant, inflatable iPad.
Police cars with flashing lights penned in a crashed Porsche.
Another block, another film crew. A TV ad for rum that would only be seen in Uruguay.
Felicia and the gang skirted another hopping crowd behind a barrier. Limos pulled up. The under-nourished climbed out. Velvet rope unhooked. Air kisses. In they went.
“Who wants to exist like that?” said Serge. He turned around again. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
“Where’d those idiots go?”
“I don’t see them anywhere.”
Serge sniffed the night air. “Follow the marijuana.”
They arrived at a garbage-filled alley between buildings.
“What the hell are you guys doing in there?”
“Oh, hey Serge.” Coleman took a big hit. “Just burning a quick one with my new friends. I didn’t know spies did weed.”
“Hurry up. You’re keeping Felicia waiting.”
“Almost done.” Coleman rapidly toked a roach.
Then, yelling from deeper into the alley. A man in a ripped shirt ran past them onto the street.
“What’s that about?” asked Coleman.
“Probably a mugging,” said Serge.
Back up the alley, six people in red berets. Three clowns restrained the assailant, and three mimes silently pretended to punch him.
The guys rejoined Felicia. “Where is this place?” asked Serge.
“Next block.” Felicia handed him a business card.
Serge stared at it, then flipped to the blank back side. “It just says, ‘SPY.’ No address or phone number.”
“If you don’t know, you’re not supposed to come.”
They crossed the street and stood in front of a boarded-up building.
“Looks closed,” said Savage.
“Looks abandoned,” said Serge.
“That’s on purpose.” Felicia walked around the corner. “Follow me.”
They headed up a dark side street, then made a left down an even darker alley. Just past the third trash bin, Felicia approached an anonymous steel delivery door.
Four hard, evenly spaced knocks.
A metal slit opened. Two eyes.
“Hey Felicia.” The slit closed. A voice inside. “It’s okay. It’s Felicia.” The slit opened. “Long time . . . Who are those other guys?”
“They’re with me.”
“That’s good enough.”
The door opened.
“Wow,” said Coleman. “What a cool club!”
Eyes adjusted in dim light that only came from the glowing bars and cocktail tables, fitted underneath with special diodes.
A waiter arrived.
Drinks.
“Serge,” said Coleman, liberally splashing whiskey on his shirt like cologne. “Everyone who works in here is wearing an eye patch. Except that old bald guy sitting up in the DJ stand with a cat in his lap.”
“It’s SPY,” said Felicia.
“It rocks,” said Serge. “Like the lair of some larger-than-life Bond villain who holds the fate of the world for ransom. I always wonder how they can hollow out a volcano with nobody noticing, not to mention the four hundred lab workers in white smocks and clipboards, monitoring power levels on the giant laser used to shoot down satellites. How do they get hired? Where do they sleep and eat? I’ve never seen a cafeteria in the volcanoes. That would make it more realistic.”
“Please,” said Felicia. “We have important business.”
“Right, business.” He made a serious face. “You said you had an idea what’s going down.”
She leaned forward and motioned everyone else to join her. “About two weeks ago, I met with this reporter. He had a story about illegal arms shipments. But since his newspaper had a reputation for sensationalism, I thought it was just a wild tale.”
“It wasn’t?”
Felicia shook her head. “On a lark, I did some digging and found irregular bank records. So I met him again.”
“What happened?” asked Serge.
“I gave him the records, and we were scheduled to meet a second time later that night when he would slip me some kind of geology report.”
“Geology?” said Serge. “How does that figure?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did his report say?”
“Never got it.”
“You were stood up?” said Serge.
“The permanent stand-up.” Felicia knocked back a shot of tequila without making a face.
The guys were impressed.
She licked salt off the back of her hand. “I went down to the river, and this so-called contact of his was supposed to take me to him, but I saw blood dripping from the bumper first.”
“That meant you were next.”
“Those karate classes paid off.” Felicia waved for the waiter.
Serge sipped his bottle of water. “So who was this guy?”
“Blond crew cut, never seen him before.” Another shot of tequila arrived. “But I think I’ve heard of him. Freelancer who does contract work for the highest bidder. And not cheap.”
“Whatever that reporter knew, someone wanted it to stay with him.”
“And I think it leads back to the generals. They’ve never liked Guzman, and all they need is a push.”
“Who’s doing the pushing?” asked Serge.
“That’s what I need to find out.” She killed the second shot. “Only thing I know is it has something to do with the arms shipments. At first, all I had were the bank discrepancies and that reporter’s suspicions, but a few days later Scooter told me about his uncle and actually seeing the crates in a Miami warehouse. You’ve heard of Victor Evangelista, the infamous weapons supplier?”
“Who hasn’t?” said Serge.
“That’s when I knew for sure. Then Sco
oter mentioned the plot against Guzman.”
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” said Escobar.
“Just keep your ears open and tell me everything.”
“About what?”
“What we’ve been talking about!” said Felicia.
“Could you repeat it?” Scooter knocked over his kamikaze, flooding the small table.
Felicia grabbed his wrist. “Why don’t you go sit with your friends at that table way in back while I finish talking with Serge?”
Scooter looked around. “Where?”
Serge pointed. “Behind the giant fake laser gun used to shoot down satellites.”
The three amigos got up and Coleman winked at Serge. “I get it: you and Felicia.” He made a circle with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, then pointed his other index finger and stuck it back and forth through the hole.
“Coleman!” snapped Serge.
“We’re going . . .”
Serge covered his eyes. “I’m mortified.”
“Don’t be.” Felicia edged her chair closer. “How long have you known him?”
“Since he was a pup.” They both looked toward the back table, three arms waving drunkenly for a waiter. “I feel an obligation.”
“I think it’s sweet how you look out for him.”
“So how’d you become a spy?”
“By accident. I was just this government secretary back home, but the bosses were always inviting me to these big parties. I was at a soiree in this compound on the side of a mountain, and some old jerk I’d never seen before is all over me, the kind that touches a lot.” She shook her shoulders at the thought. “Just about to slap him when these other guys hustled me into the kitchen. Turns out the groper was running for vice president.”
“And those others guys wanted you to get dirt on him.”
“Wouldn’t believe how much I got paid.” She fiddled with her empty shot glass. “After that, I ruined five more candidates across the islands. Then Scooter needed a babysitter in Miami and here I am.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a spy,” said Serge.
“It’s a joke,” said Felicia. “Everyone imagines cloak-and-dagger, but ninety percent of the time you’re spying on friends. Sometimes in your own office, everyone protecting their jobs. And not even good spying. Just a bunch of silly bumbling—”