by Tim Dorsey
Louder crying, pointing back at the restroom with shaking arms.
Serge noticed their shirts. “Blood again? How’d you cut yourselves now?”
Felicia jumped up. “They didn’t cut themselves. That’s spatter.”
Savage wiped tears. “It was an accident.” He lifted his shirt to show them the giant pistol he’d spirited out of the restroom.
“Are you crazy!” Serge glanced around fast and snatched the gun. “The bartender’s already calling the cops.”
Felicia took off running with Serge close behind.
They pushed open the men’s room door and froze.
“Dear God!” said Felicia.
“What a mess!” said Serge.
“Where’s his head?” said Felicia.
Distant sirens.
She grabbed Serge’s arm. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
Costa Gorda
Clouds drifted below.
Poking from their wispy curls was a steep mountain rising high into the jungle rain forest. Lush, humid, loud with colors and birds.
Jutting off the side of the mountain, just above the cloud line, sat a mansion. Red barrel-tile roof. Walls of coquina, hewn and helicoptered up. A courtyard with twin rows of palms down the sides of an elongated pool. At one end stood a towering bronze statue of General Montoya Escobar, which appeared handsome, august, and nothing like the general. At the opposite end of the water, just inside a granite balustrade that prevented a sheer drop into the tree canopy, stood the general himself.
A lone bird of prey circled above.
On the far side of the compound, a series of hollow booms.
“Pull!”
A clay disk sailed over the trees. A general in a jacket with leather elbow pads raised a vintage double-barrel.
Boom.
Soldiers with machine guns patrolled atop walls and down in the jungle paths around the base of the compound.
General Escobar lifted his arm above the balustrade. A peregrine falcon circled a final time over the mountain and came in for a talon landing on Montoya’s glove.
The same scene every weekend, a collision of class and crass. Dom Pérignon, skeet shooting, falconry, and art masterpieces throughout the residence, where all the TVs were on Baywatch, and the pool full of naked women and drunk old generals peeing in the shallow end.
Or at least the TVs were usually on Pamela Anderson. Today they carried dubbed-in satellite reception from Miami.
“. . . This is Eyewitness News Action Seven Noon Report. We take you to South Beach and the site of an unfortunate fatal accident . . .”
Another channel.
“. . . Action Eyewitness Nine, from just off Washington Avenue, where police are releasing few details outside a club ironically called SPY . . .”
Another channel.
“. . . Unnamed sources identify the victim as Scooter Escobar, an intelligence agent attached to the Costa Gordan consulate, who is also the nephew of a five-star general—”
A hand turned off the set. A trusted colonel walked across the patio to Escobar. “They’re ready.”
Escobar released his falcon for more airtime.
His inner circle left the skeet-shooting platform and sat solemnly around an outdoor table at the base of a fountain featuring swans and Greeks. Other lesser generals staggered from the pool in Speedos and picked up the idle shotguns.
“Pull!”
Boom.
They went round the circle at the table, expressing deep condolences, which Escobar accepted with solemn nods. Then he angled forward with folded hands. “Gentlemen, this was no accident.”
One of them looked toward the house. “But they said on television—”
Montoya held up a hand. “Forget what they say. It was a message.”
“From who?”
“No confirmations yet, but I have a pretty good idea. There’s a new player in Miami. Close to Guzman. Word of our plot has obviously leaked out.”
A travel attaché held up a photo from consulate surveillance. Someone being thrown out the door and to the ground.
“What do we do?” asked the general on his left.
“Move up the schedule. The summit ball is tonight.”
“What about this new player?”
“If we’re lucky, one stone, two birds.”
“Pull!”
Boom.
Escobar looked over his shoulder and snapped his fingers. An aide promptly appeared and placed a solid-gold telephone on the table.
A general raised his hand. “But the summit ball . . . I mean, won’t that attract a lot of attention?”
“That’s why we create a diversion.” Escobar finished dialing and raised the receiver. “This is Escobar, give me the head of internal security . . . Carlos, I need a favor. Yes, television . . . five minutes will work . . .”
From the other end of the table: “General, who would you like us to use?”
Escobar hung up the phone. “Who’s available?”
“We already have our top asset in place.”
“Hate to burn that one in case we have to abort,” said Escobar.
“There’s the backup we always keep in Miami.”
“Let me see the files . . .”
“Pull!”
Boom.
Soon the table was covered with classified reports on rice paper. Discussion, advice, debate . . . then a voice from the house: “Sir, it’s coming on TV.”
They left the scattered documents and went inside. On the largest flat-screen plasma, a Costa Gordan broadcast from the capital: “Breaking news at this hour as a surprise rebel offensive has raised the national threat level . . .” The camera swung to a large vinyl banner of a chili pepper with a fresh, dark red square at the top.
“Pull!”
Boom.
An explosion of falcon feathers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Downtown Miami
The Performing Arts Center.
Stretch limos stretched around the block.
Back doors opened. Couples emerged in tuxedos and evening gowns. Heavy on diamonds and elective surgery. The limos pulled away and more rolled up.
VIPs entered the historic Olympia Theater and passed through the metal detectors cloaked in decorative cloth. Guards at three security checkpoints examined credentials and matched invitations against the guest list. Police snipers perched on adjoining rooftops.
The Diplomats’ Ball.
A man in a white tux approached the first checkpoint. Nobody looking at him. Because of the Latin bombshell on his arm.
“These credentials . . .” said the first guard, glancing back and forth at his lists. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step aside.” He got on the radio.
A limo longer than the others pulled up. Camera flashes. Passengers emerged and arrived at the checkpoint. Security men snapped to attention. “Good evening, President Guzman.” No need for his papers.
Guzman looked to the side. “Is there a problem?”
“Sir,” said a security agent with a clipboard. “They’re on the list, but he doesn’t have the correct color badge.”
“It’s okay.” Guzman threw a smile off to the side. “I’ll vouch. They’re with me.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
Guzman put an arm around Serge’s shoulders and looked over the gleaming tux. “You clean up pretty well.”
White-gloved waiters circulated with sterling trays of hors d’oeuvres, caviar, and crystal champagne flutes. Someone tinkled a grand piano. A hundred overlapping conversations under eighteenth-century oil paintings in gold frames.
“Glad you could come,” Guzman told Serge.
“You kidding? I’d have made it if I had to crash this thing.”
Guzman laughed. “Not much chance of that with all this security.”
“That’s what they said about Obama’s state dinner when that hot blond chick and Dom DeLuise slipped through to meet the president,
knocking Balloon Boy clear off the front pages. Did you hear about Balloon Boy down where you live? I want to be Balloon Boy. I’ve made some rough sketches.”
Guzman laughed heartily again. “That’s why I’m glad you came. You’re a real person I can have a normal conversation with. I’m required to attend these parties, but I hate them. The more wealthy and powerful the guests, the more vapid the chitchat. Plus, everyone’s so guarded, worried about slipping and saying the wrong thing because everyone else in the room is a potential enemy for career and social standing.”
“Except if the party goes late and everyone gets plowed,” said Serge. “Then it’s completely surreal. When the working class gets hammered, they throw beer bottles at the banjo player and break their necks on mechanical bulls. But if the A-list goes in the bag, you see things you can’t make up, like walking in an unlocked bathroom, and someone on the museum board is jerking off in a cummerbund.”
“Might want to keep your voice down,” said Guzman. “But go on. I’m enjoying this.”
“I made this one shindig in Ocala. That’s Florida’s horse country. Limos arriving at a giant mansion on a hill surrounded by pastures and stables, and in the beginning it’s all very sophisticated bullshit with everyone in formal wear. Except the woman of the house greeting her guests at the door in riding boots. And the riding helmet. And holding the riding crop. And I’m like, we get it. You want attention. Isn’t it enough that everyone knows you’re ridiculously rich with stables full of racehorses? No. She has to dress like she’d just finished a fucking steeplechase. And she’s one of these types with a fake Martha’s Vineyard accent who has to introduce herself to everyone with three names. ‘I’m Meredith Astor Farthington, of the Providence Farthingtons.’ And I roll my eyes, and go, ‘I’m Serge Alexander-the-Great Storms, by way of Hobbit-Town.’ Then I look over her equestrian outfit and say, ‘I guess nobody else got the memo that this was a costume party. What were you last time, a pirate?’ ”
Guzman covered his mouth to suppress mirth.
“And here’s something I learned about the rich: They’re so touchy,” Serge continued. “After my little joke at the door, the woman’s face turns all red, and that riding hat was about to start spinning on her head like a teacup. I decide to disappear in the crowd. Fast-forward three hours: blue-blood, wall-hugging drunk time. Remember me saying these people get surreal? Most people don’t realize how tall a horse actually is. I’m a little over six feet myself, and I’m looking eye level across a sea of bald and gray skulls packed like sardines in a humongous living room. And suddenly this big horse neck and head sticks out of the mob! That Missy dame I met at the door must have been worried we’d forget she had horses, so she brought in Mr. Ed and just let him roam, all these aristocrats slidin’ in horseshit. I’m hanging back and digging it with the bartenders. This can’t possibly get any better! Guess what? It got better! The woman still doesn’t have enough attention. She has to ride the horse. Indoors. Through a crowd. Now, it’s her house. You think she’d know where all the chandeliers are. Bam! Right in the nose! She flips off the back of the thing into the fireplace. So they’re throwing drinks trying to put her out, and the horse rears up and busts the bathroom door clean off the hinges, and it gallops over a table of food before diving through the bay windows into the swimming pool, and these other people run over and lift the bathroom door off this unconscious guy with no pants and a cummerbund. Man, that dude had it right when he said, ‘The rich are different from you and me, and in more ways than having more money.’ ”
Guzman caught his breath from laughing. “Who said that?”
“The guy at the interstate ramp who washed my windshield.”
“Let’s go to the bar. I’m thirsty.”
Working through the crowd, snatches of dialogue: “Can’t say enough about that dress . . . Oh, he’s more than just our gardener . . . spending the summer in Aspen . . . Here’s the number of my stylist . . . Remington’s been accepted at Andover . . . More than a gardener? I’ll say: banging her rear door in the greenhouse . . .”
They reached the bar. “God,” said Guzman. “Did you hear all that drivel on the way over?”
“I can see why you dread these gigs.” Serge requested ice water in a martini glass. “Not a single interesting conversation in the house.”
In the back of the room: “They really are going to assassinate him?”
“Shut up!” said Malcolm Glide. “Jesus, people are around!”
“But the generals have lost their minds. I just got word Montoya went on the warpath after his idiot nephew shot himself, and they held a secret meeting at his house in the mountains.”
Glide grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray. “It’s their internal business.”
“Not if it happens here. That could ruin everything.”
“And it could ruin everything if you don’t stop yapping and someone overhears.”
“I also heard they moved up the schedule,” said Victor Evangelista. “Which means it could be here. Tonight. At this ball. And our people lost track of Serge. That’s no coincidence, going off the radar just before a sanction.”
“Serge?”
“Our intel thinks he’s who they’re going to use. They placed him close to Guzman with the foiled carjacking that they no doubt used as a setup.”
“You worry too much.”
“You should, too,” said Evangelista. “If the generals pull something stupid, it could expose the shipments, everything, even the you-know-what—”
“Shut up! Fuck!”
“But we’ll go to prison for life.”
“Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll place some calls tomorrow and smooth this out,” said Glide. “Meanwhile, relax and enjoy the party. There’s no way Serge could get in here with all this security.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely,” said Glide. “Now calm down before you give yourself a heart attack.”
“You’re probably right.” Evangelista took a deep breath and removed his hand from his beating chest. “Serge is probably a million miles away.”
A spoon began hitting a glass.
“Excuse me! Excuse me, everyone! May I have your attention? I’d like to propose a toast . . .”
Glide mumbled to his left. “Who is that? I don’t recognize the voice. And I know everybody here.”
“I can’t see him. Too many people in the way.”
“I’m going to stand on this stool.”
At the opposite end of the room, a man in a white tux stood on another stool in front of a baby grand piano.
Glide grabbed his head. “It’s Serge!”
“He’s doing a toast? Holy God, we’re going to jail . . .”
Serge raised a cup of coffee and looked down at hundreds of people. “When I said ‘toast,’ I meant plural. I’ve got a few. Okay a ton. There’s so much to say that I typed it up on shelf paper, like Kerouac writing On the Road.” He set the cup down, then grabbed the edge of a paper spool and let it unroll to the floor. “First, a big toast to all you fine people for putting the Latin in Latin America. To be completely honest, Americans are terrible with geography. You’re just a vague group of interchangeable countries on the map where all the men are required to grow mustaches. But we’re neighbors and have to start mending fences somewhere.” Serge craned his neck. “Is Guatemala here?”
A hand in the middle went up.
“Sorry about the CIA coup in ’54,” said Serge. “Ouch! And it was launched right out of here in Florida, instigated by the United Fruit Company. And over bananas, literally. It would be funny, except it really happened. Okay, it’s still funny. Condolences . . . Chile?”
Another hand went up.”
“Sorry about Allende and ’73,” said Serge. “It was the government, not us. We weren’t paying attention. You’re just too far away and half the people think you’re Argentina . . . Panama?”
Another hand.
Serge smiled. “You
look like that guy in the Dos Equis ads, the Most Interesting Man in the World. I was pining for that title, but hey, how’s the Canal Zone coming? Colonial ways die hard, but we did eventually get that one right. And the invasion was just a phase . . . Venezuela?”
A hand. “Over here.”
Serge shook his head and wagged a finger. “Venezuela . . . Venezuela . . . You’ve been a bad boy, like at the United Nations, saying you could smell sulfur at the podium where George Bush stood the day before, like he was Satan. Personally it cracked me up, but wrong room, okay? Remember Khrushchev banging a shoe in ’61? ” He looked out across the rest of the guests. “The point is, we all have our differences, and the United States isn’t the only one with dirty hands. Human rights, death squads, street kids in Rio, the ‘disappeared,’ Madonna playing Eva Perón. Hey, we all make mistakes. That’s how nature made us: fight, eat, and diddle. But when it comes to fighting, real enemies aren’t always nearby, so instead we quarrel with our neighbors, the people most like us who should be our best buddies. It’s happening all over the world. Some Arabs hate the Jews. Not most, but I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. Except a Jew isn’t always handy, so they split into Sunni and Shiite and attack each other. And over what? I guess who hates Jews more. Christianity? One word: Ireland. And all across the U.S., red and blue states. Even Florida, at a church up in Gainesville: ‘What would Jesus do? Burn the Quran!’ It’s in our blood—evolution tells us we have to hate somebody. Most scientists agree on this except creationists, who hate evolutionists. But I’ve got the answer: We just shift our primal directives to eating and diddling, because a well-laid dude with a stomach full of lobster Newburg ain’t strapping on any suicide vests, if you know what I mean, and I think a few of you out there do . . . All right, I see I’m losing some of the wives out there tonight, so on with the big toast, which I hope will soon become the unofficial slogan of the summit.” Serge raised his coffee cup and voice. “Let’s give each other slack!”
The audience stared.
“Come on,” said Serge. “Get those glasses up!”
Guzman raised his. “Everyone! Glasses up!”