by Tim Dorsey
They complied.
“That’s more like it,” said Serge, raising his own goblet higher. “To slack!”
“To slack.”
“Louder!”
“To slack!”
In the back of the room, Malcolm Glide slapped himself in the forehead. “This is a disaster.”
Victor Evangelista collapsed against a wall. “I feel faint.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Meanwhile . . .
Four blocks from the Diplomats’ Ball, a high-rise hotel overlooked Bayfront Park.
On the fifteenth floor, a man who had dyed his blond crew cut lay on the bed, watching a blank picture tube. The bed was made and the man was clothed. An empty room-service tray by a lamp.
A cell phone sat on the nightstand. It remained still.
One floor below, another man lay on his bed. Another TV remained off.
The cell phone on his nightstand began to vibrate.
The man flipped it open and read a text message.
“!”
He closed the phone and walked to the dresser. A black leather bag rested open.
The man checked the contents, zipped it shut, and headed out the door.
Back at the Diplomats’ Ball
Victor Evangelista grabbed Malcolm by the lapels. “We have to do something! Serge is making a scene!”
“Let go of me!” Glide shoved him. “We need to keep our heads until we can get an undercover detail in here.”
“For what?”
“To capture Serge,” said Malcolm.
“And then?”
“Get him to one of our black-box locations and find out what he knows.”
“What if he doesn’t talk?”
“Either way, he won’t see the sunrise.” Malcolm dialed a cell phone for reinforcement.
“But look at all the attention he’s getting,” said Evangelista. “It’s too high profile to make a move.”
Malcolm closed his phone. “Chill out! Serge finished his toast. Now he’ll just fade back into the obscurity of the crowd.”
“That makes sense. We’ll hang tight. Time is on our side . . .” Victor stopped and glanced around. “Is someone playing the piano?”
At the front of the room, Serge’s fingers tickled the ivories as he scooted the stool up to the baby grand. “. . . And now, to celebrate our new era of slack, I’d like you all to gather round while I play an inspirational song for global understanding.”
“But, Serge,” whispered Coleman. “You don’t know how to play the piano.”
“They don’t know that.” Serge finished warming up and cracked his knuckles. “This song has just a few simple notes at the beginning that I taught myself, and when they start singing along, no one will notice the rest . . .” He looked up. “Everybody ready? . . .” A few slow, repetitive notes on the keys. Serge cleared his throat:
“Hey . . . Jude! . . .”
“Jesus!” said Evangelista. “He’s playing ‘Hey Jude.’ ”
“We have to hurry,” said Glide. The pair began working their way along the walls past steam trays.
“I can barely move in this mob,” said Evangelista. “Look how far the entrance is.”
“We’ll get there,” said Malcolm. “Just stick behind me . . .”
They continued pushing forward, brushing past a man with a black leather bag going the other way.
“. . . Naw . . . naw . . . naw . . . naw-naw-naw-naw . . . naw-naw-naw-naw . . . Heeeeeey Jude . . . .”
Glide and Evangelista finally broke through the crowd. They reached the sidewalk in front of the Olympia Theater and waited for a black van.
Back inside, everyone crowded round the piano, getting sloshed, joining in. The song reached its climax.
Serge jumped up and kicked out the stool, banging the keys like Jerry Lee Lewis. “. . . Jude-ay! Jude-ay! Jude-ay! Jude-ay! . . . Yowwwwwwww! Owwwwwwww! . . .”
More drinks grabbed off trays and downed. Everyone singing along at the top of their lungs.
Serge hit the keys a final time, stood, and bowed to wild applause.
Guzman slapped him on the back. “I didn’t know you could play the piano.”
“Neither did I.”
The president laughed again. “You’re quite the people person. I could use someone like you.”
“I have to take a squirt.”
“And you always get to the point.”
A line of people shook Serge’s hand as he headed for the restroom. Felicia trailed behind.
“Just be a minute,” said Serge. He ducked in the door. Seconds later, he stood whistling at a urinal. He stared at the ceiling. Then the floor. “What the hell—”
His urinal was next to the handicapped stall. On the floor, barely visible below the partition, the edge of a dress shoe. Turned sideways.
“That’s pointed the wrong direction for anything good.” Serge finished his business and tried the stall door.
Latched.
He got down on hands and knees. Inside, a man slumped on the floor. And a black leather bag.
Serge wiggled underneath and felt veins on the man’s left wrist. Then checked the bag.
The bathroom door burst open.
“What’s up with you?” Felicia looked him over. “And your tux is filthy—”
“It’s the doctor!”
“Who is?”
“How they’re going to take out Guzman!”
“Slow down,” said Felicia. “What’s going on?”
“Does Guzman have a regular personal physician?”
“He always travels with one, but we use several different ones.”
“The real one’s dead in there. Handicapped stall,” said Serge. “The bodyguards won’t be alert to the doctor. We have to find Guzman—and a guy with a black leather bag.”
They rushed back into the ball.
“What about the dead guy?” asked Felicia.
“I left the stall locked and pulled his leg inside so nobody would find him,” said Serge. “If panic breaks out, it’ll make the killer’s job that much easier.”
Felicia reached in her clutch purse. “Take this.” She slipped a small .25-caliber automatic in his hand.
“There’s Guzman!” Serge waved urgently.
Guzman cheerfully waved back.
“He doesn’t understand,” said Felicia.
“We have to get to him!”
They began pushing their way through the crowd. “Sorry . . . Apologies . . . Sorry . . .”
Felicia grabbed Serge’s arm and pointed another direction. “There’s a guy with a black bag. He’s heading toward Guzman.”
“And he’s closer.” Serge dispensed with apologies. Shoving people, spilling drinks.
“He’s almost there,” said Felicia.
“So are we.”
“We’re not going to make it.”
“Failure isn’t an option,” said Serge. “Guzman!”
“He still can’t hear,” said Felicia. “The music’s too loud.”
More drinks spilled.
“The guy’s reaching in his bag,” said Felicia.
“What the fuck is that thing?”
“Pneumatic hypodermic gun.”
“Shit, Guzman’s back is to him.” Serge elbowed past a waiter. “He can’t see it coming.”
President Guzman shook hands with an attaché from Ecuador. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Congratulations on your election.”
“Thanks.” A smile. “But now the hard part . . .”
The man with the black bag inched closer. The last person between him and the president stepped out of the way. Clear shot. Nothing but the back of Guzman’s tux.
The Ecuadoran attaché took a sip of champagne. “So how are the generals treating you these days?”
“We’ve resolved some differences,” said Guzman. “But there’s always going to be that with the military.”
The glinting tip of a hypodermic gun neared his back. Two f
eet. One. Six inches. Finger on the trigger.
The fake doctor felt a small barrel in the middle of his back. And a voice over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that. Put it back in the bag.”
He did.
“Now start walking,” said Serge.
The man remained still.
Felicia poked his ribs lightly with the tip of a stiletto blade extending from a lipstick. “I’d listen to him.”
This time he began moving.
All three ended up back in the restroom. Serge gave Felicia the gun and crawled under the stall again. He unlatched the door. Felicia pushed the man inside.
“Interesting,” said Serge. “There’s a dead guy on the floor and no reaction from you. Most innocent people would comment.”
“You’re pointing a gun.”
Serge glanced casually at his hand. “Just a formality.”
Felicia shoved the man into a wall. “Who sent you to kill Guzman?”
“What are you talking about?” The man rubbed the back of his head. “I’m his physician.”
“Sure you are,” said Serge. “Then what’s the deal with the hypodermic gun?”
“Oh, that,” he said, nodding. “The president was complaining of fatigue. Lack of sleep from all his appointments here. I was going to give him a vitamin-B injection.”
“Serge,” said Felicia. “What are you doing?”
“Going through his bag.”
“I see that. What for?”
“We’re going to have fun,” said Serge. “What have we got here? Maybe I can use this. And I can definitely use this . . .”
“Serge!” Felicia looked around quickly. “We don’t have time. Someone could walk in here any minute!”
“This will be express fun.” He reached in his pocket and tossed something to her. “Bind his hands behind his back.”
“Plastic wrist restraints?”
“Always carry some to parties,” said Serge. “You never know what the theme’s going to be.”
Felicia pulled the strap tight as Serge laid out medical supplies atop the toilet tank. “So you’re really a doctor?”
“Absolutely.”
“But maybe your certification has lapsed in this country.” Serge picked up a blood-pressure tester. “So I’m going to give you a field exam to see if you’re still up to snuff.”
Serge wrapped the tester around the man’s neck and fastened the Velcro. “They always put these on people’s arms. But the neck is much more accurate.” Serge began squeezing the black rubber bulb. “Wow! You’re off the charts!”
“. . . I . . . can’t . . . breathe . . .”
Serge eased off the pressure until the slightly deflated ring hung loose around the man’s neck.
The man trembled uncontrollably. “Dear God! Please don’t strangle me!”
“Strangle you?” said Serge. “Never. What gave you that idea?”
“So you’re going to take this thing off me?”
“Didn’t say that.” Serge grabbed an empty syringe and a small surgical vial. He slipped them under the blood-pressure wrap, one on each side of the man’s trachea. Then he squeezed the bulb a couple times to hold them in place.
Felicia stared in confusion. “What are you doing?”
“Placing braces beside his windpipe because we wouldn’t want him to stop breathing.” Serge smiled big in the man’s eyes. “How’s your breathing?”
“Okay.”
“Felicia, your purse.”
She tossed it. “What are you looking for.”
“Here’s a lipstick. And a nice fat pen.” He held them up to the man’s face. “This is your medical recertification test. If you really are a doctor and not an assassin, this should be a breeze and I’ll let you go. I always like to give my students an escape clause.” He stopped to grin again. “Don’t you just love the suspense?”
Felicia nervously peeked over the top of the stall at the restroom’s outer door. “Will you hurry?”
“Don’t sweat. It’s just a one-question test.” Serge turned to the captive. “And here’s the question. Answer right, and I’ll take that thing off your neck and you’re free to leave. Now, I’m going to reinflate that tester to the max. But first I’m going to place these two items next to a blood vessel to relieve the pressure. And that’s the name of my new game show: You Pick the Blood Vessel!”
“So if I pick right, nothing will happen to me?”
“No, you’ll pass out. That’s definite.” Serge began squeezing the bulb again. “But I’m a trained professional. I’ll catch it in time and cut you loose. You’ll come back around pretty quick.”
“And if I guess wrong?”
“You won’t pass out.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you’re a doctor.” Serge squinted at him. “You wouldn’t be lying to me about that, would you?”
“Serge!” said Felicia.
“Almost done.” He turned to the captive. “What? No idea?” A frustrated sign. “Okay, I shouldn’t be doing this because it’s against contest regulations, but here’s a hint.” Serge tapped two different spots on the man’s neck. “Jugular vein or carotid artery.”
Silence.
Serge squeezed the bulb. “If you don’t pick, I’ll do it for you.”
“Okay, carotid.”
“Interesting choice.” He slipped the lipstick and pen under the inflation ring. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze . . .
“He’s not passing out,” said Felicia.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “No, we’re well past that point.”
“Look at his face! It’s completely red.”
“Purple’s up next,” said Serge. Squeeze, squeeze . . .
Eyes bulged. Then his whole head began vibrating like a paint-can shaker in a hardware store. Spastic tremors through all limbs, feet slapping the tiles.
The outer restroom door opened.
“Serge,” Felicia whispered. “Someone’s here.”
An undersecretary from Montevideo stepped up to the urinal. The thrashing in the adjoining stall couldn’t go unnoticed. “Is everything okay in there?”
Felicia intentionally fell back against the stall’s wall with a loud moan. “Mmmmm, yes, oh yes, baby . . .”
The undersecretary chuckled to himself. He’d been to a lot of these balls. He zipped up and left.
Felicia stared down at a foot still twitching from residual death rattles. She seized Serge’s hand. “We’re out of here! Now!”
They sprinted back to the ballroom, then composed themselves in the doorway and resumed walking at a casual pace.
“What on earth did you do to that guy back there?”
“Long explanation,” said Serge. “But a great dinner story. Involves the history of Florida Championship Wrestling and the infamous sleeper hold. We’ll grab a bite later.”
On the other side of the room near the main entrance, Victor Evangelista hung on to a brass railing. “If this goes sideways . . .”
“Shut up,” said Malcolm. “These guys know their job.” He turned and gave a nod.
Five new men slowly fanned out across the ballroom around the central axis of President Guzman.
Guzman smiled. “Serge, where have you been?”
“I’m like a cat. Whenever I’m in a new building, I have to explore.”
Guzman smiled. “Then you haven’t seen the whole building.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you had, I’d be able to tell.” Guzman looked toward Felicia. “Why don’t you take her and check out the other big room through that ornate door. It’s the mini-expo where countries tout local goods and attractions.”
Serge glanced through the door. “Burlap sacks of coffee beans must be Colombia. The colorful, twirling carnival dancers, Brazil.”
“Machu Piccu diorama, Peru, obviously,” said Guzman.
“Wait . . .” Serge took a couple steps left to see farther into the room. “I don’t believe it.
A horse! A real horse!”
“Argentina,” Guzman said with a grin. “Was waiting for you to notice.”
“What a coincidence! Come on, Felicia, this is a gas.”
Guzman watched with amusement as the couple departed. The president’s mouth slowly turned down as Serge approached the archway. A certain simultaneous confluence of movement had begun. Funneling behind Serge. A guy here, another there and over there, deliberately scattered in the vast crowd so nobody would give a second thought unless they were Secret Service. Or a politician who gave a lot of speeches in public. Guzman continued observing the men, whose converging vectors defied random cocktail-party mingling. “This is not good.”
Guzman quickly gathered his own security detail from the loose pocket surrounding him. He pointed through the arch and snapped orders.
“But, Mr. President, you’ll be unguarded.”
“Rodriguez and Acevedo, stay with me,” said Guzman. “The rest of you, move!”
On the far side of the expo room, next to the Juan Valdez impersonator, Serge stroked a horse’s mane. “Hey there, fella. You like canapés? Try these . . .”
The horse lapped Serge’s hand.
Glances shot back and forth across the room, slight nods exchanged in a five-point spread formation. The tallest agent in the capture unit uncapped a tranquilizer needle concealed in a fountain pen.
The pattern tightened toward Serge.
Behind them, a second pattern flowed in the same direction at a faster pace. It filtered between the men in the first formation like a basketball team getting back in transition for defense. It was man-to-man coverage. The one with the needle was first to hit the ground from a stun gun in his ribs.
And so went the element of surprise. Malcolm Glide’s intercept team knew they had company, and they weren’t hard to identify. Guzman’s security chief hit the floor from a wicked right cross. A wholesale brawl broke out; the startled crowd began shrieking and running. Another of Guzman’s agents took a hard blow to the temple. Just before going down: “Serge! Catch!”
Serge looked over from the horse. A small stun gun flew through the air. Serge snatched it, about to make a break.
But two of Glide’s boys had gotten through. Serge dropped the first with a loud zap. Then he made his move. He grabbed Felicia’s hand. “Up we go.” The second capture agent raced forward with his own stun gun. He lunged and zapped, but Serge saw it and dodged.