Cadillac Beach

by Tim Dorsey

  She looked up.

  Serge grinned. “It’s a respect thing.”

  She looked down and started filing again.

  “Thanks. This meeting place have an address?”

  No answer.

  Serge picked up the nameplate on the desk: JEAN SANSONE MANDELL HERZFELD.

  “I think I like talking to you, Jean. I could stay here all day. What do you want to talk about? You like movies? Did you see A Beautiful Mind?”

  She huffed and put down her nail file, then scribbled an address on a scrap of paper.

  The limo turned off Calle Ocho and pulled up in front of a faded lavender ranch house with wrought-iron burglar bars. Serge and Lenny opened the gate of a chain-link fence and stepped over a Big Wheel in the yard. They knocked on the front door.

  A slot opened. “Who is it?”

  “Serge. I want to join the movement. Fuck Castro.”

  “Who’s the guy with you?”

  “Anglo sympathizer. But he can be trusted. Lenny, show him.”

  There was a pause. Serge elbowed him.

  “Fuck Castro,” said Lenny.

  “Okay, you can come in.”

  The door opened. The living room was full of people in Samsonite chairs. The pair took seats near the back next to an old man in a straw hat. At the front of the room, a series of men took turns addressing the group, alternately denouncing the Havana regime in the strongest possible terms and pitching the newest line of Amway.

  “Pssst! Chi-Chi! It’s me, Serge, Sergio’s grandson.”

  The old man turned. “Little Serge?”

  “We need to go somewhere and talk. It’s about my granddad.”

  “I have to stay at the meeting in case something happens.”

  “Anything ever happen?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why bother? These guys are the clowns of the spy world. Let ’em do themselves in.”

  “Believe me, I’d love to.”

  “I was hoping you could help,” said Serge. “I’m trying to find out who killed my granddad.”

  “You don’t want to be bringing that up. Do yourself a favor—”

  “Please,” said Serge. “I need closure.”

  “Then drop it,” said Chi-Chi. “I loved your granddad, despite all the crap I gave him. And you were such a great kid. But this is best left in the past.”

  “I’m trying to find a diary. Or a box. Please.”

  “I remember him writing in this little book, but I don’t have any idea where it could be. I never saw a box. If anyone knows, it’s Mort. They were closest. Mort handled the funeral arrangements. He’d know what happened to the personal effects.”

  The man sitting behind them leaned forward. “Shhhhhhhh!”

  Serge turned around. “No, you shhhhhhhh!” He faced Chi-Chi. “Where can I find Mort?”

  “Lost track a long time ago, but I can make some calls. Roy ‘The Pawn King’—”

  “Already tried him,” said Serge.

  “Then who else?” Chi-Chi said to himself. “Let me work on it. If he’s still around here, I’m pretty sure I can find him.”

  The man behind them leaned again. “Shhhhhhhh!”

  Serge stood up. “May I have your attention?” Heads turned. The room went quiet. Serge pointed at the man seated behind him. “This guy’s a spy!” Serge reached and ripped open the man’s shirt. Wires and little microphones taped to his chest.

  The group was flustered. This had never happened before. But the other spies had to maintain cover, so they beat the piss out of him.

  Serge smiled at Chi-Chi. “Do that once a meeting, and this spy thing will take care of itself.”

  “It’ll take too long.”

  “I have an idea.”

  FBI Headquarters, Miami

  Agents Miller and Bixby were at their desks eating roast-beef sandwiches out of waxed paper from a no-fooling-around sandwich shop in Kendall. A courier arrived with a small cardboard box. Miller took a swig of acid coffee, wiped his mouth, and set the mug down on a stack of dead-end leads. “I’ve been waiting for this.” He grabbed scissors.

  “What is it?” asked Bixby, wiping his chin with a napkin.

  Miller cut through tape. “This is from Radio Martí down in the Keys. That propaganda we beam at Cuba.”

  “How does it figure?”

  “That will soon be more than apparent.” Miller opened the box and removed an audiocassette. He opened the bottom drawer of his government-issue gray desk and pulled out an old Radio Shack tape recorder with a missing play button, just the little metal thing sticking up. Miller inserted the tape and pressed the metal thing. The tape’s sprockets began turning in the scratched plastic window.

  “I got a line on this when we ran the initial computer checks in Virginia. Our buddy Serge volunteered for Martí a few years back. At first they didn’t think the tape still existed. It’s a recording of an experimental broadcast, one of the few made in English in an attempt to endear the Cuban people to American culture.”

  The agents listened as a catchy jingle rattled out of the small tin speaker, then a baritone announcer’s voice: “And nowwwwwwwwwwww, coming at you with one hundred thousand watts of insane freedom from the fabulous United States of America, it’s time for ‘The Doctor Serge Showwwwwwww’!”

  “Thank you, Johnny, and good afternoon everyone. Welcome to The Doctor Serge Show. I’m Doctor Serge, and have we got a program for you! So give me a ring and—Wait, we have our first caller. This is Doctor Serge, how can I help?”

  “Doctor Serge, I fell in love with a man last year. We were going to be married. He said he loved me. Then I got pregnant and found out he was having sex with my best friend! [loud sobbing]”

  “Let Doctor Serge stop you right there. I’ve heard this one a million times. Tell me, who’s the head of state?”

  “What?”

  “Who’s the president?”

  “Uh, Castro.”

  “It’s Castro’s fault.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Overthrow him…. Next caller, hello, you’re on The Doctor Serge Show.”

  “Hi, Doctor Serge. This is kind of embarrassing, but I have this little thing on my you-know-what, and I’m not sure if I should have it looked at. Do you think it might clear up on its own?”

  “Not while Castro’s still in power…And while we’re on the subject, let me tell you about that old puss-filled Soviet whore. Why, I’d love to shove that hammer and sickle up his Marxist ass myself. He should be—Hey! You’re not supposed to be in the broadcast booth! The ‘On Air’ light is on! What are you doing! Let go of me! I thought this is what you wanted!…Don’t go away, loyal listeners—Doctor Serge will be right back after this station break [scuffling sounds]…. Let go of me, you Communist-radio-station apparatchiks!…[voice fading] Fuck Castro! Fuck him and his imbecile brother, Raúl!…”

  Miller pressed the stop button. “A very sick man.”

  Bixby was grinning.

  “What? You liked that?” said Miller.

  “I chuckled in spots. You ever listen to drive time in this city?”

  Miller crumpled the waxed paper around a leftover bite of sandwich and threw it in the wastebasket. “This changes everything. If he was with Martí, that means a CIA angle, which brings the whole exile community into play, not to mention the mob connection from the hit on Tony, and before you know it, it’s Miami 1964 all over again, tangled up in a vast, hydra-headed conspiracy that would give Oliver Stone whiplash.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Bixby.

  Miller popped the cassette out of the machine and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “I’m taking this to the top.”

  “You’re going to Webb?”

  “He’s got to know.”

  THE CARS STARTED arriving just after dark. Neighbors held up cardboard signs: PARKING $5. Streams of men poured down the sidewalk, turning in a chain-link gate in front of a lavender concrete ranch house.

  Chi-Chi ma
nned the door, screening people. Two young men in black satin shirts stepped up. Chi-Chi checked through the little slot, then opened the door and quickly waved them in.

  The living room began to fill. Some took seats in the rows of chairs and watched TV; others chatted by the punch bowl. Serge wore oven mittens and removed a tray of nachos from the broiling rack. Lenny sat by the cash box with a roll of raffle tickets.

  Finally, it was time.

  Chi-Chi walked to the front of the room and turned off the TV with the ceramic Madonna on top. “Will you please take your seats?”

  The hum of conversation dwindled as stragglers drifted back to their chairs with last-second snack plates. Serge set up an easel and blackboard.

  “Thank you,” said Chi-Chi. “Tonight I have a surprise. Very historic news. What I tell you now must never leave this room….”

  The men in the audience turned to each other and murmured. Chi-Chi began writing with chalk as he spoke. “As you all know, I’m a veteran of Brigade 2506. And I have been awaiting this day for more than forty years….” He kept it up for an hour, the board filling with arrows as the invasion plans took shape. Beach landing, artillery dispersement, troop movements and, finally, the siege of the presidential palace. When he was done, Chi-Chi set the piece of chalk in the easel’s tray and faced the room again. “Gentlemen, our hour of glory is upon us.”

  Serge began clapping hard, and the rest of the room quickly joined in.

  The visitors were all abuzz as they helped fold chairs and then headed for their cars, Serge holding the door—“Good night…good night…good night…”—the raffle winner carrying a Lazy Susan—“…good night…good night…” The last person left, and Serge closed the door. “I think they bought it.”

  Chi-Chi lit a cigar. “We’ll see.” He handed Serge a piece of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  Chi-Chi exhaled a big, relaxed cloud. “Mort’s address and phone number. A friend of a friend…”

  36

  1964

  S IX MEN IN hats and guayaberas hunkered in Jake LaMotta’s Lounge on the 2100 block of Collins.

  They had come to some serious decisions. The times were achangin’. It was long overdue and way too fast. Martin Luther King was in jail for a stink at a St. Augustine lunch counter. Doctors had just told everyone to stop smoking. The French embassy got sacked in Saigon. The Russians put a woman in orbit. The Beatles were bigger than Jesus.

  Little Serge jumped off his stool and ran laps around the bar.

  Sergio stuck a pack of matches in his pocket and looked up. “Holy cow, that’s him! He’s coming this way!”

  “Who?” said Moondog.

  Sergio ignored Moondog and waved. “Hey, Jake!”

  The others joined in. “Hi, Jake,” “How’s it going, Jake?” “Great place ya got here, Jake.”

  The man smiled and nodded slightly as he went by.

  “So that’s the Raging Bull,” said Tommy.

  “Why was he shuffling on the front of his feet like that?” asked Mort.

  “You would, too,” said Chi-Chi. “Did you see the second Robinson fight? He wasn’t human!”

  “Inner-ear equilibrium must be wrecked,” said Sergio. “Probably just has to go with visual horizon.”

  A commercial came on the TV in the corner, a little girl picking petals off a daisy and counting. Then a bright explosion, a mushroom cloud and a deep voice: “Vote for President Johnson on November third. The stakes are too high for you to stay home.”

  “What a downer,” said Tommy.

  “I think that’s the idea,” said Mort.

  “Goldwater doesn’t have a chance,” said Chi-Chi. “Ever since the Gulf of Tonkin.”

  “Did you see that new show Saturday?” said Sergio. “The one with the dolphin? NBC’s running it up against Gleason.”

  “So what?” said Chi-Chi.

  “So it means two-thirds of the Saturday prime-time lineup is shot right here in our own town. We’re like the center of the universe.”

  Little Serge ran by.

  “What’s ABC got?” asked Moondog.

  “Outer Limits.”

  “That show’s too unbelievable for me,” said Tommy.

  “And Flipper isn’t?” said Chi-Chi.

  “I know it’s not real,” said Tommy. “Still…”

  “Who’s this new guy Brian Kelly playing the park ranger?” said Mort. “I liked Chuck Conners better in the pilot.”

  “He was the guy in Branded, right?” said Coltrane. “Gets all the buttons torn off his jacket?”

  “That would really piss me off,” said Tommy.

  “It’s supposed to,” said Chi-Chi, turning a page in his newspaper. “That’s why they do it.”

  “Anything good in there?” asked Tommy.

  “Lenny Bruce is going to jail for obscenity.”

  “I saw Bruce being interviewed on the radio,” said Moondog.

  “Where?”

  “Pumpernik’s deli up on Sixty-seventh, by that new guy Larry King.”

  “King’s style gets under my skin,” said Chi-Chi. “You watch. His career won’t last.”

  Coltrane looked around. “Where’s Lou? She said seven sharp.”

  “Lou scares me,” said Moondog.

  “Me, too,” said Mort.

  “Then why are you here?” asked Chi-Chi.

  “Because I’m more afraid not to show up.”

  “I’m with Mort,” said Greek Tommy. “This job tonight doesn’t feel right. We had a nice little sports book going, but this is more than I can handle.”

  “Lou’s got a good head,” said Sergio. “She can be trusted.”

  “Trusted?” said Chi-Chi. “She cheats on you.”

  “Who says?”

  “Everybody. Open your eyes. She’s taken up with this character named Desmond.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Moondog.”

  Serge glared at Moondog.

  “Sorry.”

  “You got it all wrong,” said Sergio. “Desmond’s just business. He’s the fence we’re going to knock over.”

  “Sergio, haven’t you heard the talk?” said Mort. “She used to date all those dead mobsters. In fact, everyone she’s ever rolled with is dead except you and Desmond.”

  “And Mr. Palermo,” added Tommy. “Who happens to be insanely jealous.”

  “You better watch yourself, Sergio.”

  “I got a bad feeling about tonight,” said Moondog.

  “Let’s walk away from this while we still can,” said Mort.

  “He’s right,” said Tommy. “We have to draw a line.”

  “This whole thing is doomed,” said Moondog. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They started standing up.

  “Here she comes!”

  They sat back down.

  Lou tossed her zebra purse on the bar. “Where were you guys going?”

  “Nowhere,” said Chi-Chi.

  “Liar.” Lou ordered a shot, did it, slammed the glass on the counter. “Everybody ready?”

  The gang crossed Twentieth Street, looked around suspiciously, then snuck in a corner doorway under a round neon sign: FIVE O’CLOCK CLUB.

  They nursed overpriced cocktails at a dark table. Nobody talked. All eyes on the stage, a leggy brunette peeling off an evening glove to the tempo of a junkie’s snare drum. She tossed it in the audience. The drummer picked up the naughty pace. The woman sashayed down the catwalk in a peekaboo bra, twirling the end of the feathery stole around her neck. She peeled off the second glove and flung it. It landed draped over Greek Tommy’s face.

  He left it there.

  The dance ended without further disrobement. The gang sighed. Tommy took the glove off his head and stuck it in his pocket for later research.

  “Stay alert,” said Lou. “We’re not here for entertainment.”

  Music started again. A platinum Jayne Mansfield type came out, a fan of peacock plumes sprouting from her derrie
re.

  “This is Martha Raye’s old joint,” said Sergio. “Harry Bella-fonte got his big start here.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s all very nice,” said Chi-Chi. “Check out this rack.”

  “I’m not sure Little Serge should be seeing this,” said Mort.

  “You’re nuts bringing him,” said Moondog.

  “His mother’s working—I had no choice. Figured I’d pay one of the strippers to watch him. Besides, this is a very historic place. I want him to get an education.”

  “He’s getting that.”

  Little Serge sat back in the vinyl booth, legs not reaching the edge, big eyes watching the shaking fan of feathers going by.

  Lou stood up. “There he is.”

  “Where?”

  “At the bar by the juke.”

  “He looks drunk.”

  “All the better.”

  They watched as Desmond’s head slowly sagged over his drink, then bobbed up, then started sagging again.

  Lou opened her purse and took out a small .25 pistol. “Let’s do it.”

  Sergio pulled a sawbuck from his wallet and flagged down a stripper for day care. The gang spread out, making a six-point formation around the bar, getting each other’s backs in case some associates crashed the party. Or worse, coppers.

  Lou slid up next to Desmond with a flirty smile. It didn’t matter. Desmond was facedown in a bowl of Spanish peanuts. She put her arm around him. “Hey, baby. What’s shakin’?”

  No movement. She tugged him. Just a lump. She looked around the bar, then slid her hand down to his wrist for a pulse.

  Nobody home.

  The guys started looking puzzled. What’s going on?

  Lou’s eyes darted around the lounge in suspicion. She surveyed the bar in front of Desmond: smokes, lighter, drink…the drink. An amber-brown liquid, good whiskey, with a small swirl of undissolved powder residue in the bottom. She snuggled up to Desmond, kissed him on the cheek, feeling through his jacket. Nothing there, or there. Wait, something down in the lining under the breast pocket.

  37

  Present

  A PHONE RANG. A captain in green fatigues picked it up. “Hello?…No!…No!…I see…. Yes, they’ll want to know right away.” The captain hung up and dialed.