by Tim Dorsey
A major picked up the receiver. “I can’t believe it!” Soon, half the phones in Havana were ringing.
Ten minutes later, a colonel with a file folder walked briskly down a marble hallway, his footsteps echoing off stucco walls, passing a row of arched windows overlooking the Hotel Nacional. He entered the office of Cuban Intelligence and saluted. More phones rang. By one A.M. a select inner circle of men with piles of gold braiding on their visors had gathered around a large oak table. A topographical map of the island hung on the wall.
A general walked to the front of the room. He drew decisively on the map with a red marker. “We just got word from our operatives in Miami….” The ensuing revelation stunned the room, everyone’s eyes locked on the general. Except one of the majors. His eyes shifted side to side.
The meeting adjourned. Military jeeps roared off down cobblestone streets. A major walked up a flight of steps to his villa apartment overlooking the harbor. He went in the kitchen and stood on a chair. He reached into a hollowed-out ceiling beam, removing a miniature radio transmitter and codebook.
A PHONE RANG in Florida.
A rookie case agent burst breathlessly into the office of the CIA station chief.
“Sir, you’re not going to believe…”
Phones began ringing all over Miami. Just before dawn a conference room in Coral Gables filled with bleary-eyed men in dress shirts, backs rigid around the oak table, gazes down at the Lemon Pledge shine. They could feel the station chief hovering behind them as he paced in a spitting rage, pounding the blackboard.
“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on!”
No answer.
“Can anybody explain this message we got from our man in Havana?”
People looked at their fingernails.
“Schaeffer!” yelled the station chief. “You’re his handler!”
“Maybe the message was garbled. Or maybe they got to him.”
“You really believe that?”
“No.”
A piece of chalk flew. People ducked. “Shit! Everyone knows what the CIA is doing in Miami except the CIA!”
“Sir, maybe it’s one of those new cells that reports directly to Washington. Maybe we’re not supposed to know.”
“If we’re not supposed to know, then we’re supposed to know! We’re in the intelligence field!” The chief made another lap around the table. “Do you have any idea what we’re going to look like if a few hotshots from Washington can come down and run an operation this big right under our noses?”
The men knew their station chief, knew not to say anything. Chick Renfroe. The legend. Nearing the end of his career. He had been attached to the Miami office since the beginning, running a safe house back when things were loose, crazy. Renfroe started pacing again, talking to himself. “It has to be Peterson! He’s been out to make me look bad ever since that Hasenfus fiasco in Nicaragua!” The chief spun and barked at Schaeffer again. “What else was in the dispatch?”
“Nothing important, just some supply lists, a couple fake agent names, Serge and Chi-Chi—”
“Not Chi-Chi Menendez?” said Renfroe.
“How’d you know?”
“Son of a bitch!” More flying chalk. “So it is a Company operation! I knew it! Chi-Chi was an exile operative working with us when I ran the safe house back in ’64. Insubordinate as hell. Now he’s back!…Goddamn Peterson!”
They kept their heads down as Renfroe moved around the table with heavy steps. “Okay, what’s our move? Schaeffer—you mentioned a second guy?”
“Serge—he’s the mystery man. No department record.”
“Probably Chi-Chi’s control agent from Washington.”
“Actually, we traced him to a local tour service, Serge and Lenny’s.”
Renfroe nodded. “Typical front. Used to set those up all the time ourselves. We once had this homes-of-the-stars deal that let us keep track of Hollywood types with questionable leanings.”
“Sir, if I may,” said the youngest agent at the table. The others turned. They couldn’t believe he was talking.
“What is it?”
“They may not be our boys at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sir, ever since all the domestic-security issues, the territory’s gotten gray. The Bureau’s been stepping on our toes.”
“Of course!” said Renfroe. “The FBI! I should have seen it a mile out!” Renfroe grabbed a coat off a hanger and headed for the door.
FBI Headquarters, Miami
Miller and Bixby were in Director Webb’s office.
Webb pressed the stop button on the tape recorder at the end of the Radio Martí broadcast.
“See what I mean?” said Miller. “Just like sixty-four all over again—the CIA, the mob, assassinations. They must be working with the Palermos again, probably grabbed our witness as a favor to Carmine.”
Webb thought a second. He was a calm one. He put his hands together in front of his face like he was praying. “You sure this tour service is a front?”
“Definitely.”
The intercom buzzed. “Sir, Chief Renfroe here to see you.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence?” said Miller.
“You’re dismissed.” Webb depressed a button on the intercom. “Send him in.”
Miller and Bixby passed Renfroe in the doorway. Webb slid the Radio Martí tape under some papers and got up to shake hands.
“The Agency paying me a visit?” said Webb. “What’s the special occasion?”
Renfroe took a seat and manufactured a look of concern.
“We may be stepping on each other’s toes. Are you working anything in Cuba?”
“You know we wouldn’t do that. It’s your territory.”
“Except for the exiles. You’ve had a lot of dealings since that Brothers to the Rescue refugee plane was shot down by the MiG.”
Webb didn’t say anything.
Renfroe took a theatrical breath and surveyed the mahogany desk. There was a special stand next to the pen holder, a gold tee holding a golf ball and a brass plate: HOLE-IN-ONE, DORAL, BILL WEBB, SEPT. 16, 1982.
Renfroe plucked the ball off the tee and began idly tossing and catching it in his right hand.
Webb reflexively bent forward. “That’s my special—” He caught himself and sat back.
Renfroe tossed the ball in the air again. “Are any of your exile contacts planning a trip south, say, in the middle of the night, a little beach vacation?”
Webb started laughing. “That’s not exactly at the top of our list. Why? Do you have something like that in the works?”
“You know I can’t answer that. You running anything?”
“I can’t answer that either.”
“We’ve just been getting little bits of chatter that we may be working some of the same people and not know it. That kind of confusion can cost lives.”
They both eased back in their chairs and considered each other.
“Let’s talk hypothetically,” said Renfroe.
“Let’s.”
“Say you did have something going. It would be buffered through several layers of shady little fronts, the typical cast of ex-agents and mercenaries and former military from Central America.”
“If we did, we learned it from you.”
“Touché.” Renfroe stood and tossed the ball to Webb, who lurched and caught it like a bulb of nitroglycerin, carefully setting it back on the shiny tee.
Renfroe walked over and looked up at a framed photo on the wall, Hoover and Nixon and a much younger Webb at a Miami banquet, autographed. Renfroe held his hands behind his back as he studied the picture. “So, hypothetically of course, you working anything?”
“Hypothetically, anything’s possible.”
“Us, too,” said Renfroe, taking the photo off the wall for a closer look.
“I wish you wouldn’t—”
“Who would you use?”
“What?”
“Who would y
ou use?” said Renfroe. “As a front. In theory.”
“I don’t know.”
“Serge and Lenny’s?” Renfroe bluffed. “You know any outfit by that name?”
Webb involuntarily glanced down at the stack of papers on top of the cassette tape. “No. What about you?”
“Not sure.”
Renfroe hung the photo back on the wall. “Okay, let’s keep in touch. Let me know if you hear anything.”
38
A BLACK STRETCH limo parked at Collins and Twentieth. Serge stuck a file under his arm and led the entourage up the sidewalk to the corner door. SOBE SHOWGIRLS. He pulled an old photo from the folder and held it up like a teacher.
“The canopy and the landmark Five O’Clock neon sign are gone, but you can’t mistake the architecture.”
They went inside. Mick and Lenny ran down to the catwalk and grabbed ringside seats. Serge scanned the booths in the dark room. No Mort. Now he had to wait. Serge hated waiting. He went looking for the manager. He showed him the photos in his file.
“Yeah, I heard a few stories,” said a stocky man in his mid-thirties, shaved head and earrings. “When I first got here, I found Mae West’s nameplate on a dressing-room door upstairs. I took it, figured it would be worth a lot of money someday.”
“Martha Raye.”
“What?”
“Not Mae West, Martha Raye.”
“One old star’s the same as another.”
“There’s a little bit of a difference there.”
Serge continued questioning the man, pressing him harder and harder for information.
“Think! Anything you can possibly remember! A tiny detail that might seem unimportant to you could make all the difference!”
“Listen, guy, I don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you just go out and enjoy the girls?”
Serge returned to the show floor and began grilling strippers. “…Anything you can remember! It could be critical!”
“I just started here. Want a lap dance?”
“What about your friends?”
“Are you a cop or something?”
The room became a little brighter. Serge looked toward the open front door letting in sunshine. A bent old man came in with a cane. Serge headed over.
“Mort?”
“Little Serge?”
They sat across from each other in a booth. Mort went first.
“Chi-Chi called and said you wanted to meet. But said it couldn’t be at the retirement home. What’s going on?”
“Many, many things. But I’ll pick one. I’ve been looking into my grandfather’s death. It was no accident.”
Mort leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You don’t want to be stirring that up. I know it’s hard, but trust me.”
“I’ve been tracking down the old gang,” said Serge. “Somebody doesn’t want me talking to them. Moondog and Tommy have been shot.”
“What!”
“They’re all right. They’re in the hospital. I needed to get you away from your place for your own safety.”
“It’s that serious?”
“Afraid so. Do you know anything at all about my grandfather’s diary?”
“That book he used to write in all the time? Oh, sure. I know where it is right now.”
“You do?” said Serge.
“Absolutely. It’s—”
“Hold it!” Serge shielded Mort with his body and grimaced.
“What are you doing?”
When gunfire never came, Serge uncoiled and sat back down.
“You need to go talk to Louisiana,” said Mort. “I’m sure she’d love to see you after all these years.”
Serge was dumbstruck. “Lou’s still here? She’s still alive?”
“Of course she’s still alive. More than ever.”
“I mean, her lifestyle and all.”
“Here’s the address.” He wrote on the back of a bank receipt.
Serge helped Mort to the door and began rounding up the rest of the gang. He turned to the catwalk. “We’re going now!”
Mick and Lenny took dollar bills out of their teeth.
AN HOUR LATER. A desolate stretch of Miami south of the river. Plywood on windows. Trash blowing around. An empty Metrorail car clacked along its elevated track. Neutron-bomb territory.
They kept driving until they saw signs of human life again. A liquor store with a small crowd of men sucking on paper bags under the no-loitering sign. A bulletproof sidewalk window making short-term loans for car titles. Serge spotted the semi-occupied apartment building. He pulled over in front of a newsstand specializing in out-of-town papers and multilingual beaver magazines.
He and Chi-Chi got out and went up a walkway to one of the apartments. Serge knocked on the door. No answer. He put his ear to the wood.
“Hear anything?” asked Chi-Chi.
Serge shook his head. He pulled Mort’s bank receipt from his pocket and checked the number scribbled on the back, same as the one on the door.
Serge tried the knob. Locked. He glanced around, then gave it a test hit with his shoulder. The door popped open. Serge ran his fingers along the splintered frame where the dead bolt used to fit.
“Someone’s already been here.”
Chi-Chi followed him, stepping over pulled-out dresser drawers. “Look at this mess.”
Serge pawed through old costume jewelry scattered across the floor. “This was Lou’s place, all right.”
They went in the bedroom. Serge opened a closet. Empty.
“I don’t like this,” said Chi-Chi.
“All her clothes are gone,” said Serge.
“I don’t see any purses either,” said Chi-Chi. “Maybe that’s good.”
They left the unit and headed back to the limo.
“Looks like Lou left in a big hurry,” said Chi-Chi.
“Or was made to leave,” said Serge, stopping at the newsstand and picking up a Wall Street Journal.
“This is what happens when you disturb the past.”
“Oh, my God!” said Serge.
“What?”
“I rule!” said Serge, waving the paper over his head. “They finally published my letter.”
“Letter?”
Serge handed Chi-Chi the paper, then lifted the entire stack of Wall Street Journals out of the rack and headed for the cash register. “I’m going to send copies to everyone I know!”
Chi-Chi followed him, reading. “Serge, it says here in the editor’s note that the letter was being published in cooperation with national law enforcement, who are trying to locate the writer in connection with a series of unsolved South Florida murders. Anyone with any information is supposed to call the FBI.”
Serge plopped the stack of papers on the counter with an irrepressible grin. “Published is published!”
Chi-Chi finished reading the paper’s disclaimer and started the letter.
To: Editor in Charge
The Wall Street Journal
Wall Street U.S.A.
From: Serge A. Storms
Re: The Coming Revolution
I saw where you ran the Unabomber’s Manifesto some time ago, and I had to wonder: Is this how far your paper has fallen? Are you that hard up for good expository writing these days? I read the whole essay. What a nutbar! I know where he was trying to go, but in the end it just turned into word salad. Didn’t anybody edit that thing?
Okay, I’m not one to criticize unless I have solutions, so you can start by publishing my “Wake-Up Call to the Fat Cats”:
How everything has changed. And how quickly. It seemed like only yesterday the sky was the limit for my stock portfolio with heavy positions in midcap techs and George Foreman Grills. Now, just a few years later, federal cheese lines are back, and the American family is busy piecing together tiny scraps of soap found around the bathroom to make new bars.
We are living in riotous times. Remember a little while ago when you corporate types told us, “Oh, you don’t need a pension anymore. We’ll set
you up with a nice 401(k). You’ll be much wealthier. Trust us.”
And that wealth will be based on?
“Our profits.”
Which will be determined by?
“Our accountants…Have a nice retirement.”
And now we’re sitting around kitchen tables looking at monthly statements like people staring over deck rails at an iceberg and being told they’re a bit shy on lifeboats.
But remember the joy? Remember how fun it was to set up your portfolio on the Internet with a cute little program, check it each day, maybe open an Ameritrade account and become like the so-pleased people in those ads? Yes, we have arrived.
Then storm clouds. Everyone out of the pool!
The revelations hit like a series of body blows. Cooked books, bogus oversight, Enron shuffling energy contracts like a three-handed blackjack dealer and the curtain being pulled back on WorldCom to show two Dixie cups and a string…. Let’s cut through the fog. This is what happened: Wall Street held an open house for the middle class. “Come on in! You’re now one of us. You, too, can play. Everyone is empowered! Doesn’t it feel good?”
Then you took all our fucking money!
I turned on the TV. Every channel was talking about all the billions of dollars in investments that have been wiped out…. Hold on a sec. “Wiped out”? What the hell are they talking about? No money was “wiped out.” It just went in your pockets.
So I have a few thoughts I’d like to share.
First, Wall Street: I’d start carrying guns if I were you.
Your annual reports are worse fiction than the screenplay for Dude, Where’s My Car?, which you further inflate by downsizing and laying off the very people whose life savings you’re pillaging. How long do you think you can do that to people? There are consequences. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. But inevitably. Just ask the Romanovs. They had a nice little setup, too, until that knock at the door.
Second, Congress: We’re on to your act.
In the middle of the meltdown, CSPAN showed you pacing the Capitol floor yapping about “under God” staying in the Pledge of Allegiance and attacking the producers of Sesame Street for introducing an HIV-positive Muppet. Then you passed some mealy-mouthed reforms and crowded to get inside the crop marks at the photo op like a frat-house phone-booth stunt.