Cadillac Beach

by Tim Dorsey

  Renfroe leaned over the railing and looked down the street. “Were you followed?”

  “Yes,” said Chi-Chi. “I think I saw Castro in a T-bird.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  Chi-Chi entered the apartment and plopped down at the kitchen table, where a second agent was working with a thick cigar, tweezers, a coffee can of enriched gunpowder and clay sticks of plastic explosives sitting on a stack of porno mags. Agent Renfroe grabbed three bottles of Miller High Life from the fridge and joined them. A noisy electric fan sat in the middle of the table.

  “Can’t you guys afford air-conditioning?” asked Chi-Chi, the brim of his hat lifting as the fan rotated past.

  The second agent pointed at a piece of plywood covering a hole in the wall. “Someone stole it.”

  “What’s with the girlie magazines?” asked Chi-Chi.

  Renfroe nodded toward the second agent. “Going through a divorce. It’s a tough time.”

  Another fan was running in the apartment, pointed at a small couch in the living room where four men sat together watching TV. There was a poster of Castro on the wall over the sofa. Someone had drawn a penis on his nose. Chi-Chi squinted at the quartet.

  “You know them?” asked Renfroe.

  “Recognize Meyer Lansky from the neighborhood, and I’ve seen Sam Giancana in the papers. Don’t know the other two.”

  “Santos Trafficante from the Tampa family,” said the second agent. “And Carmine Palermo, coming up in the Miami organization.”

  “Why don’t you just let us handle it?” said Chi-Chi. “Those guys are nothing but trouble.”

  “Sometimes you have to make a deal with the devil.”

  “The mob is what fermented the problem in the first case. All those casinos,” said Chi-Chi. “Just give us air cover this time.”

  “No way,” said Renfroe.

  The other agent looked up. “We have a more refined strategy. More subtle…”

  Chi-Chi looked at the cigar in the agent’s hands. “What’s that?”

  “It explodes.”

  “Have you lost your minds?”

  “Hear us out,” said Renfroe, setting a small green bottle on the table.

  “Aftershave?” said Chi-Chi.

  “Mixed with depilatory cream.”

  “So it’s true.”

  “What’s true?”

  “When I heard the talk on the street, I couldn’t believe my ears. I said, ‘Nobody’s that stupid.’”

  “The beard’s his trademark. The embarrassment will be tremendous.”

  “For us.”

  “I told you he couldn’t be trusted,” said the second agent, tightly wrapping the cigar.

  “Chi-Chi’s solid,” said Renfroe. “He just needs time. The Bay of Pigs was pretty rough.”

  “This isn’t funny,” said Chi-Chi. “We’re trying to free my country.”

  “So are we.”

  Laughter from the living room. Chi-Chi leaned back and saw four men cackling on the couch, pointing at the TV. Lucille Ball trying to keep up with a conveyer belt of cream pies.

  “I don’t like his attitude,” said the second agent, getting up from the table and leaving the kitchen with the cigar, some plastic explosives and a girlie mag.

  “Where’s he going?” asked Chi-Chi.

  “The demolition room. For final assembly,” said Renfroe.

  “The demolition room?”

  “The bathroom.”

  “Does he actually have any real demolition training?”

  “Why?”

  Someone had opened a fire hydrant in the street. Small children were laughing and jumping through gushing water when they heard the explosion and saw glass rain down from an upstairs bathroom window.

  Present

  Two men stood silently in the shallow end of a Coral Gables swimming pool. A tall one and a short one, ten feet apart, warily eying each other, water lapping pasty white breasts sagging in the bright afternoon light. Renfroe wore mirror sunglasses. Chi-Chi had Ray-Bans and a straw hat. He chewed an unlit cigar. Behind them, a waterfall and outdoor café next to an old quarried building with orange tiles. Children splashed at the other end, water rippling its way down the pool according to the laws of wave mechanics, flickering streaks of light off the masonry.

  “So…” Renfroe finally began. “We meet again after all these years. A couple of veteran Cold War soldiers. The last of our breed. Remember the safe house?”

  “My eyebrows didn’t grow back for three months.”

  “He was a good agent. They buried him at Arlington.” Renfroe stopped and took a deep breath, then grinned. “Can’t tell you how great it is to be back in the game!”

  Chi-Chi took the cigar out of his mouth. “I feel stupid.”

  “No, this is cool,” said Renfroe, staring over at the Italian lanterns hanging on striped poles in the emerald-green water. “The Venetian Pool. Great symbolism, very spy-like. Reminds me of the Benecio Del Toro scene in Traffic.”

  “That’s what Serge said when he picked it.”

  “Is he nearby?” asked Renfroe, looking around. “When do I get to meet him?”

  “You don’t,” said Chi-Chi. “You only contact him through me. That’s the way he wants it. No offense, but he doesn’t trust anyone.”

  Renfroe broke into a smile of admiration. “I would have expected no less from a seasoned operative. So he worked for Radio Martí?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh, right. I get your drift.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “The better you are at this game, the harder it is to swallow the bureaucratic bullshit. All the best are like Serge, contract hires.”

  “He’s crazy.”

  “You have to be, in this business,” said Renfroe. “Ever since we got the first coded transmission from Havana, there’s been a lot of speculation about Serge. Tell me, what’s he really like?”

  “Very sick. I knew him when he was a kid, and he’s turning out just like his grandfather. I feel obligated to watch out for him.”

  “I see. Brought him along, raised in a lifetime of espionage training. So that’s how he got to be so good.”

  “He’s in need of serious help.”

  “You name it,” said Renfroe. “Anything we can give him. We want to make sure he succeeds.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  “Right. You didn’t officially ask. This conversation never took place.”

  “What I’m trying to say—”

  “Are you working with the mob?”

  “No.”

  “They’re just dying to start up the casinos again.”

  “We’re not working with them.”

  “Sure, I understand. They’re not involved.”

  “They really aren’t.”

  “The rules have been relaxed. It doesn’t bother us if they are.”

  “They aren’t.”

  “And that’s exactly what I’ll say if anyone asks.”

  “Good.”

  “But it’s really okay with us.”

  “Jesus!” said Chi-Chi. “What did you want to talk about? I’m shriveling up here.”

  “I understand you’re going to invade Cuba.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  Renfroe inflated his chest. “I hear a lot of things.”

  Chi-Chi shrugged. “I guess we might do a little invading. What’s it to you?”

  “I want to help.”

  “No chance. I remember the last time you guys got involved.”

  “Don’t worry, we won’t actually be involved. I was just wondering if there’s anything you need to make sure you succeed. We’ll help in any way that’s not really help.”

  “How about some money?” Chi-Chi said sarcastically.

  “How much?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “Done.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Uh, let me check with Serg
e and get back to you.”

  CHI-CHI AND SERGE sat at the base of a tall statue in Little Havana, eating shredded beef and rice off paper plates.

  “And he offered us ten grand just like that?” said Serge.

  Chi-Chi tore a piece of Cuban bread and dipped it in his black-bean soup. “He’s crazier than you are. We’re supposed to pick it up after we set the next meet and I bring him the rest of your requests.”

  “You mean I can ask for more stuff?”

  Chi-Chi nodded and swallowed a chunk of meat. “He’s so obsessed he’ll give you anything.”

  “Oh, this is too good,” said Serge, rubbing his palms together. “Like a genie granting wishes. Let’s see, I want that and that and that and that and…I better get the clipboard and prioritize. Have to be sure I don’t pick the wrong things. You never want to waste genie wishes. You gonna eat those plantains?”

  “Have at it.”

  Serge shoveled them onto his plate. He got up with his food and walked around as he ate, reading the plaque on the Brigade 2506 Memorial honoring the fallen at the Bay of Pigs. He looked up at the eternal flame. “This must be a pretty special place for you.”

  “You have no idea,” said Chi-Chi, scooping rice. “These were great men. We can never forget.”

  The others from the limo were gathered around the park picnic-style, eating from their own plates.

  “Is the bread supposed to be like this?” asked Lenny.

  “It’s Cuban bread.”

  “I’m not saying it isn’t good. It’s just different. And I ordered coffee, but they only gave me a little sample cup.”

  Serge turned to Chi-Chi. “I had my hopes up when Mort gave me Lou’s address. Now I feel like we’re all the way back to square one.”

  Chi-Chi dug into the beef with a plastic fork. “Lou was your best shot.”

  “But where could she have gone?”

  Bang.

  A patch of dirt flew.

  “What was that?”

  Bang. More dirt.

  Everyone hit the deck. Chi-Chi dove behind the statue. “Serge, get down! Someone’s shooting!”

  Serge stood with hands on hips.

  Another burst of gunfire hit the paper plates, the air filling with rice and beans. The ground was strafed, a series of dust explosions at Serge’s feet. “Okay, I’m getting angry!”

  Chi-Chi pointed at a grassy knoll. “There he is!”

  Serge took off running. “I want to talk to you!”

  THE LIMO HEADED over the bay to Miami Beach, Lenny behind the wheel. Everyone in back was staring at the duct-taped hostage.

  “How’d you catch him?” asked Chi-Chi.

  “Superb conditioning,” said Serge. “Most people think you’ll break off a foot chase after twenty or thirty blocks. He never saw it coming. I ambushed him at the corner of Twenty-second and gave him a little Bruce Lee action.” Serge sliced the air with lethal karate chops, swish, swish. “I’m practicing tearing out a guy’s heart with my bare hands and showing it to him while it’s still beating. Except I can never seem to break through the skin, so it just knocked his wind out….” Serge turned toward the hostage. “…Lucky for him.” Swish, swish.

  “What’s the plan now?” asked Lenny.

  “Make the hostage talk,” said Serge. “Get to the bottom of all this shooting. Maybe even find where Lou went.” He ripped the tape off the captive’s mouth. “Ready to talk?”

  A silent scowl.

  “No problem,” said Serge, replacing the tape. “You’ll talk at the safe house. Everyone talks at the safe house.”

  “What safe house?” asked Chi-Chi.

  “The Pacino Room.”

  A half hour later, the limo was parked in yet another alley.

  Serge got out and opened the trunk. He removed an orange duffel bag and a large green molded-plastic case. Rusty and Doug started inching backward.

  Serge waved at them with a pistol. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  He picked up his gear and pushed open the back gate between two buildings. “On your left is the rear of the famous Colony Hotel, and on your right, Johnny Rockets, the trendy burger joint.” They entered a tight passage between the structures. The left side of the walkway was a row of forgotten apartments that had somehow been crammed up against the Colony. They reached the front near Ocean Drive and started up the stairs to a second-floor balcony. Serge stopped at the first room and went to work with a lock pick.

  “Doesn’t someone live here?” asked Lenny.

  “Under renovations…Damn, I can’t get this lock.” He opened the duffel and removed a T-shirt. He wrapped his hand in the cloth and punched out one of the door’s horizontal panes, quickly grabbing the two biggest pieces before they could shatter on the concrete.

  Serge motioned everyone into the room and locked the door. He began unloading the duffel bag: notebooks, videocassettes, photos, handcuffs, mini combination TV and VCR. He looked up at Rusty and Doug. “Can you feel it?”

  Blank looks.

  “You have no idea where you are?”

  They shook their heads.

  Serge went in the bathroom and set the TV/VCR atop the toilet tank. “Doug and Rusty, get over here.” They stuck their heads in the door. “You’ve just entered the Scarface portion of your tour…. Lenny, bring the hostage.”

  Lenny prodded the man with a pistol. Serge handcuffed his wrists over the shower rod. He stuck a tape in the VCR.

  The rest of the gang was curious now. They joined Rusty and Doug in the doorway. “Watch the TV carefully,” said Serge. “Here’s the part where Pacino and his gang arrive on Ocean Drive in their convertible.”

  Lenny looked out the bathroom’s porthole window. “But I thought the neighborhood in Scarface was a dump.”

  “It was,” said Serge. “That’s the amazing thing about this movie. It’s also a documentary, capturing the early eighties’ seediness when South Beach was simultaneously a geriatric slum and Wild West cocaine show—and now the convertible is making the U-turn, which gives us a clear view of the Colony Hotel and our apartment next door. And here they are pulling up to the curb across the street—that’s another thing that’s changed. They found a parking space—and Pacino jumps out and crosses the street. He heads up the stairs, the same stairs we just came up.” Serge fast-forwarded the tape and hit pause. “And now a splendid cinematic moment that always puts a smile on my face—the famous shower scene!”

  Serge pushed through the crowd in the doorway and left the bathroom, returning quickly with the big green plastic carrying case. On the side: JOHN DEERE. “I’ve always wanted to do this!”

  He set the case on the bathroom floor and flipped the latches. Over his shoulder, the little TV was frozen on the image of a Colombian swinging a chain saw.

  Rusty’s eyes went back and forth from Serge to the TV. A shock of realization. “Serge! No!”

  “For the love of God!” said Doug.

  “Too late,” said Serge. “I’ve got game.”

  He hit the play button; a vicious motorized sound erupted from the TV. The hostage trembled.

  Serge bent down to his case again. “This scene is a classic!”

  Rusty turned his head. “I can’t watch.”

  “I’ll watch,” said Mick Dafoe.

  “Me, too,” said Lenny.

  The noise from the TV grew louder.

  Serge opened the lid and jerked the John Deere out by the handle. He pull-started the two-stroke gas engine on the first try. It roared to life. Serge gritted his teeth and swung it toward the hostage, poking it in his face. “I’ll bet you’re ready to talk now!”

  Lenny scratched his head. “A leaf blower?”

  “They were out of chain saws,” Serge said out the side of his mouth, still gritting teeth.

  The hostage’s hair blew around.

  “Serge, maybe you need a little nap,” said Chi-Chi.

  “I’m having the time of my life.”

  “It’s not going to
kill him.”

  “Yes it will.”

  “No it won’t.”

  “It’ll just take longer. Hours, maybe all weekend. Think of the agony.”

  “Serge…”

  “What if I put it real close?” Serge placed the end of the blower an inch from the man’s stomach. “See? He’s getting a rash.”

  They began hearing sirens in the distance.

  “Serge, we better get going,” said Lenny.

  “Just a little more time.”

  Chi-Chi walked up from behind and put a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “We know you mean well.”

  SERGE RAN A red light on Biscayne.

  “A leaf blower!” he said, shaking his head. “What was I thinking?”

  “Just like your granddad,” said Chi-Chi, reading a newspaper in the passenger seat.

  “I get these ideas,” said Serge. “Who knows where they come from? Next thing, they’ve taken over my life. Then we have all this….” He gestured at the sticky notes covering everything. “You can’t tell me that’s normal.”

  “The first step to recovery is admission,” said Chi-Chi.

  “You’re right,” said Serge. “It’s so clear now. I have to ignore this insane chorus in my head. I have to find some way to remind myself not to record all these thoughts.” He grabbed the mini digital recorder. “Note to self…”

  Rusty tapped Serge on the shoulder. “We’d like to get out now, please.”

  “Would never do that to you. When I give my word, you can bank on it. Besides, we’re almost home free. The Master Plan is unfolding perfectly.”

  Rusty lost it again. “No it’s not! This is no plan! You’re insane! You’re just aimlessly driving around!” He fell back in his seat and sobbed quietly. “We’re all going to die!”

  The basketball arena went by. Serge looked in the rearview. “Rusty, Doug. I wasn’t going to tell you because I didn’t want to cause needless worry. But you’ve held up well and deserve the truth. Everything’s changed; I’m calling an audible at the line of scrimmage. I’ve been doing some new calculations, and it looks like we’ve lost every advantage. They know who we are, they know Tony’s dead, they have a huge organization and own half the city government. It’s hopeless—just a matter of time before the Palermos hound us down and kill all of us in slow, unspeakable manners. We’ve run out of options. And you know what that means?”