by Neil Plakcy
But as he hopped out of the car he noticed the white butterfly hovering over the red double hibiscus by his front door. Table that idea for now, he thought.
He opened the door and ushered Farishta inside. Raki scampered along with her, and the butterfly followed. When Biff turned around again, Syl had assumed human form once more.
This time he was wearing a billowy white caftan, with a multi-colored scarf pulled around his neck. Raki was sitting up on his haunches, staring.
Farishta looked from him to Biff, a smile playing on her face. “I am Farishta,” she said, extending her hand.
In a grand gesture, Syl took her hand, bent low, and kissed her fingers. “Charmed, I’m sure. I am Sylphanus 18344857, but you can call me Syl.”
“You’re the sylph,” she said, nodding. She turned to Biff. “My Bivas, I had no idea you were involved with a male spirit.”
“I told you, Syl is my business associate.” To the man in white, he said, “Anything new to report?”
“Just wanted to check on my assignment for tomorrow. I’m assuming you want me to follow Laskin?”
“Absolutely. Just be careful. These are bad guys.”
“Can we offer you some nectar, Syl?” Farishta asked.
“I don’t think we have…” Biff began.
“That would be lovely,” Syl said. “I’m positively parched. Spending so much time inside is bad for my constitution.”
“I’m sure,” Farishta said.
Biff watched her butt move as she sashayed into the kitchen. Then he motioned to the low sofas. “Have a seat,” he said to Syl.
Syl looked at the pattern of macaws and egrets in the fabric and shuddered. “Birds.” He motioned toward an ottoman tufted in maroon silk. “If you don’t mind…”
“Whatever makes you comfortable.” Biff sat on a sofa while Syl lounged on the ottoman, which elongated as he watched to match the sylph’s human size. Biff just shook his head.
Farishta returned with a gilt serving platter, looking every bit like the Housewife of the Year in fifteenth-century Persia, still wearing her sheer blouse and a pair of harem pants gathered at her ankles, just above her pointy-toed silk slippers. Her black hair was piled up on her head, just a few curly wisps straying. From the tray she handed an elegant glass vial filled with yellow nectar to Syl. Raki got a small silver bowl of candied walnuts.
She handed Biff one of a pair of crystal wine glasses filled with ruby-red wine. He noted that he didn’t own any of those things—the tray, the glasses, the nectar, the nuts or the wine. Once again, Farishta amazed him.
“Tell me, Syl,” she said, lounging on the low sofa across from Biff’s. “How long have you been a detective?”
“Oh, at least a week,” Syl said. “It’s so much more fulfilling than air handling.”
“I’m sure.” She continued a mild sort of cross-examination, and Biff realized she was jealous. That was sweet, and unexpected.
But he didn’t want to spend the whole evening chit-chatting with the butterfly and the squirrel. He had plans for Farishta—private plans, without spectators. Fortunately, Syl rose and stretched his long legs. “Sorry, I must fly. Big party tonight at Greynolds Park. All the sylphs will be there.”
Biff rose. “I’ll walk you out,” he said. “Come on, Raki, you too.”
The squirrel stuffed the last walnut into his cheeks and hopped forward. Biff opened the front door, and Syl transformed himself back into a butterfly and flitted off. Raki scampered up the hibiscus and took a flying leap to the palm tree, his cheeks still stuffed with candied walnut.
Then Biff turned back to Farishta. She yawned. “Such a long day. I think I am ready for bed.”
“For bed, yes,” Biff said. “Sleeping, no.” And then, as he had planned, he scooped the beautiful genie in his arms and carried her upstairs.
30 - El Corazón de Managua
Biff slept in on Wednesday morning. He woke to see Farishta walking into the bedroom with an elaborate breakfast on a gilded tray. The eggs benedict, made with tiny sparrow eggs, were perfectly centered on miniature English muffins, with home fries and bacon cooked just the way Biff liked, soft and bubbling with fat. She had even conjured up tall glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“I could get used to this,” Biff said, sitting up so that Farishta could place the tray on the bed. She wore a sports bra and tiny jogging shorts, and she had pulled her hair into a long black ponytail.
“Should I say ‘yes master,’ like the silly genie on that old TV program?” she asked.
“That would be nice,” he said, as she slid into bed next to him.
“Only in your deepest fantasies, my Bivas,” she said, and she reached over and tweaked his left nipple. He yelped, then laughed.
Just after noon he logged into the Customs website from his laptop computer, using the ID and password Jaeger had provided. He verified that the cargo flight had left Baku on schedule, and was expected in a few minutes early.
He dressed in the Customs uniform, black slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt with military-style epaulets and the Customs and Border Protection patch on his upper arms. The words Department of Homeland Security surrounded an eagle with wings outstretched.
He was admiring himself in the mirror when Farishta entered the bedroom, already dressed in what looked like a stewardess’s uniform from the 1960s—Tiffany blue pencil skirt and white blouse, with matching blue pumps and shoulder bag. All she was missing was the cute little cap.
In case he needed an energy boost, he placed the lamp in a small backpack and slung it over his shoulder. Then he drove down to the airport once more with Farishta and Raki. He swiped his ID card to enter an employee parking lot adjacent to the terminal. Raki jumped out of the car as soon as Biff came to a stop, and hopped over to a skinny palm tree. Farishta stood up, stretching, and Biff felt a stiffening in his lower regions, which he resolutely ignored. He’d had plenty of time for fun with Farishta, though it was one of her many talents that she always left him hungry for more.
“I’ll be watching the warehouse,” she said. “You will have your cell phone, if I need you?”
“Yes. But if I tell you I can’t talk, that means I’m with Laskin, all right?”
“All you have to do is listen,” she said, smiling. “You know how to do that, don’t you?”
“It’s the number one secret to success with a woman,” Biff said. “I learned that a few hundred years ago.”
He left the lamp in the backpack on the back floor of the car, and strolled over to the employee door into the Customs area, where he slid his ID through the reader. As he stepped inside, people he’d never seen before nodded hello, and no one thought to question him or demand his ID. Funny what a uniform could do for you, he thought.
He found Jaeger in his office. “Flight’s due in about an hour. Let me walk you down to your position.” He led Biff downstairs and introduced him to the two agents on duty. He explained that Biff was a special agent in from DC to track a specific shipment, and showed him where to wait.
Biff spent the next hour watching the other two agents as they processed forms. By the time the plane from Azerbaijan landed, shortly after eight o’clock at night, he felt comfortable doing what he had to. He stood at the plate glass window as the plane was unloaded, the pallets transported into the warehouse.
His cell phone buzzed. “This is Bill,” he said.
“Bill! It’s Igor Laskin. Is my merchandise ready for pickup?”
“I’m watching it now. I’ll get started on your paperwork. Meet me at the warehouse in ten minutes.”
He stepped over to the computer terminal and entered his ID and password.
User not found. Retry?
Huh? Had Jaeger screwed something up? Biff entered the ID and password again, this time realizing that what he had taken for a number1 was actually an exclamation mark.
He pulled up the manifest for the flight online, filled in the arrival time, then indicated that the shipm
ent comprised agricultural machinery. The system automatically calculated the amount of the duty based on the weight and the category.
He hadn’t realized how many items he had to fill in on the manifest. Each one required him to search another screen for the right code, the correct address, and so on. He was relieved when he could finally hit print.
An error message popped up indicating that the printer was offline. He had to cross the room and turn it on, then try again. No wonder everything in government took so long, he thought.
When he had all the forms, he left the building and crossed the tarmac to the warehouse. A dozen crates labeled “agricultural equipment” in English and Russian were stacked on a series of pallets in the corner. He walked up to the first stack of crates and peered in through a chink in the wood framing. A layer of primitive-looking scythes rested on a bed of straw.
Under that layer, however, stacks of Kalashnikovs nestled in the straw. His extra-strong vision allowed him to see the serial numbers on the guns without opening the crate.
He zigzagged across the warehouse floor past stacks of pallets to the entrance to the waiting room. Laskin stood there looking at a flyer on the wall, his back to the camera mounted just below the ceiling.
Biff greeted him, and the bodybuilder turned around to face the camera. Get a good shot of him, Biff thought. Laskin’s skin was sallow and there were bags under his eyes. Not sleeping so well with a couple of murders under your belt? Biff wondered, but he didn’t say anything.
Biff shook Laskin’s hand and told him the amount of duty and fees required. Laskin had a pre-filled check in his pocket; all he had to add was the amount. He handed the check to Biff, who attached it to the form.
“That’s all, right?” Laskin said. His nerves were evident in the way his hand shook slightly, and in his rapid breathing.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Biff stretched his arms toward Laskin, so that his palms were both open.
“Oh, yeah.” Laskin reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he handed to Biff.
“Now we’re done,” Biff said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Yeah. See you around the gym, Bill.”
Laskin put the rest of the bills in his pocket and hurried out the door. As he did, Biff noticed the white butterfly just outside. He walked back to the office, where he watched Laskin direct a guy with a pallet jack to load the crates in the back of a nondescript white panel truck.
He called Hector and told him Laskin was on the move, then repeated the information to Jimmy and Frank Jaeger. When he got back to his Mini Cooper, he found Farishta and Raki waiting there for him.
It was close to eleven p.m. as Hector conferenced his cell phone together with Biff’s and Jimmy’s, and the three of them followed Laskin’s truck onto Le Jeune Road south, past the empty greenery of the Melreese Golf Course. The late-night traffic was a mix of beat-up pickups and luxury sedans, and none of them seemed to know where they were going—alternately moving slowly, then darting between lanes without warning.
Biff and Farishta were caught by a mistimed series of traffic lights and lost sight of Laskin’s car. “Damn it!” Jimmy said into the phone.
“Don’t worry, I can keep on him,” Biff said. He lowered his window and stuck his head out, sniffing the air. Farishta did the same thing on her side, though Biff assumed that while he was sniffing for the man’s scent, she was honing in on the power emanated by the coin around Laskin’s neck.
The light changed and they passed row after row of depressing strip centers, most of the stores closed. The buildings were run down, and Biff wondered how the neighborhood could support so many cell phone stores, Latin bakeries, and martial arts dojos. The garish neons were still illuminated, promises of money that could be sent to foreign countries cheaply, sales on twelve-packs of cheap beer, and ads for Spanish-language radio stations.
“Up ahead,” Farishta said. “He is turning.”
“Yes,” Biff said, agreeing even though neither of them could see Laskin’s car make a turn on to Flagler Street toward the Miami River. They drove past the bodegas and farmacias and pawn shops of East Little Havana. Old women pushed shopping carts, and teenagers huddled on street corners smoking and texting.
“I ran the license plate on the truck Laskin’s driving,” Jimmy said through the conference linkup, when they were stopped at a light. “Reported stolen this morning.”
“That’s the least of his offenses,” Hector said. “You’re sure he’s heading toward the river?”
“Sure as anything,” Biff said. As they neared the Miami River, he had to depend more on Farishta’s ability to track the amulet, because his own powers weakened the closer they got to the water.
They caught up with Laskin, who was stuck behind a tractor-trailer backing into a convenience store parking lot. Biff, Jimmy and Hector traded positions, keeping Laskin in sight until he pulled up at a chain link fence by the river’s edge. In the distance the office towers of Brickell Avenue and downtown Miami glittered like welcoming beacons, but the area around the riverfront was scattered with low buildings scrawled with graffiti.
Biff slowed down. Just beyond the fence was a cargo ship called El Corazón de Managua. An anchor cable stretched down from a hole at its bow, and the ship, nearly two hundred feet long, rode low in the water, already overloaded with containers on its deck.
The hull was painted a rusty red to the waterline, and catwalks criss-crossed up to the blue and white flying bridge. The boat was tied to the dock with bow and stern cables, and big spotlights illuminated a half-dozen men on deck, checking the containers, coiling ropes, and handling other departure-related duties.
Biff parked a block away. He retrieved the backpack and slung it over his shoulder, and he and Farishta walked back through the humid night, Raki scampering behind them. Farishta seemed to revel in her closeness to the river, taking deep breaths of the salt-tinged air and smiling.
They met Jimmy and Hector in the parking lot of a ships’ chandler, now closed. Hector had a digital camera with a telephoto lens, and he was taking pictures of Laskin supervising the transport of the pallets from his truck to the ship.
“Got what I need.” He handed the camera to Jimmy. “Can you download these onto your laptop and then email them to this address?” He recited a government email, which Jimmy scribbled down in his notepad. “Biff, you and Farishta keep an eye on things. I’m going down to the state’s attorney’s office to pick up the search warrant.”
“You can get one this late?” Biff asked. It was close to midnight by then.
“Justice never sleeps,” Hector said.
Jimmy had to go back to his car with the laptop in order to get a signal on the air card. Biff and Farishta stayed in the shadows in front of the chandlery, watching the transfer. Some boats headed for Haiti, carrying beans and rice, canned goods, clothing and household equipment. Other cargo was destined for ports in the Bahamas and throughout the Caribbean; it was still cheaper to transfer heavy goods over water, especially for short distances. The river had been cleaned up in the past decade or so; the derelict boats had been removed, and new regulations on the discharge of oil and waste. There had once been shootouts regularly, as cocaine cowboys made the riverfront their private entrepôt.
Farishta turned to Biff. “When they arrest Laskin, I will follow to the police,” she said. “And then I will be able to retrieve my amulet.”
“And then?” Biff asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Farishta. Are you going back to Somalia, or wherever?”
“Oh, my Bivas. I am not meant for domesticity. I must have my freedom. But I will see you again, you know that.”
“But what if I want more? Can’t you just whirl yourself somewhere to cause trouble, then come back to my house every night?”
“You would like that? But we have been on our own for so long.”
“Admit it. You were jealous when you
thought Syl was…”
“More than just your employee?” Farishta laughed. “Yes, I was jealous. But that is just one of the emotions I am capable of. I don’t think you would like to see them all.”
“At this point I’ve seen everything you are, and everything you can do,” Biff said. “And you’re still the most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”
“Ever the charmer.” She leaned toward him, and they kissed. Her lips were soft and moist and Biff felt himself transported, far from this dark, grimy stretch of waterfront, to somewhere heavenly and magical.
Then the night was torn with a loud, grinding noise. “They are pulling up the anchor,” Farishta said, pulling back from him. “Where is Laskin?”
The truck was dark. “He must be on board the ship,” Biff said.
“No! He cannot leave! They must arrest him.”
Biff called Hector. “Laskin’s on board, and the El Corazón is pulling up anchor. Where are you with the search warrant?”
“Running into complications. Can you do anything to keep the boat there?”
Biff looked at Farishta, who was glaring out at the freighter, her hands on her hips, a dark energy radiating from her.
“We can try,” Biff said. “Can’t you call the Coast Guard to keep them here?”
“Not until I have the warrant. Call you when I do.” Hector disconnected and Biff looked back at the ship. A dark-skinned man on the dock near the aft end began uncoiling one of the ropes from around a cleat. Biff pulled the lamp out of his backpack, and with his hands wrapped around the embossed metal, he did his best to pull energy from the lamp and the ground and slow the man’s progress, adding weight to the rope. But it was hard by the river, where so much of his power was drained by the nearness of the ocean. The lamp’s power, like his own, was limited in such close proximity to water.