Insane City (40 page)

blood on the seat. His eyes were still open; his gaze met hers.

“Hang in there,” she said.

She saw a red light up ahead, a major intersection, four lanes of cars crossing. She reached for the

SIREN and LIGHTBAR switches, flipped them up, heard the now familiar whoop-whoop-whoop.

Then she saw the Miami Police cruiser. It was to her right, on the cross street, four cars back in the

line of cars that had stopped to allow Meghan to lead her two-car motorcade through the intersection. She

caught the barest glimpse of the officer at the wheel, a female, staring at the speeding cruiser.

“Oh shit,” said Meghan. She shut the lights and siren off, glanced in the rearview. The Escalade was

still right behind her. She accelerated, glancing every few seconds into the rearview, holding her breath.

“Oh shit,” she said again.

In the distance behind her, the police car was turning south on Biscayne Boulevard. It was following

her.

Meghan stomped on the gas.

58

It was a busy Sunday morning at Bayside Marketplace, a flamboyantly tacky, tourist-infested

waterfront shopping-dining complex on the bay in downtown Miami. Five huge cruise ships were in the

nearby Port of Miami, and many cruise passengers, both arriving and departing, had made their way to

Bayside to kill some hours before their ships or planes were due to depart. They were eating at outdoor

restaurants serving cuisines ranging from Cuban to Hooters. They were wandering among the stores and

stalls selling souvenirs of the Caribbean manufactured in Asia. Some were boarding sightseeing boats or

listening to the salsa band on the outdoor stage. Others were prolonging or getting a head start on their

vacations by getting hammered on rum drinks. A few were paying to have their pictures taken with exotic

birds or, if they were feeling adventurous, an eleven-foot albino Burmese python.

That python was Blossom, beloved pet and business partner of Duane, who liked to work at Bayside

on mornings when the cruise ships were in port. It was a tricky gig because Duane and Blossom—

especially Blossom—were not welcome at Bayside. This was the result of an incident several years

earlier when four very large and very intoxicated Ohio State football players on spring break decided it

would be fun to shoot a video of themselves forming Blossom sequentially into the letters
O-H-I-O
. They

had gotten as far as the
H
when Blossom wrapped herself several times around the neck of one of the

players, an offensive tackle, apparently intending to asphyxiate and then consume him. It was several

minutes before the other players were able to pry her free from their now-unconscious teammate. The

consensus of eyewitnesses was that Duane had done little to help. This was true: Duane, a loyal

University of Miami fan, detested the Buckeyes.

Since that incident, Duane and Blossom had been officially banned from Bayside, though this did not

stop Duane from going there. His strategy was to position himself at the end of the gangplank for the

Barco Loco
. This was a charter boat built to look, vaguely, like a pirate ship. It had a black hull with four

cannons sticking out of gunports; it flew the Jolly Roger atop its mainmast, from which were suspended

purely decorative sails. The
Barco Loco
was chartered for parties—occasionally corporate events but

mainly children’s birthdays. The crew dressed in pirate costumes and motored the boat around Biscayne

Bay, shouting
“Arrr!”
a lot while serving the kids mass quantities of microwaved chicken nuggets and

occasionally firing the
Barco
’s propane cannons, which emitted loud
BOOM!
s.

When it wasn’t being chartered, which was most of the time, the
Barco Loco
was docked at Bayside

and manned only by its live-aboard captain, the nautically named Bobby Stern, who happened to be a

longtime drinking buddy of Duane’s. So when Duane was working the Bayside crowd and he spotted a

security guard heading his way, he would grab Blossom and hustle across the gangplank and into the

Barco
, where he would hang out and sip tequila until Bobby told him the coast was clear.

On this particular day, no security guards had appeared. That was the good news for Duane. The bad

news was that business was bad. For whatever reason—this always was a mystery to Duane—some

people just didn’t see the fun in coming into close physical contact with ninety pounds of cold-blooded,

constricting reptilian muscle. Duane—who was tired anyway, having been up late dealing with the slot-

machine python—was thinking of knocking off early. Some days were like this: nothing going on.

59

Derek Tritt, governor of Florida and rising political star, hadn’t wanted to go to Tina

Clark’s wedding. He didn’t know Tina Clark at all, and his relationship with her father, Mike, consisted

entirely of pretending to like him in exchange for campaign contributions. So Tritt had initially responded

to the wedding invitation by having his people inform Mike Clark’s people that, unfortunately, on the big

day the governor was scheduled to meet with a trade mission from Belgium. This was actually true,

provided that the words “meet with a trade mission from Belgium” were defined as “play golf.”

But then Clark’s people had informed the governor’s people that among the guests at the Tina Clark

wedding would be Wendell Corliss. That changed things. Corliss was a whole different level of

billionaire from Clark. Corliss wasn’t just ridiculously wealthy; he was also hugely influential. He was a

man who could determine which states would be granted huge federal contracts and who would be on the

short list for the vice presidential nomination and—above all—who got Masters tickets.

Derek Tritt did not become a rising political star by passing up opportunities to kiss the asses of men

like Wendell Corliss. So Tritt had his people get back to Clark’s people to let them know that, somehow,

the governor was going to find a way to reschedule the Belgians, because he would not miss Tina’s big

day for the world, provided that he was seated next to Corliss at the wedding dinner.

Thus a deal was struck. And thus it was that the limo carrying Gov. Tritt and his administrative

assistant was now arriving at the Ritz-Carlton, followed by the Chevrolet Tahoe carrying the governor’s

Florida Department of Law Enforcement security detail. Waiting to greet the governor on behalf of the

Ritz were the hotel manager and a squadron of hotel bellmen. Also in the welcoming party were Wendell

Corliss, Marty (still in his orange swim trunks) and a six-foot-tall flamingo.

The governor, thrilled to see Wendell—Wendell Corliss!—waiting for him in person, opened the

limo door himself and stepped out, beaming.

“Governor Tritt,” said the hotel manager, stepping forward, “on behalf of the Ritz-Carlton, I want to

wel—”

“Thank you, great, thanks,” said Tritt, shaking the manager’s hand and making sincere eye contact for

approximately seven nanoseconds before withdrawing his hand and thrusting it at Wendell. “This
is
an

honor, Mr. Corliss,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Definitely not,” said Wendell, shaking Tritt’s hand. “This is my associate Marty . . .” He turned to

Marty. “What’s your last name, anyway?”

“Kempfelmeyer,” said Marty.

“. . . my associate Marty something,” said Wendell.

Gov. Tritt shook Marty’s hand. “Good to meet you, Marty.”

“Please,” said Marty, “call me Marty.”

“And this,” said Wendell, turning to the flamingo, “is our host, Mike Clark.”

“What?” said Tritt.

“Great of you to come, Governor,” said the flamingo, sticking out a pink-sheathed arm.

“Mike?” said Tritt.

The flamingo lifted its beak, and Tritt saw that the man inside the costume was in fact Mike Clark.

“I can explain,” said Mike.

“No you can’t,” said Wendell.

“No I can’t,” said Mike. “But there is an explanation.”

“Great to be here,” said Tritt, who, being governor of Florida, was not unaccustomed to weirdness.

He shook the flamingo’s hand.

“I’ll be out of this costume soon,” said Mike.

“Maybe,” said Wendell.

“Maybe,” amended Mike.

“So, Governor,” said Wendell, “we have some time. Why don’t we go inside, maybe have a drink

before the wedding?”

“Sounds great,” said Tritt, who all of a sudden really wanted a drink.

“Do you like brownies?” said Marty.

“I do like brownies,” said Gov. Tritt.

60

Meghan was now looking in the rearview more than she was looking ahead. Seth was still

behind her in the Escalade, and behind him, a few blocks back, was the Miami Police cruiser. The officer

was clearly following them; she was going through red lights to keep up. But so far she was keeping her

distance and hadn’t activated her lights or siren. Meghan wondered why that was.

She checked the cross street as she went through an intersection: Fifteenth. Ahead was the I-395

overpass. She was entering downtown Miami, which meant she was getting close to Brickell Avenue, at

the end of which lay the bridge back to Key Biscayne. She made up her mind: Even if the officer tried to

stop her, she would keep going, try to make it to the hotel. Or, if it came to that, she’d try to stop the

police car, run interference, so Seth could go ahead with the Haitians. She was already in deep shit, she

figured; a little deeper wouldn’t make much difference.

She shot between the two big swoopy buildings that made up the downtown performing-arts center.

Biscayne Boulevard split apart here, the southbound and northbound lanes separated by a wide median.

She zoomed under I-395; a few seconds later the American Airlines Arena loomed on her left. She

glanced in the rearview; Seth was still right with her, the Miami Police cruiser well back. She looked

forward.

“Oh shit,” she said.

About a hundred yards ahead, south of the Third Street intersection, were four Miami Police cars,

lights flashing, completely blocking the southbound lanes of Biscayne Boulevard. Now Meghan knew why

the cruiser following her hadn’t tried to stop her. She took her foot off the gas, looking around frantically.

Her first thought was to hang a right on Third Street, but as she got closer she saw it was blocked by a

long double line of cars waiting for a light. This left one option.

“Shit,” said Meghan, hanging a squealing left onto Third directly against one-way traffic. Honking

cars swerved out of her way as she barreled across the northbound lanes of Biscayne Boulevard and into