Authors: Tim Dorsey
Pineapple Grenade (5 page)
Across the boulevard: bright sun and a gusting breeze off Biscayne Bay. Colorful flags snapped atop rows of just-planted aluminum poles. An army of landscapers manicured hedges, drove lawn mowers, and rode skyward in hydraulic cherry-picker baskets to snip away any palm frond with the least tinge of brown. Behind them, others in yellow hard hats erected scaffolds around the amphitheater for lighting, sound, and news cameras.
In the middle, an eternal flame.
TV correspondents loved it as a backdrop.
“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from downtown Miami, where workers are putting the final touches on the landmark Bayfront Park in preparation for this weekend’s Summit of the Americas, which promises to be a cultural high point . . .”
A passerby jumped up and down behind her.
“Wooo! Dolphins number one! . . .”
Serge and Coleman walked in front of the television crew. They climbed in an orange-and-green ’68 Plymouth Road Runner and drove down Biscayne Boulevard. All around them, factory-fresh BMWs and Lincolns with the a/c full blast, heading for high-rise hotels. On the other side of the median, more luxury sedans sped toward Miami International, guided by commercial jets flying down from the north and private Lears soaring up from South America.
At the airport’s international arrivals wing, the customs line was unusually stacked up and snaked back through the concourse with random curves as people saw fit. No waiting in a separate VIP line, where visiting dignitaries went unchecked thanks to diplomatic status. They flowed through the terminal circled by entourage knots radiating out in strict pecking order: immediate family, cabinet members, campaign donors, political strategists, personal assistants, distant family—passing newsstands, shoe shines, and airport bars with TVs set to local news.
“. . . On a lighter note, Tuesday’s mystery has been solved and no charges will be pressed against three Honduran fishermen who caught a wayward shark in the Miami River and carried it through downtown in a futile attempt to sell it at local restaurants. Witnesses reported the trio taking the shark aboard the Metro Mover for a loop around the city before finally getting off the monorail near the Museum of Art and throwing the fish in the street . . .”
Outside, along the pickup curb, a waiting row of limos with small flags on the hoods.
Another Latin entourage reached the curb near sunset. Security agents went first, making a visual sweep in mirror sunglasses, then urgently waving the rest forward.
The president-for-life of a country the size of Connecticut approached one of the limos. A bodyguard opened the back door.
An explosion.
The security detail threw the president to the sidewalk and piled on top. They peeked up from pavement level. Everyone else nonchalantly tending luggage and hailing cabs.
Agents stood up.
“What just happened?” asked the president.
A skycap looked in the distance at a black column of smoke. “Probably shooting
Burn Notice
.”
The president’s suit was brushed off. He climbed in the limo and headed for the Dolphin Expressway.
At the rear of the pickup line, an orange-and-green Road Runner sat at the curb, next to a row of newspaper boxes with large headlines:
CARJACKER FREEZES TO DEATH IN MIAMI
COLORFUL CAPES NEW RAGE ON SOUTH BEACH
HUMAN SPERM FOUND IN BULL SEMEN TANK
ETHICAL DEBATE: SHOULD HERO-VIGILANTE BE CLONED?
In the street, five lines of exiting airline traffic merged with designed chaos. Brake lights. Hand gestures. Horns honked and echoed off the terminal. A police whistle blew. Serge pulled away from the curb . . .
Night came quickly. Long rows of headlights at the tollbooths near the former site of the Orange Bowl. A limo hit a blinker for the cash lane.
It was one of those twin skies. Light blue behind, where the sun had just gone down over the Gulf of Mexico. Ahead: impenetrably black toward the Atlantic.
Serge handed change to one of the collectors and spun rubber.
Coleman bent down and fired a fattie. He blew a cloud out the window. “What are we doing again now?”
“Fighting crime.”
“I thought you were spying.”
“Coleman, there are many things that naturally go together and you can do at the same time, like receiving oral sex and organizing postcards.”
Coleman stared out the window. “We’re just driving in circles around the airport again.”
“You are correct, fact-boy.”
“But we did it the other night. Remember nabbing the carjacker and saving that old couple? Problem solved.”
“Coleman, there isn’t just one guy behind it all. Think of the ground he’d have to cover in one night.”
“Like Bad Santa.”
“We’re fighting a pandemic,” said Serge. “Out-of-towners don’t realize the dicey area surrounding the airport.”
Coleman took another hit. “I didn’t think the neighborhood was that bad.”
“Not the neighborhood specifically. But there’s a massive predatory element that lurks in the shadows, looking for any car that’s not local, especially rentals.”
“Why?”
“The reasons are like the sand on the beach. But to name a few: Criminals know most tourists can’t afford the hassle and cost of returning to testify, especially since it’s an international city and many are from overseas. Two: Visitors get lost faster than our Silver Alert seniors wandering from retirement homes. Three: They don’t have the Miami Survival Skill Set.”
“Skills?”
“They pull up at a stoplight and don’t know to leave a space for evasive maneuver from a box-in robbery. And if they get rear-ended, they
definitely
don’t know not to get out of the car to exchange insurance information like everything’s lollipops in Candy Land.”
Serge’s eyes made another scan of traffic. They locked onto a vehicle ten cars ahead: limo with small flags flapping on each side of the hood. He changed lanes.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” said Coleman.
“Used to be worse,” said Serge. “One summer it hit the tipping point, and an embarrassing number of Europeans had their return flights upgraded to coffins in the cargo hold. So the state legislature passed a law sanitizing license plates.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Tourist robberies around the airport became so commonplace it spawned a widespread slang called ‘Z-ing.’ ”
“Z . . . ?”
“Rentals used to be designated with a
Z
or
Y
on their license plates. Or ‘Manatee County.’ Criminals must have a newsletter or something.”
The limo drifted into the far right lane. Serge matched it. They crested an overpass, and the skyline grew near, giving the night air a phosphorus glow.
“Serge?”
“Yes, Beavis?”
“I get the part about circling the airport, but why did we park at that curb, just to pull away two minutes later?”
“I wanted to look at flags on the limo hood. Needed to make sure we’re following the right car.”
“What’s the right car?”
“The one from the country whose consulate just hired me. Spies are expected to take initiative.” Serge checked all mirrors. “Plus the Summit of the Americas is coming this week, and my beloved state is reaping the prestige she so richly deserves. The last thing I want is for her to get a black eye.”
“You’re worried something might show us in an inaccurate light?”
“No, the accurate light.” Traffic backed to a standstill. Serge craned his neck to find the limo. “If that stretch stays on the expressway, they should be okay. Just as long as they don’t get off the wrong exit.”
“Serge, their blinker . . .”
The limo got off the wrong exit.
The Road Runner sped up, then screeched to a halt.
Red taillights came on in sequence.
“We’re stuck in a traffic jam,” said Coleman. “What are we going to do?”
“This is what.” Serge swerved into the breakdown lane and raced toward the exit with two wheels in the dirt. They hit the bottom of the ramp and looked around.
“Where are they?” said Coleman.
“We lost ’em.”
A dozen blocks ahead, a limo drove slowly down a deserted access road. The visiting president reclined in the back, pouring brandy from a Swarovski crystal decanter. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“Yes, sir,” said the driver, glancing back through the open partition. “Biscayne Boulevard should be coming up soon.”
They stopped at a red light.
“But I thought Biscayne was downtown, on the other side of the skyline.” The president looked out the window. “There aren’t even any streetlights. It’s totally dark—”
Bam
.
The president pitched forward. A flying brandy glass conked his food-taster in the forehead.
“What the hell was that?”
The chauffeur looked in his side mirror. “I think someone rear-ended us.”
“Great.” The president’s head fell back against the top of his seat. “Just take care of it.”
The driver grabbed his door handle. “Be right back . . .”
. . . A Plymouth Road Runner rolled quietly along the access road.
“Still don’t see them,” said Coleman.
Serge pointed at a distant intersection. “There they are.”
“The light turned green, but they’re not moving,” said Coleman. “And there’s another car behind them.”
Under Serge’s breath: “Please don’t get out of the car. Please don’t get out of the car. Please don’t—”
“Look,” said Coleman. “The driver’s getting out of the car.”
Serge cut his headlights.
Ahead, the chauffeur walked to the rear of the limo. He glanced at the crumpled bumper, then over at the other vehicle’s two occupants walking toward him, almost featureless in the absence of light, except for respective silhouettes of dreadlocks and a shaved head. The chauffeur opened his wallet and fished for a foreign license. “You guys got ID?” He looked up. The answer came in the muzzle of a MAC-10 between his ribs . . .
Two blocks back: Coleman hit a joint and strained to see ahead in the darkness. “Doesn’t look like things are going so well for the chauffeur. What do you think will happen?”
“Someone’s probably going to die.”
“How do you know?”
“I just have this uncanny feeling.” Serge shook his head. “It’s such a tragedy.”
“Do you have this feeling because you’re the one who’s going to kill them?”
“That’s why it’s such a tragedy. I’m trying to eliminate negative energy from my life.”
“Look,” said Coleman. “There’s
two
bad guys this time.”
“At least that’ll make it more interesting.”
“How?”
“Because one will get to see the other go first.” Serge parked on the side of the road. “That’s always a conversation starter.”
A Spy Comes in from the Heat