Pineapple Grenade (40 page)

Serge set the walkie-talkie down and grabbed the binoculars again. The Grumman eased up to the dock . . .

Over in the parking lot, Coleman kicked a pebble.

Three white vans pulled up the circular drive and took a side road that led around behind city hall.

Coleman keyed his walkie-talkie. “Serge?”

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

“So am I, but you don’t see me stopping what I’m doing.”

“Hold on,” said Coleman. “I couldn’t hear you. Three white vans just drove by.”

“Did you say three white vans?”

“Yeah, like we saw at that other place. Can we order a pizza?”

“Coleman, you were supposed to be on the lookout for three white vans.”

“I thought it was six polka-dot cement mixers.”

“Coleman . . .”

“The vans are heading your way. Now they
are
becoming polka-dot cement mixers, melting together in a big, glowing blob that’s yodeling through a ‘crazy’ straw to my soul.”

“You dropped acid, didn’t you?”

“No, I would never . . . Is it obvious?”

“Dammit, Coleman!” Serge jumped to his feet.

Felicia sat up with a wild mane of sex-hair. “What’s the matter?”

“Here come the vans.” They watched from the shadows until the vehicles passed. “And Coleman’s tripping. Hope you enjoy surprise parties.”

“Tripping?”

“It’s like herding infants in traffic. Last time he filled his underwear with lightbulbs and played a solitaire version of ‘duck-duck-goose’ for two hours.”

“Why?”

“I don’t even ask anymore. There’s Victor Evangelista.”

They looked down toward the dock and couldn’t miss Vic’s billboard of a Tommy Bahama shirt. Van doors opened.

“Look,” said Serge. “It’s Agent Oxnart again.”

“They’ve started unloading the plane,” said Felicia. “. . . Six, seven, eight . . .”

“What are you doing?” asked Serge.

“Counting . . . eleven, twelve, thirteen . . .”

“Why are you counting?”

“Shhhhh, you’ll mess me up . . . seventeen, eighteen . . .” She zoomed in with the binoculars. “And the branded codes in the wood. I just figured it out. I can’t believe it.”

“Figure out what?”

“Those are the same crates.”

“What do you mean?” said Serge. “They’re refilling similar boxes?”

“No, they’re the exact same ones. See for yourself.” She handed him the binoculars. “From the warehouse to Opa-locka to the Deering Estate to here. Lugar, Oxnart, Lugar, Oxnart.” She shook her head. “None of the arms ever left the city. They’re just running laps around Miami. And every time Evangelista gets paid on both ends . . . That’s the real reason we were detecting so many more guns than my country would ever need.”

“Told you it was a typical CIA operation.”

Felicia took a hard breath. “This is worse than I thought.”

“What?” said Serge. “I thought you’d be happy the weapons aren’t reaching Costa Gorda.”

“That’s when I thought the arms were the goal. But they’re just a means to an end, and I don’t know what the end is.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Evangelista would be dead for sure if he was pulling this double rip-off on his own. Our generals and your agents would be tripping over each other to put a bullet in him.” She stared at the stars. “Someone much bigger is behind this, with a bigger agenda.”

“And you don’t think it’s the generals?”

Felicia bit her lip. “Just this feeling I have. Something the dead newspaper reporter mentioned that I can’t get out of my head.”

Serge covered his eyes with both hands. “Please, God. This isn’t happening.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about my people.”

“Not that.” Serge nodded toward the dock. “Infants in traffic.”

“Coleman’s going down there and talking to them? What the fuck!”

“Surprise.”

“Do something!”

Serge raised his walkie-talkie. “Coleman, you need to get out of there!”

Felicia tugged Serge’s sleeve. “Why isn’t he answering his walkie-talkie?”

“It’s in his underwear.”

Coleman looked down at his talking crotch. “Trippy.”

Felicia jumped up. “I’ve got to stop him!”

Serge grabbed her arm. “Beyond the point of no return. Best to let it play out.”

“But he could wreck everything.”

“Usually it gets so weird, people just dismiss him as a street loon.”

“He’s patting them on their heads.”

“Duck-duck-goose.”

“They’re aiming guns at him!” said Felicia.

“The game is more competitive than I remember.”

The hatch closed on the plane. Mooring lines uncast for emergency takeoff.

“See?” said Serge. “Evangelista’s intervening and trying to cool them out. Maybe he’s done LSD and knows the score.” Serge keyed the walkie-talkie again. “Excuse me, Mr. Evangelista. Please don’t harm my docile friend. He’s just on acid.”

Felicia and Serge watched in the distance as Victor stared down at Coleman’s pants.
“Who the hell was that?”

“Uh-oh,” said Serge. “More guns.”

Shouting in the distance again. Evangelista firmly extended his arms to regain command of the troops. “No! No shooting! It’s a critical time for our operation back in Washington. Put the safeties back on—now!”

A goon in a jumpsuit pointed an Uzi at Coleman. “But he saw everything. First Scooter and now this.”

“He’s just a drug addict!” yelled Vic.

“What about the voice in his pants? . . .”

The arguing between Evangelista and his men escalated. The plane began taxiing off in Biscayne Bay. A heated shouting match.

Felicia squinted from behind the hangar. “What on earth is he doing now at the back of that van?”

“Oh, Coleman,” said Serge. “Not even you . . .”

One of the jumpsuits pointed. “Look!”

Everyone turned to see Coleman with an RPG on his shoulder.

Victor held out a calming hand. “Easy with that. Try not to make any sudden moves. You don’t want to touch anything.”

The Grumman lifted off from the water.

Coleman touched something.

Woooooooshhhhhhh.

Everyone ducked.

The rocket-propelled grenade streaked across the night sky, exploding through the seaplane’s left wing and fuel tank. The fireball lit up everything for miles, and debris plunked down into the water like flaming rain.

The launcher hung loose by Coleman’s side. “Far out.”

The Road Runner screeched up. Felicia jerked him into the car. Tires squealed.

Evangelista: “They’re getting away!”

Everyone ran to the vans and patched out, but the Plymouth was already gone.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Royal Poinciana

The elevator reached the bottom floor, and Serge opened the accordion cage.

He led Coleman and Ted through the lobby. They suddenly froze.

“Felicia,” said Serge. “What are you doing here? We weren’t supposed to meet for another two hours.”

“You’ve picked up a tail. The guys we ditched last night at Dinner Key must have traced your hotel.” Her eyes shifted. “And one of them is already in here. Tan windbreaker. Don’t look.”

Coleman looked.

“Dammit,” said Serge. “He always does that.”

“It’s moot anyway.” Felicia felt inside a shoulder bag for her purse gun. “They know you’re staying here. You were made before you got off the elevator.”

“Suggestion?”

“The only option is a shake. And since they’ve already acquired us visually, it’ll be a hot pursuit.” Felicia made sure her shoulder bag was zipped tight and clutched fast to her side. “From your police record and knowledge of Miami, I’m guessing you’ve been here before.”

“My specialty.” Serge bent down to double-tie his sneakers. “Everyone ready?”

Felicia looked toward the lobby door and took a deep breath. “Lead the way.”

From the rear:
“Excuse me?”

They turned. The hotel manager waved a stack of note cards behind the bulletproof glass. “Mr. Storms, you have a message. Actually several.” He slid them through the metal slot. “From the owners of those bodegas you shipped all that stuff to.”

Serge sighed. “I told you I’d get all their money back. I just need a little more time.”

“It’s not that,” said the manager. “They canceled the refund requests. And want to double their next orders.”

“What happened?”

“Completely sold out,” said the manager.

“Which ones?”

“Every island. Said they’ve never seen merchandise move so fast.”

“Serge!” said Felicia. “We have to get going!”

They did, hitting the sidewalk in a sprint and making a sharp right behind Serge’s lead.

Seconds later, a man in a tan windbreaker ran out to the curb. He waved hard for a black SUV parked across the street. The vehicle screeched up.

One block west, Felicia hit her aerobic jogging pace, one of the few ever to keep up with Serge. “Where are we headed?”

“Foolproof way to lose a tail in Miami.” He dashed through an empty intersection without breaking stride. “We’re bringing another of the city’s cultural districts into play.”

“How far away is it.”

“Pretty far.”

“I don’t think Ted and Coleman will make it.” She looked back. “And here comes the SUV.”

“No problemo,” said Serge. “The final destination is miles off, but the star gate’s coming up quick. Fifty feet.”

“Star gate?”

“The free People Mover.”

Serge and Felicia ran up the stairs to the monorail platform. She looked down over the railing. “The SUV’s parked right below the station.”

Serge hopped on the balls of his feet. “This is going to be so much fun!”

Ted and Coleman finally staggered up the steps. “We can’t go on.” “We’re gonna die!”

A monorail pod pulled up. Doors opened. Serge gave them a shove. “In you go.”

The tram pulled out. An SUV began rolling on the street below.

“We’re moving too slow,” said Felicia. “And there are so many stops. We’ll never lose them.”

“Yes, we will,” said Serge. “That’s the job of our escape guide. He’ll be our control agent. I just need to make contact.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how will you recognize him?” asked Felicia.

“Random street person. Preferably homeless.”

“You’re looking for someone in disguise?”

“No, the real thing,” said Serge.

“I don’t understand,” said Felicia. “Is he expecting you?”

“No,” said Serge. “We’ve never met. And probably never will again.”

“Now I’m totally confused.”

Serge surveyed fellow commuters in the pod. “Street people are the best to help you navigate a city’s underbelly and lose tails. Plus they don’t cost much, but you have to break the payment up in small pieces or they’ll simply run away. Just as long as you keep feeding them ones and fives like bread crumbs, they’ll remain loyal protectors like the family dog with bacon treats.”

Felicia stood up. “This is ridiculous. We’re getting off, and I’m taking charge.”

“Trust me,” said Serge. “It’s one of Miami’s untapped resources, convenient and ubiquitously located all over the city like newspaper boxes or trash cans. And especially in the People Mover because it’s free and air-conditioned, like a mobile public library.”

Felicia stepped to the doors as they approached the next station. “Coming with me or not?”

Serge’s eyes locked on the rear of the pod. “Here’s our guide now.” He walked to the rear of the car and took a seat next to a lean, forty-year-old black man with bloodshot eyes and laceless sneakers. His tattered Miami Hurricanes jersey had been selected from the bottom of a storm-water culvert. Clutching a brown paper bag.