Pineapple Grenade (19 page)

They both looked at Escobar. He was bleeding. A stapler.

The captain nodded in resignation. “I’ll handle it immediately.” He stood at attention and snapped a salute. “First flight to Miami . . .”

Midnight

“Put on your uniform,” said Serge.

“Can’t I just wear this?”

“First impressions are important,” said Serge. “If I can wear the cape . . .”

An orange-and-green Road Runner drove west across Miami out to Sweetwater on the edge of the Everglades. A modest neighborhood of well-kept ranch houses and thriving palms that didn’t need to be kept. Toys in yards. Above-ground pools.

Serge found a street running along the turnpike. He checked his notepad again and parked. “This is the place. We’re on.”

They strolled up the walkway. Serge knocked hard on a door that was rotten along the bottom from absent rain gutters.

A bowling-ball-gut resident answered with a Miller in his hand.

Serge elbowed Coleman. “He’s even wearing a wife-beater.”

“Wife-beater?”

“That stained tank-top T-shirt.” Serge grinned big at the resident. “Are you Jethro Comstock?”

Jethro swayed on beer legs. “Whatever you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’.”

“Oh, we’re not selling anything,” said Serge. “Okay, we are. We’re selling wishes. The first one’s free. You wish we’ll leave you alone.”

Jethro drained his beer and stared at the cape. “Who the hell are you?”

Serge pointed at the
S
in the middle of his chest. “I’m Super-Serge and my sidekick is the Human Torch.”

Coleman raised a Bic lighter and flicked it.

Jethro looked at the flames drawn in Magic Marker on Coleman’s T-shirt, then back at Serge. “Get the fuck off my property!”

He started closing the door, but Serge threw out an arm and slammed it open against a wall.

“We’re leaving,” said Serge. “Right after you promise to leave Sally alone.”

“Sally? The bitch!”

“Actually, that’s a politically incorrect term,” said Serge. “Chicks don’t dig it.”

“I’m going to seriously fuck you up if you don’t get out of here right now.”

“Sure thing.” Serge flipped open his notepad. “Right after a few last details. Sorry, it’s my job.” He looked down at the pad and began reading. “You’re not to go near your ex-wife ever again. Or call her on the phone. Or contact her in any way for the rest of your life. Or else.” He smiled again. “Well, that about does it. We good?”

“Or else what?”

“Or else this!” Serge reached atop his head and flicked a switch, activating the revolving red beacon on his helmet.

“Blow me!”

The door slammed.

Chapter Thirteen

South America

Surf crashed from the Pacific.

A beach house somewhere near the unmarked border of Chile and Peru.

Curtains flowed gently out a bedroom window.

Inside, a tall, wiry man with muscular shoulders from ocean swimming. He sat in boxer shorts at a computer. Fingers tapped. An Internet mail account opened.

Behind him, a local beauty slipped into a short, lavender sundress and counted out a thousand dollars on the dresser. “Same time next week?”

The man’s head stayed toward the computer screen. He had a blond crew cut like the bass player in U2.

“You’re definitely not the chatty type.” The woman pocketed the cash. “I guess that’s good.”

More typing on the keyboard. The woman left. The computer screen displayed a folder from the account. The man opened a draft e-mail. He hadn’t written it. Only three trusted people had passwords to the account, and messages were delivered by saving them in draft form. So they wouldn’t have to be sent by e-mail. So they couldn’t be monitored.

He finished reading the message and hit delete. His expression never changed. He stood and began packing for Miami again.

Again.

And he was forced to discount his services this time. The last trip to Miami had been his first failure. Or half failure. The front end went seamless as usual, and the rest should have been even easier. That was the mistake. He underestimated. And he would never do it again. He folded socks into a suitcase and ran the details of the last job through his head . . .

. . . I
t all started with another typical Miami lunch crowd that filled an outdoor café and wrapped around the corner of the sidewalk. A valet hopped in a car. The maître d’ carried leather-bound menus and led a party of four to a table with an umbrella.

A couple stopped talking as a waiter arrived with salads.

They watched him leave, then leaned forward and whispered.

Odd bookends. The kind where you look at the guy and wonder, How’d
he
get
her
? She downplayed the sex appeal with a white blouse, pink skirt, office shoes without heels, and black hair pulled back in a ponytail. But no disguising the exquisite Latin features. Across the table, none of the clothes fit right. Tie askew. His haircuts cost ten dollars, and he hadn’t gone to his prom.

The woman slid a legal-size envelope across the table. “You sure they can’t trace this to me?”

“Give you my word.” The man stuffed the envelope in a canvas shoulder bag. “Is it all there?”

She nodded. “Balances, transfers, everything.” She glanced around. “Now, what’s this geology report you mentioned? I hadn’t heard anything.”

It was the man’s turn to glance around. “Not here.” He got up without touching his salad. “My contact’s delivering it to me at the other place. Let’s meet there at seven. I’ll need your help finding out what it means.”

He placed a pair of twenties on the table, climbed over the rope around the sidewalk tables, and headed up the street talking on his cell. “Carson? It’s me, Randy. I’m just about finished with the story . . . Yeah, I’ll be in tonight to file . . .”

Two hours later, the skyline glowed.

Restaurants filled.

A no-frills fish joint on the shore of the Miami River was busier than most. The wind carried a sizzling, fried aroma to the outdoor tables. Cajun spice. A man with a loosened tie and canvas shoulder bag sat in back with an open menu. He waved off the waiter for the fourth time and checked his watch again. He dialed his cell again. No answer.

The waiter returned. He looked at the customer’s third glass of water. “Are you ready to order?”

“Give me another moment.”

“Sir, we really appreciate you coming tonight, but we have a lot of people waiting for tables.”

“My date’s supposed to meet me. Must have been delayed.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to order or give up your table.”

He looked at his watch. “Fine. Bring me something.”

“What?”

Randy Swade handed the menu back. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter left.

The reporter opened his phone again. Something caught his eye. “There you are. I thought you weren’t going to make it.” He closed his cell. “Did you bring . . .”

“This restaurant’s too exposed,” said the contact. “It’s in the car.”

“And I thought
I
was cautious.” Randy slid out his chair and stood. “Lead on.”

The guest did. He’d parked an extra block away under a drawbridge over the Miami River. Randy Swade got in the passenger side. And a man with a blond crew cut got in the other.

Fifteen minutes later, hands rubbed soap under the faucet of a restroom behind a fish restaurant. A man with a blond crew cut checked his face closely in the mirror. Only a slight fingernail scratch under his left eye. He turned off the faucet and returned to the dining room.

A woman with a black ponytail looked around like she was waiting for someone.

“Are you waiting for Randy?”

“Who are you?”

“His contact.”

“Where’s Randy?”

“Waiting in my car.”

“But he told me to meet him here.”

“I know, but he thinks he was followed. I told him he was imagining things.”

The woman grabbed her purse and stood. “This is getting ridiculous.”

He led her around the parking lot and up the empty street.

“Where the heck is your car?”

“Just a little farther.”

The woman looked back, restaurant now out of sight around a bend, voices faint.

Her pace slowed. “I think I’m going back.”

“My car’s right there.”

“Under the bridge? I don’t see Randy.”

“He’s inside waiting for you.”

She stopped and looked at drops on the ground under the car’s trunk.

Red.

A
man zipped a suitcase closed in a beach house on the Pacific coast of South America. What a screwup back under that bridge in Miami. His memory delivered a phantom pain to his healed left shoulder, where it had been dislocated. From now on, every woman, no matter how delicate in appearance, was to be considered a black belt.

He grabbed the phone and called a taxi for the airport.

Miami River District

Serge sat across the desk from Mahoney. Feet propped up, hands interlaced behind his head.

From the other side of the hall:
“Ow! Shit, you broke my nose! Why’d you do that?”
A man cupped hands to his face. Footsteps trailed toward the stairs.

Serge jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “How does that work, anyway?”

Mahoney shuffled playing cards and pointed outside through the window at the office building’s sign.

Serge stood and walked to the blinds. “Been meaning to ask about that. This building’s almost empty, but the sign is full of company names. Pan-Global Enterprises, Consolidated Associates, Biscayne Trading Partners, the Dodd Group, and on and on. Did they forget to take them down?”

The king of hearts went on the desk. Mahoney shook his head. “That’s our friend across the hall.”

“The Guy Who Punches People? Which company?”

“All of them,” said Mahoney.

“I don’t understand.”

Mahoney placed a queen on the king. “Real name’s Steve Dodd.”

“And he just punches people?”

Mahoney shuffled again. “Started as a hobby. Big attorney with the prosecutor’s office, but the pressure of plea bargains and assholes got to be too much.”

“I can relate,” said Serge.

“Steve told me he quit his job, cashed in all his stocks for bail money, and whenever someone got on his nerves, he’d punch ’em. Said he used to take Prozac, but this is more effective. Blood pressure’s down, never felt better.”

“You mentioned hobby, but what about the business?”

The jack of clubs. “Word got around,” said Mahoney. “If you want someone punched, you send them to Steve. Concoct some ruse about signing papers to get money or whatever.”

“Sounds like a sporadic business,” said Serge. “Constant interruptions for bail, court appearances, stays in county lockup.”

“Used his criminal law experience and found a loophole. Now he’s raking it in. Apparently there’s a big market.”

“What kind of loophole?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

The door opened. Steve stuck his head inside, rubbing knuckles. “Got any ice?”

Mahoney pointed toward the bucket next to the bottle of rye. “Have at it.”

“Thanks.”

“Excuse me,” said Serge. “Mahoney was saying that you found some kind of loophole to punch people.”

Steve wrapped cubes in a washcloth. “That’s right. Supreme Court decision just a few years back declaring corporation same as people. So I created a bunch . . .”—pointing at the sign out the window—“. . . firewalled assets and liability among them, and moved everything important offshore. Now the only people they can go after are the owners of the corporations.”