Pineapple Grenade (2 page)

Serge dragged the carjacker by the ankles and threw him in the trunk. Then he walked back to the driver’s door. “Shit, I got a run in my tights.” He looked up. “Welcome to Miami! Please tell the media.”

“Tell them what?”

Serge gathered up his cape and put on a helmet with a revolving red light. “Everything’s normal.”

A Plymouth Road Runner raced east on the Palmetto Expressway.

Another overhead thunder of Pratt & Whitney jet engines.

Outside the airport, people on cell phones covered free ears. Arriving passengers looked up from the curb as an Aeroméxico 747 roared on takeoff.

The airliner quickly gained altitude. It reached the edge of the Everglades and banked over a patchwork of water-filled, limestone quarries.

Between two of the quarries, a dozen men in jumpsuits looked up at the drone from the Cancún-bound flight. Its moonlit contrail disappeared in the clouds. The sound faded to crickets.

Back to work.

It was an old barn of a warehouse. Sunbaked, remote, corrugated aluminum. Used to be an airplane hangar with two huge doors that slid open on rusty tracks. The doors had a single row of windows, long since spray-painted black.

Three white vans sat in the back of the building. Magnetic catering signs suggested they knew what they were doing with wedding cakes. Men unloaded wooden crates under fluorescent lights. Every tenth one went to a table for inspection.

Crowbars, sawdust.

Two large hands pulled out an SKS assault rifle, the cheap Chinese knockoff of the Russian Kalashnikov. The man shouldered the weapon, checking sight lines and placing his ear close as he dry-fired the trigger. Then back in the box. A slight nod. Jumpsuits replaced the lid and hammered flat-head nails.

The man reached for the next crate. He stood six three, with one of those massive stomachs that started just below the neck and involved the chest. It was covered by a custom, five-XL Tommy Bahama tropical shirt, which hung loose at his waist like a tarp covering a vintage Volkswagen. An unseen wrestling-style belt buckle said V
ICTOR
in sparkling diamonds. Light olive skin, not quite the local Latin, maybe Mediterranean. He was thinking again of quitting the Hair Club.

The warehouse doors creaked open. Headlights. Another van.

A jumpsuit: “Mr. Evangelista, here comes the rest of the shipment.”

Victor set the rifle down and rubbed his palms. “The good stuff.”

This time, all crates went to the table. Everyone gathered round.

Out came a much larger weapon that pressed down on the shoulder of the tropical shirt. A bulbous, pointed projectile perched on the end of the muzzle.

The men finished their count from the crates. Forty-eight factory-fresh RPGs diverted from an army base in the Carolinas.

Victor slapped the side of the last box. “Move it out!”

The only other person in the warehouse not wearing a jumpsuit was a young man wearing gold chains and a single stud earring. He compensated for his uncommonly short stature with tight slacks, wispy mustache, silk nightclub shirts unbuttoned to the navel, and tall hats.

Victor turned toward the young man. “Scooter, are you standing on your tiptoes again?”

“No.” He slowly eased down onto his heels.

“Just don’t touch anything,” said Victor. “It’s like I can’t take my eyes off you.”

He took his eyes off him.

When he looked back: “Scooter! That’s not a toy! Put it down this instant!”

“Shut up, old man.” Scooter rested the weapon on his own shoulder. “I’ve handled these a thousand times.”

“Don’t touch that switch!” Victor lunged. “It’s armed!”

Woooooosh.

Luckily, the rocket-propelled grenade threaded through the slit in the warehouse doors. Unluckily, the gravel parking lot was a target-rich environment.

Boom
.

A chassis blew ten feet in the air and crashed back down. Tires sailed like discus.

“You idiot!” Victor snatched the weapon. The front hood of a Ferrari clanged down onto the warehouse roof. “That was my car!”

Scooter nonchalantly strolled away. “My uncle will buy you a new one.”

“You’re damn right,” yelled Victor.

One of the jumpsuits came over. “Shouldn’t we get the hell out of here? That was loud. And a big fireball.”

Evangelista shook his head. “It’s Miami. People don’t even notice anymore.”

The jumpsuit looked toward the departing Scooter. “Why do you let that pussy come along?”

“Politics,” said Victor. “It’s the business we’re in.”

The Next Afternoon

A scorched tropical motel with an empty signpost sat behind the demolished ruins of the Orange Bowl. An old chain-link fence that surrounded the swimming pool had been pushed down in places, but the pool was drained and filled with broken bottles. The office showed hints of a recent altercation that involved shovels and fire. When it rained, the guests subconsciously thought of childhood, but not theirs.

Tourists didn’t stay at the motel, although it was quiet, except when junkies knocked on random doors with a range of requests representing the width of the human condition. In the swimming pool’s deep end was a ripped-in-half poster of a sailboat crew that said
TEAMWORK
.

A knock on a door.

Serge answered. “Hello, junkie!”

The man swayed off balance. “Have any yarn? Blue?”

“No, but here are some postcards.”

The door closed.

A minute later:

Knock, knock, knock
 . . .

“Another junkie?” asked Coleman.

“Probably the deliveryman.” Serge opened the door and his wallet. “Right on time. Just leave the tank there. And here’s a little extra for your trouble.”

The deliveryman hesitated at the sight of Serge’s cape. Then took the money and left quickly.

“What now?” asked Coleman.

Serge headed out the door. “Welcome our guest.”

A key went into the trunk of a Plymouth Road Runner.

The hood popped.

Blinding sunlight.

Serge waved his gun. “Rise and shine!”

A bruised carjacker shielded his eyes with one hand and raised the other in submission. “Don’t shoot!”

“And ruin all my fun?”

Serge marched him toward the motel.

“I swear I’ll never rob anyone again!”

A poke in the back with the gun barrel. “I know you won’t.”

The captive stopped just inside the motel room. “What’s the metal tank for?”

“Cow jism.” Serge grabbed a mug of cold coffee off the dresser and downed it. “Actually
bull
jism. Cows are chicks, I think. Who cares? It’s a cryogenic tank, but there’s no bull spooge in there either. So I put in some of my own, because when do you ever really get the chance? I’m just that kind of cat. It’s my new hobby. The tank, not the other. Hobbies are important. And you’re about to become the star in my latest episode of
World’s Most Dangerous Hobbies
!”

“You’re insane . . . Ow!” The man grabbed his shoulder. “What the hell?”

Serge pulled back the syringe. “Just a prick for a prick.”

“What was in that? . . . Whoa . . .” He grabbed for the bed.

“Better sit down,” said Serge. “It gets on top of you pretty fast.”

Moments later: The hostage lay stretched out across the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Still breathing.

Moments after that:

“Far enough,” said Serge. “Now roll him back the other way.”

“He’s heavy.”

“We need to go slow anyway.” Serge reeled in the hostage by his belt. “The key is to keep him constantly turning like a rotisserie.”

“For how long?”

“A few minutes each time.”

“Time?” Coleman grabbed the man’s sleeve. “How many times?”

“At least twenty.” The captive reached the edge of the bed; Serge rolled him back the other way. “This must be a layered, even application, or we have a serious breach in our guest that’ll ruin my hobby.”

“Which hobby?”

“The human version of building a ship in a bottle.” Serge slipped on thick rubber gloves. He reached in a shopping bag, removing an aluminum cooking tray and a turkey baster.

“What are those for?” asked Coleman.

“Just hand me that gas can by the door and grab his feet.”

Miami International Airport

Assorted travelers scurried along sidewalks and ignored the deep boom of a distant explosion. The fireball rose above the parking decks.

A bonded courier in Miami for the first time looked out the back of a cab. “What on earth was that blast?”

“I didn’t notice,” said the driver.

Others rolled luggage as wind carried the smoke plume toward Hialeah. Families huddled at curbs and studied rental-car maps. The loading zone abuzz in eleven languages. A police officer made a car move by blowing a whistle.

Then more cops on motorcycles. Flashing blue lights. Limos arrived.

News teams from local affiliates already there. TV cameras on tripods.

A woman raised a microphone.

“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from the airport with the latest on the upcoming Summit of the Americas. As you can see behind me, heads of state and top diplomats from across the hemisphere are beginning to arrive at this historic event, which is returning to the Magic City for the first time since thirty-four nations attended its inaugural gathering in 1994 . . .”

The terminal’s automatic doors opened. Air-conditioning and security people rushed out. They made a quick sweep of the street, then hustled a man with a bushy mustache into the back of a stretch.

“. . . I believe that was the president of Bolivia . . .”

Another security detail. Another limo. So on.

“. . . The presidents of Uruguay and Belize . . .”

Police held off onlookers as the rest of the dignitaries were swept into backseats.

The motorcycle cops sped away, followed by limos. TV crews packed up.

Non-VIP airport hubbub resumed. Luggage and courtesy vans.

Automatic doors opened again.

A pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses looked left and right. Picking up surveillance cameras. The man crossed the street for the Flamingo parking garage.

He stopped on the opposite curb and removed his glasses, wiping the right lens while mentally mapping police locations. He put the shades back on.

Another typical afternoon, everyone rushing about in that irrational state of mild alarm from being at an airport, checking watches, rechecking flight times, worried about the length of X-ray lines, herding toddlers and golf clubs. Distracted. Except the stationary man across the street. Minor details tallied behind designer sunglasses. A briefcase with a broken latch, a suitcase with a sticker from Epcot, license plates, levels of suntans, duty-free bags, the brand of cigarettes a Taiwan executive rapidly puffed after a Detroit flight, a chauffeur with the left side of his jacket protruding from a shoulder holster. Whether the shoes of skycaps and other badged employees matched their station in life. Anyone else in Ray-Bans.

He was satisfied.

The man crossed back to the original side of the street and stood at the curb. His shirt was sheer, formfitting, and Italian. The form said athletic. Could be mistaken for a European cyclist or soccer goalie. Three-hundred-dollar loafers with no socks. A stylish crew cut, dyed blond like the bass player for U2. He didn’t waste motion and seemed like one of those people who never laugh, which was correct.

A cell phone vibrated in his pleated pants. He flipped it open. A text message:

“+.”

He closed it and waved for the next taxi.

Biscayne Boulevard

“Know what else pisses me off?” said Serge. “Calling customer care: ‘Please listen carefully as menu items have changed.’ ”

“It’s always that same woman,” said Coleman. “Who the fuck is she?”

“The Tokyo Rose of automated messages,” said Serge. “She wants us to believe they’re hard at work around the clock improving menus.”

“They’re not?”

Serge shook his head. “Since I became aware of the phenomenon, I’ve been calling dozens of menus every few days for over a year to check, even when I’m neither a customer nor need care.”

“And they don’t change?”

“Only the wait time changes. But you’re busy thinking: ‘Holy Jesus! A new menu! And I just got used to the old one—better pay close attention or I won’t receive ultimate pampering.’ And you’re so rattled you miss the real issue of not talking to a live human.”

“That always bites.” Coleman continued up the sidewalk.