16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (26 page)

Chapter Thirty

MIAMI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

C
ivilization was breaking down again at baggage claim.

Those higher up on the food chain pushed their way through to the carousels, flipping other people’s bags over to check name tags and colored ribbons. The vegetarians hung back. A beeping cart went by carrying someone with two broken legs and a tropical drink. The PA system asked the public to report unattended luggage and weirdos. A heated conversation in Spanish was either about misplaced traveler’s checks or the Havana regime.

A row of chauffeurs stood at the bottom of the escalators with a variety of white signs: C
OLSON,
R
OCKFORD,
M
R.
F
UJITSU,
W
ILKES-
B
ARRE
W
EDDING
, and a blank sign for the psychic convention.

Off to the side, another person in a Mets jersey held another sign:

E
NEMIES OF
R
ICK
M
ADDOX.

They came dribbling in from the corners of the country. The first four arrived in a cluster of mid-morning flights, all wearing their team T-shirts: the initials
R.M.
surrounded by a red circle with a slash and a dagger. They pooled resources and got a rental car together. The next gathering came down the jetways and rented another vehicle. And now the last group was beginning to assemble around the Mets fan, who led them to the Hertz counter.

They took the Dolphin Expressway to Biscayne Boulevard and a row of high-rise resorts popular among conventioneers. In one of the hotels across from the basketball arena, the group had reserved the Flamingo conference room. They began filing in just before the first seminar was scheduled to start. There were rows of long tables with water carafes, notepads and pens with the name of the hotel.

The Mets fan tapped the microphone. “Good evening and thank you all for coming. A few housekeeping items first.” He unfolded a page of notes and read matter-of-factly: “You probably already noticed, but on each of your chairs is the complimentary tote bag containing our official program, a local visitors’ guide for restaurants and attractions and a plastic laminated badge attached to a lanyard. Please wear it at all times. Plus, everybody should have gotten two drink coupons. If you didn’t, ask at the front desk. And I’d like to thank our sponsors. At our platinum level, Amalgamated Diodes, thanks to Silicon Valley Sally. Those are the little blinking rulers you got. Also, the Greater Miami-Dade Better Business Bureau, the New York Mets baseball organization and the National Rifle Association.”

There was a polite round of quiet applause.

“And I have a positive update to report. Our private investigator just called me an hour ago with the confirmed home address of our esteemed pal, that fake DEA agent Rick Maddox . . . Now, if you’ll refer to your official programs and agenda item number one: Let’s kill this motherfucker.”

FOOD KING

Serge wheeled the cart past checkout line after checkout line.

“There’s a million people at every one,” said Coleman.

Serge gnashed his teeth. “Let’s try the express lane.”

“But we’ve got like thirty items, and the sign says ten.”

“We’ll have to triage.” Serge grabbed an empty cart from a customer who was wheeling it by. “Sorry, this is an official emergency.”

The pair transferred the most essential items into the new cart and took off for the express lane.

They screeched to a halt at the back of a line that snaked out into the main aisle and curved around the magazine racks.

“Look at all the people at this register,” said Coleman.

“Look at all the stuff they’re buying,” said Serge. “Son of a bitch! At least six of these miscreants ahead of us have more than ten items!”

“We’re within the law.”

“That’s right,” said Serge. “Even though we wanted more, we courteously winnowed it down to ten and stuck it in that cart we commandeered from that other guy.”

Coleman looked over the top of the cashiers. “What’s that place up front?”

“Good eye,” said Serge. “The customer-service counter.” Serge spun the cart out of the line. “They have a register, and there’s only a few people. Let’s hurry before the stampede.”

The cart skidded around the last register and raced up to the counter.

They waited. Coleman looked at his fingernails, yawned and itched himself. Serge stared at the clock. Coleman thought about a traumatic incident he’d experienced when he was younger and got his head stuck between stair railings. He was twenty-eight at the time. Serge stared at the clock.

“Motherfu—!”

Coleman jumped. “What is it?”

“Now I know why we’re waiting so long.” He pointed with a shaking arm. “They’ve got one of those glass counters to see the scratch-off tickets. That woman can’t decide between Gold Rush and Mega Slots.” He emitted a piercing whine. “Now she’s filling out a six-ticket Lotto form with her lucky family birthdays.”

“Just hang in there.”

“I’m trying,” said Serge. “She’ll eventually need food and water.”

“Hey, I see another place. Those empty registers.”

“Holy Jesus.” Serge spun the cart again. “This store has automated self-serve checkout. There is a God.”

The cart zipped back across the store, arriving at a total of eight do-it-yourself registers with only a few customers. They chose the one with a lighted number seven atop a pole next to a bar-code scanner.

“Wonder why there aren’t more people over here,” said Coleman.

“I don’t care.” Serge’s head was down in the cart, unloading at battle speed. He swiped some chips over the glass plate that contained the laser. Nothing happened.

“Please scan again.”

Coleman glanced around. “Who said that?”

“The
Clockwork Orange
machine.” Serge wiped the bar code, turned it around and swiped it a second time.

“Please scan again.
”

“This one’s fucked.” Serge refilled the cart and moved to lighted pole number eight.

The chips swiped. A cheerful sound dinged a single time from inside the counter. “Excellent,” said Serge. “This scanner works. The laser rang it up.”

Coleman looked at the screen. “I think it rang up the wrong price.”

Serge raised his head. “Dammit!” He turned around and looked toward a small, centrally located service stand where a woman was on duty to assist customers who were having trouble with the self in self-service.

Serge fleetly approached. “Yes, it rang up my chips wrong and I specifically checked the price on the shelf because I love sour cream and garlic, even though I know it’s just flavor dust made from ground animal parts that are otherwise the least popular.”

“I’ll need to send someone to check the shelf price . . .
Jerry!
”

“I just told you I checked the price. And they’re clear on the other side of the store. It’ll take forever.”

Jerry arrived and removed iPod earbuds. Serge heard faint Metallica.

She handed him the chips. “I need a price check.”

“Where do we sell these?”

“Somewhere far away.”

Jerry replaced the earbuds.

“No!” Serge’s arms shot out. “I’ll pay the extra. I can’t wait!
Jerry!
”

Jerry disappeared into the aisles.

Serge gave the woman a punched-in-the-stomach look. “He took my sour cream and garlic.”

Coleman had Little Debbie crumbs on the corners of his mouth when Serge returned to the service stand. “What happened to our sour cream and garlic?”

“No human will ever see that bag of chips again.”

“Where’d he go?”

Serge watched Jerry emerge from an aisle, scratch his head and disappear down another aisle. “Teenage wasteland . . . Forget the chips. Life’s too short.”

Serge scanned another item.

“Please place item in bag.”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “It’s already in the bag.”

“I know.” Serge lifted the item and set it down again.

“Unscanned item in bag. Please remove.”

Serge removed it.

“Please place item in bag.”

Coleman leaned toward the register’s screen. “How does it know what’s in the bag?”

“There’s a magic scale inside the counter.” Serge put the mixed nuts back in the bag.

“Item not in bag.”

Serge stuck his hand into the bag and pressed down.

“Item weight does not match item purchased.”

Serge removed the nuts.

“Try scanning something else,” said Coleman.

Serge scanned something else.
Ding.

“Item not in bag.”

“There’s an ‘ignore’ button on the touch screen,” said Coleman. “It’s if you don’t want to place the item in the bag.”

Serge pressed the button and placed the item in the bag.

“Unauthorized item in bag. Cannot proceed. Please see customer service.”

Serge looked over at the service stand and a woman laughing on her cell phone.

“Screw it. I’m going on.” He swiped another item.

“This is your first warning.”

Serge ran over to the service stand. “Excuse me—”

The woman held up a finger. Into the phone: “You would not believe what I heard about Hector . . .”

“Hell with it.” He ran back and scanned something else.

“This is your second warning.”

“I’ll just pay.” Serge inserted a twenty.
Rurrrr
. He inserted it again.
Rurrr
.

“What’s the matter?”

Serge flattened the corners of the bill. “It keeps spitting my money out.” He stuck it in again.
Rurrr
.

“This is your third warning.”

“Serge, the lighted number eight on the pole is now flashing red.”

“Shit,” said Serge. “Heat’s coming down . . . but the woman’s off the phone!”

He ran over again as she hoisted a purse strap over her shoulder.

“We’re having a total collapse of your business model at number eight!”

“Sorry.” The woman started walking away. “I’m on break.”

“Is someone else going to replace you?”

“Oh, yeah. Linda.”

Serge looked around. “Where is she?”

“On break.”

Serge ran back as Coleman scanned a six-pack.

“Age-restricted item. Please show ID to service personnel.”

Serge covered his eyes. “Not the age-restricted item!”

“Please show ID . . .”

“Serge, the flashing red light now has a bell going off with it.” Coleman popped one of the beers.

“Please step away from the counter and cooperate.”

“What do we do now?” said Coleman.

“Rage against the machine . . .”

The replacement clerk finished a smoke break and approached the store entrance as two men sprinted past her into the parking lot. She reached the service stand and stopped. A bunch of employees were standing around a pole with a now un-lighted number eight jammed down through the shattered glass of the product scanner.

Chapter Thirty-One

MEANWHILE . . .

T
he curtains were drawn tight on an upper-floor suite in a Biscayne Boulevard resort.

Enzo Tweel set a room-service tray down in the hall and returned to his suite’s writing desk. He picked up an eight-by-ten zoom photo from the dossier, studying it while imagining permutations of how the target might appear with a beard and change of hair color.

Then he grabbed several pages of background workup. With the demise of Felicia, everyone thought a neat little bow had been tied on a quite messy mission at the hemispheric summit. It had been designed to take out an incorruptible undercover American agent who was getting too close to an arms pipeline from Miami to Latin America. And it worked. The agent was neutralized. But in the process, way too much collateral damage and an avalanche of unwanted media attention. Then it quieted down. Two years had passed without any blowback, and all the mistakes were considered ancient history.

Then a loose end.

Enzo had been hired by a South American junta from the tiny nation of Costa Gorda. Actually a secret junta within the junta, who made their fortunes by allowing wholesale money laundering and letting all manner of contraband find safe harbor on the way to somewhere else. Oh, and open arms to any rogue CIA operation.

The junta’s clandestine service had its own version of Big Dipper Data Management, but one that was far more effective. And the correlation of their data had just reached a tipping point beyond coincidence. They’d recently noticed a new spate of Web hits on the sites of several U.S. senators and congressmen, all with corresponding Freedom of Information Act requests. They came from a cluster of IP addresses in South Florida, and all the politicians had cozy, clandestine ties to the junta. They knew the secrets. Not big stuff like the assassinations of the agent and Felicia. They didn’t want to know that. But they knew.

There could be only one conclusion: Someone, somehow, had begun snooping around about that two-year-old debacle in Miami. The junta’s intelligence service dug some more . . .

Enzo set down the eight-by-ten photo of Serge. The target was far too mobile, but there was one known associate with a static address on the Miami River, and the wiretap on Mahoney’s phone had yielded a mother lode. Enzo knew about all the clients, and about Serge picking off members of the gang, as well as the recently verified address of a fake DEA agent, and even about Sasha and South Philly Sal.

The junta never told Enzo how to accomplish his missions. Just get results. And Enzo now had sufficient information to rough out his plan on a legal pad. He picked up an untraceable cell phone and dialed.

“Hello? Is this Mahoney and Associates? . . . My name isn’t important. This involves the safety of one of your employees named Serge Storms . . . Well, I’ll tell you . . . I was discreetly working with him two years ago. Remember that sordid affair at the summit? Turns out they’ve sent someone back to Miami to tie up loose ends . . . Yes, I know who. His name is Enzo Tweel, but he’s using the cover of a local scam artist named South Philly Sal.” Enzo abruptly hung up.

Then he listened to the tap on Mahoney’s phone and the outgoing call that he knew would be placed immediately to the consulate of Costa Gorda. The late Felicia still had friends there sympathetic to Serge’s cause. They told Mahoney they would call him back, and when they did, they confirmed a bogus Bolivian passport issued in the name of Enzo Tweel and believed to be in the possession of an unknown gun for hire.

Enzo had heard enough. He packed a small leather satchel and tore a page off the legal pad with the address of the ersatz DEA agent.

Down on the hotel’s ground floor, Enzo exited the elevator and walked with purpose past the open door of the Flamingo conference room, where a lively debate was in progress.

“But we need guns.”

“No, absolutely no weapons.”

“Why not?”

“Because we want to get our money back, not go to jail.”

“We don’t have to use them. Just scare him.”

“We’ll scare him instead with the power of our rhetoric.”

“What if he tries something?”

“There’s twenty of us. We’ll hit him and stuff and then lay on top of him in several layers.”

At the front of the room, the Mets jersey tapped the microphone to restore order. “We’ve heard enough from everyone now. Let’s put it to a vote. How many for violence?”

It was a close tally, but the group narrowly opted for the weight of words.

A hand went up. “So what do we do now?”

“Wait until dark,” said the Mets jersey. “Until then, there’s free wings in the bar.”

DARK

Serge and Coleman lay on their respective motel beds along the budget end of Biscayne Boulevard north of downtown.

A fully charged cell phone sat on the nightstand between them.

Because they were waiting for The Call.

Mahoney.

Coleman pointed at the old tube television with his beer. “It’s the new
Beavis and Butt-Head.
I never could figure this show out.”

“Me neither,” said Serge. “And here’s another music video they’re making smart-ass comments about.”

“Bono sure likes to lunge at the camera a lot.”

“Then there’s the other guy who has to be called the Edge,” said Serge. “What’s his deal? I mean how much attention do you need?
You’re already in U2!
”

“It would be like if the president of the United States changed his name to the Edge.”

“Actually, that would be cool.”

“And what do the drummer and bass player think about all this?” said Coleman. “ ‘Hey, how about us back here in the rhythm section? From now on, we’d like to be called the Pussy Magnets.’ ”

“And Bono goes, ‘No, no, no, we’ve already discussed this thoroughly,’ ” said Serge. “ ‘Only two obnoxious nicknames per band. That’s the rule. There was going to be just one, but remember how the Edge made that big stink in Glasgow and started crying and wouldn’t come out of the bathroom?’ ”

Coleman grabbed the remote control to change channels. “I’m bored watching
Beavis and Butt-Head.
Just a couple of losers watching TV and making lame remarks—”

The phone rang.

“That’s the call!” Serge flipped open his cell. “Speak . . . I see . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . Right, just as planned . . . We’re on it. Later— . . . What? One more thing? . . . But I don’t know any Enzo. Who cares if he’s going by South Philly Sal? What’s that got to do with me? . . . Felicia?” Serge listened mutely and hung up without saying anything more.

“Serge, did I hear you say ‘Felicia’?”

Serge remained a statue.

“Uh-oh,” said Coleman. “I’ve seen that look before.”

“We’ve got work to do.” Serge went to the dresser with resilience. “Mahoney just gave us the green light, so suit up and stay focused. This could be a big one.”

“You got it.”

Serge diligently rechecked weapons and electronics a final time, then began strategically filling pockets for the assignment.

“Okay,” said Coleman. “I got my joints and one-hitter, speed, Vicodin, a beverage . . .”

“Coleman!”

“What?”

“I said for you to get ready.”

“I am.” A miniature bourbon went into his hip pocket.

“Get ready
for work
!”

“This is how I always get ready for work.”

Serge slapped himself in the forehead. “Just don’t screw this up. Lives may hang in the balance.”

Soon the Firebird crept along a dark residential street.

“Serge, you keep zoning out,” said Coleman.

“I know. I just didn’t expect Mahoney to bring up Felicia like that. But I’m good.” He blinked hard a few times. “It’s just that now I have a name and can’t get it out of my head.”

“Who?”

“Enzo Tweel, also known as South Philly Sal.”

“The guy who runs the gang of scam artists?”

“And this fake DEA agent works for him. I plan to sweat him down good for where I can find this Enzo or Sal or whatever.”

Coleman grinned and took a haughty sip. “Been meaning to ask: What’s with your costume?”

“Element of surprise.”

Coleman giggled over another sip. “I think it works.”

They parked at the end of the block. Serge raised binoculars.

“What are you doing?”

Serge adjusted the focus. “Surveillance.”

“But I thought we were going to—”

“We are,” said Serge. “Just had to make an extra stop first.”

“Why?”

“Because Mahoney was a little concerned about the latest scam victim who hired him to get her money back.”

“Concerned how?”

“Just a hunch from her tone and emotional state. She might not wait for you and me to do the heavy lifting and instead take matters into her own hands.” Serge rolled down his window for a better view. “That would put her in grave danger. She’d be out of her element and not thinking straight. She paid handsomely for the mark’s home address, and Mahoney’s going to hold up his end of the bargain. He’s just building in a delay before he calls her to give us time to get in position and gauge her reaction.”

“I don’t understand,” said Coleman. “If he’s so concerned, why not forget the deal and don’t call?”

“No good.” Serge kept the binoculars glued. “People have been known to hire more than one private eye, and who knows what or when she’ll find out. We definitely can’t take the chance of a civilian like her walking in on the middle of our party. This way her reaction will no longer be an unknown variable. If she stays put at home in the condo for a reasonable period after Mahoney’s call, we know it’s a false alarm.”

“What if she doesn’t and goes after the guy?”

“Then we intercept before she’s out of the neighborhood, and assure her we’re on top of everything.”

Coleman prepared another jumbo beverage from his portable bar designed specifically for stakeouts.

“Coleman,” said Serge. “This is one time you must slow down on your drinking.”

“I
have
slowed down,” said Coleman. “Didn’t you notice? I’m rationing my drinks to half as often.”

“But the cup you’re using is twice as large.”

“How does that figure in?”

“Just stay sharp.”

Coleman chugged and began pouring again. “So when’s Mahoney supposed to make this call, anyway?”

Serge checked his glow-in-the-dark atomic wristwatch. “Two minutes ago.”

A cell phone rang. Before Serge could answer, Coleman gestured at the house with a cocktail strainer. “The front door’s opening.”

“She’s not staying put.” Serge threw the car into gear. “Time to talk some sense into her.”

“Wow,” said Coleman. “She really looks pissed. Did you see how she whipped out of the driveway?”

“Just what I feared.” Serge hit the accelerator. “This is going to be a hot intercept.”

“Serge, look! She just blew through that stop sign at the end of the block.”

“And took out a mailbox.” The Firebird raced without stopping through the same intersection and scattered sparks bottoming out over a speed bump.

Coleman’s eyes got big. “A station wagon’s pulling out!”

Serge slammed on the brakes with both feet, throwing Coleman into the dashboard.

“Hey, I got a beverage here.”

“Shut up! This other asshole’s driving too slow and she’s getting away . . .”

“Can’t you get around him?”

“The street’s too narrow and some other bozo who lives around here is having a party: Look at all these parallel-parked cars . . . Damn, and now I’ve lost sight of her. I need you to spot me through the gauntlet.”

Coleman hung his head out the passenger window and looked down as they passed parked vehicles. “Three inches clearance . . . Still three inches . . . Alllllllmossst . . .
Now!
”

Serge worked the pedals with heel-toe precision, whipping around the station wagon and getting back over the line before rear-ending the next parked car.

“You did it,” said Coleman.

“I haven’t done anything until we catch up with her, and I don’t see her taillights,” said Serge. “She’s going to get herself killed for sure, all because of me.”

They started through another intersection. “There she is!” yelled Coleman. “I just saw her taillights when we were crossing that last street. She made a left turn.”

Serge screeched in reverse and spun out across the intersection, leaving their car pointed in the desired direction. He floored it again, barreling down on the tiny Ford Focus four blocks ahead. Then three blocks, two, one . . . Now only car lengths, closing fast.

The Firebird was finally right up on her bumper.

“We did it!” yelled Coleman. “She’s not going to die.”

“All that’s left now is a tactical traffic stop, which I’ve done a million times in my sleep.” Serge stared down over the dash at Brook’s taillights a few yards ahead. “Nothing can possibly go wrong now . . . Coleman, what are you drinking?”

“What?”

“That drink.”

“Just a little Jack Daniel’s.”

“And?”

“And Coke.”

“And?”

“That’s it, just Jack and Coke.”

“What’s floating in it?” said Serge.