Pineapple Grenade (32 page)

Miami Beach

Ocean Drive.

Changing of the guard. Nightlife. The sidewalk smelled like sex.

Lunch fare turned to fashionably late dinner. The jet set sniffed wine corks at outdoor tables facing the Atlantic. Haute cuisine. Micro-portions of pan-seared albacore, showcased with decorative, Spirograph swirls of lemon and raspberry sauce reaching the edge of the china, creating the illusion of a meal.

Someone had a more satisfying amount of eggs Benedict at the News Café. Cameras flashed. People still taking photos of the mansion steps where Gianni Versace was gunned down by Andrew Cunanan.

Johnny Vegas banged his forehead on a restaurant table as the Most Laid Guy in Miami left arm in arm with an Above-Average Model. They strolled one street over to Washington Avenue.

Club row.

The scene didn’t start until midnight . . .

12:01
A.M.

Every block, velvet ropes held back crowds pleading with bulky men in black shirts. Wires running from their collars to earplugs. Staring over the crowd’s heads with stone expressions. From time to time, one of the security men pointed into the pulsing mob. The rope opened. A gleeful group ran inside. The rope closed. Ugly people stood for hours and went home.

Felicia and Serge strolled north on the sidewalk. She radiated the kind of visceral aura that meant never having to wait behind velvet cords. Serge was debonair, with enough poised carriage to ride her coattails. Not so with the trio trailing behind.

Coleman, Escobar, and Savage already contained a half-dozen drinks each, stumbling and weaving through waiting crowds.

“Hey, watch it, asshole!”

Serge turned to Felicia. “Sorry about that. They’re a little rough on the edges but generally harmless.”

“Forget it,” she said. “I know men. Much worse. Those guys are lovable in their own way.”

Serge looked back as the threesome divvied up pills. “They do seem to be hitting it off.”

“Common interests.”

The next club didn’t have ropes to keep people out, so nobody wanted to get in.

Excitement built. Some kind of music video shoot in the street with ostriches, backup singers painted silver, and a giant, inflatable iPad.

Police cars with flashing lights penned in a crashed Porsche.

Another block, another film crew. A TV ad for rum that would only be seen in Uruguay.

Felicia and the gang skirted another hopping crowd behind a barrier. Limos pulled up. The under-nourished climbed out. Velvet rope unhooked. Air kisses. In they went.

“Who wants to exist like that?” said Serge. He turned around again. “Oh, no.”

“What is it?”

“Where’d those idiots go?”

“I don’t see them anywhere.”

Serge sniffed the night air. “Follow the marijuana.”

They arrived at a garbage-filled alley between buildings.

“What the hell are you guys doing in there?”

“Oh, hey Serge.” Coleman took a big hit. “Just burning a quick one with my new friends. I didn’t know spies did weed.”

“Hurry up. You’re keeping Felicia waiting.”

“Almost done.” Coleman rapidly toked a roach.

Then, yelling from deeper into the alley. A man in a ripped shirt ran past them onto the street.

“What’s that about?” asked Coleman.

“Probably a mugging,” said Serge.

Back up the alley, six people in red berets. Three clowns restrained the assailant, and three mimes silently pretended to punch him.

The guys rejoined Felicia. “Where is this place?” asked Serge.

“Next block.” Felicia handed him a business card.

Serge stared at it, then flipped to the blank back side. “It just says, ‘SPY.’ No address or phone number.”

“If you don’t know, you’re not supposed to come.”

They crossed the street and stood in front of a boarded-up building.

“Looks closed,” said Savage.

“Looks abandoned,” said Serge.

“That’s on purpose.” Felicia walked around the corner. “Follow me.”

They headed up a dark side street, then made a left down an even darker alley. Just past the third trash bin, Felicia approached an anonymous steel delivery door.

Four hard, evenly spaced knocks.

A metal slit opened. Two eyes.

“Hey Felicia.” The slit closed. A voice inside. “It’s okay. It’s Felicia.” The slit opened. “Long time . . . Who are those other guys?”

“They’re with me.”

“That’s good enough.”

The door opened.

“Wow,” said Coleman. “What a cool club!”

Eyes adjusted in dim light that only came from the glowing bars and cocktail tables, fitted underneath with special diodes.

A waiter arrived.

Drinks.

“Serge,” said Coleman, liberally splashing whiskey on his shirt like cologne. “Everyone who works in here is wearing an eye patch. Except that old bald guy sitting up in the DJ stand with a cat in his lap.”

“It’s SPY,” said Felicia.

“It rocks,” said Serge. “Like the lair of some larger-than-life Bond villain who holds the fate of the world for ransom. I always wonder how they can hollow out a volcano with nobody noticing, not to mention the four hundred lab workers in white smocks and clipboards, monitoring power levels on the giant laser used to shoot down satellites. How do they get hired? Where do they sleep and eat? I’ve never seen a cafeteria in the volcanoes. That would make it more realistic.”

“Please,” said Felicia. “We have important business.”

“Right, business.” He made a serious face. “You said you had an idea what’s going down.”

She leaned forward and motioned everyone else to join her. “About two weeks ago, I met with this reporter. He had a story about illegal arms shipments. But since his newspaper had a reputation for sensationalism, I thought it was just a wild tale.”

“It wasn’t?”

Felicia shook her head. “On a lark, I did some digging and found irregular bank records. So I met him again.”

“What happened?” asked Serge.

“I gave him the records, and we were scheduled to meet a second time later that night when he would slip me some kind of geology report.”

“Geology?” said Serge. “How does that figure?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did his report say?”

“Never got it.”

“You were stood up?” said Serge.

“The permanent stand-up.” Felicia knocked back a shot of tequila without making a face.

The guys were impressed.

She licked salt off the back of her hand. “I went down to the river, and this so-called contact of his was supposed to take me to him, but I saw blood dripping from the bumper first.”

“That meant you were next.”

“Those karate classes paid off.” Felicia waved for the waiter.

Serge sipped his bottle of water. “So who was this guy?”

“Blond crew cut, never seen him before.” Another shot of tequila arrived. “But I think I’ve heard of him. Freelancer who does contract work for the highest bidder. And not cheap.”

“Whatever that reporter knew, someone wanted it to stay with him.”

“And I think it leads back to the generals. They’ve never liked Guzman, and all they need is a push.”

“Who’s doing the pushing?” asked Serge.

“That’s what I need to find out.” She killed the second shot. “Only thing I know is it has something to do with the arms shipments. At first, all I had were the bank discrepancies and that reporter’s suspicions, but a few days later Scooter told me about his uncle and actually seeing the crates in a Miami warehouse. You’ve heard of Victor Evangelista, the infamous weapons supplier?”

“Who hasn’t?” said Serge.

“That’s when I knew for sure. Then Scooter mentioned the plot against Guzman.”

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” said Escobar.

“Just keep your ears open and tell me everything.”

“About what?”

“What we’ve been talking about!” said Felicia.

“Could you repeat it?” Scooter knocked over his kamikaze, flooding the small table.

Felicia grabbed his wrist. “Why don’t you go sit with your friends at that table way in back while I finish talking with Serge?”

Scooter looked around. “Where?”

Serge pointed. “Behind the giant fake laser gun used to shoot down satellites.”

The three amigos got up and Coleman winked at Serge. “I get it: you and Felicia.” He made a circle with the thumb and index finger of his left hand, then pointed his other index finger and stuck it back and forth through the hole.

“Coleman!” snapped Serge.

“We’re going . . .”

Serge covered his eyes. “I’m mortified.”

“Don’t be.” Felicia edged her chair closer. “How long have you known him?”

“Since he was a pup.” They both looked toward the back table, three arms waving drunkenly for a waiter. “I feel an obligation.”

“I think it’s sweet how you look out for him.”

“So how’d you become a spy?”

“By accident. I was just this government secretary back home, but the bosses were always inviting me to these big parties. I was at a soiree in this compound on the side of a mountain, and some old jerk I’d never seen before is all over me, the kind that touches a lot.” She shook her shoulders at the thought. “Just about to slap him when these other guys hustled me into the kitchen. Turns out the groper was running for vice president.”

“And those others guys wanted you to get dirt on him.”

“Wouldn’t believe how much I got paid.” She fiddled with her empty shot glass. “After that, I ruined five more candidates across the islands. Then Scooter needed a babysitter in Miami and here I am.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a spy,” said Serge.

“It’s a joke,” said Felicia. “Everyone imagines cloak-and-dagger, but ninety percent of the time you’re spying on friends. Sometimes in your own office, everyone protecting their jobs. And not even good spying. Just a bunch of silly bumbling—”

A loud crash in the back of the room.

Serge turned. “What now?”

“Coleman crashed into the laser.”

The other guys helped Coleman back into his chair. They guzzled drinks and slammed glasses down in unison. Then they all stood.

Felicia idly twisted a napkin. “I thought only women went to the restroom in groups.”

Serge’s expression sank. “I know where this is leading . . .”

Downtown Miami

Dance music pounded from the clubs and Bayside Market. Streets jammed with honking taxis and limos. Summit traffic. One of the bridges across Biscayne glowed blue underneath from hidden neon lights.

Diplomatic staff and international trade lobbyists continued arriving at the most expensive hotels between the river and the causeway to the beach.

Registration desks stacked up at the luxury-suite high-rises on Biscayne. Except the line for platinum members. A man in an Italian shirt with a canvas shoulder bag opened his wallet on the counter. Fit, trim, dyed-blond crew cut like the bass player for U2.

The cheerful receptionist took his driver’s license and credit card. “Welcome back, Mr. Peloquin!”—as if she personally remembered him, but the computer had prompted her greeting for a special repeat client. “How was your flight?”

He left his sunglasses on, exhaling hard through nostrils.

Her smile began to crack, and she rushed through the rest of the check-in. “Here are your room keys and drink coupons. Hope you enjoy Miami—”

The man snatched them before she was finished and headed for the elevators. Enjoy Miami indeed. He remembered his last visit. First the dislocated shoulder. And after all his trouble planting that reporter’s belongings in a Costa Gordan motel—how was he supposed to know where sharks fed in Miami?

The elevator reached the fifteenth floor. A magnetic key card opened a door. The luggage he hadn’t brought with him from the airport was already waiting in the room, courtesy of his employer.

The man slipped off loafers. Wallet and cell phone went on the nightstand. He reclined on the still-made bed, staring at a TV that he didn’t turn on.

A vibrating sound from the nightstand.

He opened the cell phone. A text message.

“?”

He pressed a button.

“.”

Arrival confirmation.

The cell phone closed. He picked up his wallet and took out the driver’s license. The name said Dreyfus Peloquin. Nobody knew what it really was. Or what he looked like. A few grainy, ten-year-old photos had been floating around, but good luck. The closest thing to a name was an offshore answering machine periodically checked by another number in Argentina. Anything worth passing on got typed into a free Internet mail account and saved as a draft.