Gator A-GO-GO

scream.

He set the bottle back and grabbed the tweezers again.

Drain water turned darker red.

Nine A.M.

Ice cubes fell in a crystal rocks glass, followed by two fingers of Jack Daniel’s. A first-aid kit lay open. Two pools of spilled whiskey on the dining room table and more dripping off Guillermo’s fingertips from the limp arm hanging by his side.

He cringed and gently eased himself into a chair at the table, gauze bandages bleeding through. Guillermo unwrapped the worst and tossed the wad in a trash basket next to his seat.

He reached in the first-aid kit and took another slug of whiskey, then tore off a fresh stretch of white tape with his teeth.

A Mercedes pulled up the driveway. The front door opened. Juanita hummed merrily, a bakery sack in her arms. The foyer filled with the aroma of just-out-of-the-oven Cuban bread. Then she smelled liquor.

Juanita came around the corner to the dining room, only seeing his back and the bottle. Uncharacteristic.

“Guillermo?” She slowly set the bag on a counter. “Are you… drunk?”

“Not yet.”

“Guillermo, I’m surprised…” She took a few more steps. “Oh my God! What happened to you?”

The bottle poured. “Ramirez double-crossed us.”

“He’s a dead man.”

“Right.”

“You’re in no condition.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll take care of this Ramirez. Almost makes me cry what he did to you.”

“No, I mean, ‘right,’ as in he’s already dead.”

She put down the phone. “You handled Ramirez?”

A boozy nod.

She patted him on the head. “Good boy… What about Andy?”

He shook his head. “There were like a million of ’em. I was ambushed.”

“You didn’t take care of Andy?”

“No, but I’ll find him.”

Another pat. “You rest.” She grabbed the phone again. “I’ll send someone else.”

“Who?”

She opened her mouth to say “Pedro,” then stopped. She thought of Raul. Stopped again. Miguel. A longer pause. “Is anyone left at all?”

“Just me.”

Juanita took a seat at the table and stared down in thought.

SIMULTANEOUSLY

A ’73 Challenger cruised south on Biscayne Boulevard.

Just Serge and Andy.

They crossed the intersection for the causeway to Bal Harbor. A skyline came into view.

“Holy smokes,” said Serge. “There’s more every time I come here, and that’s usually only months apart.”

Andy was in a funk.

“Andy”-shaking his arm-“are you looking?”

“Yeah, I’m looking. More what?”

“Condos under construction.” Serge stopped at a red light next to the Miami Shores Country Club. “They’re all over the dang place, blotting out the sun.”

“I thought those were office buildings.” Andy stared out the window at towering high-rises, most with unfinished upper floors. “They’re putting condos downtown?”

“Now they are. Almost outnumbering businesses.” His eyes moved north to south. “… Nine, ten, eleven…”

“What are you doing?”

“Counting construction cranes. I do it every time I’m here… thirteen, fourteen, now fifteen! Amazing. I still remember one of the local TV anchors joking that the city’s official bird should be the crane.”

“Fifteen are getting built at the same time?”

“Probably a couple less,” said Serge. “They glutted the market in the housing crisis. I’m betting work’s stalled on a few from lack of pre-sales. That’s how the Elbo Room was saved.” He aimed his camcorder out the windshield at the skyline.

“Serge, what are you doing?”

“I’m always in awe at the scale of those things.”

“How can you be so flip at a time like this? Talking about buildings and cranes when Guillermo is still loose.”

“You were just talking about them, too.”

“I was distracted.”

“Promised I’d take care of this.” Serge turned on the radio, Randy Newman. “That’s where we’re going now.”

Andy bolted up straight. “We’re driving to Guillermo?”

“Heck no.”

“Then where are we going?”

“Research. Putting an end to something requires thorough preparation and a killer sound track.”

“Why do I have to come?”

“… Gee, I love Miami…”

“After what you pulled yesterday, we’re joined at the hip.” Serge clicked off his video camera. “In the meantime, no sense fretting between stops. Enjoy the beautiful day!”

Andy pounded the dashboard in whining desperation. “Please…”

“It’s almost over,” said Serge. “Just a little longer.”

“It is over. Ramirez was the traitor. So now you can take me in.”

“Sometimes there’s more than one. We have to cut the snake off at the head. Then it doesn’t matter how many they got inside… Look! One of the cranes is starting to move!”

“… every building’s so pretty and white…”

“Serge!”

“Shhhhhh!” He grabbed his camcorder again. “It’s incredible how those things work. Ever watch Modern Marvels?”

“No!”

“Check out that tiny guy fifty stories up in the glassed-in control cab. He’s just moving little levers…”-Serge panned down to a massive steel beam leaving the ground-“… yet able to lift tons of metal hundreds of feet into the air and place it precisely where he wants…”

The Challenger continued south along the waterfront, past the American Airlines Arena, Freedom Tower, Bayside Market. Serge made a right on Flagler and drove through a district of small shops with Spanish signs.

“Where are we now?” asked Andy.

“Here.” Serge parked on the street.

“The library?”

“Not just any library. The main Miami-Dade.“ Serge ran up steps.”Hurry! Crime- fighting’s loads of fun!”

“Wait up!” Andy chased Serge across a vast, elevated brick courtyard, where people in business suits ate takeout lunch on shaded benches.

Serge knew right where to go. In minutes, he was sitting at a projector, reading negative images of a fifteen- year-old Herald. It was a Wednesday, final street edition.

Andy dragged over a chair. “Why are we reading newspapers?”

“You’re too young to remember…”-Serge turned the advance knob; Thursday, Friday-“… but back then, Madre