it all together. People walking down the street see a man in a suit running, and they think he's late for a meeting. On the next block, they see a woman screaming into a cell phone, and they thing she's having a bad day. And when they get to their office and it's been cordoned off with crime taps, they think maybe someone killed themselves and took out a few coworkers in the process.
I see possibility, connection, locus points.
I stood up and dropped a twenty on the table, which would cover at least another round or two.
'Maybe it's not about you,' Sam said.
'Maybe,' I said.
'Maybe it's all a big coincidence,' Sam said.
'Maybe,' I said.
'Maybe you're going to go over there and find out anyway?'
'Definitely,' I said. I looked down at the table and saw that the twenty was already gone. Sam's like a cat.
'You want me to go with you?'
'No,' I said. 'If it's nothing, it's nothing. If it's something, it's probably something you don't need to be a part of.'
Sam nodded. I knew if I needed Sam, he'd be there, but at this point it seemed prudent to find out for myself what was waiting for me. If it had to do with my burn notice, bringing along Sam wouldn't help things.
'Listen, Mikey, this thing with Veronica's friend…'
'What time, Sam?'
'I told her we'd be at her place tomorrow morning at nine.'
I checked my watch. It was just short of three thirty. The sun was still full in the sky. 'You going to stay up all night?'
Sam considered that idea for a moment, giving it more credence than I thought possible. 'I guess maybe I'll try to turn in early,' he said. 'You want your twenty back?'
'Keep it,' I said, walking out, 'in case I need to make bail later.'
2
There are four basic kinds of surveillance: static, foot, mobile and technical. If you're just a regular person, these are also the four basic ways you can stalk someone. The difference between the two classifications is semantic: No matter if you're a spy, or if you're insane and think reruns of Magnum P.I. are telling you to follow Tom Selleck, the goal of surveillance is to learn as much about your target as possible while not revealing your position until you have sufficient information on how to proceed.
Static surveillance requires planning and takes monastic patience. You want to find a place with concealed points of entry and exit, preferably one in a rectangular shape so you can place yourself against one wall and see everything around you without impediment. You want visual access to your target. Unless you like wearing adult diapers, you want a toilet nearby. Access to food is nice, since it's unlikely you'll be ordering up pizzas or cooking your favorite pot roast.
I've always been partial to static surveillance since it allows you to process repeated action, opening windows into how a particular person or group operates when they think no one is watching them. Under ideal conditions, that's how I would have approached identifying the mystery target inside the Hotel Oro.
But I figured they already knew I was coming, so why worry about finding the perfect-fitting adult diaper?
The entrance of the Hotel Oro is cut out of black-and-gold marble accented by a team of valets and bellboys wearing black Armani suite. I guess the outfits are supposed to engender confidence in those leaving cars and luggage in the care of these men, since if the valets and bellboys wear Armani, what must the rest of the place be like? Then there's the common presumption that well-dressed people aren't criminals, though of course if you're any good at crime, you can probably afford a decent pair of shoes and a nice pair of slacks. Outlet stores have really evened the playing field-even your garden-variety asshole can get an off-season Armani suit, or, in the case of paroled felons, hotels in Miami are kind enough to provide them gratis.
I've always preferred to get mine in Italy.
As soon as I pulled my black 'seventy-four Dodge Charger up to the valet station in front of the hotel, a valet descended on me.
'Staying the night, sir?' the valet asked. He looked at the Charger like it was covered in smallpox, as if he was so used to parking Bentleys that he couldn't conceive of a reason anyone would deign to roll in a car made in America and at least a decade before he was born. He tugged on my door but I hadn't unlocked it. This seemed to confound him even more.
'No,' I said.
'If you're making a delivery,' he said, his voice losing any of the politeness his very nice Armani suit would indicate was bred into him, 'receiving is around back.'
I smiled, because sometimes it's fun to smile at those who condescend to you because they think their job assigns them some social importance. I took a brief inventory of the valet: diamond studs in his ears, an absurd jade pinky ring, one of those crusted gold watches that pimps and gamblers prefer. I had a pretty good idea that this was one of the men on Sam's list of former and current felons. The neck tattoos were also a good indication. 'Let me ask you something,' I said. 'You ever do any time?'
The valet cocked his head like a golden retriever and then leaned into my window. He had this sneer on his face that I thought made him look like he was suffering from a kidney stone, like maybe he'd been pissing blood and vomiting all day, or had maybe accidentally swallowed lighter fluid, but which probably scared a lot of people not used to seeing how people really looked when they were angry. The one thing about being a spy and knowing how to really hurt people, which this guy probably thought he knew how to do, too, was that it's always nice feeling vaguely feared and respected at the same time, even if it's unearned. 'Who the fuck are you?''
I got out of the car without any covert movement whatsoever, knocking the valet back a few steps. I handed him my keys and a ten dollar bill. 'The guy whose car you're parking,' I said. There was a row of luxury cars lined up in a perfect diagonal to the entrance a few yards away, as if passing tourists would see the Mercedes phalanx and simply drop dead from envy. 'Keep it close to the front, maybe move one of those Mercedes, give me the over on the Dolphins and, when you get the chance, maybe visit HR and correct some of the errors on your resume.'
I turned my back on the valet and walked toward the entrance, though I could still feel his eyes on me, likely trying to figure out if I was a cop, a rival or just a particularly enlightened member of the hotel's management. Or maybe he just liked the cut of my suit.
The inside of the Oro looks like a perfume commercial. You walk in and to your left is a sunken bar filled with bone white couches set in relief by bronzed women wearing mostly their own flesh and men who seem to be waiting for the photo shoot to begin. Morning, noon or night, these people are sitting on the couches, idly drinking martinis or eating finger foods that are more accurately fingernail foods. To the right is another bar, this one decorated like a bedroom you could never sleep in: twenty cabanas shrouded in white silk house plush king-sized beds covered in a Caligula of bodies and white chenille pillows, a fluffy sofa and a small bedside table. These then encircle a dance floor that always seems to be playing a song about hustling coke, whores, strippers or coke whore strippers.
In order to get to the registration desk, you have to walk through the middle of these two bars, which might be why so few people ever end up checking in. It's not a family environment, unless you're practicing to make one, which is why I should have been curious from the get-go that my mother wanted to dine there this afternoon, but sometimes, with my mother, it's better to just nod your head and agree than to actually listen and interpret.
The registration desk isn't actually a desk. It's a twelve-foot-long S-shaped aquarium filled with goldfish, though no actual goldfish, and the people standing behind it all look fashionably bored tapping away at computers or talking on their Bluetooths. I walked up to the one fashionably bored person who wasn't otherwise engaged. She was about twenty-five, looked about sixteen, and probably thought I looked a hundred.
'I'm Michael Westen,' I said.
