SOUTH OF MIAMI
The early-afternoon sun gave everything a harsh yellow haze. All across Metro-Dade, long lines spilled from convenience stores and bodegas, people handing pink-and-white cards across counters. Lottery machines clattered and spit out tickets at a blistering rate.
“
“
A royal poinciana struggled to rise from a tight alley between two pastel green apartment buildings in West Perrine. The rest of the landscaping was accidental. Weeds; abandoned tires; a smattering of old-growth palms, some dead, leaving withered, topless trunks. Spanish store signs and billboards for menthol. Children played in broken glass, throwing rocks at lizards.
A late-model Infiniti sat across the street with the motor running.
“How long are we going to wait?” asked Miguel.
Guillermo’s eyes stayed to his binoculars. “As long as it takes.”
Raul leaned forward in the front passenger seat and twisted a knob.
Guillermo lowered the binoculars. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Listening to the radio.”
“
Guillermo clicked it off. “We’re working.”
The sun drew down.
“Maybe they’re not even home,” said Pedro.
“They’re home all right,” said Guillermo.
“How do you know?”
“Here they come now.”
The Infiniti’s passengers looked up at the second-floor balcony, where a door had just opened. Three men filed out. Colombian. They trotted down a concrete staircase by the poinciana and piled into the boxlike frame of a vintage Grand Marquis with gray spray-paint splotches over body work.
Guillermo threw the Inifiniti in gear and followed.
Raul unzipped a small duffel bag, handing out Mac-10s with extended ammo clips. “When do we move?”
“Not until I say.” Guillermo made a right behind the Marquis. “Let’s see where they’re going.”
“But we could pull alongside right now.”
“And a cop comes around the corner,” said Guillermo. “I personally want to get away.”
The Marquis reached South Dixie Highway and turned left.
“Brake lights,” said Miguel. “They’re pulling into that parking lot.”
The Infiniti slowly circled the gas pumps of an independent convenience store with water-filled potholes and a lunch window for Cuban sandwiches. Four steel pylons had recently been installed at the entrance after a smash- and-grab where a stolen Taurus ended up in the Slim Jims. The Marquis’s passengers went inside.
Guillermo parked facing the quickest exit back to South Dixie. He opened the driver’s door. “Don’t do anything until I give the signal.”
“But they’re all in there.”
“And armed,” said Guillermo. “Wait until they’re in the checkout line. Otherwise we’ll be chasing them all across the store, shooting at one another over the top of the chips aisle like last time.”
The crew tucked Macs under shirts and slipped to the edge of the building. They peeked around the outdoor self-serve freezer of ten-pound ice bags.
“Look at that fuckin’ lottery line,” said Raul.
“They’re all up front,” said Guillermo. He pulled a wad of dark knit cloth from his pocket, and the others followed his lead. “Try to keep your spread tight.”
Customers forked money across the counter and pocketed tickets of government-misled hope, just as they had every minute since the owner unlocked the doors.
The Marquis’s passengers looked down at their own penciled-in computer cards. One sipped a can of iced tea. Another idly looked outside. Four ski masks ran past the windows.
“Shit.”
He reached under his shirt for a Tec-9. The others didn’t need to see the threat, just reflexively went for their own weapons upon noticing their colleague’s reaction.
The doors flew open.
Then all hell.
Ammo sprayed. Beer coolers and windows shattered. Screaming, running, diving over the counter, two-liter soda bottles exploding.
Miguel took a slug in the shoulder, but nothing like the Colombians. A textbook case of overkill. They toppled backward, their own guns still on automatic, raking the ceiling.
Stampede time. Guillermo and the others whipped off masks and blended with a river of hysterical bystanders gushing out the door. After the exodus, an empty store revealed the math. Three seriously dead Colombians and four crying, bleeding innocents, lying in shock or dragging themselves across the waxed floor.
Sirens.
The Infiniti sailed over a curb and down South Dixie.
Chapter Six
TAMPA
A bong bubbled.
Coleman looked up from the couch. “Hey, I’m on TV.”
On the screen, a bong bubbled.
“Serge, when did you shoot that?”
“Couple minutes ago.” He loaded a fresh tape in his camcorder.
Coleman watched as the TV scene panned around their one-bedroom apartment. Souvenirs, ammunition, row of ten bulging garbage bags against the wall.
A cloud of pot smoke drifted toward the ceiling. “You filmed the inside of our crib?”
“The big opening of my documentary.” Serge switched the camera to manual focus and aimed it at the television. “I finally found my hook.”
“Why are you filming the TV? It’s only playing what you just filmed.”
“This is bonus material. The ‘making of’ documentary of the documentary. You need that if you expect decent distribution in Bangkok.”
“What’s your documentary about?”
“Everything.”
“Everything?”
The camera rolled as Serge walked into the kitchen and grabbed a mug of coffee with his free hand. He filmed the cup coming toward the lens. “If you’re going to do something, shoot for the best. People have made documentaries about the Civil War, baseball, ocean life, Danny Bonaduce, but as yet nobody’s attempted to document absolutely everything. My director’s cut box set is slated to top out at seven hundred volumes.”
“Will it include Danny Bonaduce?”
“Volume three hundred and twenty-four.”
“But how can you do a film on
“Spare batteries.”
“That’s it?”
