“Will a thousand be enough?”
“For openers,” said Serge. “That’s why I have a secondary plan. Miami is full of opportunities if you know where to look. That’s why I need to come here every few months for a brain flush: all these different, layered worlds existing simultaneously, some off the grid, invisible to the average observer.”
Coleman looked around. “Where?”
Serge pointed up at bank towers. “We’re in the financial capital of Latin America.” He lowered his arm and swept it across street level. “But down below are all these crazy shops.”
“The ones with roll-down burglar shutters?”
“For when the yellow crime lights come at night and life clears off the streets like a nuclear winter,” said Serge. “But during the day, a bustling economic furnace.”
Coleman looked in windows as they walked. “But who needs this much luggage?”
“The island people.” Serge pulled out a pamphlet for an art exhibit. “And they come in two styles: tourists and professional shoppers.”
“Professional?”
“That’s the hidden opportunity I mentioned. I had no idea until a few years ago, but there’s a bunch of sub- budget hotels downtown, whose lobbies are completely full of giant cargo boxes. All these people with rope and packing tape. Barely room to walk.”
“What are they doing?”
“The same thing I’m going to be doing soon to get more money.” Serge pocketed the pamphlet. “Fill you in on the rest later. Right now the museum’s coming up.”
“Then why are you turning into this luggage store?”
“Shhhh! We’re spies now.”
A clerk smiled. “Can I help you find something?”
“Briefcases.”
“Any kind in particular?”
“The kind that you have two of.”
“We’re well stocked in several brands.”
“I’ll take those two.”
The pair headed west on Flagler Street.
“Why do we need briefcases?”
“For the museum.” Serge trotted up steps toward the courtyard. “I love the art museum!”
They reached an expansive, elevated piazza with a mosaic of beige and Tuscan tiles. On the west end, the main Miami library; to the east, the Museum of Art.
“Stop here,” said Serge. “We have to enter separately. I’ll go first, and you come in ten minutes later.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the way it works. Then once inside, here’s what you do…” Serge explained the plan. “Think you can handle that?”
“Piece of cake. So what kind of cool mission are we on?”
“No mission.”
“Then what does your plan accomplish?”
“Nothing. Sometimes it’s just about bursting with a zest for life and letting yourself become an unjaded kid again, playing fort in the woods, or spy in Miami. And sometimes your mission is just to act like a spy. Especially when there’s no mission. Confuses the enemy into thinking there’s a mission, which distracts them from your real mission. That’s our mission.”
“Does this have something to do with one of your Secret Master Plans?”
“Yes. I’ve got the tingles again.” He showed Coleman goose bumps on his arm. “Something big is about to go down in Miami, probably during the summit, and only a spy can save the day.”
Serge trotted toward the museum, and Coleman walked toward a wall on the far side of the courtyard that cut the wind so he could fire up a fattie.
“One, please,” Serge told the ticket seller. He strolled through various galleries. Oils, acrylics, charcoals. The museum silent and empty. Only a handful of others: a family with two small children; a couple having an affair on lunch break; a man in a business suit staring at an abstract, then tilting his head to look at it sideways. Three guards in different doorways pretended not to look but seemed to be following Serge.
Serge reached the central gallery and took a seat on a large, continuous bench that formed a rectangle in the middle of the room. A Japanese garden sat inside it. Serge placed his briefcase on the floor.
Moments later, Coleman came in. He stood next to the businessman and stared at the abstract painting. “I am so stoned.”
“Excuse me?” said the man.
“That painting.” Coleman pointed. “Gremlins and flying snakes and naked chicks playing trombones while masturbating with wax fruit.”
The man glanced at Coleman, then back at the painting. “I don’t see anything.”
“Because they hung it upside down.” Coleman walked away as the man twisted his head.
Serge gazed up at a vibrant watercolor. Coleman clandestinely sat next to him. He placed his briefcase on the ground.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Why’d you pick a museum?”
“Shhhhh! We’re not supposed to know each other.”
“We could be strangers talking about art.”
“Speaking of which, what’s the deal with that guy you were talking to? His face is like an inch from that painting.”
“I think he’s a pervert.”
“Museums naturally attract oddballs. The perfect place for spies to meet. They’re always meeting in cultural attractions and other places where loitering is encouraged.”
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Get Smart. People think it was a comedy but completely miss the Cold War subtext. I need a cone of silence.”
“What about a shoe phone?”
“Got one,” said Serge. “Made my own this morning with a cell phone.” He took off his left sneaker, tapped a finger inside several times, then held it to his ear. He pulled it away from his head and peeked through the foot hole. “It’s broken. What the fuck?”
“Maybe you can buy another.”
Serge put his shoe back on. “That’s already the third one I’ve gone through.”
“Is it under warranty?”
“Yes, but the last time the phone people gave me some bullshit: ‘You’re not supposed to walk on it.’ ”
Serge grabbed the handle of his pal’s briefcase. Coleman grabbed the other. They got up and left in opposite directions.
The businessman had moved on to the next painting. A hand in his right pocket. In the bottom of the pocket was a hole, where a wire led inside his shirt to his tie tack. The concealed hand pressed a button, taking photos with a pinhole camera.
When the room was empty, the man left the museum. He looked left: Coleman trotting down steps toward the Metro Mover. Stage right: Serge, fifty yards ahead, crossing the courtyard. The businessman picked up the pace.
Serge headed down Flagler Street. The man maintained a half-block separation.
Serge stopped to stare in the window of a luggage store. The businessman bent down to tie his shoe. Serge resumed walking. The man stood up.
At the corner of Miami Avenue, without breaking stride, Serge casually dropped the briefcase in a trash can and turned the corner.
The businessman began running. He reached the trash can and grabbed the briefcase. A black SUV screeched up to the curb, the man jumped in, and they sped off.
