Serge banged the glass. “Yo! Captain!”
The desk manager noticed Serge, stood, and wiped hands on his shirt. He leaned toward the round metal grate in the middle of the glass. “What?”
“I want in the pipeline.”
“Pipeline?”
Serge pointed back at the people taping boxes.
“Oh, that,” said the manager. He shook his head. “Don’t think they’re hiring. All of them work for stores in the islands, and most are family operations.”
“Know all about it,” said Serge. “They fly them up for sleepless, three-day shopping binges. But I’m already here. They’ll save air fare. And when I put my mind to shopping, I can trample Joan Collins.”
“Sorry,” said the manager. “Can’t help you.”
Serge reached in his wallet and snapped a crisp hundred-dollar bill between his hands. He slid it through the key slot.
The manager held it to the light and stuck it in his pocket. “I’ll make some calls.”
“And I’ll do advance recon so I’m totally prepared for my spree. What do they need?”
“Mostly luggage and electronics. But others take cabs to Walmart and Costco.”
“What do they buy?”
“Everything. Paper plates, toothpaste, double-A batteries.”
“That’s actually profitable?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. They can’t get normal distribution for American-brand goods, and a single can of Coke sells for five clams.”
“Five dollars!” Serge whistled. “Even Starbucks doesn’t have that kind of balls.”
“There’s this one guy who calls every month and pays me fifty to buy a laptop, but I’m not giving up that name.”
“Understandable. We’ll take a room. This is the perfect place to build up my immune system.”
“Thirty dollars.”
Serge fed currency through the slot, took a brass key, and got in an elevator. He slid the accordion metal cage closed.
Room 321.
A single queen bed with a six-inch depression in the mattress. The toilet seat lay on tiles under the dripping sink. The air conditioner was missing the front cover, displaying dust-caked condenser blades. Shouting and violent wall thumps from a fight in the next room involving five people and an ironing board.
“Serge, this is by far the dumpiest place we’ve ever stayed.”
Serge slapped the bed, launching a small cloud. “I have just the fix.” He reached in his suitcase and unrolled a Star-Elite Club red doormat inside the entrance.
Coleman reached in his own suitcase and removed a prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker. He pointed at a splatter of spots on the ceiling. “Is that blood?”
“Yes.” Serge unpacked the rest of his luggage.
“What kind of people stay here?”
“Two camps: the shoppers, and out-of-state tourists who book sight unseen, then huddle all night in mortal fear of crime and flesh-eating bacteria and flee at dawn.”
The rotary phone rang.
Serge stared.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Coleman.
“This could be the call I’ve been waiting for my entire life.” Serge placed a hand gently on the receiver. “I hope it’s the Wish Man. And I’m ready in case he only grants one wish. I’ll say, ‘More wishes.’ Then I’ve got him. He’ll have to answer to his people.”
“You say that almost every time a motel phone rings, but usually it’s just a complaint from another room. Or a hooker.”
“Or both.” He picked up the receiver on the ninth ring. “Serge here. Is this the Wish Man?”
“Sanchez from the front desk.”
“Grant my wish.”
“Got you plugged in for a shipment. Pick up the shopping list in the lobby.”
“Be right down.” He hung up. “We’re on.”
Costa Gorda
Midnight.
Moonless. The mountain highlands rose ruggedly in the center of the small Caribbean nation.
Silence under the stars except for croaking tree frogs and nocturnal, cawing birds.
Then: the distant drone of a C-130 Hercules air transport plane. No tail markings. Registered to a nonexistent consortium in El Salvador. The back-bay door wide open.
A crew member in a harness yelled over the engines and wind. “Thirty seconds!”
Next to him, a crouching row of camouflaged men with parachute static lines hooked overhead.
“Five seconds!” yelled the harness man. “Go! Go! Go!..” — slapping each man on the leg as they jumped out the back of the plane.
The aircraft quickly emptied, banked hard, and climbed steeply until it couldn’t be heard.
Across the sky below, a sea of parachutes sprouted and drifted peacefully like airborne mushrooms. The drop zone was tricky in size and terrain, but the pilot was good. Only two guys had to be cut down from trees.
They gathered silk chutes and began a downhill trek behind their squad leader, who charted the way with a GPS. As they neared the coordinates of the reported rebel encampment, the leader called their translator to the front of the platoon.
He began shouting in Spanish: friendlies, allies, brothers, and most importantly, don’t shoot.
Ahead, in an unseen configuration of pup tents, men stirred from sleep. “Everyone up! Someone’s coming!”
When the paratroopers finally broke into the camp, they were met by a ragged, elements-beaten gang of insurgents pointing cocked Russian AK-47s.
The head of the paratrooper team whispered to the translator again. “Tell them we’re on their side. We’re here to help their struggle.”
The translator translated.
The rebels looked confused.
“What’s the matter?” whispered the squad leader.
“I’m not sure,” said the translator.
“Tell them again.”
He did.
More puzzled looks. The head rebel: “I’m sorry, we don’t speak Spanish.”
The squad leader took a step forward. “Ralph?”
“Henry?”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
“We’re on a secret mission to train the rebels.” Henry glanced around. “Where are they?”
“You’re looking at them.”
“ You’re the rebels?”
“Station in Fort Myers sent us down last month.”
“Where are the real rebels?”
“Got bored and left two weeks back.”
“Where’d they go?”
“I heard them mention a bachelor party.”
“This can’t be the whole rebellion.”
“Afraid so.”
“What about the cocaine traffickers?”
