“We need to go slow anyway.” Serge reeled in the hostage by his belt. “The key is to keep him constantly turning like a rotisserie.”
“For how long?”
“A few minutes each time.”
“Time?” Coleman grabbed the man’s sleeve. “How many times?”
“At least twenty.” The captive reached the edge of the bed; Serge rolled him back the other way. “This must be a layered, even application, or we have a serious breach in our guest that’ll ruin my hobby.”
“Which hobby?”
“The human version of building a ship in a bottle.” Serge slipped on thick rubber gloves. He reached in a shopping bag, removing an aluminum cooking tray and a turkey baster.
“What are those for?” asked Coleman.
“Just hand me that gas can by the door and grab his feet.”
Miami International Airport
Assorted travelers scurried along sidewalks and ignored the deep boom of a distant explosion. The fireball rose above the parking decks.
A bonded courier in Miami for the first time looked out the back of a cab. “What on earth was that blast?”
“I didn’t notice,” said the driver.
Others rolled luggage as wind carried the smoke plume toward Hialeah. Families huddled at curbs and studied rental-car maps. The loading zone abuzz in eleven languages. A police officer made a car move by blowing a whistle.
Then more cops on motorcycles. Flashing blue lights. Limos arrived.
News teams from local affiliates already there. TV cameras on tripods.
A woman raised a microphone.
“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from the airport with the latest on the upcoming Summit of the Americas. As you can see behind me, heads of state and top diplomats from across the hemisphere are beginning to arrive at this historic event, which is returning to the Magic City for the first time since thirty-four nations attended its inaugural gathering in 1994…”
The terminal’s automatic doors opened. Air-conditioning and security people rushed out. They made a quick sweep of the street, then hustled a man with a bushy mustache into the back of a stretch.
“… I believe that was the president of Bolivia…”
Another security detail. Another limo. So on.
“… The presidents of Uruguay and Belize…”
Police held off onlookers as the rest of the dignitaries were swept into backseats.
The motorcycle cops sped away, followed by limos. TV crews packed up.
Non-VIP airport hubbub resumed. Luggage and courtesy vans.
Automatic doors opened again.
A pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses looked left and right. Picking up surveillance cameras. The man crossed the street for the Flamingo parking garage.
He stopped on the opposite curb and removed his glasses, wiping the right lens while mentally mapping police locations. He put the shades back on.
Another typical afternoon, everyone rushing about in that irrational state of mild alarm from being at an airport, checking watches, rechecking flight times, worried about the length of X-ray lines, herding toddlers and golf clubs. Distracted. Except the stationary man across the street. Minor details tallied behind designer sunglasses. A briefcase with a broken latch, a suitcase with a sticker from Epcot, license plates, levels of suntans, duty-free bags, the brand of cigarettes a Taiwan executive rapidly puffed after a Detroit flight, a chauffeur with the left side of his jacket protruding from a shoulder holster. Whether the shoes of skycaps and other badged employees matched their station in life. Anyone else in Ray-Bans.
He was satisfied.
The man crossed back to the original side of the street and stood at the curb. His shirt was sheer, formfitting, and Italian. The form said athletic. Could be mistaken for a European cyclist or soccer goalie. Three-hundred-dollar loafers with no socks. A stylish crew cut, dyed blond like the bass player for U2. He didn’t waste motion and seemed like one of those people who never laugh, which was correct.
A cell phone vibrated in his pleated pants. He flipped it open. A text message:
“+.”
He closed it and waved for the next taxi.
Biscayne Boulevard
“Know what else pisses me off?” said Serge. “Calling customer care: ‘Please listen carefully as menu items have changed.’ ”
“It’s always that same woman,” said Coleman. “Who the fuck is she?”
“The Tokyo Rose of automated messages,” said Serge. “She wants us to believe they’re hard at work around the clock improving menus.”
“They’re not?”
Serge shook his head. “Since I became aware of the phenomenon, I’ve been calling dozens of menus every few days for over a year to check, even when I’m neither a customer nor need care.”
“And they don’t change?”
“Only the wait time changes. But you’re busy thinking: ‘Holy Jesus! A new menu! And I just got used to the old one-better pay close attention or I won’t receive ultimate pampering.’ And you’re so rattled you miss the real issue of not talking to a live human.”
“That always bites.” Coleman continued up the sidewalk.
“And when you don’t want to talk to a human, some solicitor calls right after I’ve poured milk in my cereal, and I say, ‘Can’t talk now,’ which among their people means keep talking, so I interrupt and say, ‘Serge isn’t here. Cereal’s happening.’ And they ask what’s a convenient time to call back, so I say, ‘I don’t know. The police are still looking for him. Somehow he got the home address of a telemarketer and they found a bloody clawhammer. Where do you live?’ ”
“What else do you hate?” asked Coleman.
“Segues.”
The shark was a man-eater.
Probably a bull, at least ten feet nose to tail.
It had somehow strayed from Biscayne Bay into the mouth of the Miami River, where people weren’t expecting sharks.
They expected sharks even less in the downtown business district, where it now lay on the hot pavement in the middle of Flagler Street.
But it was a busy lunch hour. Office workers in suits walked purposefully along the road. Others in guayaberas sipped espresso at sidewalk sandwich windows. They offhandedly noticed the shark, but it wasn’t bothering them, as it was dead, and it was not their concern.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “There’s a dead shark in the middle of the street.”
“It’s Miami.”
Taxis and sports cars swerved around the fish. Above, commuters looked down from the windows of a Metro Mover pod that slid silently along elevated monorail tracks winding through the downtown skyline and south over the river to the Brickell Financial district. Serge unfolded a scrap of paper and crossed something off a list. He raised a camera sharply upward, snapping photos of a forty-story office building, all glass, glistening in the sun.
Coleman glanced around and sucked a brown paper bag. “You’ve been taking pictures of buildings all morning.”
“Correct.” Serge reached in his backpack and removed an envelope. “Stay here. I won’t be long.”
He ran into the building, then returned.
“What did you just do?” asked Coleman.
“Delivered a message.” Serge checked his address list again and strolled half a block. He raised the camera.
