“Wife-beater?”
“That stained tank-top T-shirt.” Serge grinned big at the resident. “Are you Jethro Comstock?”
Jethro swayed on beer legs. “Whatever you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’.”
“Oh, we’re not selling anything,” said Serge. “Okay, we are. We’re selling wishes. The first one’s free. You wish we’ll leave you alone.”
Jethro drained his beer and stared at the cape. “Who the hell are you?”
Serge pointed at the S in the middle of his chest. “I’m Super-Serge and my sidekick is the Human Torch.”
Coleman raised a Bic lighter and flicked it.
Jethro looked at the flames drawn in Magic Marker on Coleman’s T-shirt, then back at Serge. “Get the fuck off my property!”
He started closing the door, but Serge threw out an arm and slammed it open against a wall.
“We’re leaving,” said Serge. “Right after you promise to leave Sally alone.”
“Sally? The bitch!”
“Actually, that’s a politically incorrect term,” said Serge. “Chicks don’t dig it.”
“I’m going to seriously fuck you up if you don’t get out of here right now.”
“Sure thing.” Serge flipped open his notepad. “Right after a few last details. Sorry, it’s my job.” He looked down at the pad and began reading. “You’re not to go near your ex-wife ever again. Or call her on the phone. Or contact her in any way for the rest of your life. Or else.” He smiled again. “Well, that about does it. We good?”
“Or else what?”
“Or else this!” Serge reached atop his head and flicked a switch, activating the revolving red beacon on his helmet.
“Blow me!”
The door slammed.
Chapter Thirteen
South America
Surf crashed from the Pacific.
A beach house somewhere near the unmarked border of Chile and Peru.
Curtains flowed gently out a bedroom window.
Inside, a tall, wiry man with muscular shoulders from ocean swimming. He sat in boxer shorts at a computer. Fingers tapped. An Internet mail account opened.
Behind him, a local beauty slipped into a short, lavender sundress and counted out a thousand dollars on the dresser. “Same time next week?”
The man’s head stayed toward the computer screen. He had a blond crew cut like the bass player in U2.
“You’re definitely not the chatty type.” The woman pocketed the cash. “I guess that’s good.”
More typing on the keyboard. The woman left. The computer screen displayed a folder from the account. The man opened a draft e-mail. He hadn’t written it. Only three trusted people had passwords to the account, and messages were delivered by saving them in draft form. So they wouldn’t have to be sent by e-mail. So they couldn’t be monitored.
He finished reading the message and hit delete. His expression never changed. He stood and began packing for Miami again.
Again.
And he was forced to discount his services this time. The last trip to Miami had been his first failure. Or half failure. The front end went seamless as usual, and the rest should have been even easier. That was the mistake. He underestimated. And he would never do it again. He folded socks into a suitcase and ran the details of the last job through his head…
… I t all started with another typical Miami lunch crowd that filled an outdoor cafe and wrapped around the corner of the sidewalk. A valet hopped in a car. The maitre d’ carried leather-bound menus and led a party of four to a table with an umbrella.
A couple stopped talking as a waiter arrived with salads.
They watched him leave, then leaned forward and whispered.
Odd bookends. The kind where you look at the guy and wonder, How’d he get her? She downplayed the sex appeal with a white blouse, pink skirt, office shoes without heels, and black hair pulled back in a ponytail. But no disguising the exquisite Latin features. Across the table, none of the clothes fit right. Tie askew. His haircuts cost ten dollars, and he hadn’t gone to his prom.
The woman slid a legal-size envelope across the table. “You sure they can’t trace this to me?”
“Give you my word.” The man stuffed the envelope in a canvas shoulder bag. “Is it all there?”
She nodded. “Balances, transfers, everything.” She glanced around. “Now, what’s this geology report you mentioned? I hadn’t heard anything.”
It was the man’s turn to glance around. “Not here.” He got up without touching his salad. “My contact’s delivering it to me at the other place. Let’s meet there at seven. I’ll need your help finding out what it means.”
He placed a pair of twenties on the table, climbed over the rope around the sidewalk tables, and headed up the street talking on his cell. “Carson? It’s me, Randy. I’m just about finished with the story
… Yeah, I’ll be in tonight to file…”
Two hours later, the skyline glowed.
Restaurants filled.
A no-frills fish joint on the shore of the Miami River was busier than most. The wind carried a sizzling, fried aroma to the outdoor tables. Cajun spice. A man with a loosened tie and canvas shoulder bag sat in back with an open menu. He waved off the waiter for the fourth time and checked his watch again. He dialed his cell again. No answer.
The waiter returned. He looked at the customer’s third glass of water. “Are you ready to order?”
“Give me another moment.”
“Sir, we really appreciate you coming tonight, but we have a lot of people waiting for tables.”
“My date’s supposed to meet me. Must have been delayed.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to order or give up your table.”
He looked at his watch. “Fine. Bring me something.”
“What?”
Randy Swade handed the menu back. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
“Yes, sir.”
The waiter left.
The reporter opened his phone again. Something caught his eye. “There you are. I thought you weren’t going to make it.” He closed his cell. “Did you bring…”
“This restaurant’s too exposed,” said the contact. “It’s in the car.”
“And I thought I was cautious.” Randy slid out his chair and stood. “Lead on.”
The guest did. He’d parked an extra block away under a drawbridge over the Miami River. Randy Swade got in the passenger side. And a man with a blond crew cut got in the other.
Fifteen minutes later, hands rubbed soap under the faucet of a restroom behind a fish restaurant. A man with a blond crew cut checked his face closely in the mirror. Only a slight fingernail scratch under his left eye. He turned off the faucet and returned to the dining room.
A woman with a black ponytail looked around like she was waiting for someone.
“Are you waiting for Randy?”
“Who are you?”
“His contact.”
“Where’s Randy?”
“Waiting in my car.”
