“But he told me to meet him here.”
“I know, but he thinks he was followed. I told him he was imagining things.”
The woman grabbed her purse and stood. “This is getting ridiculous.”
He led her around the parking lot and up the empty street.
“Where the heck is your car?”
“Just a little farther.”
The woman looked back, restaurant now out of sight around a bend, voices faint.
Her pace slowed. “I think I’m going back.”
“My car’s right there.”
“Under the bridge? I don’t see Randy.”
“He’s inside waiting for you.”
She stopped and looked at drops on the ground under the car’s trunk.
Red.
A man zipped a suitcase closed in a beach house on the Pacific coast of South America. What a screwup back under that bridge in Miami. His memory delivered a phantom pain to his healed left shoulder, where it had been dislocated. From now on, every woman, no matter how delicate in appearance, was to be considered a black belt.
He grabbed the phone and called a taxi for the airport.
Miami River District
Serge sat across the desk from Mahoney. Feet propped up, hands interlaced behind his head.
From the other side of the hall: “Ow! Shit, you broke my nose! Why’d you do that?” A man cupped hands to his face. Footsteps trailed toward the stairs.
Serge jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “How does that work, anyway?”
Mahoney shuffled playing cards and pointed outside through the window at the office building’s sign.
Serge stood and walked to the blinds. “Been meaning to ask about that. This building’s almost empty, but the sign is full of company names. Pan-Global Enterprises, Consolidated Associates, Biscayne Trading Partners, the Dodd Group, and on and on. Did they forget to take them down?”
The king of hearts went on the desk. Mahoney shook his head. “That’s our friend across the hall.”
“The Guy Who Punches People? Which company?”
“All of them,” said Mahoney.
“I don’t understand.”
Mahoney placed a queen on the king. “Real name’s Steve Dodd.”
“And he just punches people?”
Mahoney shuffled again. “Started as a hobby. Big attorney with the prosecutor’s office, but the pressure of plea bargains and assholes got to be too much.”
“I can relate,” said Serge.
“Steve told me he quit his job, cashed in all his stocks for bail money, and whenever someone got on his nerves, he’d punch ’em. Said he used to take Prozac, but this is more effective. Blood pressure’s down, never felt better.”
“You mentioned hobby, but what about the business?”
The jack of clubs. “Word got around,” said Mahoney. “If you want someone punched, you send them to Steve. Concoct some ruse about signing papers to get money or whatever.”
“Sounds like a sporadic business,” said Serge. “Constant interruptions for bail, court appearances, stays in county lockup.”
“Used his criminal law experience and found a loophole. Now he’s raking it in. Apparently there’s a big market.”
“What kind of loophole?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
The door opened. Steve stuck his head inside, rubbing knuckles. “Got any ice?”
Mahoney pointed toward the bucket next to the bottle of rye. “Have at it.”
“Thanks.”
“Excuse me,” said Serge. “Mahoney was saying that you found some kind of loophole to punch people.”
Steve wrapped cubes in a washcloth. “That’s right. Supreme Court decision just a few years back declaring corporation same as people. So I created a bunch…”-pointing at the sign out the window-“… firewalled assets and liability among them, and moved everything important offshore. Now the only people they can go after are the owners of the corporations.”
“But you own the corporations,” said Serge.
Steve shook his head and pressed the washcloth to his fist. “Another guy in Venezuela is doing the same thing. We own each other’s companies. There’s no extradition treaty.”
Serge whistled. “Nice work if you can get it.”
“Thanks again for the ice.” He left.
Serge shrugged at his brother. “It’s Miami.”
“Speaking of which,” said Mahoney. “How are you coming on my first case?”
“Definite progress,” said Serge. “I don’t think she’ll be having any more trouble from him.”
“How’s that?”
“He thought he was dealing with amateurs until I turned on the red beacon-”
The phone rang.
“Mahoney here…” He listened, and listened. Mouth turning grim. “… Very sorry to hear that… Yes, we’ll definitely do something.”
Mahoney hung up and poured a stiff one.
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You don’t look so good.”
Mahoney stuck the bottle back in the desk drawer. “Just got off the phone with our first client.”
“And?” Serge raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Bet she was thrilled.”
“Not thrilled.”
“Really?” Serge looked baffled. “What’s she say?”
“Hard to make out because I think her mouth was swollen.” Mahoney swirled the drink in his glass. “Sounded like her ex banged her up pretty bad.”
“Motherfuck-” Serge dashed out the door, and Coleman followed.
“Serge!” Mahoney called after him. “Where are you going?”
A Plymouth screeched out of the parking lot.
Ten minutes later, Serge mashed the elevator button in a motel lobby. Over and over. “Screw it!” He ran for the stairwell and bounded up to the fourth floor three steps at a time.
Knocking on a door. Serge pressed his eye to the peephole. “Come on, Sally, open up. I can hear you in there.” More knocks.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “I hear footsteps.”
They backed up. The sound of someone fumbling with the chain and locks. The door opened. She already had her back to them, walking across the room with arms folded tight. Stopped next to a broken lamp.
“Sally.” Serge moved forward. “What’s going on?”
She stared out the window with no reply.
“Sally, please look at me.”
Then her head began shaking with sobs.
Serge lightly touched her from behind on the arm. A big flinch, pulling away.
“Sally…”
She finally turned around.
Serge stepped back with a gasp and bit his fist.
“Serge!” She stepped forward. Her tear-streaked face went into his chest with a desperate hug. But not before he saw the busted lip and the old, faded black eyes that had recently been replaced by new ones.
“Shhhh,” said Serge. “Now just tell me what happened.”
It took a long moment, but she regained her composure and slowly looked up at him.
