“Do you keep in touch?”
“Still got their numbers in my cell. I thought they tried calling a few times, but there didn’t seem to be anyone on the other end.”
Three more men in red berets came toward them on the sidewalk. Big, floppy shoes and rubber-ball noses. An exchange of knowing looks with Serge.
“The Guardian Clowns?” asked Coleman.
“I feel like a father.” Serge unfolded his scavenger-hunt checklist and made an X next to “Wise Latina T- shirt,” from the confirmation hearings of Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor. He returned it to his pocket. “This is the end of Ocean Drive… Felicia, where to now?”
Felicia was facing the other way in frustration, hands on sensuous hips. “Scooter! Stop messing around! Get over here!”
The spy from Costa Gorda popped up from behind a Dumpster, glanced around, and ran across the street to them.
“What’s with you?” asked Felicia. “When I said to meet us, I didn’t mean follow us.”
Escobar’s eyes were still darting around. “They’re everywhere. A spy can’t be too careful.”
“You’re coked out of your skull.”
“No, I’m not.” Scooter gnashed his teeth. “Not a lot.”
“Just don’t do any more,” said Felicia. “We’ve got important business.”
Scooter took a step back. “That’s Serge!”
“Everything’s cool.” Felicia set a brisk foot pace for the gang. “He’s with us. Someone’s been feeding you bad information, and I have a pretty good idea what’s going on. I’ll lay it all out when we get to our destination.”
Serge walked up alongside. “What is our destination?”
“Spy.”
“Not what we’re doing. Where we’re going.”
“That is where we’re going. But it doesn’t open till late.”
Back up the street, the Above-Average Model got an odd look on her face. She glanced around from their sidewalk cafe table.
“What’s the matter?” asked Johnny Vegas.
“I don’t know.” She turned and looked the other way. “Just this strange paranormal feeling.”
“What’s it like?”
“An unusual pulling sensation,” said the woman. “And I’m not one to believe in the supernatural, except I’ve never felt anything stronger…”
Later That Evening
An eight-seater prop jet landed on a narrow dirt runway. Dense coconut palms. A small island with an inactive volcano.
Stairs flipped down from the side of the plane. A golf cart broke through palms on the edge of the clearing and gave the passengers a lift into town.
The driver smiled with a gold tooth. “Where to, senor?”
“Bodega,” said one of Oxnart’s men in a tropical shirt.
“Which one?”
The agent looked up. Blinking lights as another plane approached for landing. “Start with the closest… And step on it!”
The golf cart rolled back into the jungle.
The same scene repeated across the Caribbean Basin. Clandestine white Lears landing on dubious runways that rarely saw anything bigger than tourist puddle jumpers and smugglers’ Cessnas. Then golf carts and antique jeeps appeared from the jungle, and more racing around the islands.
Two of Lugar’s men entered a tiny sundries store on Costa Gorda. Cages of chickens, banana chips with Spanish labels. Guava paste. Santeria candles. Cans of Coke for five dollars. The owner was a short, trim older gentleman in a lightweight yellow shirt and plaid shorts. Thin hair on top covering a port-wine birthmark shaped like a voting district. He parted rows of hanging beads from the back room and stepped up behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
The agents looked back and forth. Solemn mouths. “Souvenirs.”
“Souvenirs?”
“Whatever you got.”
Vague bewilderment from the owner. “We don’t carry souvenirs.”
One of the agents leaned over the counter and fiddled with a faded cardboard display that held two disposable lighters and twenty empty slots. In a low voice: “We understand you received a shipment from Miami.” He pulled out a manifest and winked like they had a long-standing relationship.
“Oh, that. ” The owner chuckled. “Completely ridiculous. We’re shipping it all back.”
“Is it still here?”
“But it’s taped up.”
“We’ll pay for the tape.”
“Suit yourself.” Back through bead strands.
He reappeared with a large, sturdy box and sliced open flaps. The agents dug through ashtrays, postcards, dashboard hula dancers, hourglass egg timers encased in Lucite, crucifixes made of seashells. The agents packed everything back up.
The owner laughed again. “Told you it was ridiculous.”
“We’ll take it all.”
“You’re kidding.”
A pair of hundred-dollar bills said they weren’t.
The owner folded the money and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Nice doing business.”
The first agent leaned forward again, holding another hundred out straight between his index and middle fingers. “If anyone asks, we were never here. And you never saw any souvenirs.”
The owner pocketed the tip. “Who’s going to ask?”
The men took their box and left without answering. The owner smiled to himself and shook his head, straightening the cardboard display on the counter.
Two more gringos came through the doorway and glanced around. “Have any souvenirs?…”
Part III
Chapter Twenty-Four
Miami Beach
Ocean Drive.
Changing of the guard. Nightlife. The sidewalk smelled like sex.
Lunch fare turned to fashionably late dinner. The jet set sniffed wine corks at outdoor tables facing the Atlantic. Haute cuisine. Micro-portions of pan-seared albacore, showcased with decorative, Spirograph swirls of lemon and raspberry sauce reaching the edge of the china, creating the illusion of a meal.
Someone had a more satisfying amount of eggs Benedict at the News Cafe. Cameras flashed. People still taking photos of the mansion steps where Gianni Versace was gunned down by Andrew Cunanan.
Johnny Vegas banged his forehead on a restaurant table as the Most Laid Guy in Miami left arm in arm with an Above-Average Model. They strolled one street over to Washington Avenue.
Club row.
