The scene didn’t start until midnight…
12:01 A.M.
Every block, velvet ropes held back crowds pleading with bulky men in black shirts. Wires running from their collars to earplugs. Staring over the crowd’s heads with stone expressions. From time to time, one of the security men pointed into the pulsing mob. The rope opened. A gleeful group ran inside. The rope closed. Ugly people stood for hours and went home.
Felicia and Serge strolled north on the sidewalk. She radiated the kind of visceral aura that meant never having to wait behind velvet cords. Serge was debonair, with enough poised carriage to ride her coattails. Not so with the trio trailing behind.
Coleman, Escobar, and Savage already contained a half-dozen drinks each, stumbling and weaving through waiting crowds.
“Hey, watch it, asshole!”
Serge turned to Felicia. “Sorry about that. They’re a little rough on the edges but generally harmless.”
“Forget it,” she said. “I know men. Much worse. Those guys are lovable in their own way.”
Serge looked back as the threesome divvied up pills. “They do seem to be hitting it off.”
“Common interests.”
The next club didn’t have ropes to keep people out, so nobody wanted to get in.
Excitement built. Some kind of music video shoot in the street with ostriches, backup singers painted silver, and a giant, inflatable iPad.
Police cars with flashing lights penned in a crashed Porsche.
Another block, another film crew. A TV ad for rum that would only be seen in Uruguay.
Felicia and the gang skirted another hopping crowd behind a barrier. Limos pulled up. The under-nourished climbed out. Velvet rope unhooked. Air kisses. In they went.
“Who wants to exist like that?” said Serge. He turned around again. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
“Where’d those idiots go?”
“I don’t see them anywhere.”
Serge sniffed the night air. “Follow the marijuana.”
They arrived at a garbage-filled alley between buildings.
“What the hell are you guys doing in there?”
“Oh, hey Serge.” Coleman took a big hit. “Just burning a quick one with my new friends. I didn’t know spies did weed.”
“Hurry up. You’re keeping Felicia waiting.”
“Almost done.” Coleman rapidly toked a roach.
Then, yelling from deeper into the alley. A man in a ripped shirt ran past them onto the street.
“What’s that about?” asked Coleman.
“Probably a mugging,” said Serge.
Back up the alley, six people in red berets. Three clowns restrained the assailant, and three mimes silently pretended to punch him.
The guys rejoined Felicia. “Where is this place?” asked Serge.
“Next block.” Felicia handed him a business card.
Serge stared at it, then flipped to the blank back side. “It just says, ‘SPY.’ No address or phone number.”
“If you don’t know, you’re not supposed to come.”
They crossed the street and stood in front of a boarded-up building.
“Looks closed,” said Savage.
“Looks abandoned,” said Serge.
“That’s on purpose.” Felicia walked around the corner. “Follow me.”
They headed up a dark side street, then made a left down an even darker alley. Just past the third trash bin, Felicia approached an anonymous steel delivery door.
Four hard, evenly spaced knocks.
A metal slit opened. Two eyes.
“Hey Felicia.” The slit closed. A voice inside. “It’s okay. It’s Felicia.” The slit opened. “Long time… Who are those other guys?”
“They’re with me.”
“That’s good enough.”
The door opened.
“Wow,” said Coleman. “What a cool club!”
Eyes adjusted in dim light that only came from the glowing bars and cocktail tables, fitted underneath with special diodes.
A waiter arrived.
Drinks.
“Serge,” said Coleman, liberally splashing whiskey on his shirt like cologne. “Everyone who works in here is wearing an eye patch. Except that old bald guy sitting up in the DJ stand with a cat in his lap.”
“It’s SPY,” said Felicia.
“It rocks,” said Serge. “Like the lair of some larger-than-life Bond villain who holds the fate of the world for ransom. I always wonder how they can hollow out a volcano with nobody noticing, not to mention the four hundred lab workers in white smocks and clipboards, monitoring power levels on the giant laser used to shoot down satellites. How do they get hired? Where do they sleep and eat? I’ve never seen a cafeteria in the volcanoes. That would make it more realistic.”
“Please,” said Felicia. “We have important business.”
“Right, business.” He made a serious face. “You said you had an idea what’s going down.”
She leaned forward and motioned everyone else to join her. “About two weeks ago, I met with this reporter. He had a story about illegal arms shipments. But since his newspaper had a reputation for sensationalism, I thought it was just a wild tale.”
“It wasn’t?”
Felicia shook her head. “On a lark, I did some digging and found irregular bank records. So I met him again.”
“What happened?” asked Serge.
“I gave him the records, and we were scheduled to meet a second time later that night when he would slip me some kind of geology report.”
“Geology?” said Serge. “How does that figure?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did his report say?”
“Never got it.”
“You were stood up?” said Serge.
“The permanent stand-up.” Felicia knocked back a shot of tequila without making a face.
The guys were impressed.
She licked salt off the back of her hand. “I went down to the river, and this so-called contact of his was supposed to take me to him, but I saw blood dripping from the bumper first.”
“That meant you were next.”
“Those karate classes paid off.” Felicia waved for the waiter.
Serge sipped his bottle of water. “So who was this guy?”
“Blond crew cut, never seen him before.” Another shot of tequila arrived. “But I think I’ve heard of him. Freelancer who does contract work for the highest bidder. And not cheap.”
“Whatever that reporter knew, someone wanted it to stay with him.”
“And I think it leads back to the generals. They’ve never liked Guzman, and all they need is a push.”
“Who’s doing the pushing?” asked Serge.
“That’s what I need to find out.” She killed the second shot. “Only thing I know is it has something to do with
