Serge watched her other hand move to her own lap. He gulped with diminishing eyesight.
“Serge, let’s do it right now, right here! I’ve never been so ready! Nothing could turn off my-”
A restroom door crashed open. Three men ran screaming back into the lounge.
“Serge!..”
“Help us!..”
“We’re in trouble!..”
Serge’s head slumped to his chest. Eyesight returned.
“Serge!” yelled Coleman. “You have to do something!”
Serge closed his eyes. “Go away.”
Felicia grabbed Serge by the arm. “Look at all the fucking blood!”
“What?” His head perked up. “Holy shit, all three of you are covered in it! Where’s it all coming from?”
“Mainly Escobar,” said Savage.
“Where’s he hurt?”
Savage and Coleman pointed at Escobar’s left hand, wrapped in a giant toilet-paper ball like a red boxing glove.
“What the heck happened to his hand?” said Serge.
“He cut his finger off,” said Coleman.
“Call 911!” Felicia shouted to the bartender.
Houselights came on.
“How’d he cut his finger off?” said Serge.
All three went back to crying and stomping their feet.
Felicia jumped up and applied pressure to Escobar’s hand. She looked back at Serge. “They’re ripped on blow.”
“For openers,” said Serge. He grabbed Escobar by the shoulders. “The doctor is on the case. This can be fixed with microsurgery. Where’s your finger?”
“Got flushed down the toilet,” said Escobar. “You really believe they can fix it?”
Serge closed his eyes tight again. “Why did you flush your finger down the toilet?”
“Wasn’t on purpose,” said Escobar.
“Yeah,” said Coleman. “We were dumping all the coke to get rid of the evidence because of the problem with his finger, and it just fell in.”
“But Coleman really tried to save it,” said Savage. “His arm even got stuck.”
“That’s why there’s so much blood,” said Escobar. “We had to stop and get Coleman’s arm out of the toilet first, and couldn’t attend to the other wounds.”
“Other wounds?” said Serge.
Savage displayed his left hand. “Me and Coleman cut ourselves on the broken mirror. That’s why Scooter lost his concentration and cut his finger off.”
“Back up,” said Serge. “How did the mirror break?”
“I leaned against the sink,” said Coleman.
“How did you break the mirror leaning on the sink?”
“The mirror was lying across it,” said Escobar.
“Why was the mirror on the sink?”
“There was no other place to put it,” said Coleman.
Ambulance sirens. A burst through the club’s secret door with a stretcher. “Who’s hurt?”
Serge pointed in different directions. “Those two are just scraped. The short one lost a finger.”
“Where is it?” asked an EMT.
“On the way to Biscayne Bay.”
They hoisted him onto the gurney. The lounge’s door flew open again.
Ambulance sirens faded into the breezy night.
Felicia looked at Serge with regret. “Rain check?”
Serge managed his best smile under the circumstances. “I’ll look forward to it.”
She headed toward the door. “I need to check a few things out. Let’s meet again tomorrow and put my plan in motion.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Edge of the Everglades.
Isolated. Buzzing insects. Melting heat.
A cloud of chalky dust kicked up in the distance and drifted west behind an orange-and-green Plymouth.
The gravel road swung south. A lone metal building appeared.
“That’s the warehouse,” said Scooter.
Felicia gestured toward a smaller dirt road. “Go around back.”
Serge pulled up tight along the rear of the structure and parked beneath a ventilation fan frozen with rust. “You sure this is the place?”
Felicia grabbed a crowbar and opened her door. “We’ll soon find out.”
They walked around the front to a gravel lot. Coleman took a slug of Southern Comfort and passed it to his new buddies. Serge picked up a charred hubcap. “This used to be a nice car…”
“… And here’s one of the bumpers,” said Coleman.
“And a blast crater,” said Savage.
“Scooter,” said Felicia.
“What about him?” said Serge.
Felicia approached the warehouse entrance. “He blew it up.”
“Scooter blew up a Ferrari?”
“It was an accident,” said Scooter. “The thing just fired.”
Felicia jammed the iron bar in a latch and popped off the padlock.
“Coleman,” said Serge. “Stand lookout by the car. Just knock on the metal wall three times if you see anyone.”
They slid open a door on screeching tracks. Shafts of sunlight hit the floor.
Serge stopped in the middle of the empty building and looked around. “You probably didn’t know this about me, but I have a thing for women with crowbars. Actually not a thing. Crowbars just seem to come into play.”
Felicia wasn’t listening. She squatted down near the back.
“What is it?” asked Serge.
She stood and rubbed something between her fingers. Tiny pieces fluttered to the floor. “Sawdust.”
“I’m guessing they weren’t making cabinets.”
“That’s the spot,” said Scooter. “Where they were checking the crates. I told you.”
Felicia reached down again and picked up a scrap of plastic. “Packing shims from an RPG.”
“The one that malfunctioned,” said Scooter.
Felicia turned slowly and nodded. “Evangelista’s place.”
“Victor Evangelista?” said Serge.
“Ostensibly a respected businessman, highly connected politically. Rumors have been rampant for years, but nothing proven. And a lot of people who were doing the talking aren’t able to anymore.”
“I know his backstory,” said Serge.
“Then you know he’s arguably one of the biggest gunrunners in the hemisphere,” said Felicia. “According to the rumors, Victor’s been playing all sides for years. The generals, CIA, even the rebels.”
“That’s a short life expectancy.”
“Normally,” said Felicia. “Except everyone wants him to play all sides.”
