launchers.”
Vic turned and shielded himself from the wind as another plane landed. “Thanks for caring about my car.”
“This ain’t a joke! We got budget hearings Monday. And this is just the sort of thing that could expose everything.”
“You worry too much.”
“That’s my job! A few more shipments and we’re in the clear.”
Twin propellers jerked to a stop. “Another just landed.”
“No more screwups,” said the phone. “Have one of the boys take Scooter to get a milk shake or something.”
“Speaking of which, what happened to that reporter who was poking around our offshore accounts.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The one who went missing after getting drunk in Costa Gorda.”
“Accidents happen.”
“You’re the one who’s so worried about drawing heat,” said Vic. “Holy God, taking out a reporter-”
“Not on the phone! How many times do I have to tell you? No more phone calls!”
“You’re the one who called me.”
Click.
The Next Day
Downtown Miami.
Two pedestrians reached the corner of Flagler and turned left toward the basketball arena. “There’s Bayside Market,” said Serge. “They have a picture of Shaq next to a powerboat that takes tourists on runs past the Scarface mansion.”
“What’s that UFO-shaped building by the marina?”
“The Hard Rock Cafe.”
“Didn’t it have a giant guitar on the roof?”
“Hurricane blew it off and sank a yacht.”
Across the boulevard: bright sun and a gusting breeze off Biscayne Bay. Colorful flags snapped atop rows of just-planted aluminum poles. An army of landscapers manicured hedges, drove lawn mowers, and rode skyward in hydraulic cherry-picker baskets to snip away any palm frond with the least tinge of brown. Behind them, others in yellow hard hats erected scaffolds around the amphitheater for lighting, sound, and news cameras.
In the middle, an eternal flame.
TV correspondents loved it as a backdrop.
“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from downtown Miami, where workers are putting the final touches on the landmark Bayfront Park in preparation for this weekend’s Summit of the Americas, which promises to be a cultural high point…”
A passerby jumped up and down behind her. “Wooo! Dolphins number one!..”
Serge and Coleman walked in front of the television crew. They climbed in an orange-and-green ’68 Plymouth Road Runner and drove down Biscayne Boulevard. All around them, factory-fresh BMWs and Lincolns with the a/c full blast, heading for high-rise hotels. On the other side of the median, more luxury sedans sped toward Miami International, guided by commercial jets flying down from the north and private Lears soaring up from South America.
At the airport’s international arrivals wing, the customs line was unusually stacked up and snaked back through the concourse with random curves as people saw fit. No waiting in a separate VIP line, where visiting dignitaries went unchecked thanks to diplomatic status. They flowed through the terminal circled by entourage knots radiating out in strict pecking order: immediate family, cabinet members, campaign donors, political strategists, personal assistants, distant family-passing newsstands, shoe shines, and airport bars with TVs set to local news.
“… On a lighter note, Tuesday’s mystery has been solved and no charges will be pressed against three Honduran fishermen who caught a wayward shark in the Miami River and carried it through downtown in a futile attempt to sell it at local restaurants. Witnesses reported the trio taking the shark aboard the Metro Mover for a loop around the city before finally getting off the monorail near the Museum of Art and throwing the fish in the street…”
Outside, along the pickup curb, a waiting row of limos with small flags on the hoods.
Another Latin entourage reached the curb near sunset. Security agents went first, making a visual sweep in mirror sunglasses, then urgently waving the rest forward.
The president-for-life of a country the size of Connecticut approached one of the limos. A bodyguard opened the back door.
An explosion.
The security detail threw the president to the sidewalk and piled on top. They peeked up from pavement level. Everyone else nonchalantly tending luggage and hailing cabs.
Agents stood up.
“What just happened?” asked the president.
A skycap looked in the distance at a black column of smoke. “Probably shooting Burn Notice.”
The president’s suit was brushed off. He climbed in the limo and headed for the Dolphin Expressway.
At the rear of the pickup line, an orange-and-green Road Runner sat at the curb, next to a row of newspaper boxes with large headlines:
CARJACKER FREEZES TO DEATH IN MIAMI COLORFUL CAPES NEW RAGE ON SOUTH BEACH HUMAN SPERM FOUND IN BULL SEMEN TANK ETHICAL DEBATE: SHOULD HERO-VIGILANTE BE CLONED?
In the street, five lines of exiting airline traffic merged with designed chaos. Brake lights. Hand gestures. Horns honked and echoed off the terminal. A police whistle blew. Serge pulled away from the curb…
Night came quickly. Long rows of headlights at the tollbooths near the former site of the Orange Bowl. A limo hit a blinker for the cash lane.
It was one of those twin skies. Light blue behind, where the sun had just gone down over the Gulf of Mexico. Ahead: impenetrably black toward the Atlantic.
Serge handed change to one of the collectors and spun rubber.
Coleman bent down and fired a fattie. He blew a cloud out the window. “What are we doing again now?”
“Fighting crime.”
“I thought you were spying.”
“Coleman, there are many things that naturally go together and you can do at the same time, like receiving oral sex and organizing postcards.”
Coleman stared out the window. “We’re just driving in circles around the airport again.”
“You are correct, fact-boy.”
“But we did it the other night. Remember nabbing the carjacker and saving that old couple? Problem solved.”
“Coleman, there isn’t just one guy behind it all. Think of the ground he’d have to cover in one night.”
“Like Bad Santa.”
“We’re fighting a pandemic,” said Serge. “Out-of-towners don’t realize the dicey area surrounding the airport.”
Coleman took another hit. “I didn’t think the neighborhood was that bad.”
“Not the neighborhood specifically. But there’s a massive predatory element that lurks in the shadows, looking for any car that’s not local, especially rentals.”
“Why?”
“The reasons are like the sand on the beach. But to name a few: Criminals know most tourists can’t afford the hassle and cost of returning to testify, especially since it’s an international city and many are from overseas. Two: Visitors get lost faster than our Silver Alert seniors wandering from retirement homes. Three: They don’t have the Miami Survival Skill Set.”
