Tsar

for a 600-horsepower engine.

“What book are you reading?” Stoke shouted.

“Bright Orange for the Shroud,” he said, holding it up.

“Again? We already read that.”

Stoke and Eddie were the founding members of a two-man book club, the John D. MacDonald Men’s Reading Society. They confined themselves to the twenty-one greatest works of literature ever written, namely the Travis McGee novels by the master himself. Sometime ago, they’d even driven the GTO up to Lauderdale on a kind of pilgrimage. They’d had lunch at Pier 66 and then visited the holy shrine, slip F-18 at Bahia Mar, home to McGee’s houseboat, the Busted Flush.

Stoke backed out of his spot and stopped opposite Fast Eddie’s cart. “We read Bright Orange last week, Eddie. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, I’m reading it again. I like it.”

“I’m already halfway through Darker Than Amber,” Stoke said, putting the Hurst four-speed shifter into neutral and blipping the throttle, giving Eddie a blast of pure mechanical adrenaline. “You better catch up.”

“Don’t you worry about me, pal,” Eddie said, face already buried back in the book with a babe in a black bikini on the cover. “I happen to be an Evelyn Wood graduate.”

Stoke was about to pop the clutch and burn a little rubber when something occurred to him. He hit the brakes.

“Hey, listen up a second, Eddie. I just thought of something. Serious.”

Eddie put the book down and said, “Now what?”

“Might want to keep your eyes open tonight. I got a bunch of weird hang-ups on my machine today. Heavy breather, thinks I’m a chick maybe, I dunno. I’m listed in the book as S. Jones.”

“A stalker? Stalking you? Poor bastard.”

“All I’m saying is, you see anybody doesn’t look right poking around tonight, don’t hesitate to call your PD buddy at Miami Dade, okay? Seriously. Anybody come asking for me, call my cell.”

“Those Russians that blew up half of Coconut Grove the other night? Something to do with that, maybe, you think?”

“Maybe.”

Eddie knew Stoke’s company, Tactics, was involved in some very weird government stuff, he just didn’t know what or how weird.

“I’ll hold down the fort. Don’t worry about me,” Eddie said, going back to his book as Stoke pulled out of the garage, “Give my regards to high society.”

Stoke laughed and accelerated down the curving palm-lined drive. He’d head over to the Hibiscus Apartments on Clematis and pick up Sharkey. Then he and Luis would blast over the causeway to South Beach. Fancha had gotten him a reserved table right down front, but he was pretty sure there’d be a howling mob outside the velvet rope. After all, tonight, Elmo’s and his baby were the two hottest tickets in the hottest town in the hottest hemisphere on the planet.

WALTZING INTO CLUB El Morocco, already fashionably shortened by the locals to “Elmo’s,” Stoke felt as if some time machine had whisked him back to Manhattan in the thirties. Everyone in South Beach seemed time- warped tonight. You had surfer dudes in top hats and tails and glam queens in old black-and-white-movie-star dresses; but it was the decor that knocked Stoke out. Descending the wide marble staircase with his pal Sharkey in tow, he half expected the smiling ghost of Clark Gable or Jimmy Cagney to pass them on their way up.

Below them, the curving walls of the oval room were blue and white zebra-striped. There were life-size snow- white palm trees all around the room, the fringed white fronds moving idly in the air-conditioned breezes. At the far end of the main lounge, he could see the large bandstand. There were about fifteen cocktail tables around a blue- mirrored dance floor, dancers circulating in the semidarkness. From below came the smell of cigarettes and the sound of clinking glasses. Against the bar, a group of celebs was being photographed, flashes going off every other second.

A fifteen-piece swing band, dressed in white tie and tails, was in full swing on the bandstand. There were blue and white zebra-striped banquettes around the room, already full of rich folks who’d come early or somehow gotten seated at the most expensive tables. One small round table remained, just below the bandstand, and it looked empty.

“C’mon, Shark,” Stoke said. “Our table awaits.”

They made their way downstairs and through the crowded room, Stoke running interference for the little Cuban guy.

“Great table,” Sharkey said, pulling out his chair, looking around at the sparkling crowd, hands touching jeweled hands over white tables dotted here and there with famous faces. “Let’s order us a bottle of pink champagne, boss.”

“Do it,” Stoke said. “Just get me a Diet Coke.”

The waiter brought their drinks just as an announcer in a white-sequined tuxedo came out and introduced- ladies and gentlemen, one word was all it took to get the crowd’s attention-Fancha!

The now empty stage went dark except for a single spot creating a white circle of wavering light floating across the sequined curtains. The piano tinkled a few notes, and a lovely disembodied voice floated out over the room. Everybody seated under the drooping white palms suddenly went dead quiet.

Fancha stepped through the curtain and into the light to a sudden burst of loud applause. Fancha, wearing a midnight-blue gown, sang “Maria Lisboa.” It was the slowest, saddest, most beautiful song Stoke had ever heard her sing, and when she was finished and stood quietly with her head bowed, letting the adulation wash over her, he got to his feet, putting his hands together for his woman, and he didn’t even see that everyone else was on his or her feet, too, applauding his baby in a standing O.

A few minutes later, during a lull in the show, a waiter bent and whispered into Stoke’s ear, something about two gentlemen who wanted him to join their table for a cocktail.

“What?” Stoke said, looking at the white card on the silver tray. It had a big black M on it. Somebody named Putov, an executive producer, it said.

“Mr. Putov,” the waiter said, indicating the banquette with his eyes. “Miramar Pictures, Hollywood. You are Mr. Levy, no? Suncoast Artist Management?”

“Is that who they said? Sheldon Levy?” Stoke smiled at Luis. His cover was holding.

“Yes, sir, they said, ‘Please take this to Mr. Levy at the front table.’”

Stoke looked across at the banquette, smiled at the two guys. “Ever heard of Miramar Pictures?” he asked Shark out of the corner of his mouth.

Luis had some kind of weird Hollywood fixation, always reading movie magazines, Variety, and Billboard, left them lying around the office, drove Stoke crazy. Come in Stoke’s office, asking him if he knew how much Spider-Man 4 had grossed over the weekend, Stoke sitting there reading about his beloved Jets going into the tank halfway through the season, have to throw Shark’s skinny ass out of his office and close the door.

Shark said, “You kidding me? Miramar? They’re huge, man. Ever hear of Julia Roberts? Ever hear of Angelina Jolie? Ever heard of Penelope Cruz? Salma Hayek? Halle-”

“Yeah, yeah. Halle Berry I have heard of, believe me. What the hell these show- business types want with us?’

“Not us, boss. Gotta be Fancha, man. Let me paint you a picture, baby. They know you two are an item, maybe, got to be what it is. They think you’re her manager or something. They want an introduction to the next Beyonce, baby, that’s all they want, using us to get to her.”

Stoke hadn’t seen the wiry little guy so excited since he’d been in a swimming race with a giant mako down in the Dry Tortugas a couple of years ago.

“What do you think, Shark? Should we go over there?”

“Ah, hell, no. What does Fancha need with the two biggest producers in Hollywood, boss?”

“You’re right. Let’s go see what they have to say.”

Five minutes later, they were sitting with Mr. Grigori Putov, who didn’t seem to speak much English, and the