'You guys just left it there?'
'Yep.'
'Why?'
'Why do you think?'
'Because the b-i-m-b-o knows about all that hidden jack and hopes, no, believes you couldn't possibly find it. So she's abso-fuckin-lutely positively going nuts, got to come back to that suite and crack that safe no matter how incredibly dangerous such a stupid idea is or may well be.'
'Incredibly stupid move on her part.'
'But she'll do it.'
'She'll do it.'
'Hotel in on this? If she tries to check in?'
'No. We'd have to keep someone on the front desk all the time. Better just let them be natural, somebody shows up and wants to spend ten grand a night on a room.'
'You ever hand somebody who works in a hotel a fifty and ask for a better room? They take it?'
'Good point, Harry. We get the hotel manager in on this, use your CIA creds.'
'Exactly. Forty-eight hours. She'll show up. Guaranteed.'
'You're good, Harry. Turn pro someday, keep your shit together. Ah, shit, Pennington, don't throw the damn ball, run it, you dickhead, run left, you're wide open, man!'
'Stoke?'
'What?'
'Our new stakeout, if I have this straight, is not a shitty Suburban or a rusted-out Ford Taurus with chicken bones under the seats.'
'No. Not.'
'It is a palatial penthouse suite at the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach.'
'It is, Harry. Our suite is right across the hall from Bashi's former residence. Only two suites on the top floor. We'll get management to put a security camera on Bashi's front door. We'll be able to monitor it twenty-four seven. And give the manager instructions to have the front desk call our room immediately should anybody try to check in or gain access.'
'This could be good, Stoke. A stakeout in a penthouse at the Fontainebleau? I like it.'
'I thought you might. An upgrade from cold coffee and stale Krispy Kremes in a piece of crap SUV anyway.'
'You been inside our rooms?'
'Yep.'
'Ocean view?'
'Pool.'
'Still. We'll have government-issue high-powered optics. Keep up to date with the latest in ladies' swimwear fashion.'
'Bet on it.'
'And room service. Adult movies twenty-four hours a day.'
'Uh-huh.'
'I like this.'
'I knew you would, Harry.'
'When do we check in, Stoke? I can hardly wait. We can order up a pitcher of extra dry martinis and an extra cheese pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and onions. Curl up under the covers and watch Brokeback Mountain together if you want.'
Harry Brock, ladies and gentlemen, Stoke thought to himself. What a card.
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, STOKE and Harry had pretty much exhausted the room service menu, the minibar popcorn and candy and scotch, the soft porn movies on the adult channel, the telescopic chicks by the pool, the Weather Channel, not to mention their patience with CNN, MSNBC, and each other.
It was midnight and finally Stoke's turn to go catch some Zs. Stoke had put them on a watch system. Four watches, six hours on the security monitor, six blissful hours in the rack while the other guy sat out in the living room and popped reds to stay awake looking at a crappy black-and-white movie about a goddamn hotel door for six entire hours without blinking.
Harry Brock was standing in the doorway in his T-shirt and boxers, drinking a mug of steaming coffee while wolfing down a really disgusting-looking slice of cold pizza.
'Morning,' Brock said groggily, not too happy about it either.
'Yep. Bedtime for Bonzo, Harry,' Stoke yawned, getting up out of the armchair they'd stationed in front of the security monitor and stretching his aching back. Getting old, Stoke. Aches and pains. He was beginning to understand why they said old age wasn't for sissies. Time to start hitting Gold's Gym over at the beach three or four times a week, work out on the speed bag, get his rhythm back, put in some serious ring time.
'Yeah? Who's Bonzo?'
'It's a goddamn movie, Harry. Ronald Reagan and some chimp named Bonzo. Jesus. Don't you know anything?'
'What's on the TV today? Anything good?'
'Yeah. This movie called The Door. Really, really long and nothing ever happens.'
'Sounds good. Who's in it?'
'Nobody. But it's a laugh riot. You will laugh your damn ass off, Harry, I swear to God. Grab a seat while it's still warm.'
'Funny.'
'G'night, Harry, don't forget your little red pills.'
'Fuck me,' Harry said disconsolately. The graveyard shift, 12:00 midnight to 6:00 a.m., was the most grueling of all.
THIRTY-ONE
HARRY PLOPPED DOWN IN THE CHAIR, settled in, and stared up at the monitor with a look of abject misery. He had not the faintest idea why he had ever thought this stakeout was going to be a wild and crazy few days in the lap of luxury on the beach. It sucked. Big time.
Stoke padded off to his bedroom, one of four down a long hallway, hit the pillow on his fabulous king-size bed, and was instantly sound asleep. Two seconds later his bedside phone rang. He looked at the fuzzy green numbers on the digital clock. Somehow, it was almost six o'clock in the morning.
'Yeah?' he said.
'Stoke, it's me. Sharkey.'
'Shark, tell me how you got this number.'
'I called Fancha. She gave it to me.'
'I don't believe you.'
'I tole her, man, this is an emergency. She gave it to me.'
'What kind of emergency?'
'Life and death. I gotta come out of the joint, man. Right now. I'm dead serious.'
'Tell me.'
'I don't know where to begin is the problem. See, there's this crazy con on my cell block in the Glades. Seminole Indian guy. Calls himself Chief Johnny Two Guns. Former championship prizefighter who murdered his own mother with a fucking tourist-shop tomahawk he bought in Alligator Alley. Know what he tells me yesterday?'
'No.'
'He says 'Got some good news and bad news for you, Nurse Shark-boy. Nurse shark, get it? Funny, huh? The good news is, he says, I'm getting married tomorrow. Bad news is you the squaw.'
Stoke said, 'That's bad.'
