Pineapple grenade

Prologue

A prosthetic leg with a Willie Nelson bumper sticker washed ashore on the beach, which meant it was Florida.

Then it got weird.

Homicide detectives would soon be stumped by the discovery of the so-called Hollow Man. Empty torso with no external wounds, like all his organs had been magically scooped out. Little progress was made in the case until a TV station began calling him the Jack-O’-Lantern Man, which immediately doubled the number of nicknames.

But right now, the victim had yet to be found. In fact, he was still breathing.

A finger tapped a chin. “Should I kill the hostage back at our motel room?”

Coleman surveyed topless sunbathers and swigged a secret flask. “You never asked that question before.”

“I know.” Serge looked at his sneakers. “But this would make four guys in the last two months. I wouldn’t want to be accused of over-reacting.”

“I did notice you’ve been wasting a lot more dudes lately.”

“I blame my environment.” Serge picked up a piece of litter. “Oil spills in the Gulf, foreclosed homes in Cape Coral, voting machines held together with paper clips, rising crime, falling landmarks, that structured-settlement asshole on TV yelling, ‘It’s my money and I want it now!’ ”

“Who can take it?” said Coleman.

“I live for Florida.” Serge stuck the piece of trash in his pocket. “And she’s been disintegrating for decades. I’ve tried sounding the alarm.”

“Remember the time you actually used a real alarm?” said Coleman. “That handheld siren and a helmet with a revolving red light on top. Everyone scattered and screamed when you ran through.”

“They’ve become blind to the darkening spiral.”

“But it was a baby shower in a restaurant.”

“Because I care about future generations,” said Serge. “If we don’t act fast, they’ll never know the majesty of this sacred place. But recently, the decline has accelerated far beyond anything I imagined possible, and the Florida of my youth may be gone in my own lifetime. I won’t survive-it’s like oxygen to me.”

“Then what will happen?”

“I could become unstable. So to keep pace with the deterioration, I’m forced to kill more of the fuck-heads who blight my fine state.” He turned and looked at Coleman. “Is that selfish?”

“I say the guy back in our room has it coming.”

Serge nodded. “And I respect your opinion because you smoke marijuana. You’re chemically biased against violence and job applications.”

“I’m only against taking part. But I still like to watch.”

“Which? Murder or people working?”

“Both.” Coleman picked up a prosthetic leg and tucked it under his arm. They continued walking along the surf.

“We need to get back to the motel and prep the patient,” said Serge. “I’ll call the county agricultural department to learn who handles bull semen.”

“What’s jism have to do with croaking him?”

“Ever make a jack-o’-lantern?”

The Day Before… 12 DEC-0800-MIAMI SECTOR URGENT Echo: Intercept unsuccessful. Sanction proceeding. Repeat. Sanction proceeding. Target: Unknown Asset: Unknown Protocol: Omega Germination: Data Corrupted ALL SECTIONS: TOP PRIORITY

Rush hour.

A river of headlights inched through the humid dusk along the Palmetto Expressway. An inbound Continental jet from Houston cleared the highway and touched down at Miami International. Then a United flight from Oklahoma City.

Serge snapped a photo out the window of a green-and-orange 1968 Plymouth Road Runner. They took the next exit.

Coleman looked around a dark neighborhood of burglar bars and darting shadows, then back up at the parallel, elevated expressway with a row of reassuring streetlights. “I’d feel a lot safer if we were still on that other road.”

“And that’s exactly why we’re down here.” The needle dipped under thirty as Serge leaned over the steering wheel.

Coleman leaned over his bong. “Why are we down here?”

“Miami’s gotten an unfair reputation just because of all the tourist murders. I blame the media.”

“It’s not right.”

“And ground zero of this herd-thinning epidemic is the ancillary roads around the airport, where roving bands of land pirates cruise for unsuspecting visitors in rental cars who get lost and take the wrong exit. So we took the wrong exit.”

“But we’re only two guys,” said Coleman. “How can we change things?”

“All it takes is one headline.”

Coleman looked down at himself. “Is that why we’re dressed like this?”

Serge floored the gas and cut his lights.

“What are you doing?”

“Here’s our headline.”

On the shoulder of a dim and deserted access road, a retired tool-and-die salesman from Bowling Green stood next to his wife behind their rented Taurus.

At gunpoint.

The carjacker heard something and turned. “What the-?”

A screech of brakes. The assailant went up over the front bumper, then bounced off the windshield and landed at the feet of the shaken couple.

Serge jumped out with his own gun.

The couple’s hands went back up.

“Put your arms down,” said Serge. He grabbed the wrist of the would-be thief for a pulse. “I’m not robbing you. I’m rescuing you.”

The man squinted in the darkness at Serge’s leotard and flowing red cape. Then his chest. “Superman?”

“No, that’s a different S. I’m Serge.”

The woman stared at a passenger climbing out the other side of the Plymouth. “Who’s that?”

Serge glanced over the roof at Coleman, wearing a plain white T-shirt with flames drawn in red Magic Marker. “The Human Torch.”

Coleman waved cheerfully and lit a joint.

Serge dragged the carjacker by the ankles and threw him in the trunk. Then he walked back to the driver’s door. “Shit, I got a run in my tights.” He looked up. “Welcome to Miami! Please tell the media.”

“Tell them what?”

Serge gathered up his cape and put on a helmet with a revolving red light. “Everything’s normal.”

A Plymouth Road Runner raced east on the Palmetto Expressway.

Another overhead thunder of Pratt amp; Whitney jet engines.

Outside the airport, people on cell phones covered free ears. Arriving passengers looked up from the curb as an Aeromexico 747 roared on takeoff.

The airliner quickly gained altitude. It reached the edge of the Everglades and banked over a patchwork of water-filled, limestone quarries.

Between two of the quarries, a dozen men in jumpsuits looked up at the drone from the Cancun-bound flight. Its moonlit contrail disappeared in the clouds. The sound faded to crickets.

Back to work.

It was an old barn of a warehouse. Sunbaked, remote, corrugated aluminum. Used to be an airplane hangar with two huge doors that slid open on rusty tracks. The doors had a single row of windows, long since spray-painted black.

Three white vans sat in the back of the building. Magnetic catering signs suggested they knew what they were doing with wedding cakes. Men unloaded wooden crates under fluorescent lights. Every tenth one went to a table for inspection.

Crowbars, sawdust.

Two large hands pulled out an SKS assault rifle, the cheap Chinese knockoff of the Russian Kalashnikov. The man shouldered the weapon, checking sight lines and placing his ear close as he dry-fired the trigger. Then back in the box. A slight nod. Jumpsuits replaced the lid and hammered flat-head nails.

The man reached for the next crate. He stood six three, with one of those massive stomachs that started just below the neck and involved the chest. It was covered by a custom, five-XL Tommy Bahama tropical shirt, which hung loose at his waist like a tarp covering a vintage Volkswagen. An unseen wrestling-style belt buckle said V ICTOR in sparkling diamonds. Light olive skin, not quite the local Latin, maybe Mediterranean. He was thinking again of quitting the Hair Club.

The warehouse doors creaked open. Headlights. Another van.

A jumpsuit: “Mr. Evangelista, here comes the rest of the shipment.”

Victor set the rifle down and rubbed his palms. “The good stuff.”

This time, all crates went to the table. Everyone gathered round.

Out came a much larger weapon that pressed down on the shoulder of the tropical shirt. A bulbous, pointed projectile perched on the end of the muzzle.

The men finished their count from the crates. Forty-eight factory-fresh RPGs diverted from an army base in the Carolinas.

Victor slapped the side of the last box. “Move it out!”

The only other person in the warehouse not wearing a jumpsuit was a young man wearing gold chains and a single stud earring. He compensated for his uncommonly short stature with tight slacks, wispy mustache, silk nightclub shirts unbuttoned to the navel, and tall hats.

Victor turned toward the young man. “Scooter, are you standing on your tiptoes again?”

“No.” He slowly eased down onto his heels.

“Just don’t touch anything,” said Victor. “It’s like I can’t take my eyes off you.”

He took his eyes off him.

When he looked back: “Scooter! That’s not a toy! Put it down this instant!”

“Shut up, old man.” Scooter rested the weapon on his own shoulder. “I’ve handled these a thousand times.”

“Don’t touch that switch!” Victor lunged. “It’s armed!”

Woooooosh.

Luckily, the rocket-propelled grenade threaded through the slit in the warehouse doors. Unluckily, the gravel parking lot was a target-rich environment.

Boom.

A chassis blew ten feet in the air and crashed back down. Tires sailed like discus.

“You idiot!” Victor snatched the weapon. The front hood of a Ferrari clanged down onto the warehouse roof. “That was my car!”

Scooter nonchalantly strolled away. “My uncle will buy you a new one.”

“You’re damn right,” yelled Victor.

One of the jumpsuits came over. “Shouldn’t we get the hell out of here? That was loud. And a big fireball.”

Evangelista shook his head. “It’s Miami. People don’t even notice anymore.”

The jumpsuit looked toward the departing Scooter. “Why do you let that pussy come along?”

“Politics,” said Victor. “It’s the business we’re in.”

The Next Afternoon

A scorched tropical motel with an empty signpost sat behind the demolished ruins of the Orange Bowl. An old chain-link fence that surrounded the swimming pool had been pushed down in places, but the pool was drained and filled with broken bottles. The office showed hints of a recent altercation that involved shovels and fire. When it rained, the guests subconsciously thought of childhood, but not theirs.

Tourists didn’t stay at the motel, although it was quiet, except when junkies knocked on random doors with a range of requests representing the width of

the human condition. In the swimming pool’s deep end was a ripped-in-half poster of a sailboat crew that said TEAMWORK.

A knock on a door.

Serge answered. “Hello, junkie!”

The man swayed off balance. “Have any yarn? Blue?”

“No, but here are some postcards.”

The door closed.

A minute later:

Knock, knock, knock…

“Another junkie?” asked Coleman.

“Probably the deliveryman.” Serge opened the door and his wallet. “Right on time. Just leave the tank there. And here’s a little extra for your trouble.”

The deliveryman hesitated at the sight of Serge’s cape. Then took the money and left quickly.

“What now?” asked Coleman.

Serge headed out the door. “Welcome our guest.”

A key went into the trunk of a Plymouth Road Runner.

The hood popped.

Blinding sunlight.

Serge waved his gun. “Rise and shine!”

A bruised carjacker shielded his eyes with one hand and raised the other in submission. “Don’t shoot!”

“And ruin all my fun?”

Serge marched him toward the motel.

“I swear I’ll never rob anyone again!”

A poke in the back with the gun barrel. “I know you won’t.”

The captive stopped just inside the motel room. “What’s the metal tank for?”

“Cow jism.” Serge grabbed a mug of cold coffee off the dresser and downed it. “Actually bull jism. Cows are chicks, I think. Who cares? It’s a cryogenic tank, but there’s no bull spooge in there either. So I put in some of my own, because when do you ever really get the chance? I’m just that kind of cat. It’s my new hobby. The tank, not the other. Hobbies are important. And you’re about to become the star in my latest episode of World’s Most Dangerous Hobbies!”

“You’re insane… Ow!” The man grabbed his shoulder. “What the hell?”

Serge pulled back the syringe. “Just a prick for a prick.”

“What was in that?… Whoa…” He grabbed for the bed.

“Better sit down,” said Serge. “It gets on top of you pretty fast.”

Moments later: The hostage lay stretched out across the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Still breathing.

Moments after that:

“Far enough,” said Serge. “Now roll him back the other way.”

“He’s heavy.”

“We need to go slow anyway.” Serge reeled in the hostage by his belt. “The key is to keep him constantly turning like a rotisserie.”

“For how long?”

“A few minutes each time.”

“Time?” Coleman grabbed the man’s sleeve. “How many times?”

“At least twenty.” The captive reached the edge of the bed; Serge rolled him back the other way. “This must be a layered, even application, or we have a serious breach in our guest that’ll ruin my hobby.”

“Which hobby?”

“The human version of building a ship in a bottle.” Serge slipped on thick rubber gloves. He reached in a shopping bag, removing an aluminum cooking tray and a turkey baster.

“What are those for?” asked Coleman.

“Just hand me that gas can by the door and grab his feet.”

Miami International Airport

Assorted travelers scurried along sidewalks and ignored the deep boom of a distant explosion. The fireball rose above the parking decks.

A bonded courier in Miami for the first time looked out the back of a cab. “What on earth was that blast?”

“I didn’t notice,” said the driver.

Others rolled luggage as wind carried the smoke plume toward Hialeah. Families huddled at curbs and studied rental-car maps. The loading zone abuzz in eleven languages. A police officer made a car move by blowing a whistle.

Then more cops on motorcycles. Flashing blue lights. Limos arrived.

News teams from local affiliates already there. TV cameras on tripods.

A woman raised a microphone.

“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from the airport with the latest on the upcoming Summit of the Americas. As you can see behind me, heads of state and top diplomats from across the hemisphere are beginning to arrive at this historic event, which is returning to the Magic City for the first time since thirty-four nations attended its inaugural gathering in 1994…”

The terminal’s automatic doors opened. Air-conditioning and security people rushed out. They made a quick sweep of the street, then hustled a man with a bushy mustache into the back of a stretch.

“… I believe that was the president of Bolivia…”

Another security detail. Another limo. So on.

“… The presidents of Uruguay and Belize…”

Police held off onlookers as the rest of the dignitaries were swept into backseats.

The motorcycle cops sped away, followed by limos. TV crews packed up.

Non-VIP airport hubbub resumed. Luggage and courtesy vans.

Automatic doors opened again.

A pair of dark Ray-Ban sunglasses looked left and right. Picking up surveillance cameras. The man crossed the street for the Flamingo parking garage.

He stopped on the opposite curb and removed his glasses, wiping the right lens while mentally mapping police locations. He put the shades back on.

Another typical afternoon, everyone rushing about in that irrational state of mild alarm from being at an airport, checking watches, rechecking flight times, worried about the length of X-ray lines, herding toddlers and golf clubs. Distracted. Except the stationary man across the street. Minor details tallied behind designer sunglasses. A briefcase with a broken latch, a suitcase with a sticker from Epcot, license plates, levels of suntans, duty-free bags, the brand of cigarettes a Taiwan executive rapidly puffed after a Detroit flight, a chauffeur with the left side of his jacket protruding from a shoulder holster. Whether the shoes of skycaps and other badged employees matched their station in life. Anyone else in Ray-Bans.

He was satisfied.

The man crossed back to the original side of the street and stood at the curb. His shirt was sheer, formfitting, and Italian. The form said athletic. Could be mistaken for a European cyclist or soccer goalie. Three-hundred-dollar loafers with no socks. A stylish crew cut, dyed blond like the bass player for U2. He didn’t waste motion and seemed like one of those people who never laugh, which was correct.

A cell phone vibrated in his pleated pants. He flipped it open. A text message:

“+.”

He closed it and waved for the next taxi.

Biscayne Boulevard

“Know what else pisses me off?” said Serge. “Calling customer care: ‘Please listen carefully as menu items have changed.’ ”

“It’s always that same woman,” said Coleman. “Who the fuck is she?”

“The Tokyo Rose of automated messages,” said Serge. “She wants us to believe they’re hard at work around the clock improving menus.”

“They’re not?”

Serge shook his head. “Since I became aware of the phenomenon, I’ve been calling dozens of menus every few days for over a year to check, even when I’m neither a customer nor need care.”

“And they don’t change?”

“Only the wait time changes. But you’re busy thinking: ‘Holy Jesus! A new menu! And I just got used to the old one-better pay close attention or I won’t receive ultimate pampering.’ And you’re so rattled you miss the real issue of not talking to a live human.”

“That always bites.” Coleman continued up the sidewalk.

“And when you don’t want to talk to a human, some solicitor calls right after I’ve poured milk in my cereal, and I say, ‘Can’t talk now,’ which among their people means keep talking, so I interrupt and say, ‘Serge isn’t here. Cereal’s happening.’ And they ask what’s a convenient time to call back, so I say, ‘I don’t know. The police are still looking for him. Somehow he got the home address of a telemarketer and they found a bloody clawhammer. Where do you live?’ ”

“What else do you hate?” asked Coleman.

“Segues.”

The shark was a man-eater.

Probably a bull, at least ten feet nose to tail.

It had somehow strayed from Biscayne Bay into the mouth of the Miami River, where people weren’t expecting sharks.

They expected sharks even less in the downtown business district, where it now lay on the hot pavement in the middle of Flagler Street.

But it was a busy lunch hour. Office workers in suits walked purposefully along the road. Others in guayaberas sipped espresso at sidewalk sandwich windows. They offhandedly noticed the shark, but it wasn’t bothering them, as it was dead, and it was not their concern.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “There’s a dead shark in the middle of the street.”

“It’s Miami.”

Taxis and sports cars swerved around the fish. Above, commuters looked down from the windows of a Metro Mover pod that slid silently along elevated monorail tracks winding through the downtown skyline and south over the river to the Brickell Financial district. Serge unfolded a scrap of paper and crossed something off a list. He raised a camera sharply upward, snapping photos of a forty-story office building, all glass, glistening in the sun.

Coleman glanced around and sucked a brown paper bag. “You’ve been taking pictures of buildings all morning.”

“Correct.” Serge reached in his backpack and removed an envelope. “Stay here. I won’t be long.”

He ran into the building, then returned.

“What did you just do?” asked Coleman.

“Delivered a message.” Serge checked his address list again and strolled half a block. He raised the camera.

“What’s this building?” asked Coleman.

Click, click, click. “Argentinian consulate. Last one was Germany.”

“Consulate?”

Serge held up his page of notes. “That’s this whole list-sixty consulates within a two-mile radius.” He resumed west. “Outside of Washington, Miami is the diplomatic capital of America. Even the Canadians have a consulate here.”

“The Canadians! Christ!”

“No shit. They scare the hell out of me,” said Serge. “I mean, what on earth are the Canadians doing with a consulate in Miami?” Click, click, click. “Nothing good.”

“But why do you need so many pictures of the same buildings?”

“I don’t need any.” Click, click, click. “These are to provoke a response.”

“Response?”

Click, click, click. “Take enough photos of consulates, and people act fidgety. That’s how I intend to make contact.”

“With who?”

Serge stowed the camera. “What’s the one thing every consulate has?”

“Desks?”

“A spy.” Serge pulled another envelope from his backpack. “And in case my photos don’t work, there’s Plan B.” He ran across the street again and returned.

“Who are you delivering those messages to?” asked Coleman.

“The spy.”

“What’s the message?”

“Just a generic greeting. Brighten up their day.”

“No secrets?”

Serge shook his head. “I’m not out to pass information. Just raise curiosity.”

“What for?”

“To get hired.”

“By the consulate?”

“Or whoever has it under surveillance.”

“You’re losing me again.”

“All consulates are under constant surveillance.” Serge pointed at a black SUV parked up the street. “Looking for defectors, secret agents, keeping track of their own to see who’s career is moving up. If you loiter around enough of these buildings, you’re bound to show up on an internal report. ‘Say, who’s this new guy at ten consulates on Tuesday? That’s seriously connected. Maybe he should work for us.’ ”

“Can I see one of the messages?”

Serge grabbed another envelope from his backpack.

Coleman unfolded the note. “But it’s blank.”

“Exactly.”

“I mean, there’s no message here.”

“Oh, there’s a message all right.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Spies will. You pass a note with regular writing and it goes right in the junk-mail pile.” Serge took the paper back and returned it to the envelope. “But they can’t resist a blank page. It’s like crack to a spy: ‘This must be super important! Get the lab guys right on it!’ ”

“What kind of message are they supposed to find?”

“If they’re remotely competent, they’ll be able to raise the invisible ink.”

“Where’d you get invisible ink?”

“Grocery store.” Serge walk another block. Click, click, click. “Stay here.” He ran across the street again.

“Wait! I want to come.”

Coleman caught up with him in the lobby. “What kind of job are you looking for?”

Serge stared at a wall, reading plastic letters inside a glass case that listed offices by floor. “I’ve always wanted to be a secret agent. From now on, I’m completely dedicating my existence to the art of spycraft. And it fits snugly with my new Master Plan, Mark Five.”

“You never said anything.”

“Just found out. Watched that spy-movie marathon on TBS and kind of fixated.” He tapped the glass case. “Here it is, seventh floor.” They dashed across the lobby.

“So you’re really going to be a spy?” asked Coleman.

“I already am one.”

“But you don’t work for anybody yet.”

“And that’s exactly what they all think.” Serge waited outside an elevator and stared up at lighted numbers. “Where’s the rule that says you can’t just unilaterally declare yourself a spy and snoop around for no reason? That’s the whole key to life: Fuck explaining yourself to people. Plus Miami is the perfect place, absolutely crawling with self-employed, freelance agents in dummy corporations ready to join any government that can’t have direct involvement with an illicit operation. I’ll just act suspicious until the highest bidder comes along.”

The doors opened. They got in. Coleman sucked his paper sack. “But how do you get hired as a spy?”

“By acting like you don’t want to get hired. If you just barge into some office asking for a spy job, they’ll think you’re a double agent with disinformation. Or worse, a conspiracy kook off the street. That’s how the conspiracy works.”

Elevator doors opened on seven.

Ahead, glass doors with gold letters: C ONSULATE OF C OSTA G ORDA.

Serge grabbed a handle and went inside.

Flags and travel brochures and the national crest.

Serge whispered sideways to Coleman, “What you need to do is play hard to get, which makes them want you.”

“How do you do that?”

“Behave inscrutably. Then contact will be made on a park bench by a man in a hat feeding pigeons.”

They entered the consulate. “This next part’s critical,” said Serge. “I better drink lots of coffee.” He walked over to the reception area’s coffee machine and poured a cup.

Coleman drained his paper sack. “Serge, the woman behind the reception desk is staring at us. Not in a nice way.”

“My plan’s working.” He chugged the Styrofoam cup and approached the desk.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Can I help you?”

Serge quickly glanced around, then leaned closer. “The code word is smegma. ”

Channel 7

“This is Cynthia Ricardo reporting live outside the Miami morgue, where police are still baffled by the so-called Hollow Man discovered in a run-down motel behind the former Orange Bowl. Also known as the Jack-O’-Lantern Man, he has since been identified as Juan Vizquel, whose fingerprints implicate him in numerous tourist robberies near the airport. Most puzzling is the cadaver’s empty chest cavity, missing all internal organs, but with no external surgical marks. Meanwhile, authorities are seeking the whereabouts of mysterious vigilantes responsible for the murder. Two surviving witnesses from Bowling Green credit the suspects with saving their lives during an attempted carjacking, and further believe that the pair-clad in superhero costumes-are on a crusade to rid Miami’s streets of crime and legalize marijuana.”

Inside the morgue…

A homicide lieutenant burst through lab doors.

“Got anything yet?”

The medical examiner didn’t look up. “Hold your horses.”

“The chief wants this solved fast,” said the lieutenant. “The press just came up with another nickname.”

The examiner was a gnomelike public servant with a habit of girlish giggles when handling close-up gore. It got under the lieutenant’s last layer of skin, and the examiner explored the possibilities.

“We got another problem,” said the lieutenant, staring curiously at the gray body on a cold metal table. “There’s an information leak somewhere.”

The examiner picked up a sharp instrument. “Not in my department.”

“ Some body’s talking to reporters. Have you seen the headlines?”

The examiner nodded.

“Do you have to giggle?”

The examiner reached for safety glasses. “I thought you’d be happy.” The beginning of an incision at the collarbone.

“Happy?” said the detective. “I’m not feeling the joy.”

The examiner chuckled to himself. “You cleared at least fifteen carjackings, including a fatal with that Dutch tourist.”

“But now we’ve got vigilantes cruising the airport.” The lieutenant picked up an X-ray and held it to the ceiling light. “The chamber of commerce hasn’t stopped calling.”

“People on talk radio seem to like him. Especially the part about the cape.”

“We look ridiculous.”

Slicing continued in classic autopsy Y-pattern. A giggle.

The lieutenant held the X-ray to the light again. “I see I’m talking to the wrong person.”

The examiner set down his instrument and looked up. “What do you want from me?”

“A conclusive ruling.” He extended a palm toward the table. “What’s taking so long? You’re usually done way before this.”

“It’s a complicated case.” The examiner reached toward his desk and opened a file. “Seemed open-and-shut at first. Fractured femur and tibia from when the car hit him, embedded windshield glass in his scalp. Almost positive I’d find internal punctures and hemorrhaging from a rib. Then I saw these…” He held up his own X-rays. “… I thought our machine was broken. See how the entire chest cavity is empty? All organs removed.”

“You’re shitting me,” said the lieutenant. “I thought the papers were just being sensational, like Squid Boy.”

The examiner shook his head. “He’s literally hollow. So then I thought his lacerations from the car were covering surgical entry. You heard those urban legends about a guy waking up in a hotel bathtub full of ice, no kidney and a telephone?”

“Some surgeon did this?”

The examiner shook his head again. “No incisions. And none of the lacerations penetrated the hypodermis. Some mysterious new technique I’ve never seen before, like building a ship in a bottle. That’s why it’s taking so long.” He slapped a cold shoulder. “We can’t hurry into this guy, or I might destroy evidence of the method.”

“You wouldn’t say not to hurry if it was your ass in city hall this morning.” The officer wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “We need to stop all the wild speculation. You should hear the rumors: voodoo, supernatural, UFOs. It’s like the freakin’ X-Files out there.”

“How am I supposed to stop that?”

“Bring it down to earth. Surely there’s some reasonable explanation that’s boring and will get the reporters-and the chief-off my back.”

The examiner grabbed his knife again and finished the Y-cut. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve looked at this from all angles, and a flying saucer is as good as anything I’ve come up with.” A bone saw buzzed to life.

“You’re not making me feel any better.”

“And you’re crowding me.” The saw went back on the tray and the rib spreader came off.

The lieutenant winced. The examiner stuck his head down. “That’s more like it. Clue city.”

“What’d you find?”

The examiner scraped inside with what looked like an ice cream scoop and held the results toward the officer.

“That’s disgusting. Get it out of my face.”

The examiner set it aside. “Extensive internal burns.”

“You mean like he was in a fire?”

The M.E. took another scoop from the abdomen. “There are many kinds of burns besides fire, and no indication here of external heat trauma.”

“This just gets worse and worse.”

“When I make some slides from tissue samples, we’ll know a lot more.” The examiner bent down again. “Now, if you leave me alone, I can work faster.”

“You’ll call?”

“Got you on speed dial.”

The lieutenant put his hat back on and headed out. He stopped in the doorway, neck muscles seized. Behind him, giggling. “A cape.”

Consulate of Costa Gorda

The receptionist glared at Serge.

He produced an envelope and glanced around again. “Give this to your spy.”

“Spy?”

“Every consulate has a spy.”

“But we don’t-”

Serge winked. “They trained you well. And since you hold such a low position, you might even be the spy, like the submarine cook in The Hunt for Red October. If so, open that envelope and read it yourself.” Serge chugged the rest of his coffee, then held the empty cup to his left eyeball. “Some spies have to put things in their butt. I don’t want that job, unless it’s something very, very small. Coleman would do it, but his bowels are unreliable whenever you need to count on them. In the 1965 James Bond movie Thunderball, the skydiving frogmen are supposed to be jumping into the Bahamas, but downtown Miami is in the background. Or am I lying? See how I turned that around? That’s critical in the shadow world: The truth is the lie, and the lie is the truth. Sometimes it’s a limerick or a productive cough. I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand. Dead shark in the street. The code word now is monkey-pox…”

One of the building’s elevators reached the ground floor. Five beefy men rushed Serge and Coleman out the front door and threw them down on the sidewalk.

Coleman got up and rubbed his hands on his shirt. “Don’t take it too bad. Maybe the next people will hire you.”

“What are you talking about?” Serge checked his backpack and threw a broken thermos in the garbage. “Those guys hired me.”

Coleman looked puzzled. “I haven’t been hired much, but when it has happened, they don’t rough me up and throw me really hard on the ground.”

“Everything in the spy world is opposite.” Serge hoisted his backpack. “Remember the constant surveillance? If they took us out to dinner and had loads of laughs, that would mean I wasn’t hired. This way, anybody watching would mistakenly think we annoyed them. Standard protocol to distance themselves before they activate me.”

“But who would be watching?”

Serge shrugged and headed east toward the waterfront.

A city truck pulled up. Workers threw a shark in the back like they were picking up a discarded sofa on the side of the highway.

The truck drove off, revealing a black SUV with tinted windows parked on the other side of Flagler. The back window rolled down and a telephoto lens poked out.

Miami Morgue

A door flew open.

“You said you had something on the carjacker?” asked the lieutenant.

“And how,” said the examiner. “I’d love to meet the killer.”

“I’d love to kill him. So how’d he do it?”

The examiner clapped his hands a single time. “Okay, this is really cool. The mind that thought this up…” A whistle in admiration.

“Will you just spill it?” The lieutenant glanced at the foot of the autopsy table and tilted his head like a cocker spaniel. “Wait, what’s that metal canister with the evidence tag?”

“After I checked slides in the microscope, I went back to the police report. Your guys got lucky. During their neighborhood canvass, one of the uniforms found the canister in a trash bin behind a convenience store. He thought it was unrelated, but because of what it is, and the location, he logged it into evidence anyway as probable stolen property. More on that later. Take a look in the microscope.”

The lieutenant bent over and adjusted focus on twin eyepieces. “What am I seeing?”

“Chemical burn. Liquid nitrogen.”

The officer stood back up. “That’s all Greek.”

“It is to most people, so I set up a demonstration… This makes my whole month!”

“Can you get on with it?”

“Right…” The M.E. slipped on his thickest gloves and went to cold storage, retrieving a round thermal container the width of a punch bowl. Then he grabbed a disarticulated cadaver hand. “Don’t worry, we were going to throw this out anyhow. Now watch closely…”

The lieutenant didn’t need to be told. He leaned with rapt attention as the examiner unscrewed the container’s lid. Wisps of vapor wafted out the top.

The examiner held up the lifeless, severed hand, then giggled and dipped it wrist-deep in the jug. He listened to a wall clock tick. Then pulled it out.

The lieutenant scratched his head. “Looks the same, just a different color.”

Another giggle. He grabbed a tiny surgical hammer off the instrument tray and smacked the hand just below the knuckles.

“Jesus!” The officer jumped back as frozen slivers scattered on the floor. “It shattered like an ice sculpture.” A closer look. “There’s… nothing left.”

“And that’s liquid nitrogen, minus three hundred Fahrenheit.” The M.E. grabbed a dustpan and swept up the pieces. “But here’s the critical step.” He dumped the pan’s contents in a sink and turned on the hot water.

The lieutenant watched the remains melt and circle the drain until they were gone. “I still don’t get how he did it.”

“Easier than you’d think-if you’re as sharp as this guy. He probably poured the nitrogen down the dead man’s throat with a long funnel. But had to roll him around so it wouldn’t settle and freeze through a cavity wall. And for even distribution, he needed to repeat the process over and over, each time pouring in hot water to melt what he had just iced over, suctioning it out.”

“Suction?”

“You could do it with items as simple as a gas-can tube and turkey baster.”

“But where the heck does somebody get liquid nitrogen?”

“Anyone can get it,” said the M.E. “Just call the agricultural agent in any county and ask who maintains cryogenic chambers for animal husbandry, usually prize bulls.” He pointed at the metal tank near the foot of the autopsy table. “They even deliver, refills as low as thirty bucks.”

“Mother of God! I thought this might calm those reporters, but it’s even worse.” The detective grabbed the M.E. by the arm. “I don’t know who’s leaking to the press, but we cannot under any circumstances let this get out. Can you imagine the headlines?” He released the examiner and rubbed his own forehead. “How on earth am I going to identify the killer?”

“Might be able to help you there.” The examiner walked over and patted the top of the tank. “The sample chamber wasn’t empty. We can do a genetic test.”

“What? You mean you can identify the bull semen and maybe track down where he bought it?”

The examiner shook his head. “Not bull semen. Human.”

The lieutenant felt sick. “This definitely can’t get out.”

“Mum’s the word.” The examiner turned his back. “I’ll send it for DNA immediately after I write up the official cause of death.”

“Please tell me it’s something that won’t make a good headline.”

The examiner saved his biggest giggle for last.

“He froze to death in Miami.”

Palmetto Expressway

“Damn, it’s hot.”

The driver of a white van switched on a small, battery-powered fan glued to the dashboard.

The front passenger looked up from the Herald ’s sports section. “Take the next exit.”

They got off the highway, and two others trucks followed.

Opa-locka is one of the rough older areas, just north of Hialeah. Often tops national crime charts. Like driving through Baghdad. But not the violence part. Back in the 1920s, local founders kind of got hung up on Arabian Nights, and it now boasts the country’s highest concentration of Moorish architecture. City hall looks like a flying carpet might sail out a window. One of the streets is named Ali Baba Avenue.

There’s also a small airport that used to be big. The Graf Zeppelin paid a visit. Amelia Earhart took off on her fateful flight from here, and there’s now a public park in her name where people honor the pilot by playing Frisbee golf and visiting the insect museum.

Three white vans skirted the north side of the park and passed through galvanized airport gates. They raced toward the civil aviation side of the runways, across from the Coast Guard air-sea-rescue helicopters.

A twin-engine Beechcraft waited with its side door flopped down. Vans parked. A bucket brigade passed wooden crates up the airplane’s steps.

Behind the tail, a stretch Mercedes. Four solemn men in a row. Banker suits and haircuts. Arrogance. Victor Evangelista strolled across the tarmac with a loud smile. “Is that for me?”

The suits looked down. A briefcase handcuffed to a wrist. A key went in the lock. Airplane engines sparked to life.

Victor’s hair whipped from the propellers. He grabbed the briefcase in a deafening drone and tossed it to one of the jumpsuits. Victor never counted. And the men never looked in the crates. That level of business. Not trust. Certainty of consequence.

They stopped to watch the Beechcraft take off into the setting sun. The plane banked hard south until it disappeared behind rain clouds, casting long angular shadows over the glades.

The suits stared across the runway at the Coast Guard detail, staring back. “After all this time, how do they not suspect?”

“Because they know for sure,” said Vic. The smile broadened. “And under specific orders to stand down. But don’t worry: You’re paying a lot for those connections.”

The tallest suit: “Dinner? Versailles?”

Vic shook his head and pointed up. “Got another shipment.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“I’m the best.”

Four men laughed and climbed in the Mercedes. It headed for the exit as another Beechcraft cleared the limo’s roof and touched down in waning light.

A cell phone rang.

Evangelista excavated it from a pocket under his flowing Tommy Bahama shirt. He checked the number on the display and flipped it open. “I thought you didn’t like to make phone calls. Hear it’s snowing in D.C.”

“Vic, Jesus, what the fuck blew up at our warehouse?”

“My car.”

“But how’d it happen?”

“How do you think?”

“Scooter again?”

“My cross to bear.”

“You let that moron near the shipments?”

“You’re the one who forced me to bring him along,” said Vic.

“Because of politics,” barked the voice on the other end. “Doesn’t mean let him play with the rocket 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.”

“Skills?”

“They pull up at a stoplight and don’t know to leave a space for evasive maneuver from a box-in robbery. And if they get rear-ended, they definitely don’t know not to get out of the car to exchange insurance information like everything’s lollipops in Candy Land.”

Serge’s eyes made another scan of traffic. They locked onto a vehicle ten cars ahead: limo with small flags flapping on each side of the hood. He changed lanes.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” said Coleman.

“Used to be worse,” said Serge. “One summer it hit the tipping point, and an embarrassing number of Europeans had their return flights upgraded to coffins in the cargo hold. So the state legislature passed a law sanitizing license plates.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Tourist robberies around the airport became so commonplace it spawned a widespread slang called ‘Z-ing.’ ”

“Z…?”

“Rentals used to be designated with a Z or Y on their license plates. Or ‘Manatee County.’ Criminals must have a newsletter or something.”

The limo drifted into the far right lane. Serge matched it. They crested an overpass, and the skyline grew near, giving the night air a phosphorus glow.

“Serge?”

“Yes, Beavis?”

“I get the part about circling the airport, but why did we park at that curb, just to pull away two minutes later?”

“I wanted to look at flags on the limo hood. Needed to make sure we’re following the right car.”

“What’s the right car?”

“The one from the country whose consulate just hired me. Spies are expected to take initiative.” Serge checked all mirrors. “Plus the Summit of the Americas is coming this week, and my beloved state is reaping the prestige she so richly deserves. The last thing I want is for her to get a black eye.”

“You’re worried something might show us in an inaccurate light?”

“No, the accurate light.” Traffic backed to a standstill. Serge craned his neck to find the limo. “If that stretch stays on the expressway, they should be okay. Just as long as they don’t get off the wrong exit.”

“Serge, their blinker…”

The limo got off the wrong exit.

The Road Runner sped up, then screeched to a halt.

Red taillights came on in sequence.

“We’re stuck in a traffic jam,” said Coleman. “What are we going to do?”

“This is what.” Serge swerved into the breakdown lane and raced toward the exit with two wheels in the dirt. They hit the bottom of the ramp and looked around.

“Where are they?” said Coleman.

“We lost ’em.”

A dozen blocks ahead, a limo drove slowly down a deserted access road. The visiting president reclined in the back, pouring brandy from a Swarovski crystal decanter. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Yes, sir,” said the driver, glancing back through the open partition. “Biscayne Boulevard should be coming up soon.”

They stopped at a red light.

“But I thought Biscayne was downtown, on the other side of the skyline.” The president looked out the window. “There aren’t even any streetlights. It’s totally dark-”

Bam.

The president pitched forward. A flying brandy glass conked his food-taster in the forehead.

“What the hell was that?”

The chauffeur looked in his side mirror. “I think someone rear-ended us.”

“Great.” The president’s head fell back against the top of his seat. “Just take care of it.”

The driver grabbed his door handle. “Be right back…”

… A Plymouth Road Runner rolled quietly along the access road.

“Still don’t see them,” said Coleman.

Serge pointed at a distant intersection. “There they are.”

“The light turned green, but they’re not moving,” said Coleman. “And there’s another car behind them.”

Under Serge’s breath: “Please don’t get out of the car. Please don’t get out of the car. Please don’t-”

“Look,” said Coleman. “The driver’s getting out of the car.”

Serge cut his headlights.

Ahead, the chauffeur walked to the rear of the limo. He glanced at the crumpled bumper, then over at the other vehicle’s two occupants walking toward him, almost featureless in the absence of light, except for respective silhouettes of dreadlocks and a shaved head. The chauffeur opened his wallet and fished for a foreign license. “You guys got ID?” He looked up. The answer came in the muzzle of a MAC-10 between his ribs…

Two blocks back: Coleman hit a joint and strained to see ahead in the darkness. “Doesn’t look like things are going so well for the chauffeur. What do you think will happen?”

“Someone’s probably going to die.”

“How do you know?”

“I just have this uncanny feeling.” Serge shook his head. “It’s such a tragedy.”

“Do you have this feeling because you’re the one who’s going to kill them?”

“That’s why it’s such a tragedy. I’m trying to eliminate negative energy from my life.”

“Look,” said Coleman. “There’s two bad guys this time.”

“At least that’ll make it more interesting.”

“How?”

“Because one will get to see the other go first.” Serge parked on the side of the road. “That’s always a conversation starter.”