Pineapple grenade

Chapter Eight

The Next Morning

CNN.

“With the second oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico entering its forty-third day, Congressman Bugler continues drawing flak for apologizing to the drilling company during this week’s committee hearings, which political observers say could turn the balance in the upcoming elections… And now an odd news item from Tampa, where a dozen men are under arrest at a local hospital for illegally hunting coyotes within city limits.” The picture switched to a police spokesman. “I’ve never seen anything like it in the middle of a highly populated area. We caught them red-handed with banned game bait available on the Internet. They claim some mystery men gave them free mosquito repellent, but we’re not buying it. How do they explain the gun racks full of deer rifles in their pickups? And we’re tacking on littering fines for all the empty beer cans. Luckily they were too drunk to hunt effectively and the coyotes got the upper hand. We’ll be transporting them to jail as soon as their wounds heal.” The TV switched again to the anchor desk. “We’re going back again to Washington for continuing coverage of the political fallout from Congressman Bugler’s comments of sympathy for the oil companies… Wait a moment. We have breaking news. We’re taking you live to the Office of Homeland Security…”

Director “Rip” Tide walked briskly to the podium with a prepared statement. Behind him: twenty American flags and a large, vinyl thermometer.

“I’ve called you all here today to announce we’re raising the threat level. I can’t reveal the nature of our intelligence or where an attack is most likely, so all citizens must be on increased vigilance wherever they work, play, or sleep. God bless the United States.”

A reporter held up a hand with a pen in it. “But we’re already at the highest threat level.”

“That’s why I’m announcing a new color.” The director reached in his pocket, pulled out a plastic square, and stuck it at the top of the thermometer.

Another reporter raised his hand. “It’s red, like the other one.”

“It’s a darker red.”

“Not really.”

“No, see, it’s clearly darker.”

Reporters scribbled on pads. Another hand went up again. “What’s the name of the new threat level?”

“Red.”

“Won’t that be confusing?”

“No more questions…”

Malcolm Glide turned the volume down on his office TV and picked up the phone.

“No, I will not be put on hold!” barked Glide. “I realize the congressman isn’t in. I want you to deliver this message to him personally: Tell him to shut his goddamn mouth!.. I know we’re working behind the scenes to protect the oil company from its victims. That’s exactly why he needs to go mute. Those were the strict ground rules from the beginning of his term: no press conferences, no interviews except Fox, and sit like a silent lump in the committee

… Because he’s fucking stupid! And I’m not going to let him throw this away! Do you have any idea how hard it was to get a moron like that elected?”

Harder than parting the Red Sea.

But if anyone could do it…

Two years earlier, in a large hotel ballroom somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon.

Election night.

Anticipation built all evening through the packed crowd. Finally it burst. A mighty, wall-shaking cheer went up. With 82 percent of precincts reporting, all three networks had just declared the winner in the Thirteenth District.

Max Bugler was now a U.S. congressman.

Balloons fell. School bands played. Champagne corks popped.

In the back of the room, Malcolm Glide received an unending series of backslaps as he puffed a fat cigar from Cuba, the embargo of which he staunchly supported.

It was an upset. A big one.

When the race had started, Max was the darkest of horses. His first bid for public office, no experience or idea what district he was in. But Max had a firm jaw and the last name of his father, a former governor.

If there’s no hope of winning an election, a political party still needs to fill the ballot and turn out the faithful for other races. You use the strongest name recognition and hope for the least embarrassment. Max was a throwaway candidate.

They brought in Glide to minimize the embarrassment.

He burst through the doors at Bugler headquarters.

“Everybody stand up! Now!”

Chairs slid back. Staff glanced at each other.

“Thirty points behind! Have you all been circle-jerking in here? Where are we weakest?” He stretched out an arm. “You!”

“Me?” peeped a shaken staffer.

“You’re fired!” yelled Malcolm. “Get out of my sight!” A finger aimed at the next person. “You! And you better not say, ‘Me?’ ”

“War record?”

“Bingo! And don’t say it like a question!” Malcolm clasped hands behind his back. “Continue.”

“Well, our opponent, Hank Freeman, is a highly decorated Vietnam veteran. And our candidate’s dad used his influence to help him, uh

… not go to the war.”

“Say it!” yelled Malcolm.

“Say what?” asked the shrinking staffer.

“We shoot straight in here!” shouted Malcolm. “Don’t give some euphemistic ‘not go to the war.’ Say what everyone out on the street is saying!”

“He’s a draft dodger?”

“I never want to hear that slanderous shit again! Get the fuck out!”

Running feet. A door slammed.

Glide plopped down in the chair at the head of a conference table. Other chairs began to fill.

“Did I say you could sit?”

They popped back up.

“Sit down!” Malcolm rubbed his cheeks hard with his palms. “So Freeman’s a hero and our guy’s a faggot. We got ’em now!”

Expressions around the table said they didn’t understand.

“Who doesn’t understand?” said Malcolm.

Nobody made a sound.

“Good. Because we don’t need any amateurs who’ve never read Orwell.” Malcolm pointed again. “You’re fired!”

“What did I do?”

“You look weird to me. Out!”

The door slammed.

“We’re going to flip this thing,” said Malcolm. “Patriot is wimp. Wimp is patriot. Ideas?”

Silence around the table.

“Do I have to teach you everything?” He pointed again. “What’s Freeman most known for?”

“Single-handedly stormed a machine-gun nest.”

“He lied to get his medals,” said Glide. “The nest was empty.”

“But he won the Purple Heart.”

“He shot himself in a cowardly attempt to be sent home.”

“Both his legs were amputated.”

“That means he was a really big coward,” said Glide. “Made sure he’d go home. I want this viral on the Internet by Friday!”

A hand timidly rose. “How does that make our guy a patriot?”

“How’d he dodge the draft?” asked Malcolm.

“His dad got him in the National Guard.”

“The same Guard that’s now pulling five tours in Afghanistan?” said Glide. “Press release: Our candidate is proud of his war record performing highly dangerous service, and is deeply offended by anti-Americans who call our brave members of the Guard draft dodgers. If elected he’ll courageously introduce legislation to extend their tours.”

“But he served in Memphis.”

“Memphis scares the shit out of me… Get to work!”

And now, two years later, the victory was political legend, forever cementing Glide’s reputation. He dialed the phone.

“Rip? Malcolm here… Yeah, the thermometer looked great on TV… Listen, I need another favor…”

Somewhere in Cyberspace

Dear Serge, Most thanks again for your assistance. I just sent the banking account information. Did you receive? Please advise immediately when you have secured funds and make deposit. God’s blessings upon you Bobonofassi Gabonilar Dear Bobo, Great news, pen pal! I almost have the money. Even better: I’ve been in touch with Sarah Palin, and I think she can help us with the transfers and the rest of your problems. If you’re watching TV and see her kick someone in the crotch, that’s the signal she’s on board… More good news! I didn’t mention this before because of the stress you were under: I’m actually a spy! I’ve only been at it a couple days, but my first mission was a complete success except the hostages did some damage in my trunk. And Miami couldn’t be a better place to launch my new career. City of international intrigue, full of spooks since Castro. Did you know that at least three James Bond movies shot footage here? Do you get cable? But I know your next question: “How is being a spy good news for us?” Because I lied. I actually have the money, but a transfer is too risky right now. You’ll be exposed. And here’s where my excellent espionage training comes in: I tracked your IP address and found you’re already in Miami. (Computer guy who works at the university owed me big.) Tell me where you are and I’ll deliver the cash personally. Maybe we can meet downtown. Isn’t downtown a trip? A skyline of gleaming bank towers and stylish office buildings that sprouted in the eighties building boom with laundered money from Noriega’s Panama. And below on street level, sandwiched between skyscrapers, are all these funky little retail shops. There are only three kinds of stores: luggage, watches, and perfume. That’s it. Just dozens of narrow joints selling American Tourister, Rolex, and Chanel. Someone told me the stores cater to people who fly up from the Caribbean for a ferocious amount of shopping. I’ve never visited where they live myself, but apparently the island life requires vast amounts of suitcases, being on time, and smelling better… Tell me where you want to meet, and I’ll come armed to the teeth for your safety. Waiting by the computer, Serge Dear Serge, Much gratitude for your kind concern, but I am not in Miami. The bank transfer procedure is secure and utmost safe. Please use the account number I sent, and contact immediately upon deposit. Blessings, Bobonofassi Gabonilar Dear Bobo, Jesus, you’re in more danger than I thought! I’m coming to your rescue! Sorry, but I also lied earlier when I said I only recently tracked you to Miami. I knew it from the beginning. It’s just that a lot of these e-mails are scams from Nigeria. Obviously you made it out of East Bum-fuck and reached Florida, but had to conceal your location because of any relatives who might have escaped the rebels and are still in hiding back home. I’m guessing you’re an exchange student because my computer friend narrowed the IP search to Coral Gables and the University of Miami. And the routing number on the account you gave me is also here-this big downtown bank just up the street. Change of plans: Too dangerous now to meet in public. E-mail me your location and I’ll come there. Or maybe I’ll just figure out your address first and surprise you. Meanwhile, stay put! (Maybe watch Burn Notice — seen it yet? Michael’s mother is Sharon Gless from Cagney amp; Lacey. Who would have thought?) Your guardian angel, Serge Dear Serge, I honestly am not in Miami. Please use the original money transfer plan. Bobonofassi Dear Bobo, You’re scaring me! I had no idea you were in such peril! I wasn’t going to say anything, but Miami is also a huge rebels-in-exile city, so you’re not even safe here. Clearly you’re paranoid and don’t know who to trust anymore. And since we’ve never met, a little lingering skittishness is more than reasonable. What if I’m with the cops? I might confiscate the money or worse. So to put your mind at ease, I’m attaching a bunch of newspaper articles about these unsolved cases where my name unfortunately came up (am I embarrassed!). Meanwhile, my IP guy is getting close to your exact location, but it might be too late. For the love of God, tell me where you’re living! (Can’t wait to see your house. Did you watch that thing on the local news where this guy in Florida furnished his place entirely with chairs and tables and beds made from FedEx boxes? The anchor people laughed about it, but the FedEx people were pissed. Then, at this other house, paramedics responded to a NASCAR fan who built a roll cage around his toilet, with a steering wheel and a flat-screen TV on the wall so he could pretend racing, and he got too excited squeezing one off and had a stroke. Paramedic slang is a “commode code,” but they left that out of the news. Anyway, the cage release got jammed and the ambulance guys had to use the jaws of life on his toilet. I’m starting to like NASCAR.) Ready to extract, Serge Dear Serge, I truly appreciate all your efforts, but we have found someone else to assist us, and the money has already been transferred. We need no further contact. Bobonofassi Bobo! Help is on the way! My computer friend just finished tracking. You’re going under the name Rollo Tomagallu and using broadband connections at the school library and your off-campus house near LaJune Road. Since I now know your home address, it’s too risky to continue this correspondence. Under no circumstances are you to e-mail me anymore. The next time we make contact, it’ll be when I bring the money in person. Luckily I’m a professional (and now a spy!). The safest course of action, to avoid a counterstrike from rebel agents, is for me to sneak into your place under cover of darkness. So if some stranger wakes you in your bed at four A.M., don’t freak out. It’s just me. I’m guessing your room is the one on the southwest corner of the house. The light was still on last night when I was sitting outside in my car looking through the windows, and you were on the computer wearing a Nigerian soccer jersey. If I’m wrong, put some kind of school decal on the right window so I don’t give one of your roommates a heart attack. Sleepless in Miami, Serge Dear Serge, I am so sorry. This was all a scam. There are no rebels. I was just trying to make some money. Please leave me alone! Dear Bobo (or Rollo), No can do. You’re obviously cracking under the pressure and your judgment is shot-like telling me lies about this being a scam and violating my instructions not to e-mail anymore. So from now on, I’ll be making the decisions for both of us. Have to move fast now. My advice to you: Just relax and go to sleep. It’s almost over, Serge

Downtown Miami

“But, Serge,” said Coleman. “I thought Sarah Palin was your new pen pal.”

“She is.” Serge led the way down the sidewalk along Biscayne Boulevard. “But she’s also swamped with the rallies and hasn’t been able to write back yet. In the meantime, I’m just a man. I have my corresponding needs.”

“So writing to your other friend was like a pen-pal booty call?”

“Something like that.” Serge opened his wallet and counted through cash.

“Holy cow!” said Coleman, peeking over his pal’s shoulder. “Your pen pal just gave you a thousand dollars for nothing?”

“Not for nothing. To leave him alone.” Serge finished thumbing through the fresh currency in his wallet. “Some people are too jumpy these days. That’s why you have to cover their mouths after breaking into their bedrooms.”

“So you knew it was a rip-off all along?”

Serge turned the corner onto Flagler Street. “Of course.”

“Then why’d you answer his e-mail?”

“Needed start-up money for spying expenses,” said Serge. “I’m not sure, but in all the spy movies, I’ve never seen them get a paycheck. It might take a while.”

“Will a thousand be enough?”

“For openers,” said Serge. “That’s why I have a secondary plan. Miami is full of opportunities if you know where to look. That’s why I need to come here every few months for a brain flush: all these different, layered worlds existing simultaneously, some off the grid, invisible to the average observer.”

Coleman looked around. “Where?”

Serge pointed up at bank towers. “We’re in the financial capital of Latin America.” He lowered his arm and swept it across street level. “But down below are all these crazy shops.”

“The ones with roll-down burglar shutters?”

“For when the yellow crime lights come at night and life clears off the streets like a nuclear winter,” said Serge. “But during the day, a bustling economic furnace.”

Coleman looked in windows as they walked. “But who needs this much luggage?”

“The island people.” Serge pulled out a pamphlet for an art exhibit. “And they come in two styles: tourists and professional shoppers.”

“Professional?”

“That’s the hidden opportunity I mentioned. I had no idea until a few years ago, but there’s a bunch of sub-budget hotels downtown, whose lobbies are completely full of giant cargo boxes. All these people with rope and packing tape. Barely room to walk.”

“What are they doing?”

“The same thing I’m going to be doing soon to get more money.” Serge pocketed the pamphlet. “Fill you in on the rest later. Right now the museum’s coming up.”

“Then why are you turning into this luggage store?”

“Shhhh! We’re spies now.”

A clerk smiled. “Can I help you find something?”

“Briefcases.”

“Any kind in particular?”

“The kind that you have two of.”

“We’re well stocked in several brands.”

“I’ll take those two.”

The pair headed west on Flagler Street.

“Why do we need briefcases?”

“For the museum.” Serge trotted up steps toward the courtyard. “I love the art museum!”

They reached an expansive, elevated piazza with a mosaic of beige and Tuscan tiles. On the west end, the main Miami library; to the east, the Museum of Art.

“Stop here,” said Serge. “We have to enter separately. I’ll go first, and you come in ten minutes later.”

“Why?”

“That’s just the way it works. Then once inside, here’s what you do…” Serge explained the plan. “Think you can handle that?”

“Piece of cake. So what kind of cool mission are we on?”

“No mission.”

“Then what does your plan accomplish?”

“Nothing. Sometimes it’s just about bursting with a zest for life and letting yourself become an unjaded kid again, playing fort in the woods, or spy in Miami. And sometimes your mission is just to act like a spy. Especially when there’s no mission. Confuses the enemy into thinking there’s a mission, which distracts them from your real mission. That’s our mission.”

“Does this have something to do with one of your Secret Master Plans?”

“Yes. I’ve got the tingles again.” He showed Coleman goose bumps on his arm. “Something big is about to go down in Miami, probably during the summit, and only a spy can save the day.”

Serge trotted toward the museum, and Coleman walked toward a wall on the far side of the courtyard that cut the wind so he could fire up a fattie.

“One, please,” Serge told the ticket seller. He strolled through various galleries. Oils, acrylics, charcoals. The museum silent and empty. Only a handful of others: a family with two small children; a couple having an affair on lunch break; a man in a business suit staring at an abstract, then tilting his head to look at it sideways. Three guards in different doorways pretended not to look but seemed to be following Serge.

Serge reached the central gallery and took a seat on a large, continuous bench that formed a rectangle in the middle of the room. A Japanese garden sat inside it. Serge placed his briefcase on the floor.

Moments later, Coleman came in. He stood next to the businessman and stared at the abstract painting. “I am so stoned.”

“Excuse me?” said the man.

“That painting.” Coleman pointed. “Gremlins and flying snakes and naked chicks playing trombones while masturbating with wax fruit.”

The man glanced at Coleman, then back at the painting. “I don’t see anything.”

“Because they hung it upside down.” Coleman walked away as the man twisted his head.

Serge gazed up at a vibrant watercolor. Coleman clandestinely sat next to him. He placed his briefcase on the ground.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “Why’d you pick a museum?”

“Shhhhh! We’re not supposed to know each other.”

“We could be strangers talking about art.”

“Speaking of which, what’s the deal with that guy you were talking to? His face is like an inch from that painting.”

“I think he’s a pervert.”

“Museums naturally attract oddballs. The perfect place for spies to meet. They’re always meeting in cultural attractions and other places where loitering is encouraged.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Get Smart. People think it was a comedy but completely miss the Cold War subtext. I need a cone of silence.”

“What about a shoe phone?”

“Got one,” said Serge. “Made my own this morning with a cell phone.” He took off his left sneaker, tapped a finger inside several times, then held it to his ear. He pulled it away from his head and peeked through the foot hole. “It’s broken. What the fuck?”

“Maybe you can buy another.”

Serge put his shoe back on. “That’s already the third one I’ve gone through.”

“Is it under warranty?”

“Yes, but the last time the phone people gave me some bullshit: ‘You’re not supposed to walk on it.’ ”

Serge grabbed the handle of his pal’s briefcase. Coleman grabbed the other. They got up and left in opposite directions.

The businessman had moved on to the next painting. A hand in his right pocket. In the bottom of the pocket was a hole, where a wire led inside his shirt to his tie tack. The concealed hand pressed a button, taking photos with a pinhole camera.

When the room was empty, the man left the museum. He looked left: Coleman trotting down steps toward the Metro Mover. Stage right: Serge, fifty yards ahead, crossing the courtyard. The businessman picked up the pace.

Serge headed down Flagler Street. The man maintained a half-block separation.

Serge stopped to stare in the window of a luggage store. The businessman bent down to tie his shoe. Serge resumed walking. The man stood up.

At the corner of Miami Avenue, without breaking stride, Serge casually dropped the briefcase in a trash can and turned the corner.

The businessman began running. He reached the trash can and grabbed the briefcase. A black SUV screeched up to the curb, the man jumped in, and they sped off.