Pineapple grenade

Chapter Eleven

Downtown Miami

Rusty trawlers and cargo boats sailed along the Miami River. Some going fishing, others destined for Hispaniola with crates of merchandise from Sam’s Club to restock the bodegas.

On the southern shore of the river sat a mixed collection of warehouses, mechanics shops, and low-rent office buildings.

One of the buildings backed up to a marine repair yard surrounded by barbed wire. Stark concrete, tattered awnings, gravel parking lot, no outward hints of what might be happening inside. It had opened on Pearl Harbor Day. Occupancy hadn’t topped 20 percent since 1967. It was about location.

Two stories, but the elevator was broken. A hallway ran down the middle of each floor, rows of offices on both sides. Windows facing the hall, shades drawn. In the middle of each door, another window with gold lettering. Most of the letters had chipped away, but some of the outlines remained. Bail bond, travel agency, title insurance, attorney-at-law.

The last door on the second story was the exception. Fresh gold letters: