Pineapple grenade

N ICE D AY

Escobar slid his chair back on saltillo tiles. “He’s taunting me! He really is after my job!”

“That’s the coke talking.” Felicia crumpled the page and tossed it in her salad bowl. “You need to stop doing that shit.”

Didn’t listen. “I’m so screwed.”

“Yes, you’re a fuckup,” said Felicia. “But your uncle always gets you out of everything.”

“Not this time,” said Scooter. “He’s really pissed about those arm shipments.”

“You started mentioning that before,” said Felicia. “What shipments?”

“I did? I mean, I must have been thinking about the geology report.”

“Geology report?”

“Did I say ‘geology report’?”

“I’ll let you see the vibrator.”

Scooter brightened. “Really?”

“Sure.” She passed him her purse. “And do some more coke…”

Miami River District

A bottle of rye sat idle in a second-floor office.

Mahoney played solitaire.

The TV was on.

“Stand by for a CNN special report.”

An anchorwoman appeared. “Breaking news at this hour, which was captured in this exclusive footage from a cell phone by a local resident…”

The picture switched to a shaky camera view of filthy, wild-eyed men in face paint and camouflaged military uniforms running through a peasant village, screaming and firing guns in the air.

“Give us your food! We need food!”

The anchorwoman provided voice-over: “As you can see in these disturbing images, the rebel movement in Costa Gorda has launched a brazen offensive against the civilian population.”

Two of the men began chasing a goat.

“Next, you will clearly hear the rebels shouting slogans in denunciation of the regime of President Fernando Guzman and promoting Marxist food redistribution.”

“… Our government betrayed us!..”

“… We’re rationing Spam!..”

The anchorwoman filled the screen again. “We’ll bring you more as it becomes available… And to our independent i-Reporter in the village with the cell phone, a coffee mug is on the way…”

The door opened.

Serge and Coleman came in and grabbed chairs. Mahoney looked up from the seven of hearts.

Serge pointed. “Nice bouquet.”

A vase with a dozen roses sat on the corner of Mahoney’s desk. Ribbons and a balloon: T HANK Y OU.

Serge read the gift card and slipped it back in the envelope. “Looks like your first client was a satisfied customer.”

Mahoney stared.

“What?”

“They found her ex-husband’s body.” He turned off the TV. “Ruled arson. Some kind of elaborate contraption with fans, gasoline, and bubble wands.”

“Not again.”

Continued staring.

“What?” asked Serge.

“Something else,” said Mahoney. “These two mugs came poking around this morning.”

“Arson investigators?” asked Serge.

Mahoney shook his head.

Across the hall: “I can’t believe you punched me!” A door slammed, running feet.

Serge glanced over his shoulder, then back at Mahoney. “So about these two guys?”

Mahoney reached in a drawer and tossed a thick brown envelope on the desk.

Serge peeked inside and whistled. “That’s a lot of money. What’s it for?”

“Said they wanted to hire me to be a dummy front company.”

“What did you say?”

“That I already was one.” Mahoney reached in the drawer and threw another fat envelope on the desk. “So they gave me that, too.”

“Told you,” said Serge. “What a city!”

A roar outside.

Serge glanced south. “That plane sounds awfully low.”

They all ran to the window. “It is low,” said Coleman. “It’s going to crash!”

“Stan’s got it,” said Mahoney.

“You know Stan?” asked Serge.

“Who’s Stan?” asked Coleman.

A twin-engine Grumman Mallard seaplane made an expert belly landing in the Miami River. Its amphibious wheels deployed, the aircraft rolled up a boat ramp, then taxied a short distance to the parking lot of Mahoney’s building.

The pilot climbed down from the cockpit and trotted into the building. Soon, another set of footsteps down the hall. The door opened.

“Guys, could I get a hand with the tarps?”

Everyone went downstairs and surrounded the plane.

Stan threw a pair of thick lines over the cowling. Serge caught them and unrolled the tarp. He stuck a finger through a hole near the propeller. “Were they shooting at you?”

“They usually do.” Stan threw more lines over the tail section. “Go-boat dropped me a thousand yards off a private island. Only took two rounds near the gas tank from private security while getting airborne. That’s a piece of cake next to getting a twin-engine off a grass mountain runway by a cocoa-leaf farm. Or cracking the jewelry safe in a Coconut Grove master bedroom.”

Coleman grabbed one of the lines. “So, Serge, what’s this guy’s deal?”

“He’s the guy I mentioned before.” Serge tugged hard on his own line. “Stan the High-End Repo Man.”

“He repossesses airplanes?”

“And yachts and race cars.”

“I didn’t know repo men did that.”

“Most don’t.” Serge tied a knot. “But it’s this economy. Even the rich are missing payments.”

“Former CIA,” added Mahoney. “Now fronting ‘Premier Acquisitions.’ Got an office down the hall from me.”

A commotion erupted at the corner intersection. Yelling.

Coleman lit a joint. “What’s going on over there?”

Serge glanced. “Those are the Aggressive Beggars.”

“Aggressive Beggars?” Coleman took a big hit and held the smoke.

“Miami phenomenon. Young, physically fit, capable of any work,” said Serge. “But instead they wash people’s windshields against their will.”

“Don’t be a dick!” yelled a man with a squeegee and cardboard sign. “Give me some fucking money!”

The light turned green. The beggar kicked a rear fender as the car took off.

“Serge?” Stan walked over with a set of keys attached to a small flotation device. “I’m slammed today. Going to pick up a Bentley, then two more planes. You game for freelance work?”

“I can’t fly planes.”

“Not a plane.” Stan tossed him the keys. “Offshore racing boat, twin V-hulls, three Merc engines. Think you can handle it?”

“With my eyes closed.”

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting to take her for a spin.”

“But that would be unprofessional.”

“It’s okay.” Stan secured the end of the tarp. “Just have her to Dinner Key by sundown.”

“Ow! Son of a bitch!”

Everyone turned toward the intersection. A young man dropped a squeegee and grabbed his bleeding nose.

Steve Dodd walked back from the street, shaking his right hand to get out the sting.

Stan handed Serge a briefcase. “Know your way around a TEC-9?”

Serge flipped the latches and pulled out the compact machine gun. “I may have picked one of these up from time to time.”

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Now I’ve gotta make a delivery.” Stan hopped in a Silver Cloud and sped away.

Coleman looked back and forth at the airplane, departing Rolls-Royce, windshield washers, Steve Dodd’s fist, Serge’s new machine gun. Three Nicaraguans came around the corner, tossed a shark in the intersection, and ran off. Coleman took another big hit. “Miami’s far out.”

“Mahoney,” said Serge. “I may need a favor. But it will probably never come up.”

“Oh, it’ll come up,” said Mahoney. “Mumble.”

“It’s my Secret Master Plan,” said Serge. “And in my new line of work, the Master Plan needs a Backup Plan. That’s where you come in…” And he laid it all out.

Mahoney tossed a toothpick. “That’s the dizziest scheme I ever heard.”

“But if I call you, you’re in, right?”

“Aces.” Mahoney began walking back to the building. “But I have one question. Those two jakes who paid for that dummy front business. Anything hinky involved?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s that mean?”

Serge just grinned.