Pineapple grenade

Chapter Twenty-Three

Two hours later

Serge and Felicia strolled through chic South Beach. Beautiful people crowded sidewalk cafes along Ocean Drive. Every table a different language. German, French, Swedish, Portuguese from Brazil. Tiny portions of nuevo cuisine with sprigs of garnish arranged in tripods.

“Was that really necessary?” asked Serge.

“Sorry about sticking you,” said Felicia. “Could have sworn you were a double agent sent to assassinate President Guzman. I had to make sure.”

“But what would give you such a crazy idea?”

“Scooter Escobar.” She lit a thin cigar.

“That idiot?”

“And he’s getting stupider, arranging secret meetings with people he shouldn’t.”

“Exchanging newspapers on park benches?”

“It would be funny if it wasn’t.” She blew out a thin stream of smoke. “That’s where he heard about the plot-from your people-and that you might be involved. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but he tells me everything.”

“So you believe now that I’m on the level?”

Felicia smiled. “You were pretty funny when you were under. What’s the whole anger issue with guest towels?”

“Used to be married. Long story,” said Serge. “I don’t approve of Tiger Woods, but I heard he had like eighteen bathrooms. How much can a man take?”

More gorgeous people in thongs and T-backs rollerbladed by. On the ocean side of the street, bodybuilders flexed at women in convertibles. Pink and lime lifeguard shacks shaped like time machines. A film crew from Japan shot a TV commercial for sake.

At one of the alfresco tables, a deal was being closed. A ruggedly handsome man with striking Latin features and long, sexy black hair dined with an equally attractive woman in a swimsuit. In two months, her Sports Illustrated photos would hit the stands, and she’d become a supermodel. But right now she was still an Above-Average Model.

The man reached across the table between their wineglasses and held her hand. She gazed dreamily into his eyes. Another typical Miami Beach afternoon tryst was about to spawn. In the Art Deco hotel rooms above the strip, 136 were already under way.

Men at other tables stewed with envy. The Latin hunk could have any woman in the place. What they didn’t know-and the source of universal disbelief if they did-was that the oncoming liaison would be the playboy’s first. Ever.

Oh, he could line them up in stunning volume and variety, but he’d just never been able to land them in the boat. Had nothing to do with his appeal or bedside manner. It was luck. The wrong kind. Always some crazy, blind-side against-the-odds interruption before consummation. And as with any statistical sample, somewhere in the world was the man who ranked absolute last on the standard-deviation coitus graph. That was this guy.

Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.

But hope springs eternal, and Johnny was at bat again with the bases loaded. As he held her hands and stared into those emerald-green eyes, it seemed nothing remotely could go wrong. The sun was high, and a balmy breeze ruffled the fringe of their table’s umbrella. Sinful desserts arrived on a cart.

Three blocks south, Serge and Felicia strolled past the Colony Hotel.

Ahead, two men on the sidewalk, staring stupidly at the diners. A waiter asked them to move along.

“There you are,” Serge called out. “We were supposed to meet at that corner.”

“Serge!” Coleman came running over with Ted Savage. “I’ve never seen such great tits. There’s been like forty-three so far.”

“It’s Ocean Drive,” said Serge. “Nipple City.”

“Serge!” scolded Felicia.

“Baby, don’t crowd my facts.”

Coleman stared at more breasts. “I never want to leave this place.”

“Coleman, there’s more to Miami than silicone.”

“Like what?”

“Stay here long enough and anything can happen.” Serge swept an arm over the beach mating frenzy. “Look at all these people. Their backstories are arguably the most diverse and compelling in all the country, an international roll call of intrigue: TV producers, exotic-animal smugglers, money launderers, foreign agents, people on the run from Interpol, the ShamWow Guy. I’m getting pumped just thinking about all the secret life arcs surrounding us. Except in real life, it’s impossible for me to know what’s ticking behind all these five-hundred-dollar sunglasses. That’s why I love to read novels about Miami.”

Coleman’s eyes seized on a passing bikini top. “Novels?”

“In novels, the omniscient narrator knows all secrets and reveals them.” Serge watched a Lamborghini being valeted. “Sometimes I like to pretend that my own life has a narrator. I wish I could meet him someday.”

“Why?”

“Because to me, narrators are the most impressive people on the planet. Every one of them outrageously intelligent and perceptive. They’re like gods.”

Serge was clearly a genius in all respects. They continued up the sidewalk. The group didn’t know it, but they had, in succession, just passed the woman with the highest number of Botox injections, the largest wholesaler of human-growth hormone on the beach, the hotel with the top frequency of burglaries by maids, and the Most Laid Guy in Miami, which placed him thirty-fourth nationwide.

The Most Laid Guy was also the most unlikely. Just a regular Joe, maybe the corner barber or H amp;R Block man. Statistics again. Someone has to be the anomaly. Women didn’t understand why, but they found themselves magnetically drawn to him in astounding numbers. A million males would have killed for what fell off his truck, but to him it had all become a burden. He sat alone with coffee and a copy of Florida Architecture.

“Pardon me,” said a college cheerleader in town for a game. “Is this seat taken?”

“I’m trying to read.”

And so on, until he’d eventually relent just to release the pressure.

The gang continued up the sidewalk, past a DEA agent on the take, an indicted boy-band manager, a paparazzo with inside information, a transgender with second thoughts, and a spy from Costa Gorda peeking over the top of a menu. He got up and began following.

Coleman bumped into Serge’s back as they prepared to cross Thirteenth Street.

“Coleman, watch where you’re going.”

“I was looking up.” He shielded his eyes. “These are some outrageous hotels.”

“And every room holds a story.” Serge gazed toward the top floor. “Things you could never imagine are going on right this second. Like that window there. I’d love to know what’s happening inside.”

Inside, someone had tied himself up with intricate knots and a gag ball in his mouth, where he’d remained alone and happily still for the last six hours.

Coleman looked around. “Who said that?”

“Said what?”

“Knots and gag balls.”

“Maybe my narrator,” said Serge. “Actually the proper term is the narrator. My implies a demeaning, possessive relationship, like he’s an organ-grinder monkey. Narrators don’t like that.”

They don’t. The spy from Costa Gorda grew closer. Felicia turned around. The agent ducked behind a potted tree at the News Cafe.

Coleman resumed walking. “Remember when they found the star of Kung Fu tied up and dead in that motel closet.”

“David Carradine,” said Serge. “Bangkok. The namesake of the Kill Bill movies.”

“They said he accidentally got strangled during freaky sex with himself.”

“Coleman, that’s a private matter. He should be remembered for his impressive body of work.”

“But it’s so embarrassing.” Coleman looked back up at the window. “If I ever thought I might die while playing with my dong, I’d make sure I could throw any devices across the room.”

“That might just be the first time you’ve planned for the future.”

“Planned? I’ve actually been practicing it. You were asleep.”

“You thought I was asleep,” said Serge. “I was wondering why I kept hearing bedsprings and then these little fur doughnuts began flying over my head and hitting the wall.”

“I just don’t want to be found in a motel room like Kung Fu,” said Coleman. “How’d you like to be found in a motel room?”

“Let me take a wild stab at that,” said Serge. “Alive?”

They started across the street. Three men approached from the opposite curb. White face makeup, black-and-white-striped shirts, and red berets. The trio tipped their caps in recognition as they passed Serge.

“You know those guys?” asked Coleman.

Serge nodded. “You heard of the Guardian Angels?”

“Yeah, vigilante group that protects people.”

“Those three guys are from Tampa. They started their own group, the Guardian Mimes.”

“You mean like the dudes from when you filmed those Clowns-versus-Mimes underground fight videos?”

“The same,” said Serge. “I was worried they’d disband after we hit the road. Fortunately they’ve come back stronger than ever.”

“Do you keep in touch?”

“Still got their numbers in my cell. I thought they tried calling a few times, but there didn’t seem to be anyone on the other end.”

Three more men in red berets came toward them on the sidewalk. Big, floppy shoes and rubber-ball noses. An exchange of knowing looks with Serge.

“The Guardian Clowns?” asked Coleman.

“I feel like a father.” Serge unfolded his scavenger-hunt checklist and made an X next to “Wise Latina T-shirt,” from the confirmation hearings of Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor. He returned it to his pocket. “This is the end of Ocean Drive… Felicia, where to now?”

Felicia was facing the other way in frustration, hands on sensuous hips. “Scooter! Stop messing around! Get over here!”

The spy from Costa Gorda popped up from behind a Dumpster, glanced around, and ran across the street to them.

“What’s with you?” asked Felicia. “When I said to meet us, I didn’t mean follow us.”

Escobar’s eyes were still darting around. “They’re everywhere. A spy can’t be too careful.”

“You’re coked out of your skull.”

“No, I’m not.” Scooter gnashed his teeth. “Not a lot.”

“Just don’t do any more,” said Felicia. “We’ve got important business.”

Scooter took a step back. “That’s Serge!”

“Everything’s cool.” Felicia set a brisk foot pace for the gang. “He’s with us. Someone’s been feeding you bad information, and I have a pretty good idea what’s going on. I’ll lay it all out when we get to our destination.”

Serge walked up alongside. “What is our destination?”

“Spy.”

“Not what we’re doing. Where we’re going.”

“That is where we’re going. But it doesn’t open till late.”

Back up the street, the Above-Average Model got an odd look on her face. She glanced around from their sidewalk cafe table.

“What’s the matter?” asked Johnny Vegas.

“I don’t know.” She turned and looked the other way. “Just this strange paranormal feeling.”

“What’s it like?”

“An unusual pulling sensation,” said the woman. “And I’m not one to believe in the supernatural, except I’ve never felt anything stronger…”

Later That Evening

An eight-seater prop jet landed on a narrow dirt runway. Dense coconut palms. A small island with an inactive volcano.

Stairs flipped down from the side of the plane. A golf cart broke through palms on the edge of the clearing and gave the passengers a lift into town.

The driver smiled with a gold tooth. “Where to, senor?”

“Bodega,” said one of Oxnart’s men in a tropical shirt.

“Which one?”

The agent looked up. Blinking lights as another plane approached for landing. “Start with the closest… And step on it!”

The golf cart rolled back into the jungle.

The same scene repeated across the Caribbean Basin. Clandestine white Lears landing on dubious runways that rarely saw anything bigger than tourist puddle jumpers and smugglers’ Cessnas. Then golf carts and antique jeeps appeared from the jungle, and more racing around the islands.

Two of Lugar’s men entered a tiny sundries store on Costa Gorda. Cages of chickens, banana chips with Spanish labels. Guava paste. Santeria candles. Cans of Coke for five dollars. The owner was a short, trim older gentleman in a lightweight yellow shirt and plaid shorts. Thin hair on top covering a port-wine birthmark shaped like a voting district. He parted rows of hanging beads from the back room and stepped up behind the counter. “Can I help you?”

The agents looked back and forth. Solemn mouths. “Souvenirs.”

“Souvenirs?”

“Whatever you got.”

Vague bewilderment from the owner. “We don’t carry souvenirs.”

One of the agents leaned over the counter and fiddled with a faded cardboard display that held two disposable lighters and twenty empty slots. In a low voice: “We understand you received a shipment from Miami.” He pulled out a manifest and winked like they had a long-standing relationship.

“Oh, that. ” The owner chuckled. “Completely ridiculous. We’re shipping it all back.”

“Is it still here?”

“But it’s taped up.”

“We’ll pay for the tape.”

“Suit yourself.” Back through bead strands.

He reappeared with a large, sturdy box and sliced open flaps. The agents dug through ashtrays, postcards, dashboard hula dancers, hourglass egg timers encased in Lucite, crucifixes made of seashells. The agents packed everything back up.

The owner laughed again. “Told you it was ridiculous.”

“We’ll take it all.”

“You’re kidding.”

A pair of hundred-dollar bills said they weren’t.

The owner folded the money and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Nice doing business.”

The first agent leaned forward again, holding another hundred out straight between his index and middle fingers. “If anyone asks, we were never here. And you never saw any souvenirs.”

The owner pocketed the tip. “Who’s going to ask?”

The men took their box and left without answering. The owner smiled to himself and shook his head, straightening the cardboard display on the counter.

Two more gringos came through the doorway and glanced around. “Have any souvenirs?…”