Warlord

THIRTY

SO SHE'S GIVING THE FAT GUY a BJ while he's sitting in your favorite chair waiting for you to come waltzing through your own front door?" Harry Brock asked Stokely.

"Correct."

"But you got inside locked sliding glass doors by swinging down from the roof on a rope?"

"You got it."

"Same blond broad who whacked the two guys we were staking out on the beach?"

"Yep."

"But she got away. From your apartment, I mean."

"She did."

"And the fat guy tried to whack you with a MAC-10?"

"He did."

"Your leather couch looks like shit."

"Tell me about it."

"You think they can stitch that up? Patch it, maybe?"

"What do you think, Harry? Patch it up? All that rich Corinthian leather?"

"Sucks. Can you put in for something like that, I wonder?"

"That's a very good question, Harry."

"You pissed at me about something? I went to the Bahamas for a couple of days, okay? I had some time coming. I met somebody. Jesus."

"No, I am not pissed. I'm just trying to concentrate on this goddamn Dolphin game. Third and goal. We could score here. Okay? I told you most of this shit already."

"It's only preseason."

"That's the only kind we win."

"They figure out who the fat guy is yet?"

"Bashi? Yeah. Bashir al Mahmoud. Pakistani. Formerly called Gitmo home, now a legal resident of the United States of America, courtesy of our all new and improved Homeland Security immigration policies."

"Bashi. Shit. The guy we were trying to get to."

"Right."

"So, instead of us having to sit out in the blistering sun all day looking for this asshole, he just comes over to your apartment. Sits in your favorite chair."

"That's about it. Shit! Interception."

"So, now what?"

"We go for the fumble."

"I mean the case, asswipe."

"Oh, that. We take a room at the Fontainebleau."

"Who does?"

"You and me."

"Together?"

"Of course. We're partners, partner."

"Listen, Stoke. You wanna come out of the fuckin' closet, do it with somebody else, okay, stud? I ain't interested."

"Funny. Wait. Holy shit, another interception! D'you see that? Damn! We're still in it, baby. Stick their dicks in dirt, Dolphins. Let's see some bad sportsmanship out there for a change."

"So, the Fontainebleau."

Stoke spoke, his eyes never leaving the TV.

"Bashi had leased the presidential penthouse there on a long-term basis. We swept it clean. Computers full of incriminating shit. White slavery, pornography, possible terrorist activity, money laundering of massive cash coming in from Pakistan and Afghanistan poppy fields."

"Cash used for what?"

"Services rendered here in the U S of A."

"What kind of services?"

"That's what we need to find out, Harry."

"Probably not out there rehabbing houses for Jimmy Carter's Habitat for Humanity, I don't guess."

"Probably not. Now, shut up. Third and long. And…another pick. Can you believe this damn team?" Stoke pointed the remote at the TV and it went mute.

"You did good, Stoke. I got to hand it to you. Served this fat pig up on a sterling silver platter. They gotta be loving your ass up at Langley."

"Made your white ass look good, anyway. For hiring me."

"What about the b-i-m-b-o, b-i-m-b-o, and Bimbo was her name-o."

"She's coming back to Bashi's penthouse. Sooner or later."

"Why would she do that?"

"Because there's a wall safe there, behind a fake wall in the back of the closet that hides another fake wall. It's got twenty mil and change in small, unmarked bills inside it."

"Twenty million fucking dollars?"

"Right around there, yeah."

"You guys just left it there?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"Because the b-i-m-b-o knows about all that hidden jack and hopes, no, believes you couldn't possibly find it. So she's abso-fuckin-lutely positively going nuts, got to come back to that suite and crack that safe no matter how incredibly dangerous such a stupid idea is or may well be."

"Incredibly stupid move on her part."

"But she'll do it."

"She'll do it."

"Hotel in on this? If she tries to check in?"

"No. We'd have to keep someone on the front desk all the time. Better just let them be natural, somebody shows up and wants to spend ten grand a night on a room."

"You ever hand somebody who works in a hotel a fifty and ask for a better room? They take it?"

"Good point, Harry. We get the hotel manager in on this, use your CIA creds."

"Exactly. Forty-eight hours. She'll show up. Guaranteed."

"You're good, Harry. Turn pro someday, keep your shit together. Ah, shit, Pennington, don't throw the damn ball, run it, you dickhead, run left, you're wide open, man!"

"Stoke?"

"What?"

"Our new stakeout, if I have this straight, is not a shitty Suburban or a rusted-out Ford Taurus with chicken bones under the seats."

"No. Not."

"It is a palatial penthouse suite at the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach."

"It is, Harry. Our suite is right across the hall from Bashi's former residence. Only two suites on the top floor. We'll get management to put a security camera on Bashi's front door. We'll be able to monitor it twenty-four seven. And give the manager instructions to have the front desk call our room immediately should anybody try to check in or gain access."

"This could be good, Stoke. A stakeout in a penthouse at the Fontainebleau? I like it."

"I thought you might. An upgrade from cold coffee and stale Krispy Kremes in a piece of crap SUV anyway."

"You been inside our rooms?"

"Yep."

"Ocean view?"

"Pool."

"Still. We'll have government-issue high-powered optics. Keep up to date with the latest in ladies' swimwear fashion."

"Bet on it."

"And room service. Adult movies twenty-four hours a day."

"Uh-huh."

"I like this."

"I knew you would, Harry."

"When do we check in, Stoke? I can hardly wait. We can order up a pitcher of extra dry martinis and an extra cheese pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and onions. Curl up under the covers and watch Brokeback Mountain together if you want."

Harry Brock, ladies and gentlemen, Stoke thought to himself. What a card.

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, STOKE and Harry had pretty much exhausted the room service menu, the minibar popcorn and candy and scotch, the soft porn movies on the adult channel, the telescopic chicks by the pool, the Weather Channel, not to mention their patience with CNN, MSNBC, and each other.

It was midnight and finally Stoke's turn to go catch some Zs. Stoke had put them on a watch system. Four watches, six hours on the security monitor, six blissful hours in the rack while the other guy sat out in the living room and popped reds to stay awake looking at a crappy black-and-white movie about a goddamn hotel door for six entire hours without blinking.

Harry Brock was standing in the doorway in his T-shirt and boxers, drinking a mug of steaming coffee while wolfing down a really disgusting-looking slice of cold pizza.

"Morning," Brock said groggily, not too happy about it either.

"Yep. Bedtime for Bonzo, Harry," Stoke yawned, getting up out of the armchair they'd stationed in front of the security monitor and stretching his aching back. Getting old, Stoke. Aches and pains. He was beginning to understand why they said old age wasn't for sissies. Time to start hitting Gold's Gym over at the beach three or four times a week, work out on the speed bag, get his rhythm back, put in some serious ring time.

"Yeah? Who's Bonzo?"

"It's a goddamn movie, Harry. Ronald Reagan and some chimp named Bonzo. Jesus. Don't you know anything?"

"What's on the TV today? Anything good?"

"Yeah. This movie called The Door. Really, really long and nothing ever happens."

"Sounds good. Who's in it?"

"Nobody. But it's a laugh riot. You will laugh your damn ass off, Harry, I swear to God. Grab a seat while it's still warm."

"Funny."

"G'night, Harry, don't forget your little red pills."

"Fuck me," Harry said disconsolately. The graveyard shift, 12:00 midnight to 6:00 a.m., was the most grueling of all.