“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 halclass="underline" “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.
Chapter Seventeen
South of Miami
Another TV was on.
“… This is CNN reporting from Costa Gorda, where a crack American Delta Force has just been deployed to help President Guzman quash the rebel uprising…”
The picture switched to a small band of rebels surrounded in the middle of the village. The Delta team’s translator stepped forward.
“Put down the goat and surrender.”
A tense pause.
“We don’t speak Spanish. Where are you from?”
“United States,” said the Delta force commander. “And you?”
“New Jersey. Do you have any food?”
Back to the anchorman, holding a hand against the tiny speaker in his ear. “Wait a minute. We have breaking news. We’re going live to Washington, D.C…”
The image switched to the press room at the Office of Homeland Security. An empty podium flanked by flags and a vinyl thermometer.
Director Tide arrived from the wings and shuffled notes on the podium.
“Good afternoon. I’ve called you here to announce new airport security measures. In addition to shoes, all passengers must now take their socks off.”
A hand went up. “What for?”
“I can’t reveal that,” said Tide. “But what I can disclose is that we’re raising the threat level again. We’re announcing a new color.”
The journalists waited in silent anticipation as the director reached in his pocket and slapped a new plastic square at the top of the thermometer. He turned back around.
All hands went up in the audience.
Tide pointed at the front row. “Chuck?”
The reporter lowered his hand. “That’s not a color. It’s just a question mark.”
“Correct,” said the director. “It’s the secret color.”
The same hand went up again. “Why does it have to be secret?”
“Otherwise the terrorists win.”
A hand went up. It reached a television knob and turned off the news.
Station Chief Oxnart faced the room.
“What have we got? Newcastle?”
“Couldn’t find Serge. Lost him near Sweetwater.”
“And you’re still drawing a paycheck?” said Oxnart.
The agent nervously reviewed notes. “But we were able to outbid Lugar for the dummy front company on the river.”
“At least that’s something,” said the chief. “Any day I can beat that asshole.”
“Got something else,” said Newcastle. “Might be Serge’s handiwork. Arson murder in Sweetwater shortly after we lost the tail.”
“Method?”
“From the police report, some kind of elaborate accelerant trigger.”
Oxnart nodded to himself. “I’d expect nothing less.”