“And that’s exactly what they all think.” Serge waited outside an elevator and stared up at lighted numbers. “Where’s the rule that says you can’t just unilaterally declare yourself a spy and snoop around for no reason? That’s the whole key to life: Fuck explaining yourself to people. Plus Miami is the perfect place, absolutely crawling with self-employed, freelance agents in dummy corporations ready to join any government that can’t have direct involvement with an illicit operation. I’ll just act suspicious until the highest bidder comes along.”
The doors opened. They got in. Coleman sucked his paper sack. “But how do you get hired as a spy?”
“By acting like you don’t want to get hired. If you just barge into some office asking for a spy job, they’ll think you’re a double agent with disinformation. Or worse, a conspiracy kook off the street. That’s how the conspiracy works.”
Elevator doors opened on seven.
Ahead, glass doors with gold letters: C ONSULATE OF C OSTA G ORDA.
Serge grabbed a handle and went inside.
Flags and travel brochures and the national crest.
Serge whispered sideways to Coleman, “What you need to do is play hard to get, which makes them want you.”
“How do you do that?”
“Behave inscrutably. Then contact will be made on a park bench by a man in a hat feeding pigeons.”
They entered the consulate. “This next part’s critical,” said Serge. “I better drink lots of coffee.” He walked over to the reception area’s coffee machine and poured a cup.
Coleman drained his paper sack. “Serge, the woman behind the reception desk is staring at us. Not in a nice way.”
“My plan’s working.” He chugged the Styrofoam cup and approached the desk.
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Can I help you?”
Serge quickly glanced around, then leaned closer. “The code word is smegma. ”
Channel 7
“This is Cynthia Ricardo reporting live outside the Miami morgue, where police are still baffled by the so-called Hollow Man discovered in a run-down motel behind the former Orange Bowl. Also known as the Jack-O’-Lantern Man, he has since been identified as Juan Vizquel, whose fingerprints implicate him in numerous tourist robberies near the airport. Most puzzling is the cadaver’s empty chest cavity, missing all internal organs, but with no external surgical marks. Meanwhile, authorities are seeking the whereabouts of mysterious vigilantes responsible for the murder. Two surviving witnesses from Bowling Green credit the suspects with saving their lives during an attempted carjacking, and further believe that the pair-clad in superhero costumes-are on a crusade to rid Miami’s streets of crime and legalize marijuana.”
Inside the morgue…
A homicide lieutenant burst through lab doors.
“Got anything yet?”
The medical examiner didn’t look up. “Hold your horses.”
“The chief wants this solved fast,” said the lieutenant. “The press just came up with another nickname.”
The examiner was a gnomelike public servant with a habit of girlish giggles when handling close-up gore. It got under the lieutenant’s last layer of skin, and the examiner explored the possibilities.
“We got another problem,” said the lieutenant, staring curiously at the gray body on a cold metal table. “There’s an information leak somewhere.”
The examiner picked up a sharp instrument. “Not in my department.”
“ Some body’s talking to reporters. Have you seen the headlines?”
The examiner nodded.
“Do you have to giggle?”
The examiner reached for safety glasses. “I thought you’d be happy.” The beginning of an incision at the collarbone.
“Happy?” said the detective. “I’m not feeling the joy.”
The examiner chuckled to himself. “You cleared at least fifteen carjackings, including a fatal with that Dutch tourist.”
“But now we’ve got vigilantes cruising the airport.” The lieutenant picked up an X-ray and held it to the ceiling light. “The chamber of commerce hasn’t stopped calling.”
“People on talk radio seem to like him. Especially the part about the cape.”
“We look ridiculous.”
Slicing continued in classic autopsy Y-pattern. A giggle.
The lieutenant held the X-ray to the light again. “I see I’m talking to the wrong person.”
The examiner set down his instrument and looked up. “What do you want from me?”
“A conclusive ruling.” He extended a palm toward the table. “What’s taking so long? You’re usually done way before this.”
“It’s a complicated case.” The examiner reached toward his desk and opened a file. “Seemed open-and-shut at first. Fractured femur and tibia from when the car hit him, embedded windshield glass in his scalp. Almost positive I’d find internal punctures and hemorrhaging from a rib. Then I saw these…” He held up his own X-rays. “… I thought our machine was broken. See how the entire chest cavity is empty? All organs removed.”
“You’re shitting me,” said the lieutenant. “I thought the papers were just being sensational, like Squid Boy.”
The examiner shook his head. “He’s literally hollow. So then I thought his lacerations from the car were covering surgical entry. You heard those urban legends about a guy waking up in a hotel bathtub full of ice, no kidney and a telephone?”
“Some surgeon did this?”
The examiner shook his head again. “No incisions. And none of the lacerations penetrated the hypodermis. Some mysterious new technique I’ve never seen before, like building a ship in a bottle. That’s why it’s taking so long.” He slapped a cold shoulder. “We can’t hurry into this guy, or I might destroy evidence of the method.”
“You wouldn’t say not to hurry if it was your ass in city hall this morning.” The officer wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “We need to stop all the wild speculation. You should hear the rumors: voodoo, supernatural, UFOs. It’s like the freakin’ X-Files out there.”
“How am I supposed to stop that?”
“Bring it down to earth. Surely there’s some reasonable explanation that’s boring and will get the reporters-and the chief-off my back.”
The examiner grabbed his knife again and finished the Y-cut. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve looked at this from all angles, and a flying saucer is as good as anything I’ve come up with.” A bone saw buzzed to life.
“You’re not making me feel any better.”
“And you’re crowding me.” The saw went back on the tray and the rib spreader came off.
The lieutenant winced. The examiner stuck his head down. “That’s more like it. Clue city.”
“What’d you find?”
The examiner scraped inside with what looked like an ice cream scoop and held the results toward the officer.
“That’s disgusting. Get it out of my face.”
The examiner set it aside. “Extensive internal burns.”
“You mean like he was in a fire?”
The M.E. took another scoop from the abdomen. “There are many kinds of burns besides fire, and no indication here of external heat trauma.”
“This just gets worse and worse.”
“When I make some slides from tissue samples, we’ll know a lot more.” The examiner bent down again. “Now, if you leave me alone, I can work faster.”
“You’ll call?”
“Got you on speed dial.”
The lieutenant put his hat back on and headed out. He stopped in the doorway, neck muscles seized. Behind him, giggling. “A cape.”
Consulate of Costa Gorda
The receptionist glared at Serge.
He produced an envelope and glanced around again. “Give this to your spy.”
“Spy?”
“Every consulate has a spy.”
“But we don’t-”
Serge winked. “They trained you well. And since you hold such a low position, you might even be the spy, like the submarine cook in The Hunt for Red October. If so, open that envelope and read it yourself.” Serge chugged the rest of his coffee, then held the empty cup to his left eyeball. “Some spies have to put things in their butt. I don’t want that job, unless it’s something very, very small. Coleman would do it, but his bowels are unreliable whenever you need to count on them. In the 1965 James Bond movie Thunderball, the skydiving frogmen are supposed to be jumping into the Bahamas, but downtown Miami is in the background. Or am I lying? See how I turned that around? That’s critical in the shadow world: The truth is the lie, and the lie is the truth. Sometimes it’s a limerick or a productive cough. I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand. Dead shark in the street. The code word now is monkey-pox…”