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?…”
Part III
Chapter Twenty-Four
Miami Beach
Ocean Drive.
Changing of the guard. Nightlife. The sidewalk smelled like sex.
Lunch fare turned to fashionably late dinner. The jet set sniffed wine corks at outdoor tables facing the Atlantic. Haute cuisine. Micro-portions of pan-seared albacore, showcased with decorative, Spirograph swirls of lemon and raspberry sauce reaching the edge of the china, creating the illusion of a meal.
Someone had a more satisfying amount of eggs Benedict at the News Cafe. Cameras flashed. People still taking photos of the mansion steps where Gianni Versace was gunned down by Andrew Cunanan.
Johnny Vegas banged his forehead on a restaurant table as the Most Laid Guy in Miami left arm in arm with an Above-Average Model. They strolled one street over to Washington Avenue.
Club row.
The scene didn’t start until midnight…
12:01 A.M.
Every block, velvet ropes held back crowds pleading with bulky men in black shirts. Wires running from their collars to earplugs. Staring over the crowd’s heads with stone expressions. From time to time, one of the security men pointed into the pulsing mob. The rope opened. A gleeful group ran inside. The rope closed. Ugly people stood for hours and went home.
Felicia and Serge strolled north on the sidewalk. She radiated the kind of visceral aura that meant never having to wait behind velvet cords. Serge was debonair, with enough poised carriage to ride her coattails. Not so with the trio trailing behind.
Coleman, Escobar, and Savage already contained a half-dozen drinks each, stumbling and weaving through waiting crowds.
“Hey, watch it, asshole!”
Serge turned to Felicia. “Sorry about that. They’re a little rough on the edges but generally harmless.”
“Forget it,” she said. “I know men. Much worse. Those guys are lovable in their own way.”
Serge looked back as the threesome divvied up pills. “They do seem to be hitting it off.”
“Common interests.”
The next club didn’t have ropes to keep people out, so nobody wanted to get in.
Excitement built. Some kind of music video shoot in the street with ostriches, backup singers painted silver, and a giant, inflatable iPad.
Police cars with flashing lights penned in a crashed Porsche.
Another block, another film crew. A TV ad for rum that would only be seen in Uruguay.
Felicia and the gang skirted another hopping crowd behind a barrier. Limos pulled up. The under-nourished climbed out. Velvet rope unhooked. Air kisses. In they went.
“Who wants to exist like that?” said Serge. He turned around again. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
“Where’d those idiots go?”
“I don’t see them anywhere.”
Serge sniffed the night air. “Follow the marijuana.”
They arrived at a garbage-filled alley between buildings.
“What the hell are you guys doing in there?”
“Oh, hey Serge.” Coleman took a big hit. “Just burning a quick one with my new friends. I didn’t know spies did weed.”
“Hurry up. You’re keeping Felicia waiting.”
“Almost done.” Coleman rapidly toked a roach.
Then, yelling from deeper into the alley. A man in a ripped shirt ran past them onto the street.
“What’s that about?” asked Coleman.
“Probably a mugging,” said Serge.
Back up the alley, six people in red berets. Three clowns restrained the assailant, and three mimes silently pretended to punch him.
The guys rejoined Felicia. “Where is this place?” asked Serge.
“Next block.” Felicia handed him a business card.
Serge stared at it, then flipped to the blank back side. “It just says, ‘SPY.’ No address or phone number.”
“If you don’t know, you’re not supposed to come.”
They crossed the street and stood in front of a boarded-up building.
“Looks closed,” said Savage.
“Looks abandoned,” said Serge.
“That’s on purpose.” Felicia walked around the corner. “Follow me.”
They headed up a dark side street, then made a left down an even darker alley. Just past the third trash bin, Felicia approached an anonymous steel delivery door.
Four hard, evenly spaced knocks.
A metal slit opened. Two eyes.
“Hey Felicia.” The slit closed. A voice inside. “It’s okay. It’s Felicia.” The slit opened. “Long time… Who are those other guys?”
“They’re with me.”
“That’s good enough.”
The door opened.
“Wow,” said Coleman. “What a cool club!”
Eyes adjusted in dim light that only came from the glowing bars and cocktail tables, fitted underneath with special diodes.
A waiter arrived.
Drinks.
“Serge,” said Coleman, liberally splashing whiskey on his shirt like cologne. “Everyone who works in here is wearing an eye patch. Except that old bald guy sitting up in the DJ stand with a cat in his lap.”
“It’s SPY,” said Felicia.
“It rocks,” said Serge. “Like the lair of some larger-than-life Bond villain who holds the fate of the world for ransom. I always wonder how they can hollow out a volcano with nobody noticing, not to mention the four hundred lab workers in white smocks and clipboards, monitoring power levels on the giant laser used to shoot down satellites. How do they get hired? Where do they sleep and eat? I’ve never seen a cafeteria in the volcanoes. That would make it more realistic.”
“Please,” said Felicia. “We have important business.”
“Right, business.” He made a serious face. “You said you had an idea what’s going down.”
She leaned forward and motioned everyone else to join her. “About two weeks ago, I met with this reporter. He had a story about illegal arms shipments. But since his newspaper had a reputation for sensationalism, I thought it was just a wild tale.”
“It wasn’t?”
Felicia shook her head. “On a lark, I did some digging and found irregular bank records. So I met him again.”
“What happened?” asked Serge.
“I gave him the records, and we were scheduled to meet a second time later that night when he would slip me some kind of geology report.”
“Geology?” said Serge. “How does that figure?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did his report say?”
“Never got it.”