“Got flushed down the toilet,” said Escobar. “You really believe they can fix it?”
Serge closed his eyes tight again. “Why did you flush your finger down the toilet?”
“Wasn’t on purpose,” said Escobar.
“Yeah,” said Coleman. “We were dumping all the coke to get rid of the evidence because of the problem with his finger, and it just fell in.”
“But Coleman really tried to save it,” said Savage. “His arm even got stuck.”
“That’s why there’s so much blood,” said Escobar. “We had to stop and get Coleman’s arm out of the toilet first, and couldn’t attend to the other wounds.”
“Other wounds?” said Serge.
Savage displayed his left hand. “Me and Coleman cut ourselves on the broken mirror. That’s why Scooter lost his concentration and cut his finger off.”
“Back up,” said Serge. “How did the mirror break?”
“I leaned against the sink,” said Coleman.
“How did you break the mirror leaning on the sink?”
“The mirror was lying across it,” said Escobar.
“Why was the mirror on the sink?”
“There was no other place to put it,” said Coleman.
Ambulance sirens. A burst through the club’s secret door with a stretcher. “Who’s hurt?”
Serge pointed in different directions. “Those two are just scraped. The short one lost a finger.”
“Where is it?” asked an EMT.
“On the way to Biscayne Bay.”
They hoisted him onto the gurney. The lounge’s door flew open again.
Ambulance sirens faded into the breezy night.
Felicia looked at Serge with regret. “Rain check?”
Serge managed his best smile under the circumstances. “I’ll look forward to it.”
She headed toward the door. “I need to check a few things out. Let’s meet again tomorrow and put my plan in motion.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Edge of the Everglades.
Isolated. Buzzing insects. Melting heat.
A cloud of chalky dust kicked up in the distance and drifted west behind an orange-and-green Plymouth.
The gravel road swung south. A lone metal building appeared.
“That’s the warehouse,” said Scooter.
Felicia gestured toward a smaller dirt road. “Go around back.”
Serge pulled up tight along the rear of the structure and parked beneath a ventilation fan frozen with rust. “You sure this is the place?”
Felicia grabbed a crowbar and opened her door. “We’ll soon find out.”
They walked around the front to a gravel lot. Coleman took a slug of Southern Comfort and passed it to his new buddies. Serge picked up a charred hubcap. “This used to be a nice car…”
“… And here’s one of the bumpers,” said Coleman.
“And a blast crater,” said Savage.
“Scooter,” said Felicia.
“What about him?” said Serge.
Felicia approached the warehouse entrance. “He blew it up.”
“Scooter blew up a Ferrari?”
“It was an accident,” said Scooter. “The thing just fired.”
Felicia jammed the iron bar in a latch and popped off the padlock.
“Coleman,” said Serge. “Stand lookout by the car. Just knock on the metal wall three times if you see anyone.”
They slid open a door on screeching tracks. Shafts of sunlight hit the floor.
Serge stopped in the middle of the empty building and looked around. “You probably didn’t know this about me, but I have a thing for women with crowbars. Actually not a thing. Crowbars just seem to come into play.”
Felicia wasn’t listening. She squatted down near the back.
“What is it?” asked Serge.
She stood and rubbed something between her fingers. Tiny pieces fluttered to the floor. “Sawdust.”
“I’m guessing they weren’t making cabinets.”
“That’s the spot,” said Scooter. “Where they were checking the crates. I told you.”
Felicia reached down again and picked up a scrap of plastic. “Packing shims from an RPG.”
“The one that malfunctioned,” said Scooter.
Felicia turned slowly and nodded. “Evangelista’s place.”
“Victor Evangelista?” said Serge.
“Ostensibly a respected businessman, highly connected politically. Rumors have been rampant for years, but nothing proven. And a lot of people who were doing the talking aren’t able to anymore.”
“I know his backstory,” said Serge.
“Then you know he’s arguably one of the biggest gunrunners in the hemisphere,” said Felicia. “According to the rumors, Victor’s been playing all sides for years. The generals, CIA, even the rebels.”
“That’s a short life expectancy.”
“Normally,” said Felicia. “Except everyone wants him to play all sides.”
“I don’t understand.”
“CIA fronts pay him to secretly arm the generals, because Congress won’t let ’em do it themselves. And both the generals and the CIA want him to arm the rebels.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Welcome to spy town.” Felicia lit a thin cigar. “The rebels are a joke. Unless our governments arm them, they’re worse than harmless, except when they come out of the mountains to beg for food or wash people’s windshields.”
Serge whistled. “If we armed all the windshield guys in Miami, you got an apocalyptic wasteland. Or more so.”
“They have no choice but to arm the rebels.”
“Why?”
“Because any regime bankrupt of even the slightest intelligent ideology needs to see enemies where there aren’t any.”
Serge nodded. “Glenn Beck.”
“These are volatile times for my country,” said Felicia. “It’s no secret that for decades, our government-make that the generals-has been on the take. First it was letting drug smugglers pass through. And now guns. Except the volume of the traffic is far more than the junta and rebels could use in ten lifetimes. It’s obvious that Costa Gorda has become a weapons pipeline and money-laundering haven for every tinhorn south of Mexico-and brings great shame to me and my homeland.”
“Shades of Noriega.” Serge placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “But isn’t it good that at least the guns are moving on and not staying in your country.”
“No. It means more millions to skim for the generals, which means more power, which means they’re able to override any legitimate democratic vote of the people. That’s why the election of President Guzman worries so many.”
“He’s a good man,” said Serge.
“Incorruptible,” replied Felicia. “But he didn’t get elected without also being an expert politician. Everyone’s holding their breath over just how long his finesse can juggle the generals. Especially the generals.”
“And I thought our politics was rough.”
“I’m betting the military will eventually get too nervous and do something stupid, like a coup. Or a bullet.” Felicia dropped the cigar and crushed it out with her foot. “My country’s biggest hope is to expose the generals’ financial network to the world. Except that seemed impossible until now. We’ve got to follow this trail wherever it leads.”
“So you’re a patriot,” said Serge. “Even shorter life expectancy.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You’re the one who mentioned a bullet.”
“But we’re way up here in Miami. What can happen?”
Suddenly a crash through a side window of the warehouse. Serge knocked Felicia to the ground and shielded her with his body. “Stay down!”
He pulled a. 45 pistol from behind his back and twisted toward the window.
Someone was crawling through the small opening.
“Coleman!” yelled Serge. “What the hell are you doing in the window?”
“I think I’m stuck.” A grunt.
“You were supposed to stand lookout by the car.”
“I got lonely.”
Serge pointed the gun toward sunlight. “But the door’s wide open.”
A pause. “Serge?”
“Yes?”
“What am I doing in the window?”
“Talking to me.”
“Does Felicia have any weed?”
“I don’t think so.”