It was after ten o'clock before I realized that wasn't going to happen.
We were still parked across the street, watching the movements outside Longstreet. We saw Brenda Holcomb pull in for her day at work in a black Suburban. We saw another two dozen or so men drive onto the plant in their own Explorers and Expeditions, hop out in workout clothes and ten, fifteen minutes later come out dressed for work, which meant the same khaki pants the employees of the potato chip factory were wearing, except the Longstreet employees dressed the khaki up with navy blue sport coats and bulging necks. Office casual versus paramilitary couture. The men jumped into the company Hummers and sped off without even bothering to wave at the security guard, who, I noticed, was not the same man I'd dropped days before. Too bad. He was one of the only guys I'd gotten to do the vomiting trick.
After three Hummers left the lot, we could see that Sam's Caddie was right where it had been left. At least Bolts thought I was good for my word, even if she hadn't called me back. Before Sam could even comment, or begin complaining, five men came out of Longstreet in what looked to be black Armani suits accented by tight black T-shirts.
"Give me your binoculars," I said to Sam. He handed them to me, and I watched the five men stride across the lot. I only recognized one of them, but that was enough. Particularly since I also recognized that they were toting Hecklers to work, which seemed just slightly unusual.
I handed the binoculars to Fiona. "I wonder who their seller is," she said.
"Remind me and I'll ask," I said.
"Where do you suppose they're off to?" Fiona said.
"Salvation Army," Sam said. "The center cannot hold. They're our last defense against the forces of evil."
"Let me see your phone, Sam," I said. I showed Fiona the photo of the tacks on South Beach Sam took when he was in Bolts' office. "See the big guy in the middle?"
"They're all big," Fiona said.
"He was guarding Natalya when I met her at the hotel," I said.
"The Michael I first met wouldn't have let him keep walking," she said.
"It wasn't like we were in a bombed-out building in Beirut," I said. "I couldn't exactly shoot him in the knees while he stood in the lobby of the hotel."
"You should have shot him for wearing that shirt with an otherwise fine suit," she said. "I don't suppose this is all a coincidence."
"Bad people find bad people," I said.
"I can agree with that," Sam said.
"You don't actually believe Longstreet is an evil organization," Fiona said. "That's absurd."
"No," I said, "I don't think they are evil. I think they are in the business of making money. They don't have an institutional moral code or some kind of religious fanaticism to work against, so they just do what they do. I think they probably hire the kind of people who don't care how that money is made, provided they get their own cut."
"Say what you will about Bolts," Sam said, "but she was going to hook me up with a decent workers' comp package."
"All we know about Dixon Woods is rumor and innuendo," Fiona said.
"When did that ever bother you?" I asked.
"It doesn't," she said. "But I thought at least Sam would require a burden of proof."
"What I've been told is enough," Sam said. "Besides, a schmuck like Eddie Champagne knows you're a bad enough guy to use your name, that's like getting a notarized document from J. Edgar Hoover. Let's stick the fucker in Camp X-Ray and be done with it."
"We closed X-Ray in 2002," I said.
"Then let's bury him under it," Sam said, "whatever gets me my car back sooner."
Fiona's point about coincidence was well taken. But I knew I wasn't just seeing things.
With money came the need for security-that much I understood about Miami. In the case of Cricket O'Connor, her position in society, her affiliation with the war, and her ability to be manipulated by a person like Eddie Champagne opened the door to exploitation. That Eddie had taken on Dixon Woods' name was no coincidence-he held a grudge against a guy who'd beaten him, caught him at his game, and he harbored it enough to be creative with it, if for nefarious purposes.
That Longstreet was protecting Natalya was a coincidence in the barest sense: The Oro was owned by Russians with a pedigree for the drug trade. It was only natural that they'd hire private security for their staff, particularly those ex-KGB agents who probably would be wise not to find themselves in dangerous situations stateside, lest someone spike their sushi with polonium 210 when they got back home. And Longstreet, with their affiliations with the drug trade in Afghanistan, were probably happy to just take the check and not ask questions.
Dixon Woods was a fulcrum, even if he wasn't aware of it. My plan was to use that against him.
Then my phone rang. The number was blocked. At least I knew it wasn't my mother.
"Talk," I said. I'd spent some time thinking about shortening my sentences to sound more menacing when the moment called for it. I figured it would make people mind the gaps in my speech; thought they'd think I was of so few words because my time was better spent planning on ways to kill them versus ruminating on tours of potato chip factories and Nair-filled Halloweens.
"It's Woods."
"Welcome to Miami," I said.
"We've got a problem," Woods said.
"We don't. You might. We don't."
"You don't seem to exist," Woods said. "I don't like to do business with people who don't exist."
"Hank Fitch doesn't exist," I said. "But his money does."
"You got any proof of that?"
I didn't. Not yet. I'd need Stanley Rosencrantz to come through. "This afternoon," I said. "My friend from the East is staying at the Hotel Oro. Are you familiar with that hotel?" Woods said nothing. I'd tried to play my hand too early, but now I had to keep bluffing. "We could meet there this evening, handle all of our business, and by morning you could be back on a plane for Afghanistan tending to your fields."
"It's off," he said and hung up.
I'd had conversations like that in the past. They were never good news.
"What was that?" Sam said. I told him. "Did it sound like he was in town?"
I thought about it. "Hard to tell," I said. "He wasn't bouncing. There was no delay. Phone sounded like a cell. He could be in the PR for all that's worth."
"What now?"
"We make him show," I said.
I called Nate, whom we'd left at my mother's so he could watch over everything, in case any Communists showed up again, and to keep an eye on Cricket, who, for whatever reason, perhaps the same poor judgment that got her in this problem to start with, confided to Fiona that she felt safe around Nate whereas I scared her. "What time is it?" Nate asked when he finally answered his cell.
"It's after ten," I said. "Listen. Plans have changed. I need you to go to Cricket's and get the tear gas from the garage."
"I don't do business until noon," he said.
"It's already tomorrow in Australia," I said.
"So it's ten a.m. tomorrow," he said.
Nate's socialization process ended right around his sixteenth birthday. I had to constantly remind myself of this so that I didn't end up shooting him. "Nate," I said, "go to Cricket's. Now."
"Can I shower?"
"I don't know, Nate, can you?" Problem was, my socialization process as it related to dealing with Nate had stopped at around twelve. That was when we decided it would be easier to just fight over everything.
"Fine, fine," he said.
I gave him some specific instruction on how to handle the tear gas. And upon reflection, told him to dig up the Malibu lights Sam had installed, too, which made Sam grunt with displeasure. I'd hear about that. But I thought we'd be able to use them in a more guerrilla-style soon. I should have known things were too perfect.