Serge closed his eyes and placed his forehead on the bar. He raised his head. “Would you believe I have two backups?”
“You’re wasting my time.”
“Okay, here’s the deal.” Serge slipped Dick a matchbook. “Hotel, room, time.”
“What’s the take?”
“Opals, small but decent quantity. The big catch is a twenty-carat flawless ruby.”
“How do you know?”
“If I told you, I’d be out of a job.”
“Better not be a trick or you won’t hear the bullet.”
Javelin flew out of Miami on South Dixie Highway. Blistering afternoon. Mercury flirted with a hundred. Even hotter in the car since Serge had the heater up all the way. Sweat sheeted down their heads.
Coleman wiped his face. “My eyes are stinging.”
Serge grabbed a handle. “Roll down your window.”
Coleman cranked the knob on his own door. “Why’d you turn the heater on full blast?”
“Because the car’s overheating at this temperature.”
Coleman stuck his head out the window like a cocker spaniel. “I don’t understand.”
“Most people don’t. Serge’s travel tip number 739: When a radiator gets too hot, some drivers know to turn off the air conditioner, because the law of thermodynamics adds heat to the engine inversely proportional to the cooling of the passenger compartment. But the real trick in averting a boil-over is to turn on the beater. There is no real heater in most cars. It just sucks hot air off the engine and blows it in here. See?” He tapped the dash’s temperature gauge.
Coleman came back inside and looked at the instrument dial. “It’s working. The needle’s dropping out of the red zone.”
“The radiator was about to blow, but we successfully improvised to continue the mission. I should have been on Apollo 13.”
“So what’s the mission?”
“Perimeter sweep.”
They reached Homestead at the bottom of the state and took a small county road to the western outskirts. Low, flat agricultural fields with tomato pickers in wide-brimmed straw hats. “I’m driving
out to the address I got off that phone call. We need daylight to assess the layout for our counter-offensive against the gang tonight.”
“I thought we were going to double-cross them at that hotel room on the matchbook.”
“Correct. Two sets of targets today, so timing will be tight. My Master Plan to take out most of the gang requires an intricate sequence of perfectly ordered strikes or we risk picking off only a few. After the ambush tonight, we’ll need to get back here toot-sweet before word of the betrayal leaks out.”
“But won’t they already suspect us from the foam-heads?”
“Probably not, because that was based on Steve’s tip-and before my phone call. But after tonight, there’ll be no doubt. And as soon as they find out, they’ll come after us with everything they’ve got.”
“What’ll we do then?”
“Beat ‘em to the punch.”
Farther west. Limestone quarry, dump trucks, abandoned airstrip and, finally, an isolated hacienda on the back side of a palm tree farm. Serge rechecked his notebook. “I think that’s the place now.”
Moments later, Serge and Coleman crept through rows of coconut palms. They reached the edge of the trees and a clearing that led to the front porch. A van and a pickup. Buzzing crickets. Pesticide odor. A screen door opened. Serge raised binoculars. Three men came out: two strapped with weapons, the other holding a walkie-talkie. There was a short conversation at the foot of the porch, then the smallest raised the two-way radio to his mouth. They headed for the vehicles.
Coleman peeked over Serge’s shoulder. “What do you see?”
“Just as I thought. Two goons and ‘Dick’ from the Wreck Lounge.” He lowered the binoculars and swatted a mosquito on his neck. “Some kind of stash house, nice and secluded, just how I like it.”
The gang pulled out of the driveway and sped down a dusty road along the edge of the palms.
“Quick,” said Serge. “Behind a tree.”
The vehicles shot past them.
THAT NIGHT
Two burly goons in electricians’ uniforms stood in a motel hallway. One had a toolbox and the other a universal magnetic card key bribed from one of the motel’s staff. They looked both ways, then jumped inside.
The first burglar abruptly pulled up after two steps. Their informant had said nobody was supposed to be inside. He was wrong, except in this case it was better: no need to search for the hiding place.
On the other end of the room, Coleman sat at a desk with a jeweler’s magnifying loupe in his right eye, examining a large tray full of real-looking fake gems. He glanced up when he heard the men; the loupe fell from his eye and bounced across the desk.
The one with the toolbox smiled at the other. “This is too easy.” The second pulled a gun and moved quickly across the room. “Step away from the tray and you won’t get hurt.”
Coleman got up and stumbled backward until he was pressed against a wall.
“Now stay there and don’t move a muscle.”
The armed electrician kept him covered while the other dumped the tray’s contents into his toolbox. He closed the lid and latched it. “Got it. Let’s go.”
The one with the gun: “We have a witness.”
