Normally a person would have immediately collapsed, lights out. But every once in a while, if a foreign object enters the brain just right, there’s a short period of otherwise comical short-circuiting through the nervous system, like over-voltage in a robot. The man’s limbs flapped spastically, his face contorting in all kinds of crazy expressions … Okay, it actually was funny. The attacker briefly caught himself in the mirror, his last memory on the planet: this ridiculous-looking hazard-yellow gizmo sticking out the side of his head like a tiny toy ax. Then, all life ceased, and he went straight down as if someone snipped the wires on a marionette.
Serge looked at his fingers. “I got a boo-boo.” He grabbed a travel first-aid kit out of his suitcase, stepped over the body and went in the bathroom. A faucet came on. Minutes later, Serge came out with fresh bandage dressing. He bent down and wiggled his lucky tool free.
THAT EVENING
The sun went down over South Beach. Topless bathers grabbed their tops. Neon came on. A Crown Vic with blackwall tires headed up Collins Avenue.
Mahoney had lost Serge. But not his scent. He’d picked up the next best thing. Story reclined against the back window of a metro bus a hundred feet in front of the agent’s car.
Behind Mahoney was a windowless white van with magnetic lawn-care signs. The front passenger had long, stringy hair and binoculars focused on the rear window of the bus.
The bus stopped every few blocks. People got on and off. Mainly on: domestic help heading home to the mainland. Story stayed put. So did Mahoney.
To local residents, the sight of a transit bus was the signal to get over in the left lane or be stacked up, stop after frequent stop, cursing under breath. Cars that hadn’t already gotten over did so. That’s how Mahoney spotted the van, the only other vehicle remaining patiently in the right lane.
They left the surface flash of South Beach. At the intersection with Arthur Godfrey, two nondescript sedans with extra antennae, tinted windows and yellow government plates made a wide left, joining the public bus motorcade. They entered the realm of the old guard, Fontainebleau, Eden Roc. More stops. The blond hair on the back of Story’s head stayed pressed against the glass. Mahoney checked his mirrors and noticed the growing population.
“Damn.”
Ten blocks ahead, an orange-and-green Javelin reached the grimy north end of the strip, where people lived out of mildewed motel rooms, and old Cuban men with straw hats popped into narrow storefronts all day long for shots of espresso. Serge’s favorite part of the beach.
“There’s the Stardust!” he told Coleman. “Where porn star John Holmes hid out while on the lam from the Wonderland murders in the Hollywood Hills.”
Serge drove a few more blocks and hid the car as far down a tight alley as he could before a discarded sofa stopped him. He got out and climbed over the couch. “Careful, Coleman, those springs are sharp.”
They ended up in a parking lot on the back side of a stark cement building with black streaks from roof runoff. Cars began trickling in. Ten-year-old Camaros and Subarus and Toyotas. All the drivers were women, all tall, acutely sexual and high mileage. Torn jeans and loose jerseys, carrying gym bags like they were headed for the spa. The first knocked on a reinforced steel door. A barrel-chested man with shaved head, goatee and gold earring opened it. Four women filed inside. More cars, another knock on steel; the door opened again, etcetera.
Opposite the front of the building, a bus stopped. Story got off in torn jeans, carrying a gym bag. She jaywalked across the street and went through the building’s front entrance, which was a chipped, blood-red door under a row of half-burned-out cabaret lights.
The lawn-care van parked at the corner in a parallel metered slot. Mahoney followed the bus a block past the club to avert detection. Two government sedans made a left.
Five muscle-bound men exited the landscaping van and assembled in the street outside the vehicle’s side door. They made the usual visual sweep of surroundings, hands over concealed weapons. When they were satisfied of no imminent danger, the door slid open. The Eel stepped down into the middle of the gang for a circular human shield. The clot of goons moved across the street without regard for brake-screeching traffic that stopped in both directions and would have leaned on horns, but appraised the men first and thought better. Even the bouncer at the door retreated against the entryway as they marched inside. One of the bodyguards peeled off to check the building’s perimeter.
The strip club was cave dark and characteristically vacant at opening time. Just three ringside hard-cores staring up at empty firehouse poles. Someone turned on the sound. A deafening dance-beat, eighties funk, extra-heavy on the bass.
