Torpedo Juice полностью

He was assigned a low-probability scag investigation on the north end of White Street. This was before heroin came back. If he got lucky, he might collar a dime-bag peddler.

Gus tried all kinds of disguises but nothing worked. Sometimes suspects would smile and wave at Gus as he sat in his car outside a motel. Another time a bum walked up as Gus reclined on a bench, dressed like a tourist.

“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“The people you want are on the other side of the motel. Room fourteen.”

“How do you know that?”

The bum opened a thrown-away paper sack and popped half a conch fritter in his mouth. “I’m homeless, not stupid.”

The next day, a bum waved flies off a half-eaten crab cake. A red Maserati pulled up to the motel. A man in khaki slacks went in room fourteen. He came out with a pillow.

“I’ll take that.”

The man turned and noticed the bum for the first time. He’d never seen one before with a gun and a gold badge hanging around his neck.

Just like that. Nine ounces of heroin. Another round of commendations and photo ops. The “Serpico” business started.

Gus was promoted to the Narcotics Abatement & Deterrence Squad, an elite commando unit that went in with black uniforms, face paint and flash-bang grenades. He was the lead agent through the back door of a Mexican restaurant moving brown tar in south Miami. Gus’s body armor had been rated to stop most tactical rounds. It didn’t do as well when they tipped four hundred pounds of metal kitchen shelves on you. In the movies, he would have flung the racks aside and yelled, “You’re under arrest!” In reality, this is what Gus said: “Ow, my back.”

The publicity photos got even wider play because they were from the hero’s hospital bed. Rehabilitation was slow and incomplete. They offered Gus a desk job, but that would have meant… a desk job. He might as well sell shoes. Gus eagerly accepted a demotion back to deputy and took an assignment in one of the Keys’ smaller substations. Years went by and pounds went on. Instead of commendations, his personnel file swelled with reminders about the department’s fitness guidelines. Gus never complained.

If only he could make another big case.

20

A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA crossed the bridge to Upper Matecumbe and hit backed-up traffic. People in orange vests waved them into a field used for ad hoc parking.

Serge and Coleman walked across the grass until they came to a large array of flea-market tables. Stereos, computers, TVs, Japanese cameras, German binoculars, video equipment, night-vision goggles, parabolic directional eavesdropping microphones.

“I love DEA seizure auctions!” said Serge. “Coleman, where are you?…”

“I’m tired of walking,” said Coleman, trying out a personal treadmill until Serge yanked him off. The tables ended, giving way to the big stuff in the back of the field near the water. Motorcycles, sports cars, boats.

Serge stopped and put a hand over his chest. “She’s beautiful!”

There it was, like a mirage, radiating shafts of energy. Serge quietly approached and stroked it like a newborn. An eighteen-foot Diamondback fuel-injected 454 horse crate with the Stinger 2.09:1 gear reduction. “I’ve wanted one of these ever since 1967!”

“But you were just a kid,” said Coleman.

“That’s when Gentle Ben first aired on CBS. The coolest show: game warden tooling around the Everglades in an airboat, his son rescuing a cub from the evil hunter Fog Hanson, the bear growing into a lovable giant that helps the family out of complex situations.”

Someone stepped up next to Serge. A squat older gentleman with a cattle rancher’s hat, bolo tie and stubby cigar that he was more chewing than smoking.

“That’s my airboat!”

“It is?” said Serge.

“Gonna be. I scare away the others with my bold initial bids. Leave ’em pissin’ in their boots.”

“No kidding?” said Serge. “I scare ’em away with my ridiculously tiny bids.” He made a big grin.

The man studied Serge with tight eyes, then broke out laughing and slapped him on the shoulder. “I like you, boy!”

They looked at the airboat again.

“Mighty fine,” said the man.

“Yes, she is,” said Serge.

“I love the War on Drugs!” said the man. “Get more great shit since the forfeiture laws. They can take anything they want, not even due process.”

“Of course there’s due process,” said Serge. “This is America.”

“What are you, for drugs?” said the man. “Suppose you want proof, too.”

“Proof’s bad?”

“We’re talkin’ drugs, boy!”

Serge smacked a fist into his other hand. “Goddam the pusher-man!”

“ACLU technicalities!” The man removed his cigar and spit something on the ground. “But we’ve fixed proof. Here’s your new proof: A dog barks. Then they take whatever they want.”

“Barks?”