“Mjjjfggsys . . .”
“Sorry, but something’s come up,” said the reporter. “I have to go.”
“Another big story?” asked Brisbane.
“No, a personal matter,” said Reevis. “I need to get over to the legal clinic.” He began dialing again as he rushed out of the room.
Brisbane and Dundee glanced at each other and nodded. They ran out the door.
A couple of satisfied customers had returned and occupied a pair of chairs in a nail salon.
An Asian woman smiled at a cheetah. “But you don’t need the laser treatment.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Serge. “I’m all about lasers. Bring it on.”
She smiled again and went to work, giving him extra pampering because of his massive tip from the last visit. She was starting to get a crush.
A cell phone rang, and rang. It took extra time to take off the paw and fish inside the costume. “Serge here . . . What! . . . Slow down, what’s wrong? . . . Don’t move. I’ll take care of everything . . .”
“Is something the matter?” asked the woman walking over with a narrow beam of light.
“Sorry, but something’s come up.” He jumped out of the chair and peeled off twenties. “Come on, Coleman! . . .”
It was a frantic search that became so desperate it ventured into irrational territory. In the top floor of an extended-stay hotel near the airport, all the briefcases lay open on the beds as men ripped apart pillows and pulled paintings off the walls.
Ocho Pelota stood in the middle of the room with a crimson face.
Reports came back from various parts of the suite: “I can’t find it.” “It’s not anywhere.” “What could have happened to that ticket?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Pelota took a deep, violent breath. “Who’s not here?”
They looked around. “Pablo.”
“Pablo!” repeated Pelota. “He’s the last person I would have— Goddammit!” He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. And dialed.
“He’s not answering?”
“What about ‘shut up’ do you not get?” Then he began pressing other buttons, pulling up a map in the screen. “All the cell phones I gave you guys are GPS enabled . . . There’s Pablo, and he’s on the move. Everyone, strap up!”
They grabbed all the weapons they could lay their hands on and ran for the door.
In a Fort Lauderdale condo, a man with dreadlocks and a bathrobe stared out at the ocean with a phone in his hand. “. . . I understand . . . Yes, you did the right thing . . . Your word is your bond . . . We’ll meet you there.”
He hung up.
“Who was that?” asked a trusted assistant.
“Our new lawyer,” said Rogan. “Get everyone together as fast as you can, and pack heavy.”
A Chrysler 300 screeched into the strip-mall parking lot. Ziggy and Pablo ran up the stairs to the law clinic as another vehicle jumped the curb. Reevis leaped out.
Brook was waiting at the top. “To my office!”
They piled inside. Then the tedious process of going through the layers of protective envelopes until the ticket lay in the middle of her desk. Everyone stood around staring silently like it was a piece of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
Brook flipped to a page in the Miami Herald and compared numbers one by one. Over and over. She began hyperventilating. “It’s for real.”
A cell phone rang. Pablo jumped. He checked the caller ID and started shaking uncontrollably. He hurriedly completed a forgotten task: turning off his GPS.
“You better have a seat,” said Brook. “And you better tell me right now why you can’t come forward with this ticket. Most of my clients are jittery, but something’s more than not right here. And it isn’t just the size of the jackpot.”
Pablo just continued vibrating as the color drained from his face.
“The whole story,” said Brook. “Or we don’t go any further.”
Pablo stuttered through most of it, but he eventually finished the wild tale.
Brook and Reevis locked eyes. “Dear God!”
The reporter pulled out his cell phone.
“Reevis, who are you calling? . . .”
A silver Corvette skidded into the parking lot. The pals jumped out and dashed inside.
“Serge, thank heavens you’re here! I didn’t know what else to do!”
“You can calm down now,” said Serge. “I’ve got this under control.”
“I couldn’t believe he came back,” said Marilyn. “He’s been sitting in his car across the street all morning.”
Serge glanced out the curtains at a brown-haired man in an old convertible black Lincoln. “The mask is in my car. This won’t take long.”
Marilyn didn’t want Serge to leave her side, and she tiptoed behind him. Serge popped the trunk and grabbed the disguise. A cell phone rang. “Serge here . . . Reevis, slow down, you’re talking too fast . . . What! . . . Don’t move. I’ll be right over.” Then to Marilyn: “Something’s come up . . .”
“Wait!” said a terrified drag queen. “You can’t leave me!”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” Serge slammed the trunk. “You’ll be safe with us. Come on!”
The trio ran to the Corvette. The sky began to darken, wind picked up. Coleman sat in Marilyn’s lap as Serge tossed the Oswald mask on the dashboard. He gave it the gas and took off down the street, followed by a black Lincoln. They both took the on-ramp to the Palmetto Expressway.
The full-scale freak-out was contagious. Everyone in Brook’s office felt hearts pounding through their chests. They kept checking out the window as purple thunderheads rolled in.
Then other pounding, feet coming up the stairs. Serge burst into the office with Coleman and Marilyn in tow.
“Thanks for coming,” said a shaken Reevis. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to reach you.”
“Everyone can relax now,” said Serge. “But we have to move fast. If events are already in motion like I think, we’re not safe here. Who has the ticket?”
Ziggy grabbed it off the desk. “Me.” No time for the envelopes; he tucked it in his wallet.
“Whose Chrysler out front?”
“Mine,” said Pablo.
“Coleman rides with me,” said Serge. “Everyone else in the other car. If we can reach the Palmetto, we should be in the clear.”
They all scampered down the stairs. Serge stopped at the door for a quick recon before the final sprint to the cars. The sky cut loose in a downpour, but the coast was clear.
“Now!”
The gang ran for their vehicles as a pair of Mercedes flew into the parking lot. Pelota and his boys jumped out, forming a line and pointing Uzis. “Nobody’s going anywhere!”
They froze where they stood, rain dripping down their faces.
“Now, who has the ticket?” demanded Pelota.
A cheetah stepped forward. “I do,” lied Serge.
“Just hand it over and nobody will get hurt,” said Pelota. “Except Pablo. He’s coming with us.”
“You look like a reasonable person,” said Serge. “Don’t you think a finder’s fee is in order?”
“Serge!” snapped Brook.
“Shhh, I’m negotiating here.”
Pelota smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You’ve got some nerve. That I respect. So I’ll make an exception and ask a second time, and only a second time. Give me the ticket.”
Tires squealed. A Jaguar and a Cadillac braked to a stop on the other side of the parking lot. Rogan’s dreadlock gang got out and formed another row, pointing MAC-10s.
Silence.
As fast as the rain had started, it ceased. Only the sound of water quickly draining off the parking lot into the storm drains and rushing through concrete pipes to the sea.