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.
The gang moved along the southern row of lap-dance booths, maintaining its security envelope around the Eel. A second guard broke away to check the restrooms.
“… You dropped the bomb on me! Baby, baby …”
One of the entourage pulled out a chair for their leader, who took a seat at the edge of the catwalk. From the neckline of a shirt, a jellylike blob glowed a fluorescent, toxic-waste green in the club’s dim light. The rest of the gang remained standing in their protective ring, backs to the Eel, looking out toward empty seats that would soon begin filling.
A bodyguard returned. Restrooms clear.
Curtains at the back of the club parted. A malnourished peroxide-blonde with science-fiction tits strutted out in lingerie.
Another guard returned from his outside rounds. He leaned to the Eel and whispered. Bad news. Two-tone Javelin in the alley. Lingerie fell to the stage.
The Eel snapped his fingers. Others knew what to do.
A pair of the crew jumped up on the back of the catwalk. Another bouncer appeared from the curtains. He couldn’t be heard above the pounding music, but his emphatic gestures said: You can’t go back there!
“… Super freak! Super freak …”
The bouncer recovered from a hard shove and followed the men to the dressing room. At the opposite end of the club, the front door opened again. Four G-men with white shirts and thin black ties.
Across the street, Mahoney observed the other agents enter the club. A fifth G-man spotted the Javelin in the alley and stood watch, leaning against the orange trunk. Mahoney pulled the front brim of his fedora low over his eyes, trotted across the road and went inside. He kept his head down, looking away from the starched white shirts, now luminous blue, and commandeered a seat in the darkest booth at the back of the club.
The catwalk’s curtains flew open. Bodyguards jumped down from the stage and walked quickly up the aisle toward the Eel, shaking their heads: no sign of Serge. The Eel motioned for one of his goons, whispering instructions to stand guard in the alley by the Javelin. He ran out the front door. The Eel slipped a twenty in a garter belt.
The dancer sashayed out of sight through the curtains, which opened again as quickly as they had closed. New dancer, redhead in pig-tails, cheerleader uniform. Tempo changed.
“… You!… Shook me allllllll night long!…”
The dispatched guard entered the west end of the alley and took up position, leaning against the Javelin’s front hood. He nodded at the state agent by the trunk.
Back inside, the Eel leaned forward with another twenty and a slimy grin. The dancer stepped over the fallen pom-poms, cocked her knee forward and stretched an elastic garter.
More dancers and music. The Eel became increasingly engrossed. Patrons trickled in, and the bodyguards tightened their outward-facing semicircle around the Eel’s chair, cynically evaluating each new customer.
Then the main attraction. Another theme song.
“… Devil in a blue dress, blue dress, blue dress …”
Story pushed through the curtains in a long, blue bedroom gown and launched into an impressively aerobic routine on a fire pole. One of the crusty regulars sitting along the other side of the catwalk held out a dollar bill. He looked up from under a wig and fake mustache that kept having to be pressed back in place. “Pssst! Story, it’s me, Serge!”
She glared back, sliding down from the pole into a split.
From the other side of the catwalk, the Eel made a slight waving motion with another twenty. Story shed the gown and swaggered over. The bill motioned her closer. She squatted right in front of him in a catcher’s crouch. His eyes were not on her face.
Story began a slow, rhythmic thrusting of her pelvis. The Eel licked his lips. She grabbed the top edge of her lace panties, just below a pierced belly button, and pulled them down at a teasingly slow rate. The customers on the other side of the catwalk had a prime angle: Story’s great ass and a slender, odd bulge in the backside of her underwear.