Mahoney’s mind raced back through the events of the last forty-eight hours:
Standing in that hotel room, Serge suddenly sticking the gun back in his mouth, Mahoney yelling, “Noooooo!” Lunging forward, a step too late. Serge pulling the trigger.
Then Mahoney, freezing in shock. “What the hell?”
And Serge, smiling. “You didn’t really think the gun was loaded?” He tossed it on the bed.
Bang.
A mirror shattered.
Mahoney’s mind sped back up to the present. He stared at the top of the Bogie Channel Bridge and wiped his face again, then turned to the person standing next to him in the trees. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“Got you good, didn’t I?” said Serge.
“I should turn you in.”
“Thanks for the funeral.”
“Least I could do.” Mahoney looked across the channel at a pair of sedans on the opposite bank. Men in white shirts, thin black ties, aviator sunglasses. One aimed a telephoto lens at the mourners on the top of the bridge. “Gave my word, but then I unintentionally brought all that state heat down on you with my crazy chasing around.”
“You’re a good man,” said Serge.
Mahoney peeked through the trees again at the other agents in the distance. “This ruse should give you a couple days head start.”
“They actually put you on indefinite suspension for meeting with me?”
“No, they don’t know about the meetings. But I violated about a thousand regulations conducting my own private investigation without filing reports. They frown on that.”
“I’ve seen the police shows. What now?”
“Bought a fishing pole.”
“Why don’t you come over to our side? You’re practically there already.”
“Criminals?”
“No, freelance law enforcement. We have lots of fun.”
“I don’t approve of vigilantes.”
“We can take care of them, too.”
Mahoney shook his head. “Hear the bonefish are biting off Boca Chica.”
“That’s hard to compete with. If you change your mind …”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Have some business to tidy up in Miami.”
“Story?”
Serge nodded.
“You had me completely fooled. Can’t believe she was in on it the whole time.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“I know: You want to protect her. I guess Howard wasn’t as in coherent in the hospital as I thought when he met with his sister and mentioned you. She needed an ally going after the gang.”
Serge just smiled.
“How’s the kid doing, anyway?”
“Just released from the hospital. Story said he still looks like shit and has to wear that wrap around his chest for the ribs.”
Mahoney looked back at the bridge. Coleman twisted the lid off the plastic tube. “He really thinks you’re dead?”
Serge shook his head. “Just gets weepy at sentimental gatherings.”
“Got to admit, he played his part surprisingly well.”
“He wasn’t playing,” said Serge. “We had to keep him in the dark and put on a show-for everyone’s safety.”
“So he really didn’t know about your plan with Story?”
“Talks too much in bars. Which I was able to put into play for our benefit.”
They both stared back at the gathering. Coleman dumped the plastic tube over the side of the bridge, and a collection of toenail clippings scattered on a light breeze as they fluttered down into the channel. The disciples in Serge T-shirts respectfully bowed their heads and raised fists to the sky: “Shula!”
Mahoney lifted his chin. “They’re coming.”
Serge and the agent retreated deeper into the tropical vegetation. People dabbing eyes filed by on the isolated road and headed for the pub. Coleman brought up the rear, turning off the road and thrashing into the brush. “Serge! Where are you?”
Serge grabbed him by the arm and jerked him into cover. “Quiet! I’m supposed to be dead.” He pushed Coleman’s head down, and the three crouched. A small convoy of government sedans drove by.
Coleman stood back up. “Does this mean we can’t go in the pub?”
Serge turned to Mahoney. “See?”
The agent looked across the street. A white-and-aqua ‘72 Plymouth Fury sat on the shoulder. “Moving up in the world?”
“Gave myself a promotion.” Serge peered through banana leaves, scanning the empty, lazy surroundings. All clear. “Later! …”
He and Coleman dashed to the car and jumped in.
“Be safe,” called Mahoney.
“When am I not?” Serge patched out.
Mahoney stepped into the middle of the road and watched the Plymouth disappear around the corner, back toward the Overseas Highway.
MIAMI
Rush-hour traffic on Biscayne Boulevard.
The downtown skyline had gone condo. But there were still enough office workers to jam the streets at five o’clock. BMWs and Jaguars racing for the suburbs and chain-store comfort. They sped past an old strip of retail shops tended by the faithful.
One particular enterprise had recently relocated from the beach, now occupying the slightly larger retail footage of Dade One-Hour Cleaners. It was run by a legend from the sixties that none of the current residents had ever heard of. Roy the Pawn King. The dry-cleaning sign over the door now read: Roy And Sons Diamonds For Less.
A Plymouth Fury skidded to a parking meter. Doorbells jingled.
Roy looked up from the Herald. “Serge!”
Big reunion hug. Serge held him out by the arms. “Still have that thick head of white hair.”
“Still a hyper son of a gun.” He looked around. “Thought Coleman was with you.”
“He’s busy passed out in the backseat.” Serge pulled a strap off his shoulder and set an aged leather case on the glass counter. From it came a vintage View-Master.
“I remember those when I was a kid,” said Roy.
“This was the original model, before there was even a slot to slip in reels. You had to open the back.”
Serge opened the back. No reel. Instead, a folded rectangle of slick white paper. He handed it to Roy, who peeled the edge and carefully poured the contents onto a small tray. The Pawn King bent over with a jeweler’s loupe in his eye.
“Well?” asked Serge.
Roy raised his head and slapped him on the shoulder. “Still my best courier.”
“Who would ever suspect someone chasing courier bandits?”
Roy removed the loupe from his eye. “You play the edges too close.” He reached under the counter and handed Serge an envelope.
Serge stuck it in his back pocket.
“Not going to count it?”
“Never have before.”
Roy noticed the wall clock over Serge’s shoulder. Big hand on the three, little on the six. “Excuse me a minute.” He reached for a small radio on the counter and tuned it between stations. Loud static. Roy watched the second hand on the clock reach twelve. Then a woman’s sultry voice: “One-fifty-two, nine, eighteen, forty …”
Roy jotted each number on a yellow legal pad until the broadcast was over. He ripped off the top sheet and handed it to Serge. “Maria has another delivery. Amelia Island. Tuesday.” A sly grin broke across his face. “Latin bombshell, eh?”
“That she is.”
“Great idea you had giving her a shortwave to direct shipments with all my couriers,” said Roy. “I’d heard about those coded numbers pirate stations, just never dawned on me to use-“
“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”
“The radio station?”
“The courier gig.”
“Not paying enough?”