“Remember when we were back in Miami last year, and I met Felicia, who was working for the consulate of Costa Gorda?”
“Yeah, but she never did anything to anyone. Why’d they kill her?”
“Politics was involved in every level of a nefarious web that got her taken out. It became a complex espionage game of musical chairs, until there were no chairs left and she was left standing. So while I’m working on my new detective career, I’ve got my feelers out. Mahoney, too.”
“I thought you and Mahoney were fighting scam artists.”
“Correct again,” said Serge. “But you hear things along the way, and I’ll never rest as long as this stone is in my shoe.”
“Didn’t you rest after killing that big campaign organizer out in the Gulf?” asked Coleman. “The one you blamed for her death?”
“I expected the usual wave of peaceful satisfaction, but my stomach had this burning ball of acid,” said Serge. “He was just a middleman; I want the hand on the gun.”
“How can Mahoney help?”
“He’s in the perfect position to pick up chatter since establishing his own intelligence connections. After the CIA learned he was retired law enforcement with a physical business address on the sketchy side of Miami, they started paying him a thousand dollars a week to run a dummy front corporation.”
“What does he do for that?”
“Just calls the CIA number in the phone book once a month, and the people listening in think he’s an actual front company, diverting attention from the real fronts.”
Coleman scratched his head. “I’m confused.”
“That means it’s effective.” Serge stared up at a vintage felt pennant for the Crimson Tide. “And Mahoney just might be loosening the jar lid.”
“How’s that?”
“A contact of his came up with a name, probably one of the hit man’s aliases, and rumor has it that he might be heading back to Florida for another assignment. Speaking of which . . .” Serge pulled a disposable cell phone from his pocket and hit a number on speed dial.
On the other end of the line: “Name’s Mahoney, flap gums.”
He did. He closed the phone.
“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“Mahoney can’t tell me over the phone because he’s getting paid to have it tapped. So we set a clandestine meeting for tomorrow. Clandestine meetings come in two species: secluded dark alley or extremely busy public place.”
Their food arrived.
“Cooter is turtle?” said Serge.
Coleman grabbed a fork. “I’m saving the shell to clean my dope in.”
Chapter Six
THE NEXT DAY
L egos!” yelled Serge, cheerfully clapping his hands like a small child seeing clowns.
Coleman lowered his beer. “You mean like those little toy blocks we had as kids?”
“What else would they have at Legoland?” Serge swung the Firebird through the main gates of the theme park in Winter Haven.
“I don’t remember any Legoland,” said Coleman.
“It’s new.” The muscle car found a parking space. “And usually I hate new, but this used to be Cypress Gardens, the state’s first theme park that opened on January second, 1936. No crazy rides or people dressed up like cartoon characters. Just hundreds of lush botanical acres showcasing the area’s natural flora, plus southern belles in hoop skirts and water-ski shows that populate the reels of my View-Master collection. Not to mention the sacramental pool that was built in the shape of Florida sixty years ago by the movie people for an Esther Williams splash fest. Then horror!”
“What happened?”
Serge headed toward the ticket booth and pulled out his wallet. “Like many of Florida’s majestic early attractions, it fell on hard times because people can no longer enjoy natural beauty unless they’re zooming through it on a log flume or inverted roller coaster.” Serge handed Coleman his ticket and unfolded a glossy park map. “This way.”
“Where are we going?”
“Miniland!” Serge’s finger tracked a path on
“Yeah, but she never did anything to anyone. Why’d they kill her?”
“Politics was involved in every level of a nefarious web that got her taken out. It became a complex espionage game of musical chairs, until there were no chairs left and she was left standing. So while I’m working on my new detective career, I’ve got my feelers out. Mahoney, too.”
“I thought you and Mahoney were fighting scam artists.”
“Correct again,” said Serge. “But you hear things along the way, and I’ll never rest as long as this stone is in my shoe.”
“Didn’t you rest after killing that big campaign organizer out in the Gulf?” asked Coleman. “The one you blamed for her death?”
“I expected the usual wave of peaceful satisfaction, but my stomach had this burning ball of acid,” said Serge. “He was just a middleman; I want the hand on the gun.”
“How can Mahoney help?”
“He’s in the perfect position to pick up chatter since establishing his own intelligence connections. After the CIA learned he was retired law enforcement with a physical business address on the sketchy side of Miami, they started paying him a thousand dollars a week to run a dummy front corporation.”
“What does he do for that?”
“Just calls the CIA number in the phone book once a month, and the people listening in think he’s an actual front company, diverting attention from the real fronts.”
Coleman scratched his head. “I’m confused.”
“That means it’s effective.” Serge stared up at a vintage felt pennant for the Crimson Tide. “And Mahoney just might be loosening the jar lid.”
“How’s that?”
“A contact of his came up with a name, probably one of the hit man’s aliases, and rumor has it that he might be heading back to Florida for another assignment. Speaking of which . . .” Serge pulled a disposable cell phone from his pocket and hit a number on speed dial.
On the other end of the line: “Name’s Mahoney, flap gums.”
He did. He closed the phone.
“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
“Mahoney can’t tell me over the phone because he’s getting paid to have it tapped. So we set a clandestine meeting for tomorrow. Clandestine meetings come in two species: secluded dark alley or extremely busy public place.”
Their food arrived.
“Cooter is turtle?” said Serge.
Coleman grabbed a fork. “I’m saving the shell to clean my dope in.”
Chapter Six
THE NEXT DAY
L egos!” yelled Serge, cheerfully clapping his hands like a small child seeing clowns.
Coleman lowered his beer. “You mean like those little toy blocks we had as kids?”
“What else would they have at Legoland?” Serge swung the Firebird through the main gates of the theme park in Winter Haven.
“I don’t remember any Legoland,” said Coleman.
“It’s new.” The muscle car found a parking space. “And usually I hate new, but this used to be Cypress Gardens, the state’s first theme park that opened on January second, 1936. No crazy rides or people dressed up like cartoon characters. Just hundreds of lush botanical acres showcasing the area’s natural flora, plus southern belles in hoop skirts and water-ski shows that populate the reels of my View-Master collection. Not to mention the sacramental pool that was built in the shape of Florida sixty years ago by the movie people for an Esther Williams splash fest. Then horror!”
“What happened?”
Serge headed toward the ticket booth and pulled out his wallet. “Like many of Florida’s majestic early attractions, it fell on hard times because people can no longer enjoy natural beauty unless they’re zooming through it on a log flume or inverted roller coaster.” Serge handed Coleman his ticket and unfolded a glossy park map. “This way.”
“Where are we going?”
“Miniland!” Serge’s finger tracked a path on
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