Pineapple Grenade (13 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Coughing and spitting water. “You have to believe me!”

Coleman nudged Serge and whispered: “So he’s really a spy?”

“Naw,” said Serge. “Only another street-level stickup man. I’m just fucking with him.” He faced the water again. “I’ll make it simple for you. Was it the Marmoset or the Purple Gang?”

More coughing. “Okay, okay, it was the Purple Gang.”

“See?” said Serge. “That wasn’t so hard.”

“Now get me out!”

“You have everything you need to get yourself out. Remember the bonus round: Don’t panic.”

“Ahhhh!”
Glub, glub, glub.
He went under.

Serge and Coleman stared over the side of the dock. One minute. Two. Three. Then a burst of bubbles hit the surface.

“Guess he didn’t win the bonus round,” said Serge.

“What was that business about the Purple Gang?” said Coleman.

“Just proving a point in support of prisoner rights,” said Serge. “Torture doesn’t produce reliable confessions.” He swiveled his head left. “How are you doing with those loaves?”

“Pleeeeeeeeease!”

“It’s like the name of that movie,” said Serge. “
Hope Floats.
Actually it dog paddles. Land’s that way. Only a few miles.”

“Little things are hitting me!”

“Those must be tropical fish. You should come out here in the daytime. Our coral reefs are magnificent!”

“More things hitting me! Are any of them dangerous?”

“Completely harmless. If I used meat, that would draw sharks. Bread only draws the little guys.”

“Draws them?”

“Yeah,” said Serge. “They like to eat it.”

The captive looked around in the water at a growing swarm of tiny fish nibbling through holes in the mesh bag.

Serge and Coleman hopped back in the boat.

“Wait!” yelled the man in the water. “You can’t leave me!”

Serge untied davit lines. “Remember the bonus round. Just stay calm.”

Coleman leaned over the bow. “Wow! Look at those fish go at it. The loaves are almost gone.”

Serge joined him up front. “They must love Cuban bread as much as I do.”

Like the first captive, the man’s head was tilted back, nose and mouth barely above the surface.

“Help—”
Glub, glub, glub.
Under he went.

The pair in the boat watched quietly. This time only two minutes until the bubbles came.

Serge started up the engine. “I would have bet anything at least one of them would win the bonus round.”

“What was the bonus round?” asked Coleman.

Serge slowly pulled away from the dock. “What’s the most logical thing to do in their predicament?”

“Hold your breath longer?”

“No, Coleman. Become buoyant again. Which means losing the weight belt.”

“But their hands were tied behind their backs.”

“And I put their belts on backward, so the release latch was right by those hands. If only they listened to me and remained calm.” Serge gave the engines full throttle back toward shore. “Panic causes more drownings. That’s what makes tonight’s tragedy especially senseless.”

Chapter Eight

The Next Morning

CNN.

“With the second oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico entering its forty-third day, Congressman Bugler continues drawing flak for apologizing to the drilling company during this week’s committee hearings, which political observers say could turn the balance in the upcoming elections . . . And now an odd news item from Tampa, where a dozen men are under arrest at a local hospital for illegally hunting coyotes within city limits.”
The picture switched to a police spokesman.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in the middle of a highly populated area. We caught them red-handed with banned game bait available on the Internet. They claim some mystery men gave them free mosquito repellent, but we’re not buying it. How do they explain the gun racks full of deer rifles in their pickups? And we’re tacking on littering fines for all the empty beer cans. Luckily they were too drunk to hunt effectively and the coyotes got the upper hand. We’ll be transporting them to jail as soon as their wounds heal.”
The TV switched again to the anchor desk.
“We’re going back again to Washington for continuing coverage of the political fallout from Congressman Bugler’s comments of sympathy for the oil companies . . . Wait a moment. We have breaking news. We’re taking you live to the Office of Homeland Security . . .”

Director “Rip” Tide walked briskly to the podium with a prepared statement. Behind him: twenty American flags and a large, vinyl thermometer.

“I’ve called you all here today to announce we’re raising the threat level. I can’t reveal the nature of our intelligence or where an attack is most likely, so all citizens must be on increased vigilance wherever they work, play, or sleep. God bless the United States.”

A reporter held up a hand with a pen in it.
“But we’re already at the highest threat level.”

“That’s why I’m announcing a new color.”
The director reached in his pocket, pulled out a plastic square, and stuck it at the top of the thermometer.

Another reporter raised his hand.
“It’s red, like the other one.”

“It’s a darker red.”

“Not really.”

“No, see, it’s clearly darker.”

Reporters scribbled on pads. Another hand went up again.
“What’s the name of the new threat level?”

“Red.”

“Won’t that be confusing?”

“No more questions . . .”

Malcolm Glide turned the volume down on his office TV and picked up the phone.

“No, I will not be put on hold!” barked Glide. “I realize the congressman isn’t in. I want you to deliver this message to him personally: Tell him to shut his goddamn mouth! . . . I know we’re working behind the scenes to protect the oil company from its victims. That’s exactly why he needs to go mute. Those were the strict ground rules from the beginning of his term: no press conferences, no interviews except Fox, and sit like a silent lump in the committee . . . Because he’s fucking stupid! And I’m not going to let him throw this away! Do you have any idea how hard it was to get a moron like that elected?”

Harder than parting the Red Sea.

But if anyone could do it . . .

Two years earlier, in a large hotel ballroom somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon.

Election night.

Anticipation built all evening through the packed crowd. Finally it burst. A mighty, wall-shaking cheer went up. With 82 percent of precincts reporting, all three networks had just declared the winner in the Thirteenth District.

Max Bugler was now a U.S. congressman.

Balloons fell. School bands played. Champagne corks popped.

In the back of the room, Malcolm Glide received an unending series of backslaps as he puffed a fat cigar from Cuba, the embargo of which he staunchly supported.

It was an upset. A big one.

When the race had started, Max was the darkest of horses. His first bid for public office, no experience or idea what district he was in. But Max had a firm jaw and the last name of his father, a former governor.

If there’s no hope of winning an election, a political party still needs to fill the ballot and turn out the faithful for other races. You use the strongest name recognition and hope for the least embarrassment. Max was a throwaway candidate.

They brought in Glide to minimize the embarrassment.

He burst through the doors at Bugler headquarters.

“Everybody stand up! Now!”

Chairs slid back. Staff glanced at each other.

“Thirty points behind! Have you all been circle-jerking in here? Where are we weakest?” He stretched out an arm. “You!”

“Me?” peeped a shaken staffer.

“You’re fired!” yelled Malcolm. “Get out of my sight!” A finger aimed at the next person. “You! And you better not say, ‘Me?’ ”

“War record?”

“Bingo! And don’t say it like a question!” Malcolm clasped hands behind his back. “Continue.”

“Well, our opponent, Hank Freeman, is a highly decorated Vietnam veteran. And our candidate’s dad used his influence to help him, uh . . . not go to the war.”

“Say it!” yelled Malcolm.

“Say what?” asked the shrinking staffer.

“We shoot straight in here!” shouted Malcolm. “Don’t give some euphemistic ‘not go to the war.’ Say what everyone out on the street is saying!”

“He’s a draft dodger?”

“I never want to hear that slanderous shit again! Get the fuck out!”

Running feet. A door slammed.

Glide plopped down in the chair at the head of a conference table. Other chairs began to fill.

“Did I say you could sit?”

They popped back up.

“Sit down!” Malcolm rubbed his cheeks hard with his palms. “So Freeman’s a hero and our guy’s a faggot. We got ’em now!”

Expressions around the table said they didn’t understand.

“Who doesn’t understand?” said Malcolm.

Nobody made a sound.

“Good. Because we don’t need any amateurs who’ve never read Orwell.” Malcolm pointed again. “You’re fired!”

“What did I do?”

“You look weird to me. Out!”

The door slammed.

“We’re going to flip this thing,” said Malcolm. “Patriot is wimp. Wimp is patriot. Ideas?”

Silence around the table.

“Do I have to teach you everything?” He pointed again. “What’s Freeman most known for?”

“Single-handedly stormed a machine-gun nest.”

“He lied to get his medals,” said Glide. “The nest was empty.”

“But he won the Purple Heart.”

“He shot himself in a cowardly attempt to be sent home.”

“Both his legs were amputated.”

“That means he was a
really
big coward,” said Glide. “Made sure he’d go home. I want this viral on the Internet by Friday!”

A hand timidly rose. “How does that make our guy a patriot?”

“How’d he dodge the draft?” asked Malcolm.

“His dad got him in the National Guard.”

“The same Guard that’s now pulling five tours in Afghanistan?” said Glide. “Press release: Our candidate is proud of his war record performing highly dangerous service, and is deeply offended by anti-Americans who call our brave members of the Guard draft dodgers. If elected he’ll courageously introduce legislation to extend their tours.”

“But he served in Memphis.”

“Memphis scares the shit out of me . . . Get to work!”

And now, two years later, the victory was political legend, forever cementing Glide’s reputation. He dialed the phone.

“Rip? Malcolm here . . . Yeah, the thermometer looked great on TV . . . Listen, I need another favor . . .”

Somewhere in Cyberspace

Dear Serge,

Most thanks again for your assistance. I just sent the banking account information. Did you receive? Please advise immediately when you have secured funds and make deposit.

God’s blessings upon you

Bobonofassi Gabonilar

Dear Bobo,

Great news, pen pal! I almost have the money. Even better: I’ve been in touch with Sarah Palin, and I think she can help us with the transfers and the rest of your problems. If you’re watching TV and see her kick someone in the crotch, that’s the signal she’s on board . . . More good news! I didn’t mention this before because of the stress you were under: I’m actually a spy! I’ve only been at it a couple days, but my first mission was a complete success except the hostages did some damage in my trunk. And Miami couldn’t be a better place to launch my new career. City of international intrigue, full of spooks since Castro. Did you know that at least three James Bond movies shot footage here? Do you get cable? But I know your next question: “How is being a spy good news for us?” Because I lied. I actually have the money, but a transfer is too risky right now. You’ll be exposed. And here’s where my excellent espionage training comes in: I tracked your IP address and found you’re already in Miami. (Computer guy who works at the university owed me big.) Tell me where you are and I’ll deliver the cash personally. Maybe we can meet downtown. Isn’t downtown a trip? A skyline of gleaming bank towers and stylish office buildings that sprouted in the eighties building boom with laundered money from Noriega’s Panama. And below on street level, sandwiched between skyscrapers, are all these funky little retail shops. There are only three kinds of stores: luggage, watches, and perfume. That’s it. Just dozens of narrow joints selling American Tourister, Rolex, and Chanel. Someone told me the stores cater to people who fly up from the Caribbean for a ferocious amount of shopping. I’ve never visited where they live myself, but apparently the island life requires vast amounts of suitcases, being on time, and smelling better . . . Tell me where you want to meet, and I’ll come armed to the teeth for your safety.