Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

There’s also a small airport that used to be big. The Graf Zeppelin paid a visit. Amelia Earhart took off on her fateful flight from here, and there’s now a public park in her name where people honor the pilot by playing Frisbee golf and visiting the insect museum.

Three white vans skirted the north side of the park and passed through galvanized airport gates. They raced toward the civil aviation side of the runways, across from the Coast Guard air-sea-rescue helicopters.

A twin-engine Beechcraft waited with its side door flopped down. Vans parked. A bucket brigade passed wooden crates up the airplane’s steps.

Behind the tail, a stretch Mercedes. Four solemn men in a row. Banker suits and haircuts. Arrogance. Victor Evangelista strolled across the tarmac with a loud smile. “Is that for me?”

The suits looked down. A briefcase handcuffed to a wrist. A key went in the lock. Airplane engines sparked to life.

Victor’s hair whipped from the propellers. He grabbed the briefcase in a deafening drone and tossed it to one of the jumpsuits. Victor never counted. And the men never looked in the crates. That level of business. Not trust. Certainty of consequence.

They stopped to watch the Beechcraft take off into the setting sun. The plane banked hard south until it disappeared behind rain clouds, casting long angular shadows over the glades.

The suits stared across the runway at the Coast Guard detail, staring back. “After all this time, how do they not suspect?”

“Because they know for sure,” said Vic. The smile broadened. “And under specific orders to stand down. But don’t worry: You’re paying a lot for those connections.”

The tallest suit: “Dinner? Versailles?”

Vic shook his head and pointed up. “Got another shipment.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“I’m the best.”

Four men laughed and climbed in the Mercedes. It headed for the exit as another Beechcraft cleared the limo’s roof and touched down in waning light.

A cell phone rang.

Evangelista excavated it from a pocket under his flowing Tommy Bahama shirt. He checked the number on the display and flipped it open. “I thought you didn’t like to make phone calls. Hear it’s snowing in D.C.”

“Vic, Jesus, what the fuck blew up at our warehouse?”

“My car.”

“But how’d it happen?”

“How do you think?”

“Scooter again?”

“My cross to bear.”

“You let that moron near the shipments?”

“You’re the one who forced me to bring him along,” said Vic.

“Because of politics,” barked the voice on the other end. “Doesn’t mean let him play with the rocket launchers.”

Vic turned and shielded himself from the wind as another plane landed. “Thanks for caring about my car.”

“This ain’t a joke! We got budget hearings Monday. And this is just the sort of thing that could expose everything.”

“You worry too much.”

“That’s my job! A few more shipments and we’re in the clear.”

Twin propellers jerked to a stop. “Another just landed.”

“No more screwups,” said the phone. “Have one of the boys take Scooter to get a milk shake or something.”

“Speaking of which, what happened to that reporter who was poking around our offshore accounts.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The one who went missing after getting drunk in Costa Gorda.”

“Accidents happen.”

“You’re the one who’s so worried about drawing heat,” said Vic. “Holy God, taking out a reporter-”

“Not on the phone! How many times do I have to tell you? No more phone calls!”

“You’re the one who called me.”

Click.

The Next Day

Downtown Miami.

Two pedestrians reached the corner of Flagler and turned left toward the basketball arena. “There’s Bayside Market,” said Serge. “They have a picture of Shaq next to a powerboat that takes tourists on runs past the Scarface mansion.”

“What’s that UFO-shaped building by the marina?”

“The Hard Rock Cafe.”

“Didn’t it have a giant guitar on the roof?”

“Hurricane blew it off and sank a yacht.”

Across the boulevard: bright sun and a gusting breeze off Biscayne Bay. Colorful flags snapped atop rows of just-planted aluminum poles. An army of landscapers manicured hedges, drove lawn mowers, and rode skyward in hydraulic cherry-picker baskets to snip away any palm frond with the least tinge of brown. Behind them, others in yellow hard hats erected scaffolds around the amphitheater for lighting, sound, and news cameras.

In the middle, an eternal flame.

TV correspondents loved it as a backdrop.

“Good afternoon. This is Gloria Rojas reporting live from downtown Miami, where workers are putting the final touches on the landmark Bayfront Park in preparation for this weekend’s Summit of the Americas, which promises to be a cultural high point…”

A passerby jumped up and down behind her. “Wooo! Dolphins number one!..”

Serge and Coleman walked in front of the television crew. They climbed in an orange-and-green ’68 Plymouth Road Runner and drove down Biscayne Boulevard. All around them, factory-fresh BMWs and Lincolns with the a/c full blast, heading for high-rise hotels. On the other side of the median, more luxury sedans sped toward Miami International, guided by commercial jets flying down from the north and private Lears soaring up from South America.

At the airport’s international arrivals wing, the customs line was unusually stacked up and snaked back through the concourse with random curves as people saw fit. No waiting in a separate VIP line, where visiting dignitaries went unchecked thanks to diplomatic status. They flowed through the terminal circled by entourage knots radiating out in strict pecking order: immediate family, cabinet members, campaign donors, political strategists, personal assistants, distant family-passing newsstands, shoe shines, and airport bars with TVs set to local news.

“… On a lighter note, Tuesday’s mystery has been solved and no charges will be pressed against three Honduran fishermen who caught a wayward shark in the Miami River and carried it through downtown in a futile attempt to sell it at local restaurants. Witnesses reported the trio taking the shark aboard the Metro Mover for a loop around the city before finally getting off the monorail near the Museum of Art and throwing the fish in the street…”

Outside, along the pickup curb, a waiting row of limos with small flags on the hoods.

Another Latin entourage reached the curb near sunset. Security agents went first, making a visual sweep in mirror sunglasses, then urgently waving the rest forward.

The president-for-life of a country the size of Connecticut approached one of the limos. A bodyguard opened the back door.

An explosion.

The security detail threw the president to the sidewalk and piled on top. They peeked up from pavement level. Everyone else nonchalantly tending luggage and hailing cabs.

Agents stood up.

“What just happened?” asked the president.

A skycap looked in the distance at a black column of smoke. “Probably shooting Burn Notice.”

The president’s suit was brushed off. He climbed in the limo and headed for the Dolphin Expressway.

At the rear of the pickup line, an orange-and-green Road Runner sat at the curb, next to a row of newspaper boxes with large headlines:

CARJACKER FREEZES TO DEATH IN MIAMI COLORFUL CAPES NEW RAGE ON SOUTH BEACH HUMAN SPERM FOUND IN BULL SEMEN TANK ETHICAL DEBATE: SHOULD HERO-VIGILANTE BE CLONED?

In the street, five lines of exiting airline traffic merged with designed chaos. Brake lights. Hand gestures. Horns honked and echoed off the terminal. A police whistle blew. Serge pulled away from the curb…