Tim Dorsey - Pineapple grenade

“No chain stores!” said Serge. “All independent mom-and-pop’s. Not a single Rooms-to-Fucking-Go in sight. Isn’t it heaven?”

“I think I’m dying.”

Coleman didn’t die. But he wasn’t attractive when they finally reached air-conditioning and the maitre d’s stand inside Versailles.

A spiffy-dressed man cradled menus. A professional smile. “Two for lunch?”

“Three.” Serge angled his head toward a table. “The rest of our party’s already here.”

“Right this way…”

The maitre d’ led them on a winding course through the dining room, toward a seated woman staring daggers at them.

“Great,” Serge said sideways to Coleman. “Another chick pissed at me. The pattern of my life.”

“Maybe she has gas,” said Coleman.

“No, it’s chicks. I’m always in trouble without a clue. Married men are geniuses.”

“Could be her time of the month.”

“You might have something there.” Serge nodded to himself. “That would explain it. When it’s the wrong day-grab a helmet! I just give ’em all my money, point at the door, and say, ‘Call me when The Exorcist is over.’ Now I feel guilty for misjudging her… On the other hand, if she isn’t on the rag, I’m unfairly being taken advantage of for my sensitivity.”

“Why don’t you just come right out and ask her?”

“Used to do that, but funny thing: Even if the answer’s no, it only seems to make things worse. You and I freely exchange information without getting huffy.”

“I always warn you not to come in the bathroom when I’m spanking my monkey.”

“Exactly,” said Serge. “But women clearly don’t want that kind of data. And then they barge in without knocking and have a problem with that.”

“They don’t understand because they use appliances.”

“Better pipe down now-we’re almost there.”

They arrived at the table.

Serge manufactured his most engaging smile and pulled out his chair. “Sorry, we’re late.”

Coleman pulled out his own chair. “Are you on your period?”

“What!”

Serge chuckled awkwardly and punched Coleman in the shoulder.

“Ow.”

Serge scooted his chair in and opened a menu. “What looks good?”

Felicia stared down at her own menu. “Notice the corner booth by the front window?”

“Yeah,” said Serge. “Evangelista, eating alone.”

“The contact went to the restroom before you arrived.”

Coleman nudged Serge and giggled. “Spanking it.”

“Serge!” said Felicia. “What’s wrong with your friend?”

He shrugged. “I keep trying to explain the off-limit topics around women, like how a lot of guys walking down the street are mentally undressing you gals and fantasizing tittie-fucks.”

“Serge!”

“Just giving an example of an off-limit. How else will you know what a gentleman I am?”

“This is serious.” She glanced again at Evangelista’s table. “That’s the contact’s briefcase next to his chair.”

“Recognize this contact?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember where.” Felicia turned a page in her menu. “American. I think he’s famous or something. Was hoping you could peg him when he comes back.”

“Do my best.” Serge squeezed lemon into his water. “Whoever it was did me a favor by picking this place as the meet point. I could eat anything in here, especially the palomilla steaks.”

Coleman knocked over a glass. “Didn’t break. No foul… What’s so special about the joint?”

“Versailles is the cultural dining epicenter of Little Havana. It’s an off hour right now, but at peak times, this place is a humming hive of exile political debate.”

“Looks like a regular restaurant.”

“You know how CNN sends reporters to barbershops in Iowa and interviews customers for the common man’s opinion of current events?”

“You mean the customers who wear fishing hats that say ‘Kiss my bass’?”

“Those are the ones,” said Serge. “And whenever something happens in Cuba, they send the camera crews here.”

“Don’t look,” said Felicia. “But his contact just came back.”

Serge intentionally knocked his fork on the floor, copping a glimpse as he bent down.

Felicia pretended to read her menu. “Know him?”

“Uh, yeah.” He looked down at his own menu. “I think you might want to consider dropping this business.”

“What business?”

“The whole thing. Your arms pipeline and whatever mystery’s behind it.” Serge reached across the table and placed a hand on hers. “Might be a good time to walk away. Make that run.”

She pulled her hand back. “This isn’t like you. What’s the problem?”

“Evangelista’s contact. I know him.” Serge shifted his eyes toward the other table. “And you don’t want to.”

“I’m not backing off. It’s my country.”

“And this is my country,” said Serge. “I know how the game is played. And the players.”

“So bail out if you’re scared. I’ll go it on my own.”

“I’m not scared. But I wish you’d be just a little bit.”

Felicia dismissed him with an offhand wave. “The generals disappear people all the time in Latin America.”

“Trust me on this. The guy has so much money and influence, he could make an entire city block in Miami disappear, no questions asked.”

Felicia picked up her menu again. “So who is this prince of darkness?”

Serge picked up his own. “Good way to put it…”

While they were talking, Evangelista picked up the briefcase and left. He strolled west up the sidewalk past the restaurant’s windows. A few minutes later, the contact finished a glass of water and departed eastbound.

Felicia threw a twenty on the table and got up. “We need to get moving.”

They reached the front door. A call from behind.

“Excuse me,” said the maitre d’. “You have a message.”

“I do?” said Serge.

He handed him an envelope.

Serge tore open the flap. “Who’s it from?”

“The gentleman at that table.” He tilted his head toward the empty one that had yet to be bussed.

“Which gentleman?” asked Serge. “The big one in the tropical shirt?”

“No, the other.”

Serge unfolded the note and read. He didn’t speak.

“What is it?” asked Felicia.

Serge looked up. “You’re not going to believe this…”

One hour later

A ’68 Plymouth rolled through a quiet neighborhood in Little Havana. Modest ranch houses and haciendas. A dog barked, trash cans at the curb for pickup, chain-link, Mexican tiles. The Road Runner continued, only one occupant in the car.

Serge slowly turned onto Southwest Ninth Street (also Brigade 2506 Way) and pulled to a stop in front of a quiet stucco home with the address 1821. He unlatched a gate, walked up the steps, and opened the front door without knocking.

Inside: long rows of bookcases, tables with maps, walls covered in photos and flags. At the rear of the room, a solitary man in a business suit stood with hands clasped behind his back. Reading a plaque.

Serge stepped beside him and stared at the next plaque. “Nice day.”

The man laughed. “Kind of weird meeting in the Bay of Pigs Museum. But from everything I’ve heard about you, actually not. How’d you find this place?”

“It’s on my rounds. And I could count on it to be empty. No respect for history.” He pointed through double glass doors. “See all the color pictures of older men on the side walls in that meeting room? They’re the patriots. The black-and-white photos of younger men behind the podium are the martyrs.”

“Whatever. The whole reason I wanted to meet-”