SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (22 page)

Chapter
THIRTY-THREE

MIAMI

T
he moon rose over another run-down motel along U.S. 1. This one had a row of hand-glued seashells along the trim of the roof, but most were just empty glue spots now. Headlights, blaring horns, pedestrians screaming about the coming of the cashless society, bus benches with humps in the middle to fight an epidemic of napping.

Another person started screaming, this one with reason. He ran in and out of an open motel room door, then in circles across the parking lot. “Coleman! . . .
Coleman! . . .
Coleman, where are you? . . .”

Serge began shaking in panic like a parent with a missing child in the lingerie department. “Coleman! . . .” Serge felt a certain custodial responsibility when Coleman was in his care. He once tried using a harness with a leash on the back, but Coleman always managed to wiggle out.

“What’s the matter?” asked Reevis.

“Can’t find Coleman!” Serge spun in alarm like an ice skater. “Whenever I return to collect him from a bender, he’s either on the bed or under it, occasionally in an overflowing bathtub but always in the room. A bender is better than a leash . . .
Ahhhhh!
Where is that idiot?”

“Wow, you really care about him.”

Serge nodded hard. “Okay, freaking out never helps you find anything. Calm down and go through the Coleman checklist . . .”

Serge spent the next two hours leading Reevis around local bars, Dumpsters, lifting up mattresses in alleys, calling emergency rooms. He stopped and scratched his head. “Dang, that usually turns him up. Where did that idiot go?”

“What about the underpasses?”

“Good thinking! . . .”

Five minutes later:
“You looking for Coleman?” “Our buddy!” “Stand-up dude!”
The homeless platoon hunkered up under the highway and passed around malt-liquor forties.
“Give him our best . . .”

Serge stomped with impatience. “But where is he?”

“Don’t know.”
A whiskered stickman flattened out a bedroll.
“Staggered off that way around noon.”

“Damn!” Serge and Reevis began making ever-widening concentric sweeps around the motel until Serge looked at his watch. “And now I have to take you to that meeting in Hialeah . . .”

“Serge, I haven’t figured out anything yet.”

“But you’re making
some
progress with that file I gave you, right?”

“Yeah, dots are starting to connect with some LexisNexis searches.” Reevis pulled the packet from the brown envelope. “And I have some promising requests in with the courts.”

Serge threw the shift in gear. “Then what’s the problem? Just give a status update.”

“But investigative reporting is like watching a house being built—looks like crap until the last week when they paint and sod.”

“Trust me.” Serge floored the gas. “It won’t matter where we’re going.”

The ’76 Cobra sped west on the Palmetto Expressway. Serge took an anonymous exit down into the deserted industrial wasteland south of the Opa-Locka Airport. A crumpled scrap of paper was flattened on the steering wheel. Serge checked street signs and made a left, slowing as he searched for a building number. Not a soul around except distant silhouettes of the undead trudging across the street under harsh yellow crime lights.

The Cobra rolled past a blinking neon sign for a scrap yard and pulled up to a squat concrete pillbox of an office. Serge pressed the doorbell and heard it ring inside. No answer. He rang again without result. He cupped his hands around his face to peer through burglar bars over the windows. “All the lights are out. That’s weird.”

“I thought I heard music when we first arrived,” said Reevis.

“Me, too, but now it’s quiet.” Serge looked up at the number over the door and checked the paper scrap again. “Did he give me the wrong address? . . . No, it’s the right one.” This time he repeatedly pressed the doorbell like Morse code. “Don’t tell me I drove all the way out here for—”

Noise. A slight shuffling of feet inside. Serge pressed his eye to the peephole.

The person on the other side gasped at the sight of a giant distorted eyeball.

A fist pounded the door. “I know you’re in there! Come on, open up!”

Nothing.

“Look, gas isn’t free! Open the door!”

A long pause. Then: “We’re closed.”

“You’re not closed!” Serge pounded louder. “Mahoney called and said you’d be waiting for me.”

Another pause. “Mahoney?”

“Will you open up? The zombies are out here.”

“Zombies?”

“Not the real kind.” Serge turned and gave one of them a dollar to go away. “Just night crawlers who wander barren parts of the city after dark for anti-reasons. I’m sure you’ve seen them.”

Silence.

“Look, why would I mention the name ‘Mahoney’ if I wasn’t supposed to be here?”

Seconds ticked. “How do I know it’s the same Mahoney?”

“You fucking idiot! Open up right now or I’m kicking the door in!”

“I have a gun.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How’d you know?”

“Will you open up, for Christ’s sake?”

There was a prolonged fumbling with several locks before the door finally opened three inches on the chain. The narrow slice of a face appeared. “Who are you?”

“Serge! Are you on drugs?”

“How’d you know?”

“Step back.” Serge easily popped the door open with his shoulder.

“My chain!”

“Buy yourself another.” Serge threw a fiver on the floor. “Are you Ziggy Blade?”

He nodded.

“Are you going to continue wasting my time?”

“Time? How much time has passed? How long have you been standing there?”

“What in the hell did you take?”

“Nuthin’.” Ziggy turned and headed toward his back office.

Serge looked around and was actually impressed by the framed movie posters.

Ziggy grabbed a bottle of Patrón tequila next to the boom box on a corner table. He chugged from the fifth and cranked the volume knob back up. “I don’t usually drink like this, except when I’ve dosed and the setting becomes unnerving. Your big eyeball sent me in a bad direction.”

“ . . . One pill makes you larger . . .”

Serge grabbed a chair. “I still don’t understand the drug culture.”

From another direction.
“Can I come out now?”

Serge jumped up and reached for the pistol beneath his tropical shirt. “Who else is in here?”

“Nobody you need to worry about.” Ziggy bent down behind his desk. “The coast is clear. You’re among friends.”

The person crawled out from underneath and stood up.

Serge fell back against the wall. “Coleman!”

“Hey, Serge, what are you doing here?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing. I’ve been worried sick looking all over for you.”

“Not the leash again.”

“Relax. I know you’re tripping . . . I just don’t understand how you got to our appointment before me. Did you get a call from Mahoney when I wasn’t around?”

“What do you mean appointment?” Coleman brushed dust bunnies off his legs and turned up the stereo even louder.

“ . . . Go ask Alice . . .”

Serge pulled his head back. “Have we entered the Twilight Zone? I was dashing around crazy trying to find you, and then, of all places, you turn up at the site of our next appointment. And you say you had no idea Mahoney set up a meeting with Ziggy?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then what on earth are you doing in this fleabag lawyer’s office?”

“Well, my brother called me up . . .”

“Who’s your brother?” asked Serge.

Ziggy raised his hand. “Older brother.”

“Hold the fucking train.” Serge shook his head vigorously like a cartoon character. “He’s your older brother?”

Coleman grabbed the bottle of tequila. “Unless there’s some way to overtake him.”

Serge displayed unaware palms. “I never knew.”

“Told you a whole bunch of times.” Coleman inserted a new music disc. “Said he was a big lawyer in Miami.”

“ . . . Strawberry fields forever . . .”

“Yeah, I recall, but . . .” Serge slowly scanned the office walls of faux paneling. “I was expecting F. Lee Bailey, and that you were the aberrant spawn of some kind of ectopic accident where your mom conceived before bungee jumping. I figured your brother would be completely normal.”

“No, it runs in the family.”

“But the last name’s different,” said Serge.

Ziggy inserted the
Electric Ladyland
disc. “Changed it to live up to my marketing image.”

“Image?” asked Serge. “Not answering doors and cowering in hallucinatory paranoia?”

“It’s a bigger market than you’d think.”

Coleman nodded.

“Uh, excuse me,” said Reevis. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but you wanted a status report on that document file? Grand-Bourg Holding Group?”

“Who’s the kid?” asked Ziggy.

“An ex-reporter I took on to help decipher the documents you gave Mahoney to investigate.”

“I remember now. It’s why I left Key West to come back here.” Ziggy poured another stiff tequila. “Lay it on me.”

“Seems very complicated,” said Reevis. “I’d love to report that I’m farther along, but right now it’s just a lot of slow plodding through data correlation—”

“Perfect!” Ziggy downed his drink with a sour face. “Say no more . . . Where were we?”

Serge pointed in two directions. “Brothers.”

“I was there when Dad stuffed Coleman in the cooler during the football game.” Ziggy replaced the bulbous cork in the bottle. “But Pops was no picnic on me either. Check these scars.” The attorney turned and dropped his pants for Serge.

“Please!” Serge raised a hand to block the view. “I get it and I’m sorry. It’s all a crapshoot, and some kids get terrible rolls of the dice. I feel sickened that it affected how you guys turned out . . .”

Ziggy swung his head to Coleman, then back at Serge. “But we turned out fine.”

“Sure,” said Serge. “So let’s get back to why Mahoney sent me to meet with you—”

“Manners first,” said Ziggy, raising his briefcase onto the desk. “Check this out!”

He reached for one of the brass hinge rivets on the side of the attaché, which had a rubber plug on the end instead of metal threads. One of the latches flipped open. Ziggy flicked a Bic lighter next to the hinge, and his mouth went over the open latch.

Serge and Reevis glanced at each other. Then a strange bubbling sound. Ziggy raised his head and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

“You made a bong out of a briefcase?” asked Serge.

Ziggy prepared another hit. “Have to be extra careful near courthouses.”

“But how?”

“Easier than you’d think,” said Coleman. “All you do is drill two holes and slide an airtight Plexiglas shim under the leather with a self-contained bowl from a pet-store fish feeder. Then remove the brass hinge-plug for the carburetor because, as everyone knows, shit can’t blaze in a vacuum, and the latch—”

“Enough already,” said Serge. “You’re definitely brothers. No DNA test necessary to match the bong-savant gene.”

“Your newspaper guy?” said Ziggy.

“Still needs a couple more days,” said Serge. “In the meantime, I’m about to get my hands on some legal assets that should hold our enemies at the gate until we learn more about this Grand-Bourg business.”

Ziggy flicked the lighter again. “I’m all ears . . .”

Chapter
THIRTY-FOUR

THE NEXT AFTERNOON

B
rook checked her watch: 1:01
P.M
.

The doors in the back of the courtroom flew open.

“Where have you been?” Brook demanded. “You were a no-show all morning!”

Ziggy jogged up the aisle, out of breath, sweating. “Sorry, been working on something.”

“I’m really going to need your help,” said Brook. “Yesterday was a nightmare with our two witnesses, and we don’t have much time left to catch up.”

“But the judge sided with us and gave those special instructions to ignore the testimony—”

Brook shook her head. “One of the biggest rules of trial work is just get the damning statements in front of the jury. No matter how honest they are in following rules, they can’t get it out of their minds. And the judge issuing those instructions to forget it almost makes it worse. It’s like saying don’t think of a three-headed polka-dotted elephant. Then that’s
all
they can think about. We’re screwed unless we can make a comeback with our final witnesses.”

“I’ve been working on something that I think will—”

“Shhh!” Brook pointed. “The judge.”

Boone seated himself behind the bench. “Call your witness.”

Brook questioned a retiree from Michigan. Then ones from Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and Manitoba. All of them sunburned from the previous day’s free sailboat trip.

She returned to the plaintiff’s table.

“Why so down-in-the-mouth?” asked Ziggy. “I thought you did great.”

“And as dull as watching paint dry. Jurors three, nine and eleven kept blinking hard to stay awake. What sticks out most in deliberations is the sexy stuff, like yesterday. I’m afraid I let Shelby down.”

“But this thing I’m working on . . .” He turned around to check the courtroom’s doors. “I really think it could help us.”

Brook shook her head again. “Too late. That was our last witness. We have to rest our case and can’t present any more evidence except on rebuttal. And their side is too smart to give us any openings.”

Ziggy nudged her. “The judge is getting pissed again.”

“Oh.”

Boone tapped his fingers on the bench. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Sorry.”

“Any more witnesses?”

“That was the last one.”

“Are you resting your case?”

With great reluctance and fallen crest: “We rest our case.”

“All right, then,” said the judge. “Defense, call your first witness.”

The Yale attorney stood. “We call Consolidated COO Heinrich Neff.”

A short older man in a three-piece suit headed toward the stand. His coat had a pocket-watch chain. He took the oath with an Austrian accent.

“Now, Mr. Neff,” said the attorney. “As COO—”

Suddenly the back doors of the courtroom flew open with a flourish, and a man ran up the aisle, dramatically waving a fistful of papers over his head. “Hold everything!”

Brook turned around. “Dear God!”

Ziggy smiled. “Told you I was working on something.”

The man in the aisle came to a screeching halt. “Brook!”

“Serge!”

Ziggy looked back and forth. “You know each other?”

“What are you doing here?” asked Brook.

“Just dropped by with some total bombshell evidence is all.” Serge grinned big.

“But it’s too late. We already rested our case,” said Brook. “And how are you even involved in this case?”

Ziggy: “He’s a field man for Mahoney, my private eye.”

The judge had been vainly banging a new gavel to get their attention. He banged it once more, super loud. “What is the meaning of this disruption in my courtroom?”

“Your Honor,” said Ziggy. “Plaintiffs have new evidence and would like to confer with our paralegal.”

“
He’s
a paralegal?” said Boone, pointing his gavel at Serge’s tropical shirt covered with toucans.

“One of the best,” said Ziggy. “Works for a private investigation firm on retainer. We’ll only need a moment.”

The defense attorney from Dartmouth was on his feet. “Objection! We’re required to receive advance notice of anything they wish to admit. And it’s moot anyway because they rested their case.”

“You did rest your case,” said the judge. “I can’t allow whatever you’ve got there.”

“We just received it,” said Ziggy.

“There are some special exceptions,” said Brook. “May I have a moment to research precedent? At the very least I’d like to get it on the record in case of appeal.”

“Very well,” said the judge. “We’ll take a short recess for you to confer . . . Bailiff, remove the jury and make some copies for me and the defense to examine.” He banged the gavel and disappeared into chambers.

As soon as he was gone: “This is great,” said Ziggy. “I told you I was working on something. We hired an investigative reporter to look through some weird documents, and last night I showed him some other files . . .”

But nobody was listening. Serge had taken a seat in the first row of the gallery behind the plaintiff’s table; he and Brook stared at each other in a trance.

Ziggy snapped his fingers between their faces. “Hello? Anybody home?”

Serge pushed his hand away. “How have you been?”

“
Where
have you been?” asked Brook.

“Some history?” said Ziggy.

Both of them: “Shut up!”

“Why haven’t you called?” asked Brook.

“I’ve been looking high and low,” said Serge.

“Me, too.”

“Brook.”

“Serge.”

They took each other’s hands.

The bailiff returned with the set of original documents for the plaintiffs and copies for the defense.

“Excuse me,” said Ziggy, jerking a thumb toward the door of the judge’s chambers, “but we have a lot to go over before Boone gets back.”

Serge’s eyes lingered on Brook another moment, then: “He’s right. You have to take a look at these.”

“What have we got here?” Brook grabbed the stack of papers. “Think it’s important?”

Serge looked sideways. “Judging by their reaction, I’d say it is.”

Across the aisle, Team Riley was huddled in furious discussion over the pages. They didn’t even wait for the judge to get to the bench. As soon as Boone opened his chamber door, all four were on their feet. “Objection!”

The judge eyed them as he moved slowly toward his chair. “I take it you have strong feelings about something.”

“Your Honor,” said their lead counsel. “These are confidential internal documents containing proprietary trade secrets. What’s more, they’ve all been passed through our legal department, which covers them under attorney-client privilege. The only possible way plaintiff could have gained possession of these is by theft.”

The judge turned to Brook. “What do you have to say? Where did you get these?”

Serge leaned over the railing behind Brook. “Tell him they
were
stolen.”

Brook turned around. “What!”

“Go ahead, tell him.”

“I’m not telling him that,” said Brook.

“Just trust me.”

The judge softly tapped his gavel. “Well, does anybody have an answer?”

Serge hopped up and wildly waved an arm. “Oooo! Me, me, me! Pick me! . . .”

MIAMI

The waiting room had no magazines or other comforts. The molded plastic chairs were designed only for durability. The people in them weren’t.

It was a high-mileage crowd, and the room was chatty, like a human bullfrog pond. Most were on cell phones: gossip, making plans that were the opposite of thought out, arguments about paying the cell-phone bill. At the front of the room was a locked door with reinforced glass. On the other side, more stagnation. A line of people at a counter, waiting their turn to sign forms.

The door opened. A sunburned man with uncombed hair emerged. A woman stood up from her molded chair and marched out of the room in a huff. The man ran after her. “It wasn’t my fault . . .”

Waiting resumed in the processing-and-release center of the city jail.

The next man signed his name on a form and was handed a Ziploc bag with wallet, cell phone and keys. The door opened again.

Someone in another plastic chair stood up. He sported a black guayabera with yellow palm trees. “Tennessee? Tennessee Knox?”

The man with the Ziploc analyzed the face. “Do I know you?”

“I’m the guy who just bailed you out.”

“Figured that,” said Knox. “But why?”

“What’s the matter?” asked the stranger. “You’d rather be back in there?”

Knox fished his billfold from the clear bag. “No, I appreciate it. But when it’s someone you don’t know, there’s usually a catch.”

“There is,” said the man. “But it’s a good one. Why don’t we have lunch?”

“You paying?”

Forty minutes later, another cruise ship that would soon make feces-related headlines sailed away from the port and through the jetties that split Fisher Island from Miami Beach. A block away, at the southern tip of Washington Avenue, an eager line of people wrapped around a building that had been in business since 1913.

Inside, Tennessee Knox sat with a wax bib and a nutcracker. “Joe’s Stone Crab! I could never afford to eat here. Man, when you said you were taking me to lunch . . .”

“Just a down payment of thanks.”

“Hope it’s not for nothing.” Crabmeat splashed into a bowl of butter. “I haven’t heard your proposal yet. Plus I still have charges pending.”

The benefactor flicked his wrist. “Don’t give it another thought.”

The nutcracker busted a shell. “What are you, some kind of lawyer?”

“Yes, with one of the biggest firms.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“And I won’t.” The man leaned back from his untouched food. “I work in sensitive areas for powerful people.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“A burglary.”

Knox squirted himself in the eye with lemon. “I’m just a small-time second-story man. If you want to take down a heavy score for corporate espionage, I’m afraid someone gave you bad information.”

“Actually it won’t even be a real burglary. All part of a complicated legal caveat. We just need to borrow your fingerprints.”

“Now I’m confused.”

“Will five thousand be sufficient illumination?”

“I’m starting to see clearly.” Knox noshed another cold claw. “But why me?”

“You have a lengthy rap sheet for B-and-E. So they should quickly match your prints for what we’re planning. But as I said, don’t worry.” The man snapped his fingers for the check. “And, waiter, can you box these up for us?”

Knox held a claw out from his mouth. “I’ve just gotten started.”

The mystery man stood from the table. “We have to leave right away for the Keys.”

“But I have to be in court tomorrow.”

“Those charges are being dismissed as we speak.”

Knox took off his bib and got up. “You’re a fixer, aren’t you?”