Tsar (21 page)

F
ast Eddie Falco, the septuagenarian security guy at Stoke’s condo, One Tequesta Point, jerked his head up like a startled chicken. He dropped a worn paperback book into his lap and stared at the vision before him. One of his residents, the human mountain known as Stokely Jones, had just emerged from the north elevator looking like a presenter on that MTV awards show.

“Hiya, Stoke,” Eddie said, eyeballing his friend from head to toe and wolf-whistling through his remaining teeth.

“Good evening, Edward,” Stoke said, pausing to toss his GTO keys into the air and catch them behind his back. “How good do I look? Tell the truth.”

Stoke turned around to let Eddie get a good look at him. He was sporting a white satin dinner jacket over a black ruffled shirt with a sky-blue silk bow tie and matching cummerbund, patent leather shoes on his feet, size 14 EE.

“How do you look?” Eddie said, rubbing his grizzled chin. “I’ll tell you how you look. You look like you’re going to a goddamn rap-star coronation or something. Who’s getting crowned tonight? Scruff Daddy? P. Diddly? One of those characters? Hell’s his name, Boob Job? That Poop Dog fella? Those guys change their names so often I don’t know how they ever get any damn mail.”

Stoke laughed out loud.
Poop Dog? Boob Job?

Eddie went back to his book. He was sitting in his highly customized golf cart with a stone-cold stogie jammed between his teeth, reading one of his treasured paperback mystery novels. He was in his reserved parking place, which happened to be right next to where Stokely parked his metallic black-raspberry 1965 GTO convertible.

Stokely’s GTO could, according to its owner, do the standing quarter-mile in less than eight seconds, NHRA certified. Eddie was mildly impressed. God knew the damn thing was loud enough to make a deaf man’s ears bleed. He braced himself, waiting for his pal Stoke to crank up the big mill any second now.

Eddie much preferred his own vehicle, a vintage machine built in the early sixties by Harley-Davidson, back in the glory days when Harley had the wild-assed notion of building golf carts. Totally custom job, and Fast Eddie had poured his heart and soul into his baby, one of a kind, a classic. Only one Stoke had ever seen with an actual Rolls-Royce grille on the front. Sure, it was unusual transportation for security work but right at home among the high rollers on the little island of Brickell Key.

“Poop Dog?” Stoke said again with a grin, headed for his car, twirling the keys around his finger. “Is that what you said?
Poop Dog?
”

“Whatever,” Eddie said, not even looking up from his novel. “You know who I’m talkin’ about, I forget what the hell his name is.”

“
Snoop
Dogg happens to be the cat’s name,” Stoke said, unlocking the driver’s-side door. “And no, it ain’t him.”

“So, who’s getting crowned?”

“Fancha. She’s the opening act at the opening night of a new joint over on the beach. Elmo’s.”

“Club El Morocco. S’posed to be very upscale according to an article in the
Herald
this morning. Russian money, I hear. Hold on to your wallet.”

Stoke climbed in behind the wheel. The big V8 roared to life as he turned the key and simultaneously hit the switch that lowered the ragtop.

“What are you reading?” he asked Eddie over the low rumble of the 541-cubic-inch engine, leaning out his window. He liked to let his baby warm up for a minute or two, get her juices flowing.

“What?” Eddie cried, cupping his hand behind his ear. The acoustics inside One Tequesta’s garage did wonders for a 600-horsepower engine.

“What book are you reading?” Stoke shouted.

“Bright Orange for the Shroud,”
he said, holding it up.

“Again? We already read that.”

Stoke and Eddie were the founding members of a two-man book club, the John D. MacDonald Men’s Reading Society. They confined themselves to the twenty-one greatest works of literature ever written, namely the Travis McGee novels by the master himself. Sometime ago, they’d even driven the GTO up to Lauderdale on a kind of pilgrimage. They’d had lunch at Pier 66 and then visited the holy shrine, slip F-18 at Bahia Mar, home to McGee’s houseboat, the
Busted Flush
.

Stoke backed out of his spot and stopped opposite Fast Eddie’s cart. “We read
Bright Orange
last week, Eddie. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, I’m reading it again. I like it.”

“I’m already halfway through
Darker Than Amber,
” Stoke said, putting the Hurst four-speed shifter into neutral and blipping the throttle, giving Eddie a blast of pure mechanical adrenaline. “You better catch up.”

“Don’t you worry about me, pal,” Eddie said, face already buried back in the book with a babe in a black bikini on the cover. “I happen to be an Evelyn Wood graduate.”

Stoke was about to pop the clutch and burn a little rubber when something occurred to him. He hit the brakes.

“Hey, listen up a second, Eddie. I just thought of something. Serious.”

Eddie put the book down and said, “Now what?”

“Might want to keep your eyes open tonight. I got a bunch of weird hang-ups on my machine today. Heavy breather, thinks I’m a chick maybe, I dunno. I’m listed in the book as S. Jones.”

“A stalker? Stalking
you?
Poor bastard.”

“All I’m saying is, you see anybody doesn’t look right poking around tonight, don’t hesitate to call your PD buddy at Miami Dade, okay? Seriously. Anybody come asking for me, call my cell.”

“Those Russians that blew up half of Coconut Grove the other night? Something to do with that, maybe, you think?”

“Maybe.”

Eddie knew Stoke’s company, Tactics, was involved in some very weird government stuff, he just didn’t know what or how weird.

“I’ll hold down the fort. Don’t worry about me,” Eddie said, going back to his book as Stoke pulled out of the garage, “Give my regards to high society.”

Stoke laughed and accelerated down the curving palm-lined drive. He’d head over to the Hibiscus Apartments on Clematis and pick up Sharkey. Then he and Luis would blast over the causeway to South Beach. Fancha had gotten him a reserved table right down front, but he was pretty sure there’d be a howling mob outside the velvet rope. After all, tonight, Elmo’s and his baby were the two hottest tickets in the hottest town in the hottest hemisphere on the planet.

W
ALTZING INTO
C
LUB
El Morocco, already fashionably shortened by the locals to “Elmo’s,” Stoke felt as if some time machine had whisked him back to Manhattan in the thirties. Everyone in South Beach seemed time-warped tonight. You had surfer dudes in top hats and tails and glam queens in old black-and-white-movie-star dresses; but it was the décor that knocked Stoke out. Descending the wide marble staircase with his pal Sharkey in tow, he half expected the smiling ghost of Clark Gable or Jimmy Cagney to pass them on their way up.

Below them, the curving walls of the oval room were blue and white zebra-striped. There were life-size snow-white palm trees all around the room, the fringed white fronds moving idly in the air-conditioned breezes. At the far end of the main lounge, he could see the large bandstand. There were about fifteen cocktail tables around a blue-mirrored dance floor, dancers circulating in the semidarkness. From below came the smell of cigarettes and the sound of clinking glasses. Against the bar, a group of celebs was being photographed, flashes going off every other second.

A fifteen-piece swing band, dressed in white tie and tails, was in full swing on the bandstand. There were blue and white zebra-striped banquettes around the room, already full of rich folks who’d come early or somehow gotten seated at the most expensive tables. One small round table remained, just below the bandstand, and it looked empty.

“C’mon, Shark,” Stoke said. “Our table awaits.”

They made their way downstairs and through the crowded room, Stoke running interference for the little Cuban guy.

“Great table,” Sharkey said, pulling out his chair, looking around at the sparkling crowd, hands touching jeweled hands over white tables dotted here and there with famous faces. “Let’s order us a bottle of pink champagne, boss.”

“Do it,” Stoke said. “Just get me a Diet Coke.”

The waiter brought their drinks just as an announcer in a white-sequined tuxedo came out and introduced—ladies and gentlemen, one word was all it took to get the crowd’s attention—
Fancha!

The now empty stage went dark except for a single spot creating a white circle of wavering light floating across the sequined curtains. The piano tinkled a few notes, and a lovely disembodied voice floated out over the room. Everybody seated under the drooping white palms suddenly went dead quiet.

Fancha stepped through the curtain and into the light to a sudden burst of loud applause. Fancha, wearing a midnight-blue gown, sang “Maria Lisboa.” It was the slowest, saddest, most beautiful song Stoke had ever heard her sing, and when she was finished and stood quietly with her head bowed, letting the adulation wash over her, he got to his feet, putting his hands together for his woman, and he didn’t even see that everyone else was on his or her feet, too, applauding his baby in a standing O.

A few minutes later, during a lull in the show, a waiter bent and whispered into Stoke’s ear, something about two gentlemen who wanted him to join their table for a cocktail.

“What?” Stoke said, looking at the white card on the silver tray. It had a big black M on it. Somebody named Putov, an executive producer, it said.

“Mr. Putov,” the waiter said, indicating the banquette with his eyes. “Miramar Pictures, Hollywood. You are Mr. Levy, no? Suncoast Artist Management?”

“Is that who they said? Sheldon Levy?” Stoke smiled at Luis. His cover was holding.

“Yes, sir, they said, ‘Please take this to Mr. Levy at the front table.’”

Stoke looked across at the banquette, smiled at the two guys. “Ever heard of Miramar Pictures?” he asked Shark out of the corner of his mouth.

Luis had some kind of weird Hollywood fixation, always reading movie magazines,
Variety
, and
Billboard
, left them lying around the office, drove Stoke crazy. Come in Stoke’s office, asking him if he knew how much
Spider-Man 4
had grossed over the weekend, Stoke sitting there reading about his beloved Jets going into the tank halfway through the season, have to throw Shark’s skinny ass out of his office and close the door.

Shark said, “You kidding me? Miramar? They’re huge, man. Ever hear of Julia Roberts? Ever hear of Angelina Jolie? Ever heard of Penelope Cruz? Salma Hayek? Halle—”

“Yeah, yeah. Halle Berry I
have
heard of, believe me. What the hell these show-business types want with us?’

“Not
us,
boss. Gotta be Fancha, man. Let me paint you a picture, baby. They know you two are an item, maybe, got to be what it is. They think you’re her manager or something. They want an introduction to the next Beyoncé, baby, that’s all they want, using us to get to her.”

Stoke hadn’t seen the wiry little guy so excited since he’d been in a swimming race with a giant mako down in the Dry Tortugas a couple of years ago.

“What do you think, Shark? Should we go over there?”

“Ah, hell, no. What does Fancha need with the two biggest producers in Hollywood, boss?”

“You’re right. Let’s go see what they have to say.”

Five minutes later, they were sitting with Mr. Grigori Putov, who didn’t seem to speak much English, and the other guy, Nikita, “call me Nick,” last name unpronounceable, who spoke a lot of English. Grigori, bulked up and handsome, wearing a shiny black suit and a massive gold Rolex, just smiled and drank vodka rocks and smoked cigarettes. Nick, on the other hand, now, he was a total piece of work.

He was a crazy-looking little bird, two small eyes pinched closed together on either side of a beaky nose. He had a topknot of wild crackly yellow hair and a shiny green silk suit, which made him look a little bit like a parrot that had just been dragged backward through a hedge. His eyes were blazing behind little gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

They were both kind of pale, too, for Hollywood types, Stoke thought, but maybe pale was in these days. What did he know from Hollywood?

“Let me get this straight, Nick,” Stoke said. “A two-picture deal. Now, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means money, Mr. Levy. May I call you Sheldon?”

“Why not, Nick?”

“Twice as much as a one-picture deal, Shel. Your girl Fancha is going to be a big star, let me tell you that right now. She’s definitely got the chops for it.”

Nick talked fast, as if he was trying to jam all the words he could into the shortest possible amount of time.

“Sounds good to me,” Sharkey said, all lit up. He loved this Hollywood crap, that much was obvious. “Are we talking net or gross points here?”

“Who is this guy again, Shel?” Nick asked Stoke, still smiling.