Pineapple Grenade Read Online Free PDF

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 . . .
    Night came quickly. Long rows of headlights at the tollbooths near the former site of the Orange Bowl. A limo hit a blinker for the cash lane.
    It was one of those twin skies. Light blue behind, where the sun had just gone down over the Gulf of Mexico. Ahead: impenetrably black toward the Atlantic.
    Serge handed change to one of the collectors and spun rubber.
    Coleman bent down and fired a fattie. He blew a cloud out the window. “What are we doing again now?”
    “Fighting crime.”
    “I thought you were spying.”
    “Coleman, there are many things that naturally go together and you can do at the same time, like receiving oral sex and organizing postcards.”
    Coleman stared out the window. “We’re just driving in circles around the airport again.”
    “You are correct, fact-boy.”
    “But we did it the other night. Remember nabbing the carjacker and saving that old couple? Problem solved.”
    “Coleman, there isn’t just one guy behind it all. Think of the ground he’d have to cover in one night.”
    “Like Bad