57. Nighthawks at the Diner

My plan was a couple of drinks and then hang out at an overnight diner, maybe a Waffle-House, if I couldn’t find an independent. Whilst we stayed in Salvatore’s new club, I’d have to feed the meter every hour, but it would be good to get some fresh air outside. The old military saying, about plans and first contact with the enemy, applied to plans and any contact with Margarita Cansino at all.

We watched the Little Italy act. The pole barely figured, it was all bella figura. The dark-haired woman on stage strolled about nearly naked, pretending to smoke. I couldn’t remember Sofia Scicolone ever doing that in a movie, but it was nice to watch, if a little tame for the regulars.
Rita liked it. Rita liked it so much, she went out back with La Divina Sofia, as the music man called her when his sleepy drawl asked us to put our hands together and show our appreciation.

I went out to put some coins in the meter. An hour later it was time to go again. ‘Jolene’ came out with no wig and wearing some flat shoes. It was a good job she didn’t have any clothes on, as I only recognised her from the rhinestones.

‘No point waiting for the redhead, people. She left out the back with ‘La Divina.’

She said it like she didn’t think Sofia was all that divine. ‘Jolene’ probably should have been sore at Ms Cansino.

I looked at Sam Sara and said we’d find a diner. We could drive out to the freeway if we had to.

‘I know a place. We don’t need the car.’

‘Can’t leave it here. I need it tomorrow.’

‘Let’s take it to the orphanage and walk from there.’

‘Won’t the parking lot be locked?’

‘Secret Service will be there too. We could bluff them out. Tell ‘em we’re Feebs.’

I looked at her skirt suit and thought she might past muster. My caddyshack jacket wouldn’t: they might not even believe I was from the Georgia Bureau. Sam saw my face.

‘You’ll think of something.’ She smiled.

Feebs are just Cels without wings. Organisations like the FBI and the Celestial Bureau of Investigation like their personnel to conform to ‘cattle herd distribution’: one maverick in a thousand steers. Even when I’d been a member of Heaven’s prime crime fighting organisation, I had been the unbranded beef. So I just behaved like me.

I freewheeled the limo to a halt across the road from the orphanage’s entrance. Our vehicle was nose to nose with the kind of government issue sedan that says ‘I am an unmarked federal vehicle.’ Sure enough there were two guys in the front seats. One was asleep. So that gave Sam and I the chance to get on the front foot by getting out of our car first. The dozer was in the driver’s seat. His pal hadn’t had a chance to wake him. I slapped the flat of my hand on the window. The sleeping Fed didn’t even move except to put one finger on the electric window switch.

‘Sleepin’ on the job, huh?’ I said, when the window finally slid all the way down.

‘Well if it ain’t Rodney Dangerfield?’ He still hadn’t moved. The seat was all the way back and his eyes were half-lidded.

‘It ain’t, and we’re here from the GBI. It’s an undercover op. We gotta leave the limo here. They know at the Hoover. I saw the e-mails.’

The driver gave his 5 cents- worth, ‘Got any ID?’

‘Didn’t he just say they were undercover?’ His passenger said, shaking his head.

‘So you’re okay with this?’

‘Give Agent Snodgrass a tour round the limo, trunk and hood. We’d like to know you’re not leaving us any surprises. You know what’s going down tomorrow?’

‘FLOTUS? It’s part of our op.’ Sam said. I heard the sound of a poker-hand being overplayed.

I still hadn’t seen the passenger move but his Glock was pointed at me through the window.

‘Hands up, and no funny business.’ He looked over at the driver, ‘I’ve always wanted to say that.’