The sun drew down.

“Maybe they’re not even home,” said Pedro.

“They’re home all right,” said Guillermo.

“How do you know?”

“Here they come now.”

The Infiniti’s passengers looked up at the second-floor balcony, where a door had just opened. Three men filed out. Colombian. They trotted down a concrete staircase by the poinciana and piled into the boxlike frame of a vintage Grand Marquis with gray spray-paint splotches over body work.

Guillermo threw the Inifiniti in gear and followed.

Raul unzipped a small duffel bag, handing out Mac-10s with extended ammo clips. “When do we move?”

“Not until I say.” Guillermo made a right behind the Marquis. “Let’s see where they’re going.”

“But we could pull alongside right now.”

“And a cop comes around the corner,” said Guillermo. “I personally want to get away.”

The Marquis reached South Dixie Highway and turned left.

“Brake lights,” said Miguel. “They’re pulling into that parking lot.”

The Infiniti slowly circled the gas pumps of an independent convenience store with water-filled potholes and a lunch window for Cuban sandwiches. Four steel pylons had recently been installed at the entrance after a smash-and-grab where a stolen Taurus ended up in the Slim Jims. The Marquis’s passengers went inside.

Guillermo parked facing the quickest exit back to South Dixie. He opened the driver’s door. “Don’t do anything until I give the signal.”

“But they’re all in there.”

“And armed,” said Guillermo. “Wait until they’re in the checkout line. Otherwise we’ll be chasing them all across the store, shooting at one another over the top of the chips aisle like last time.”

The crew tucked Macs under shirts and slipped to the edge of the building. They peeked around the outdoor self-serve freezer of ten-pound ice bags.

“Look at that fuckin’ lottery line,” said Raul.

“They’re all up front,” said Guillermo. He pulled a wad of dark knit cloth from his pocket, and the others followed his lead. “Try to keep your spread tight.”

Customers forked money across the counter and pocketed tickets of government-misled hope, just as they had every minute since the owner unlocked the doors.

The Marquis’s passengers looked down at their own penciled-in computer cards. One sipped a can of iced tea. Another idly looked outside. Four ski masks ran past the windows.

“Shit.”

He reached under his shirt for a Tec-9. The others didn’t need to see the threat, just reflexively went for their own weapons upon noticing their colleague’s reaction.

The doors flew open.

Then all hell.

Ammo sprayed. Beer coolers and windows shattered. Screaming, running, diving over the counter, two-liter soda bottles exploding.

Miguel took a slug in the shoulder, but nothing like the Colombians. A textbook case of overkill. They toppled backward, their own guns still on automatic, raking the ceiling.

Stampede time. Guillermo and the others whipped off masks and blended with a river of hysterical bystanders gushing out the door. After the exodus, an empty store revealed the math. Three seriously dead Colombians and four crying, bleeding innocents, lying in shock or dragging themselves across the waxed floor.

Sirens.

The Infiniti sailed over a curb and down South Dixie.

Chapter Six

TAMPA

A bong bubbled.

Coleman looked up from the couch. “Hey, I’m on TV.”

On the screen, a bong bubbled.

“Serge, when did you shoot that?”

“Couple minutes ago.” He loaded a fresh tape in his camcorder.

Coleman watched as the TV scene panned around their one-bedroom apartment. Souvenirs, ammunition, row of ten bulging garbage bags against the wall.

A cloud of pot smoke drifted toward the ceiling. “You filmed the inside of our crib?”

“The big opening of my documentary.” Serge switched the camera to manual focus and aimed it at the television. “I finally found my hook.”

“Why are you filming the TV? It’s only playing what you just filmed.”

“This is bonus material. The ‘making of’ documentary of the documentary. You need that if you expect decent distribution in Bangkok.”

“What’s your documentary about?”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

The camera rolled as Serge walked into the kitchen and grabbed a mug of coffee with his free hand. He filmed the cup coming toward the lens. “If you’re going to do something, shoot for the best. People have made documentaries about the Civil War, baseball, ocean life, Danny Bonaduce, but as yet nobody’s attempted to document absolutely everything. My director’s cut box set is slated to top out at seven hundred volumes.”

“Will it include Danny Bonaduce?”

“Volume three hundred and twenty-four.”

“But how can you do a film on everything?”

“Spare batteries.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m also thinking of getting at least three more cameras that run continuously.” He held up the current unit. “This will be angle one, pointing forward with the viewfinder. Then I’ll have two waist-mounted cameras on a special belt, and finally a fourth in a sling on my back, aimed behind me, in case something important happens after I leave.”

Serge drained his coffee and turned off the camera. “My documentary on everything is complete.”

“Thought there were seven hundred volumes.”

“Flexibility is critical during production.” Serge ejected the tape from his camera. “The key to filmmaking is knowing what to leave out. That way you make the audience think, filling in gaps themselves and arguing about it on the way home.”

Coleman scraped out his bong and strolled over to the row of garbage bags.

“Been meaning to ask,” said Serge.

“The bags? I’m letting them age.”

“Silly question.”

“It’s all timing.” Coleman bent down and read adhesive labels he’d stuck on each: drugstore addresses and dates. “This one’s ready.”

Serge watched, puzzled, as Coleman carried it into the kitchen and dumped the contents on the table. “Let’s see what we’ve got…” He pawed through refuse. “Here’s something promising… here’s another… and another…”

“Prescription bags?”

“Three weeks old,” said Coleman. “Between the pharmacy counter and the front door, a lot of people just rip their sacks open, pocket the bottle of pills and toss the rest in the trash can outside the door. Then I make my rounds.”

“I’m guessing there’s a point, but I’ve been wrong before.”

Coleman held up one of the small paper bags. “See? Got all the information: patient’s name, medicine, day prescribed and, most crucial of all, any refills.”

Serge sat back at the table with amused attention.

“Of all people, I thought you’d figure it out by now,” said Coleman. “When was the last time they asked for ID picking up a prescription?”

“Never, but-”

“I calculate the pill quantity and dosage directions off the bag, then call a day or two before the person would normally order a refill.”

“What if the real customer’s already called? You’ll get caught.”

“Let me see your cell.”

Serge handed it over. Coleman dialed. He read the side of the bag, pressed a sequence of numbers and hung up.

Serge took the phone back. “What just happened?”

“Big chain stores now use automated phone refill systems. If the customer already called, you’d get a robot’s voice saying it’s too soon to refill. No harm, no foul.”

“I’m amazed at the level of thought,” said Serge. “And yet you still put your shoes on the wrong feet.”

Coleman looked down. “There’s a difference?”

Serge logged on to his laptop.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Planning my next documentary. But not too hasty: This one must be stunningly insightful and redirect the flow of culture as we know it.”

“Why?”

“My Documentary on Everything set the bar prohibitively high. Reviewers unfairly hold that against you.”