Miami Spice

Michael found that upscale clubs anywhere tended to have elements of machismo that came off as overly arrogant and silly. Hired muscle and eye candy were used to make such hauteur seem important and more than a little seedy. He found himself in one such club in Tel Aviv. He'd waylaid two pickpocket attempts and was “foolishly” mingling with locals. Of course, the embassy couldn't really keep him from doing business that did not interfere with his diplomatic duites. His fingers drummed a briefcase on the seat next to him.

He sat half-slumped, as if the watered scotch he was drinking was going to his head too fast. It prevented, by design, anyone from making casual eye contact. A body sat down opposite him. He looked up. The man across from him looked more like the sleaze one would expect in Miami, but he had two hefty, artificially tanned bruisers and a underwhelmingly charming Latina with him and a humongous diamond in his ear. Exactly the kind of thing to scare away Michael's contact. “I'm sorry, I believe you've mistaken me for someone else,” Michael said through his glass.

“Well, mebbe you can gimme the 'case. And if I'm wrong. I'll give it back.”

Michael's face resolved from unaware to adamant. “No.”

The faux mobster looked surprised, then pissed. “I don't think you heard me.”

Michael muttered something under his breath. “I heard you just fine. Leave. Now.”

The annoyance actually stood up and leaned across the table into his face. “I paid good money for those forgeries. Hand 'm over.”

Michael reached into his jacket pocket for his embassy passport and flipped it open in his antagonist's face. “What forgeries?” he asked slowly.

The aggressor suddenly looked a lot less comfortable and slowly sat back down. “Listen. You're right. I was mistaken....”

“There is an empty booth two places behind you. You're going to that booth, and you're going to sit there until I'm done with my actual business here. Bolting and running isn't a good idea with her shoes and dress. And I can squeeze her for information just as easily as you.”

Michael watched them sullenly move down to their appointed seats and went back to looking down at his hand on his glass. Any pretense of intoxication was gone, leaving a veneer of irritation. Mr. Cynosure was loudly lamenting his situation and now annoying all the patrons of the bar, not just him. Luckily, he'd managed to be rid of him as the person for whom he'd been waiting arrived not two minutes later.

Ten minutes passed quietly and pleasantly while Michael went over some points of a venture loan. Suddenly, his guest went white and silent and Michael felt something metallic press into his shoulder. Michael made a hand gesture to the other gentleman to duck. He took two cleansing breaths and then slid down himself while reaching up to grab the gunman's wrist. He incanted quickly, shattering the bones in the wrist. The gun fired into the tabletop.

The guy Michael labeled Cynosure came around and grabbed the gun and pointed it in his face. Michael barked something that sounded like an insult. The floor rippled like water beneath Cynosure's feet throwing him off balance. Michael felt a bullet graze his forearm.

“Let me apologize,” he said in German to the shaken, pale businessman that had merely come searching for an investor. “I don't know who these people are or who they think I am, but I certainly am going to beat them further if they cause any more interruptions.”

Michael went over and kicked the gun away. Half the patrons of the club were now looking their way in frozen terror. The other half had fled. Michael grabbed Cynosure by his shirt and dragged him back to the booth he'd assigned to him earlier. “I told you to stay there.”

“Faggot!”

Michael's fist fit neatly into the man's face. His ring broke the guy's nose. He turned to walk away when “Guess we're not secure in our masculinity, are we?” rang out between blood and spittle behind him.

Michael turned around, smiling gamely. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket, poured a pitcher of water on Cynosure's face, yanked him by the shirt front, and pulled him into a liplock. The floundering, bloodied, humiliated poseur fought persistently to break away from Michael's grip, but it was like breaking out of steel. After two tense minutes, Michael finally let go. “So, how secure did that feel?”

He turned to the moll and clacked his tongue while winking before sitting back down. At that moment, the local authorities arrived...