When next we see Michael, he's sitting in the parked Charger with Fi, and they're on stakeout. "$1,350, and all Sam got on Carla was a P.O. box," Fi sighs, holding up a business card that reads "Carla Baxter, PO Box 0044 Coral Key, FL, [ZIP code: Fi's thumb]. The card also says that Carla's an aquifer specialist. And that's everything we have on Carla. "More than I had, Fi," Michael says with equanimity. "Someone's got to pick up the mail sometime," he adds as they watch the "Mail N More" across the street. And when they do, I'm sure nobody will notice the big black Charger that belongs to the guy they've been pursuing, surveilling, recruiting, and generally fucking with for the past year. Fi decides to lighten the mood by cranking some Bulgarian disco, which will make them even more inconspicuous, sitting there with the windows open. As the camera pulls up and away over the busy street, Michael's VO has a news flash for us: "Intelligence gathering isn't all running around with a gun and a spy camera. When the operation demands it, you get to sit in a hot car with no air conditioning. in downtown Miami." With Fi and nine hundred decibels of Bulgarian disco, no less.
M. Giant is a Minneapolis-based writer with a wife, a son, and a number of cats that seems to have settled at around two. Learn waaaay too much about him at Velcrometer, or just e-mail him at M.Giant[at]gmail.com