by Tim Dorsey
“I’m sorry about that.” He shook his head. “You came here to talk to me. I don’t need to bother you with my own worries.”
“No, really, what is it?” asked Coco.
“My foundation.”
“You mean Ballroom Preservation?”
He nodded. “We’re having trouble with the bills. I’m afraid it looks bad.”
Coco edged closer. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Well . . .” He quickly pulled out a glossy brochure and handed it across the desk. “As I believe you already know, the foundation is supported entirely by the contributions of generous benefactors who belong to my gold membership.”
Coco scanned the brochure, given to each dance student upon their third office visit, and again after every three subsequent visits, upping their membership status to platinum and diamond. She unhesitatingly whipped out her checkbook, like most. They’d seen what had happened to the others who held back. Sitting outside on their fourth visit and getting skipped over, again and again, finally the only one left in the hall, Wolfgang grabbing his coat: “Sorry, in a hurry to see someone at the hospital.”
Cut off.
Everyone knew there were no hospital visits, and they all blamed their frozen-out classmate for being selfish. She deserved it for not helping such a kind soul in his ballroom foundation’s time of need. He was the lonely hearts club’s one-stop shopping for all their emotional and spiritual needs.
Coco squinted at her checkbook. “How much do you need?”
He slid a piece of paper with a number across the table. Not what he needed; what she could afford. He’d seen the bank statements.
She finished writing and ripped out the check. “Here you go.”
Twenty-four thousand.
That number ain’t fiction. And Wolfgang wasn’t alone. All across the state, every day. Age demographics helped Florida corner the market on debonair geriatric gurus. Some woman in Fort Myers was taken for eighty-nine thousand before her children noticed the electric company had turned off her lights. It made the papers, as did the other cases, handfuls every month—dance instructors, nutritionists, home health workers—but their customers still kept writing those checks. Happily.
Wolfgang himself had gone through his own brush with authorities after an estate planner discovered a widow from Boynton had cashed all her CDs.
They handcuffed him right in the studio.
“Booo!” “Leave him alone!” “Fascists!” Coco even spit on one of the officers as they led him away. But all charges were quickly dropped when the victim said she wanted to give him more money for legal bills.
He’d found his calling.
And things couldn’t be going better for Wolfgang. In addition to a bustling clientele with loose checkbooks, he had just gone into partnership with a major new investor. Someone he became acquainted with from the strip mall. More specifically, the pain clinic. Wolfgang had already begun milking him for information with eventual plans to rip him off as well. He now had a new partner, a defrocked doctor from Tampa named Arnold Lip.
Chapter Seventeen
SINGER ISLAND
Sky and ocean blended together in the black night. The rim of the horizon became defined by a yellowish glow and a preview of the coming moonrise.
Two Floridians stared out over the tranquil Atlantic.
“Now, this is a bar,” said Coleman, downing a double of Jack on the rocks.
“It’s definitely going on the list.” Serge bent over his notebook. “Top O’ Spray, on the Palm Beach Shores side of Singer Island. Not only is it on the beach, but it’s got an elevated view from the top of a motel with lots of glass. Plus it’s a real bar: old decor and old school, genuine people with quiet class who don’t whoop it up to call attention to themselves during fertility runs at genetically engineered beach joints like Coconuts or Rumrunners or ‘World Famous Tiki Bar.’ ”
“Don’t the people up north know there’s like a thousand of those famous tikis.”
“Amazingly, they’re like kids going to see Santa Claus at the mall and always think they’ve found the only one: ‘Look, Velma, the sign says “World Famous,” so we’re forced to go inside.’ ”
Coleman knocked on the ancient counter under his drink. “But how’d you find this place? It’s so out of the way.”
“My hometown,” said Serge. “During return visits, I’d stay here when it was a Best Western. Then I’d stare out the back windows of this bar and pretend I was a contestant on Treasure Isle.”
“What’s that?”
“Believe it or not, they used to shoot a nationally televised game show right out on that very shore. I can see it all like it was just yesterday . . .” Hands waved in the air over his bottled water. “ . . . The year was 1967, the network: ABC! Couples paddling little toy boats across a man-made lagoon behind the landmark Colonnades Hotel, digging in the sand for clues to solve the puzzle, urged to hurry by the booming voice of host John Bartholomew Tucker until the familiar strains of Herb Albert’s ‘Tijuana Taxi’ signaled that ‘we’ve run out of time again,’ and then they’d all gather and wave to the camera. It was a magic era.”
“I remember it now,” said Coleman. “The show that was like The Newlywed Game on the beach.”
“I was just a little kid sitting too close to the TV and ruining my eyes, thinking, ‘This is just a few miles away but being broadcast to the entire country. That must be really important!’ Then I ran around the house yelling hysterically, ‘Mom! Mom! Take me to sit in the live audience!’ ‘I’m making dinner.’ And I’d stomp my feet and point toward the ocean, screaming falsetto: ‘But they’re paddling in the lagoon right now!’ . . . We never did go, and then it got canceled in 1968, and years later I realized it was just a bunch of silliness.”
“If it was silly,” said Coleman, “then why did you make us stop before coming to this bar and dig a lot of holes out on the beach?”
“Because when they cancel a show, the staff doesn’t give a shit. Do you think they actually made sure they dug up all the leftover clues? Who knows what it could be worth to solve an unfinished puzzle?”
“That beach cop who questioned us wasn’t very polite.”
“I generally have universal respect for law enforcement, but some can be deliberately obtuse, and he comes over with his flashlight: ‘Hey, what do you two fellas think you’re doing out here?’ ‘Digging for clues. Solving puzzles.’ ‘Clues?’ ‘When they cancel a show, the staff doesn’t give a shit.’ ”
Coleman raised his drink. “He acted like something bizarre was going on.”
“He’ll never make detective.” Serge chugged his water. “Let me see that magazine again. I can’t believe you made the cover of one before I did.”
“Where do I pick up my fan mail?”
Serge flipped inside to the feature article. “Look at this. I’m so jealous. They even have a time line of your career, like they’re tracing the ice ages in North America. Here’s your ‘early bong period,’ and then the advent of your unforgettable chicken hookah . . .”
“You use what you have on hand.”
“ . . . And the time you and Lenny made a bong from a hundred-gallon aquarium, which this magazine says silenced even the most jaded cynics.”
Coleman tapped a spot farther down the graph. “That’s where we lost our crown to the Australians, who used silicone caulk to seal up one of those red British phone booths . . .”
“They’re saying it was like the America’s Cup . . .”
“And here’s where we finally won it back.” Coleman tapped another spot. “That should keep the title in the States for a while.”
“Where was I during all this?”
Coleman just shrugged. “Me and Lenny were hanging out in this college bar. And we met some stoners from the physics department, and one of the grads was a teaching assi
stant who had a key, so we went in after midnight . . .”
Serge incredulously held the magazine closer to his face. “You made a bong from a super-collider?”
Coleman downed a drink and smiled offhand. “A bong has to be airtight, and those collider things can’t be having little particles getting loose.”
Serge closed the magazine and patted Coleman on the back. “Drink up.”
“But we just got here.”
Serge climbed off his stool. “Have to find a home improvement store before they close, then get to bed early for plenty of rest.”
“Why?”
“I need to repair a Spanish fort.”
OCALA
Six A.M. Shadows. Hoofbeats.
No lights except the horse barns. Electric faux lanterns. Parsons Gram folded a used horse blanket and placed it on a stack in the back of the stables. Then he lifted the entire bundle and lowered it into a heavy-gauge corrugated shipping box.
Clip-clop, clip-clop. A jockey guided a filly up the paved driveway into the barn.
Parsons took the reins.
“Thanks, Dominic.”
He threw a blanket over the horse and returned to sealing up his mailing container. Must have gone through a half roll of strapping tape. No way he was going to let this thing bust open in transit.
Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.
Parsons stayed bent over his box. He could tell it was two horses. He tore off a last length of tape and pressed it firmly over the flaps. Then stood up and turned around.
“Who the hell are you?” said Gram. “And what are you doing in my barn?”
A pair of Latinos in straw cowboy hats climbed down from the mares. Smiling.
“We have a business proposition.”
“Where’s Eddie and Willie?”
“Taking a smoke break.”
Parsons pulled out his cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“I wouldn’t do that. Unless you want them to search the barn. You’d be amazed how fast we can make this a crime scene.”
Parsons hung up. He glanced toward some tools leaning against a stable door. Ax, pitchfork, shovel.
The other Mexican stuck a hand in his jacket and smiled with gold teeth. “You’re not that fast.”
“Look, I don’t know how you got this address or what you’re up to, but this is a mistake. You’ve got the wrong place.”
Gold Teeth looked at his partner. “Pablo, you think we might have gotten the wrong place?”
Pablo looked around the barn and up at the truss supports in the vaulted ceiling. “Seems like a nice enough place to me.”
Gold Teeth turned toward Parsons again. “Pablo said he likes this place. I do, too.”
“You want money?” said the horse rancher. He pointed in the general direction of an unseen farmhouse on the back of the property. “I have a safe. Some jewelry, too.”
Pablo shook his head. “We want the Oxy.”
“Oxy?” said Parsons. “What’s that?”
Gold Teeth gave Pablo a disappointed look. “And I thought we could have a friendly business discussion.” Back to Parsons, no-nonsense time: “Where’s the shipment?”
“What shipment?”
“It’s in the box, isn’t it?”
“What, that?” Parsons turned around. “They’re just horse blankets.”
“It’s in the box . . .”
Five minutes later, Parsons pushed himself up in the hay, bloody and bruised. He watched his two attackers stroll out of the barn with a pile of horse blankets. He punched up a number on his cell. “ . . . Catfish, it’s me, Parsons . . . Yes, I know what time it is. That’s why I’m calling. I’ve got some bad news . . . I lost the shipment . . . Not police. It was a drug rip-off, two Latin guys with guns. I think they were Mexican . . .”
On the other end of the line: “Something’s not right,” said Catfish. “If this was just a rip-off, you wouldn’t be talking to me. You wouldn’t be talking to anyone, ever again . . . But why did they beat the shit out of you? You think they were sending some kind of message . . . What do you mean, they wanted information? What did you give them? . . . I see . . . Hold on, I got another call coming in. I’ll get back to you . . .” He punched a couple buttons. “Hello? . . . Yeah, I had a strong feeling who it might be, judging from the odd hour and the fact that two assholes just beat this phone number out of a close friend of mine. I don’t know your name yet, but I’ll call you a dead man . . . What? Could you repeat that last part? . . . You want to give back the shipment? Then why’d you take it in the first place? . . . You do realize there are other ways to get someone’s attention . . . You want a meeting? Sure, we can have a meeting . . . Alone? Absolutely. I won’t bring another soul . . . I got a pen; give me that address . . . Right, see you at three o’clock . . . And, uh, since we’re going into business together, one question, if you don’t mind: How’d you know about the horse barn? . . . What? Last week you followed my buses from a pain clinic and saw I was the trail vehicle and then I stopped at a gas station . . .” Catfish closed his eyes tight. “No, I already know the rest . . . Right, I’ll be there at three.” He hung up and walked out into the parking lot toward the Durango.
His fingers felt around under the back bumper until they stopped against something that wasn’t factory equipment, attached by a sturdy magnet. He pulled the GPS homing device free—“son of a bitch”—and smashed it to small electronic bits on the ground.
Chapter Eighteen
RIVIERA BEACH
Coleman stood on the shore of Singer Island with a Schlitz in his hand, watching the sun rise out of the Atlantic.
“It’s dawn. I win another beer.” Pop.
Serge was on his knees, patting down the courtyard of his fort. He made one last swipe of his trowel over a turret and stood up. “Castillo de San Marcos is completely repaired and ready for the French, possibly Italians.”
“What do we do now?”
“Be patient.”
“Can I drink beer?”
“Beer drinking is the wayward child of patience.”
They headed fifty yards away and reclined in a pair of beach chairs. Coleman reached in their canvas beach bag for another cold one.
Morning broke over the shore.
“Look, it’s Coleman! I can’t believe it! . . .”
The morning wore on.
“Can I get your autograph?”
The sun tacked across the sky.
“First,” said Coleman. “Never use your driver’s license to de-seed dope. Cops notice the dirty edge, and now they can even run tests.”
“Far out . . .”
Into the afternoon.
Coleman posed for photos. A ring of people with cell phones hit buttons. Click, click, click . . .
“Yo! Jackie-O!” said Serge. He stood up as he noticed something down the beach. “We’re in business.”
Coleman finished signing a ceramic wizard bong and turned around. “What’s up?”
“My pal over there just kicked in all my bastions. Knew he couldn’t resist.” Serge reached into the beach bag and pulled out his latest novelty.
“That’s the football you were messing around with last night,” said Coleman. “Except it’s smaller and bright orange.”
“Because it’s a special Nerf beach football. The vortex foam model with tail fins.” Serge reached back and froze in a classic Dan Marino stance. “It’s a gift for him. I’m going to speak real nice, my way of trying to bridge understanding.”
“I get it now,” said Coleman. “The football is a bomb. You’re going to get him to play catch.”
“These babies fly so much farther than regular balls that he won’t be able to resist showing off for the bubbleheads.” Serge took a hike from an invisible center and dropped back in the pocket. “But no, it’s no
t a bomb.”
“So it really is a present? You’re actually going to be nice to that dick?”
“Speaking nice and being nice are two different things.” Serge scrambled in the backfield, eluding make-believe tacklers. “I initially considered the idea of a football bomb, but that would irresponsible because there are too many people around. What if my pass is off target or he tips it and I accidentally blow up some people from Michigan? Imagine the headlines in Detroit. So my scenario demands a pinpoint surgical strike . . . The ball isn’t a bomb, but there is a surprise inside.”
“Is that what you were doing in the motel room last night, slicing the ball open with a razor blade, then gluing the halves back together?”
“And therein lies the rub . . . Let’s see if I can get his attention.” Serge stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loud.
The muscle-boy turned around.
“Hey, homey!” Serge yelled down the beach. “Got you a present!”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“No, really.” Serge held it high over his head. “It’s the vortex football. Flies forever.”
“Am I going to have to come over there and beat your ass in front of everyone?”
“Only if you’re afraid my arm’s too strong, and you can’t handle a simple hitch-and-go pattern.”
“I can do hitches in my sleep,” the stud shouted back. “And I can definitely deal with anything your scrawny arm can sling.”
“Then we’re on.” Serge stepped up to the line. “Fourth down, trailing by five! Three seconds left! No time-outs! The stadium is going wild! . . .”
The crew cut crouched with a hand on his knee, ready to blast off.
“ . . . Storms is in the shotgun, but the crowd’s too loud! He steps under center! . . . Hut, hut, ninety-two, forty-six, slant-blue, thirty-eight, hut, sweep-red, twenty-seventy, trap-yellow, seventy-one, whiskey-tango . . .”
The stud took his hand off his knee and stood up.
“ . . . Hut, fifteen, box-red, blue-light special, double-A batteries, eleven herbs and spices, fifty ways to leave your lover . . .”