by Dorsey, Tim
“Getting cool toys for Christmas. Even better, getting shit I didn’t like and blowing it up with firecrackers. My folks were always puzzled by the debris.”
“I blew up something I made of LEGOs.”
“That’s the primary use of LEGOs, even though they keep quiet about it.” Serge put his fingers together, assembling something invisible. “The interlocking blocks allowed flexibility of design so you can engineer a directional charge. Excellent demolition training, which was otherwise unavailable at that age.”
Coleman killed the beer and crunched the can flat against his forehead. “Ow, I think I cut myself . . . Any other memories?”
“There’s also the newer ones.” Serge handed him some napkins. “Like every year, newspapers run the exact same menu of holiday stories: family hospitalized for smoke inhalation trying to keep warm by barbecuing indoors, seven crushed in Black Friday shopping spree, needy family evicted from apartment just days before Christmas, moms arrested fighting over last Xbox, employees laid off just days before Christmas, car stolen from shopping center with all of family’s gifts in trunk, man dies watering Christmas tree with lights on, depression soars during holidays, evicted needy family gets holiday wish, hospitals warn about eating Christmas decorations that aren’t food, needy family’s hoax results in charges. It’s a special time of year.”
“Are we there yet?” asked Coleman.
“Just up ahead. I checked us into our new room before dawn while you were still unconscious at the old one.”
Coleman glanced at their surroundings, detecting a trend. Sports bars, Tex-Mex, bowling alleys. Strip malls offering tattoos, guns, and haircuts. Off-brand convenience stores with large ads for lottery tickets, Newport cigarettes, and Asian groceries. An unnatural concentration of personal-injury-attorney signs at bus stops. Gas stations selling fried poultry and hash pipes. The pimp-your-ride industry: auto-detailing, auto upholstery, window tinting, auto alarm. Grime-streaked apartment balconies full of dead potted plants, barbecues, and people banging on doors. Old mom-and-pop motel signs with patriotic motifs involving eagles, flags, military airplanes, and primitive rocket ships. And finally the sub-budget motels with no signs at all.
Coleman took another hit. “Where are we?”
“South Tampa.” Serge hit his blinker. “More specifically south of Gandy Boulevard, toward the air-force base. The closer you get to the base, the sketchier the highway. Here we are, a sub-budget motel with no sign, which is perfect.” He turned the wheel.
“Perfect?”
“The behavior of the guests at these motels is so erratic that our mission will go unnoticed.”
“What’s our mission?”
Serge pulled into a parking lot. “The story on the news a few days ago about the VFW hall. Not one of the holiday stories I mentioned, but since it’s during the season, it’s that much more despicable.”
Coleman opened his passenger door and tumbled onto the pavement. He popped back up. “Something tripped me again . . . What happened at the VFW?”
“The economy. There’s been a huge increase in desperate, low-end burglars ripping off heavy metal stuff right in the open and selling it for scrap.” Serge got out a key and headed for their room. “Chain-link fence, sheds, aluminum siding. One guy up in Pasco even used a cutting torch and took a span of guardrail from the expressway.”
“But we’ve done that. Remember our U-Haul full of metal garbage cans and spools of barbed wire?”
“I’m not saying it’s wrong. In fact it creates jobs far more aggressively than any stimulus package. I’d love to see a Discovery Channel special tracking the illegal hauls to the scrap yard, where it’s crushed, loaded on tractor trailers, driven to Pittsburgh, infusing capital into local diners, bars, and truck-stop hookers, finally reaching the foundry, where it’s smelted, shipped again to assembly lines in Terra Haute and Fond du Lac, which use the raw materials to manufacture new stuff to replace the shit we stole, then sending it back to Florida, creating more employment for contractors who have to reinstall everything before we take it again. A perfect, self-sustaining closed-loop domestic industrial model, minimizing dependence on foreign entities who mean us ill fortune.”
Serge opened the motel room door.
“Holy shit,” said Coleman. “Look at all the copper pipes and wires. You must have stolen all of this in the middle of the night.”
“The War on Terror never sleeps.”
Coleman high-stepped through the cluttered room. “But with all this copper, why are you upset about the TV news story the other night?”
“Because even the War on Terror has rules. Like, you don’t use crowbars to ply the brass plaques off VFW posts that list the names of all the local patriots who have made the supreme sacrifice since the First World War.”
“That’s not right.” Coleman tried the TV. “Can’t they just make a new one.”
Serge shook his head. “It’s a small post. They didn’t keep a list of the names. Sounds like an obvious thing to do, but nobody even considered this a distant possibility. The tribute will be gone forever unless we can trace the culprit. I’ve got eyes on the street.”
“That phone call to Manny’s Towing and Salvage?”
“If the bastard tries to fence the plaques within twenty miles, we got him.”
Coleman changed channels. “What about all this copper?”
“Sell it to Manny. And give him some for his trouble if he comes through.”
“No, I mean where’d you get it?”
“Another thing that burns my ass. Florida is one of the few places with a law that says your primary residence can never be seized to pay debts, even if they’re the results of criminal fraud or worse. That’s why O.J. moved here when he was being sued by the Goldmans. Wall Street fuck-heads regularly liquidate all their assets and buy the biggest home possible before going to jail. Then they get out a few years later and live in a palace, while their swindled retirees eat Kibbles ’n Bits—”
Knock knock knock.
Serge spun and flicked open a switchblade. “What the hell’s that?”
Coleman turned up the volume on the news. “The door.”
Knock knock knock.
Coleman began going through the room’s bureau for loose change. In the second drawer he discovered three prescription bottles and instantly glowed with the kind of dark horse optimism that is only available in the drug culture. His spirits sagged when he realized the bottles were empty, had Serge’s name on the labels, and were all for no-fun serotonin-management chemicals. The refill dates bordered on historical. “Serge? When was the last time you took—”
Knock knock knock!
Coleman returned to the TV dial. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Yes, but not right away. Because it’s not just any door.” Serge started to tiptoe. “It’s the magic door at a fleabag motel. Which means until I open it, the possibilities are infinitely greater than that of other doors we’ve come to know and love . . .”
Knock knock knock!
Serge continued silently creeping. “No fuckin’ boundaries, man! This dump could attract anyone with a limber global outlook. Cadaver dog trainers, pearl divers, snake handlers, snowboarders, celebrity bulimics, Filipino mystics who hang themselves with hooks through their flesh, Blue Öyster Cult, cannibals, and people curious about cannibals.”
Coleman fired up a joint. “What if it’s a midget?”
“That would work,” said Serge. “You open a door and find a midget, and there’s no way you can be in a bad mood. It’s just not possible.”
Knock knock knock. “Dammit, Serge, open up! I’m growing a beard out here!”
Serge’s chin fell to his chest. “Crap.” He undid the chain and turned the knob. “Manny, great to see you.” Serge stuck his head out the door, glanced suspiciously both ways, then grabbed his guest by the shirt and yanked him off his feet into the room. “Please come in.”
Manny looked around the room at all the
copper. “You’ve been a busy boy.”
“Terrorism.”
“Where’d you get all this?”
Coleman changed the channel again and turned up the volume on another local news program.
“Good evening. This is Pam Swanson outside the waterfront mansion of disgraced hedge fund manager Tobias Greenleaf, where police are releasing few details about a brazen overnight break-in . . .”
Manny pointed at the TV. “Greenleaf?”
Serge just smiled.
Manny slapped him on the shoulder. “Should have known.” He walked over to a stack of copper coils. “Looks like you hit the a/c units pretty hard.” Then he swept an arm back at the rest of the room. “But those straight pipes and wires must have been inside the walls.”
“Not anymore,” said Serge.
Manny whistled. “Must have taken hours of work hacking through the drywall with axes.”
“And a demolition saw.”
“ . . . However, unnamed sources describe extensive interior damage at the mansion and estimate repair costs at almost a quarter-million dollars. Off the record, officials speculate the wholesale vandalism could be payback for the hundreds of retirement accounts that were left worthless . . .”
“You used a demolition saw?” said Manny. “You’re not in contracting. How’d you figure out which walls weren’t load-bearing?”
“That’s easy,” said Serge. “Just follow the stress lines of the architecture. It’s obvious to anyone with a knack for calculus.”
“So you left the copper in those walls behind?”
“No, I figured out a way to get that, too.”
Manny scratched his head. “But how would you be able—”
“ . . . Wait, something’s happening . . .” A deep rumbling sound from the TV set. “ . . . There’s frantic activity at the west wing of the mansion . . .” Background shouting. “Get out! Get out now!” People running willy-nilly across the lawn. “ . . . Police and fire officials are evacuating the mansion. The roof . . . the whole wing . . . it’s collapsing as we speak. . . . Now it’s pulling down the center of the building . . . Words cannot begin to describe this scene of devastation, but I’ll keep talking anyway . . .”
Manny turned to Serge and slowly grinned. “I thought this was about copper.”
“It was.” Serge stopped and smacked himself in the forehead. “I forgot. I never took calculus.”
“ . . . Now the east wing has just come down, the whole estate completely flattened. And since all of Greenleaf’s assets had been sheltered in the house under Florida’s no-seizure law, he’s completely wiped out.”
“Pam, this is Jim on the anchor desk. Surely someone as smart as Greenleaf would have insurance . . .”
“That’s correct, Jim. But as soon as the claims check is issued, it’s a financial instrument and not a house, which is no longer shielded under the no-seizure law, and will immediately be turned over to the victims whose retirement accounts he wiped out . . .”
Manny glanced at Serge again. “You planned this all along?”
“Who? Me?”
A hearty laugh. “I got the guys outside. Let’s start getting this copper loaded.”
The TV screen switched to a local VFW hall. “ . . . In other news, there are no new leads in the heartless theft of memorial plaques to the area’s fallen, which has brought out dozens of supporters holding a candlelight vigil . . .”
A cell phone rang. “Manny here. . . . What? . . . When did this happen? . . . That’s great news. . . . I mean it’s bad . . . I mean, you know what I mean.” He clapped the phone shut. “Serge, that was Nicky the Mooch. Just got word on those plaques of yours. Someone’s trying to unload them in Lutz.”
“So Nicky’s got them?”
Manny shook his head. “Guy’s been laying low because of all the heat. But he finally risked going to Nicky’s scrap yard because Nicky is, well, like you and me.”
“You mean casual with the letter of the law?”
“Nicky said that when he dialed my number a minute ago, the guy must have thought he was calling the cops. He spooked and split.”
“Damn,” said Serge. “Now we may never get them back.”
“Not so fast,” said Manny. “He recognized the guy. From time to time, brings in stuff from construction sites. But a month ago, he was actually selling something legitimate. The bumper fell off his car. So he let Nicky copy his driver’s license like they’re supposed to do the rest of the time. Helps make his logbook look at least half kosher.”
Serge pumped his eyebrows. “Nicky’s got his address?”
“Just pulled it. He’s waiting for your call.”
“Can’t thank you enough.” Serge pointed beside the bed. “That pile of pipes? On me.”
“Nice to be back doing business with you.” Manny pulled work gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. “So what’s going to happen now?”
“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.” Serge retrieved his pistol from a suitcase and checked the magazine. “Only polite thing is to invite him to dinner.”
Chapter Two
THE NEXT DAY
South Tampa. The neighborhood was called Palma Ceia. An oasis of pastel bungalows, preserved Mediterraneans, and old Florida ranch houses. Tastefully landscaped with royal palms and bougainvilleas. Kids on sidewalks. Bikes and skateboards. Safe.
The streets had names like Santiago, San Juan, and Sunset Drive. A few blocks in from the bay sat an unassuming road called Triggerfish Lane.
Fourth house on the left. Whitewashed with turquoise trim and, next to the front door, a turquoise sailfish over the address: 888. In the middle of the yard stood an arching date palm that was illuminated after dark with a baby spotlight, but it was only noon, and the tree didn’t need attention.
Thanksgiving Day.
Inside, the home was filled with the kind of loving aroma from holiday cooking that makes women think of past family gatherings and makes men want to watch football.
Jim Davenport opened the oven door with pot holders.
“Jim!” whispered Martha. “Your mother’s fluffing the cushions!”
“You made a great turkey this year.”
“You’re not listening!”
“I am.” He slid the turkey out. “I just want this to go well.”
“And she brought her own stuffing, even though I asked her not to because I had my own recipe. And then she shows up at the door with a bowl and claims she doesn’t remember me saying any such thing. She conveniently forgets all my requests.”
Jim set the pan on the counter. “Martha—”
“It’s passive-aggressive.”
“It’s stuffing.”
“Did you see her stuffing? Hamburger! Who puts meat inside of meat?”
“Let’s go sit down . . .”
. . . Silence at the dinner table.
Martha Davenport smiled tensely across the serving platters.
Rita Davenport smiled back and looked at her plate. “Martha, do you need a new dishwasher?”
“Why?”
“Nothing. But remind me to ask you where the bleach is.” Then she shifted her eyes. “Jim? Remember the turkey your grandmother used to make? Nothing could compare to her recipe . . . Oh, and by that, I didn’t mean anything about your turkey, Martha. I’m sure it’s fine. Especially with my stuffing.” She placed her napkin in her lap. “Yessiree, his grandmother was quite the cook . . .”
Martha practiced breathing exercises.
“Jim,” said Rita. “Have you heard anything from Tommy Kilborne?”
“No, Ma.”
“I heard his wife invited his mother to move in with them. Isn’t that nice? I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I worry that nobody will be there. I was trapped in my bathtub the other day.”
“What!” said Jim. “For how long?”
“Just a few seconds this time, but soon, who knows?”
Martha clutched her napkin tightly under the table.
&n
bsp; Jim glanced anxiously at both of them. “Ha ha, don’t want the food to get cold.”
Rita scooted her chair closer to the table. “I always liked Tommy’s wife. So generous. Some women could have a problem with their mother-in-law moving in, even if it means leaving them to rot. I have spastic colon.” She bowed her head. “Jim, why don’t you say grace?”
“I’d much rather hear you give the blessing,” said Jim. “It’s practically tradition.”
“No, I insist.”
“Mom, I’m not sure I even remember.”
“How can you forget grace if you say it every night?”
“You know I converted years ago.”
She briefly waved a hand. “I don’t believe that. You know, it’s not too late to have the children baptized.”
“Mom,” said Jim. “Melvin’s in college, and Debbie’s married.”
“What about Nicole. She’s still in high school.” Rita looked in another direction at a young girl seated at the table, dressed entirely in black with heavy black eye makeup. “Nicole, why are you giggling?”
“Nothing, Grandma.” She turned and smiled in her mother’s direction.
“Nicole,” said Rita Davenport. “Why don’t you say grace?”
Martha’s eyes shot daggers when she saw the grin on her daughter’s face: Don’t you dare!
Nicole looked back at her grandmother. “I can’t say grace.”
“Why not, young lady?”
“Because I don’t believe in God.”
“Ahhhh!” Rita clapped her hands over her ears.
Martha involuntarily shrieked.
Jim lowered his head and sighed.
Nicole cracked up.
Rita Davenport rocked back and forth in her chair. “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear that! Jesus in heaven, the child—she doesn’t mean it! . . .”
“Nicole!” shouted Martha. “Tell your grandmother right now you don’t mean that!”
The teenager stifled laughs. “Sorry, Grandma. I was only kidding.”
“What kind of a joke is that?” Then to Martha: “You approve of this behavior?”
Jim’s arms flew out, practically lunging halfway across the table. “Mom, Martha didn’t say anything. I’ll talk to Nicole later.”