Torpedo Juice

by Tim Dorsey

  Part Three

  16

  P SSST!

  Yeah, you. Over here. Remember me?…Maybe if I take my shades off. See? It’s me, the narrator. Ex-narrator actually. I’m thinking of suing. I’m at the Slushie Hut. Not the one in Key West. The one in Marathon. They’ve got franchises all down the Keys now. Coleman turned me on to the place, told me to try the Torpedo Juice. Knew I shouldn’t have listened. So I need to hurry—I wanted to talk to you before the replacement narrator shows up. He’s not a bad kid, just a little on the green side. It’s totally unfair. Listen, I’m not the only one upset about how this is going. Think I’ve been screwed over? You should hear the guy sitting next to me. What’s your name again?

  “Jack Buckley.”

  Tell them what happened.

  “I won this charity auction in Tampa. You know, to have my name used as a character in the book. Paid a bundle, but it was for the art museum. So I show up today like they told me, all ready to go. Then at the last second they say my part’s been cut.”

  Classy outfit, ain’t it?

  “I want my money back!”

  Good luck.

  “Who do I talk to?”

  It won’t do any good. My advice is to let it go and move on.

  “No, really. They can’t treat Jack Buckley like this! You hear me? I’m Jack Buckley!…”

  Okay, fine, now stop talking. Have another Torpedo Juice…. See what I mean out there? This is the kind of organization we’re dealing with. But that’s not your problem; you just came here to have fun reading about the Keys. Which is what I wanted to talk to you about. Rampant development isn’t the only thing ruining this place. We’re also being overrun by world-class jerks. But you probably already got that picture. There are some more real quality people you’re about to meet. Actually you’ve already sort of met them. Remember some of the news reports? The used-car dealers who filled the airbags with sand? That really happened. Then there was the roofing company that tells every customer they need a whole new roof whether they do or not. That one’s not even a surprise. The new breed of Florida predators. Old folks, handicapped—doesn’t matter. There’s no out-of-bounds with these people. They come down to the Keys to celebrate their trail of misery…. What’s that you have there, bartender? Another Torpedo Juice? No, I didn’t order one. I was just waving my arm for emphasis. But since you already poured it…and you might as well get another one for my new friend here, Mr. Billingsly.

  “Buckley!”

  Whatever. Shut up. Those roofers I was telling you about? They’re here, right in this bar. This is where they enter the story. They’re the four guys down at the end in the seven-hundred-dollar yachting jackets. That’s right, those dolts who’ve been loud and obnoxious all night…. Hey, fellas! Yeah, that’s right, you over there! Nice way to treat people! Really nice code of living, you pieces of crap!

  “You talking to us?”

  You see any other assholes?

  “Ignore him. He’s drunk.”

  “No, I want to know what he said…. What did you say to us?”

  I said you bite! What do you think about that? Huh? What are you going to do about it, Mr. Big Shitty-Roof-Job Fuck?

  “That’s it!”

  Good! Come on over here! I’m not one of your defenseless victims! I’ll kick your—Ow! Ah! Oooo! Ow! No, not the ribs! Ow! Shit! Ow!…”

  “Are you his friend?”

  “I’m Jack Buckley! I’m Ja—”

  Punch.

  A few days ago

  AN UNMARKED NEWS truck rolled slowly through a fresh housing development west of Fort Lauderdale, built right up against a bermed canal that was the final encroachment barrier on the edge of the Everglades. Developers were looking for ways to jump it.

  Spanking-new houses marched in tight formation down the right side of the road, all identical three-story hurricane fodder with circular drives, screened pools, minimum setbacks. The stately arches over the front doors were quick plywood forms with thin stucco. Politicians signed off on stormwater systems that couldn’t handle the runoff. The houses sold like crazy because the development had great shrubbery at the entrance.

  This is today’s South Florida—inland sprawl, shiny, crime-free, exclusive.

  Not exclusive enough.

  The TV reporter huddled with his cameraman for last-second ambush choreography. The van’s side panel suddenly flew open and they jumped out commando-style, running for the house with the camera rolling, capturing that dramatic jiggling footage. Eyewitness 5 specialized in reporters asking bold questions of doors opened a crack. Then more questions of slammed doors. Sometimes they started asking questions of doors before people had time to answer, so the station would have stock footage in the can.

  The man inside the house this morning didn’t have a care. He was on the couch reading the paper, digging his toes into thick white carpet. A high-definition TV was on a reality show where people trick each other. His wife sat in a loveseat on the distant side of the living room with a Parade magazine, “What People Earn.”

  The man picked up the sports section. “The Marlins won again.”

  “There’s a bus driver in Cleveland who makes fifty thousand dollars.”

  “…This is Eyewitness Five correspondent Blaine Crease with another segment of ‘Consumer Bloodhound.’ We’re at the home of Troy Bradenton, owner of Troy’s Roofing Plus, asking the tough questions! Getting results! Just be glad we’re on—Your Side!…”

  “Did you say something, dear?”

  “No,” said the man. “I thought you said something.”

  “Where’s that voice coming from? Sounds like someone’s on our front porch.”

  “I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  “Neither did I.”

  The doorbell finally rang. “What are you hiding from in there?…”

  His wife put down her magazine. “I’ll get it.”

  She opened the door on the chain.

  The reporter was facing his cameraman. “Make my head bigger.”

  “Yes?” said the woman. “Can I help you?”

  The reporter turned around. “Oh, didn’t see you. Good morning.…Why won’t you answer our questions!…”

  “Hold on a second.” She called back into the house. “Honey, it’s for you.”

  “Who is it?” He turned a page to agate scores.

  “Eyewitness Five again.”

  “Let the dogs loose.”

  “Okay.”

  She smiled back through the crack. “Just be a moment.”

  “Thank you,” said the reporter. She closed the door. “How much blood money did this house cost!…”

  She walked through the living room and out the back door and opened a gate. She returned and sat down with her magazine.

  The man grabbed the business section. The yelling on the front lawn eventually subsided. It went with the territory. He was Troy Bradenton, owner of Troy’s Roofing Plus. The Plus was the extra money you paid. Troy was one of the most respected, looked-up-to men in the local contracting industry, because he was rich.

  Troy’s trucks made the rounds of the day-labor offices each morning, collecting winos to canvass suburban shopping centers with windshield flyers that shouted in big red letters: “Why throw away hundreds on needless roofing repairs? That little leak could be a modest shingle replacement. Don’t get ripped off! For honest, dependable work, call Troy today!” There was a cartoon of a happy homeowner counting a big wad of money.

  Troy’s office was manned with phone answerers and salesmen whom Troy had personally trained with a slide show and a motto: “Every call is five thousand dollars!”

  The Roofing Plus salesman went up on the prospective roofs and smoked or ate a Snickers, then came down and called out to the owner, “I need to show you something. Afraid it isn’t good.”

  “What is it?”

  The salesman scampered up the ladder in a hurry. “Take a look at this.”

  “Do I have to climb up
there?”

  “Yes.”

  The customer was now on the salesman’s turf, clinging to the rungs. Bolts were deliberately loosened so the ladders wobbled. The older the customer, the better.

  “See these rusty nails? The whole thing’s shot. And the trusses are probably eaten.” He made notes on a pad. “I’m sorry, but the law requires me to inform the building department.”

  No, it didn’t.

  The salesman climbed down. “Luckily, we had a cancellation. A truck can be here this afternoon.”

  Troy’s fortune swelled, and he became more respected. Even Eyewitness 5 couldn’t ruin it with their exposé footage. The next Friday was the last of the month. Sales bonus day. Tennis rackets, video cameras, water beds. The top three salesmen got the grand prize. Sailing trip to the Keys. Troy didn’t have a sailboat, so they all got sailing jackets and spent the weekend in the bars.

  After announcing the winners, Troy packed up his black Jaguar, slipped into his blue and white sailing jacket with red piping and kissed his wife goodbye.

  “Another great month,” said Troy.

  “You earned it,” said Mrs. Bradenton. “Have fun.”

  The Jag drove off.

  17

  A TV REPORTER stood on the edge of U.S. 1. He looked at the cameraman. “We ready?”

  The cameraman pressed an eye to the rubber viewfinder. The reporter raised a microphone.

  “Good morning. It’s another beautiful day in the Florida Keys for the twenty-third annual Seven-Mile Bridge Run….”

  The camera panned across the sea of runners gathering at the eastern end of the bridge, which had been closed to traffic. A sheriff’s helicopter skimmed overhead. The camera swung back to the reporter. A ’71 Buick Riviera pulled up in the background. Serge and Coleman got out in shorts and T-shirts.

  “I still don’t understand what we’re doing here,” said Coleman.

  “I told you. Women respond to fitness. This is the first day of my big new working-out phase. I’ve decided to totally dedicate the rest of my life to running excellence.”

  Coleman filled a sportster water bottle with two beers and began sipping through a Flex-Straw. “I heard you’re supposed to gradually ease into these new workout programs.”

  “That’s for the sheep. The only correct way to do everything is dive right in the deep end.” Serge sat down and untied his sneakers, then retied them as tightly as he could.

  Coleman put on knee and elbow pads. “You ever play sports before? I mean for real?”

  “Was on the high school football team for part of a season, before I got kicked off.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were playing our big cross-city rival, and as the final seconds ticked off the clock, I dumped a cooler of Gatorade on our coach.”

  “So what? I see that done all the time on TV.”

  “We were losing by four touchdowns.”

  A silver Infiniti pulled up next to them. A tall, handsome man got out wearing a gold silk warm-up suit. The man looked at Serge and Coleman and smirked. He took off the warm-ups to reveal matching silk shorts and an ultra-lightweight, breathable tank top. He leaned against the Infiniti and began a long menu of stretching exercises. Hamstrings, groin, calves, pulling his feet up behind him, twisting torso and neck.

  Serge and Coleman had stopped talking and were now staring slack-jawed at the man like they were watching someone prepare shrunken heads. Then, just when they thought the protracted ritual was over, a whole new set of gyrations on another muscle group.

  Coleman angled his head toward Serge. “Should we be stretching?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Serge. “I’m naturally limber and you’re drinking beer, which is a form of stretching.” He looked down. “I can’t feel my feet.”

  “Maybe your shoelaces are too tight.”

  Serge sat on the ground.

  The man finally completed his pre-race routine with a series of ankle and wrist bends. He reached back in his car and came out with a blood-pressure kit. He wrapped it around his left arm and timed himself on a stopwatch.

  Serge rolled his eyes.

  The man finished and smirked again at Serge and Coleman. Something under his breath that sounded like losers.

  “Hey,” said Serge. “For your information, we’re going to win this race.”

  The man laughed.

  “And you know why we’re going to win? Because we don’t care about winning! That’s the big mistake you guys make….” Serge waved toward the thousands of runners near the starting line. “This thing today is about more than winning. It’s about something much bigger.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A souvenir T-shirt. You should see my collection.”

  The man gave a final look of disdain and trotted off.

  “We better get going,” said Serge. “It’s almost post time.”

  The pair walked over to the assembling runners. “…Excuse me…excuse me…” Pushing their way through the pack, people running in place, thousands of independently bobbing heads. Men, women, children, a rainbow of brightly colored shirts, pieces of paper pinned to the fronts with four-digit numbers, except for the shirtless triathletes, who had numbers in grease pencil on shaved chests. “…Excuse me…excuse me…”

  “Watch it!”

  “Sorry,” said Coleman. He took a sip from his sportster bottle and tapped Serge on the shoulder. “Why do we have to be in the front row, anyway?”

  “Because of my strategy to win this race. Most people make the mistake of trying to pace themselves. The key is to go all out from the starting gun and open up an insane lead, completely demoralizing the rest of the field, which will be flooded with confusing emotions of worthlessness and suicide. Then, before the end of the first mile, they’ll all stop running and go home.”

  Serge and Coleman finally made the front row, wedging themselves between entrants who gave them dirty looks.

  The official starter stood by the side of the bridge. “On your marks…”

  The runners stopped jogging in place and leaned forward in anticipation. Except Serge. He was down on the pavement in a four-point sprinter’s stance, grinding the toes of his sneakers into the cement for traction.

  “Get set…”

  The starter raised his pistol.

  Bang.

  Serge took off running as hard as he could, making an intense, teeth-clenched face like James Caan in Brian’s Song. Soon, he was all alone with a giant lead, still running breakneck. After a hundred yards, he veered over to the side of the bridge and grabbed the railing. A thunder of footsteps passed behind him.

  A few minutes later, Coleman walked up sipping his bottle and leaned over the railing next to Serge. “How’s the race going?”

  “That’s enough running for today.”

  Two hours later, the road was opened back up to traffic. A ’71 Buick Riviera crossed the bridge.

  Thousands of runners milled around the post-race celebration area full of corporate sponsor tents. Paper cups of sports drinks covered folding tables. Big banners with the Nike swish, wireless sign-up booths. People formed lines at blue Porta-Johns. More lines of late-finishers snaked up to the race organizer’s table, where chest numbers were matched against printouts of official completion times. Then handshakes, certificates and souvenir T-shirts.

  There was rustling down in the mangroves behind the Porta-Johns. Moaning and pleading.

  “Oh, please! Stop! Dear God!…”

  The owner of a silver Infiniti was pinned to the ground by Serge’s knees. Another punch in the face. “Gimme the fuckin’ T-shirt!”