by Tim Dorsey
“That answer is supposed to indicate someone who thinks like a serial killer….”
Serge laughed unnaturally. “Ha, ha, ha…Oh! Those tests!…”
“But how did you get the answer?”
“Well, I, uh…read a lot of murder mysteries,” said Serge. “That’s it. It was in one of the plots.”
“I rest my case,” said Walter. “Unless you want to arrest Serge…”
37
Captain Florida’s log, star date 736.973
Molly! The woman’s driving me crazy! Remember those tiny little doubts about marriage I mentioned? They’re now a full-blown crisis of faith! To the news: I leave the apartment to go see Coleman, minding my own business and checking what’s in the Dumpster like I always do. I notice trash from our apartment, and I can’t believe my eyes. She’s thrown out my favorite tennis shoes! There they are, under the Maxi-pads. I fish ’em out with a stick and the poor things are full of soggy corn flakes. I’m on the verge of tears. I march right back upstairs and confront her. I figure this time she’s the guilty party so I’ll be in control of the debate. Know what I learned? Women are ninjas! Suddenly I’m back on defense! Says she’s embarrassed to be seen with me in those shoes. I say, “But they’re my favorite shoes.” The silent treatment again except for all the slamming. I didn’t know the apartment had that many doors. I call my married friend in West Palm again, and he says, “Are you crazy? You have to hide your favorite tennis shoes.” I say, “I didn’t know.” He suggests the wheel well of the car. I get off the phone and say, “Okay, honey. I want you to be happy. I’ll throw the shoes out.” Guess what? She catches me! The trunk lid was up and I didn’t see her coming. So now I’m dishonest in the relationship, which I was informed is worse than bad shoes. I say, “Time-out! I’m just trying to retreat here. Now I can see how marriage turns the most honest men into sneaks.” Whoops. That didn’t lead anywhere I want to visit again. Speaking of which, I was right about her period. We discussed it, and come to find out, she’s not responsible for anything she says or does three days a month. I ask if I can have three days, too, and she says, “No.” I suggest we at least put a calendar up on the refrigerator and mark the days so I have time to dig a foxhole. Holy shit! Can that woman throw! Didn’t even see her pick up the flowerpot. I call my friend again, and he says, “Are you nuts? You can’t ask her to post her period on the fridge!” I say, “Why not? I’ve never lived with a woman before. I’m going through my first one and, Jesus, can you believe those fucking things? How can husbands everywhere be going through this and there hasn’t been anything about it on the news?” He just said, “Welcome to family life.” I decide to drive to the supermarket and get a balloon to buy a fresh start. I come home and she’s got a wooden box in her hands. My matchbook collection! I say, “What are you doing?” She says I’m a pack rat! Ladies and gentlemen, this could be the deal-breaker. I grab the box out of her hands and call my friend again in West Palm. There’s screaming in the background on his end. He says I have to stop calling—his wife overheard our last conversation. I say it’s important. I’ve lost all domestic territory except a little corner in the closet, and now that’s under siege. If I give it up, I’ll have to start walking around the house with a backpack all the time. He says the last piece of turf is important, and he wishes he still had his. Do I have a garage to hide stuff? I say, “I don’t.” He says, “You’re screwed.” Then more screaming on his end and the line went dead.
The phone rang. Serge put down his journal.
“Hello?…Coleman did what? Of all the stupid—Yes, I’ll be right there.”
Serge ran out the door.
MOLLY LOOKED UP at the wall clock in the branch library on Big Pine. Quitting time. She stood and hoisted a purse strap over her shoulder.
Her colleagues at the front desk waved goodnight as Molly walked past the flowers under Brenda’s memorial plaque.
She drove to the apartment and opened the door. “Serge, I’m home!…Honey? Are you here?” Molly took the purse off her shoulder. Something on the coffee table caught her eye. “What’s this?”
She picked up the journal.
38
Sheriff’s substation, Cudjoe Key
T HE FRONT DOOR opened. Walter looked up from the coffee machine. “Gus, what are you doing in that suit?”
Gus walked toward his desk. “Have a meeting in Key West.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Walter. “Internal Affairs. The pot business.”
Gus looked surprised. “It’s a confidential proceeding.”
“They’re going to suspend you.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“The coffee shop.”
Gus grabbed some papers from his in-basket and headed out the door.
“Maybe you can say you have glaucoma.”
“Later, Walter.”
A STARK, WINDOWLESS room in Key West. An uncomfortable metal chair under a bright fluorescent light. Gus was in it.
There was a desk in front of him and two men in dark suits and thin black ties. The one sitting behind the desk was known as R.J. The one leaning against the side of the desk with a leg hitched over the corner was J.R.
“Serpico,” said R.J. “Why are you sweating?”
“It’s hot in here.”
R.J. turned to J.R. “I’m not hot. Are you hot?”
“I’m not hot.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Gus. “The pot was part of an official presentation. The department does it all the time.”
“Don’t worry about the pot,” said R.J.
“But I heard you were going to suspend me.”
“You heard?” said J.R.
“You’ve been snooping around?” said R.J. “Interfering with an internal investigation?”
“That’s a serious crime,” said J.R.
“No,” said Gus. “I mean my partner mentioned it in passing—”
“Turning on your partner?” said R.J.
“Breaking the Blue Wall of Silence?” said J.R. “There’s a name for cops like you.”
“It’s not a nice name,” said R.J.
Gus looked confused. “So you aren’t going to suspend me?”
“We already did,” said R.J.
“But we suspended the suspension,” said J.R.
“I don’t understand,” said Gus. “Then why am I here?”
J.R. handed a sheet of paper to R.J., who held it up in front of Gus. “Is this your dick?”
“Where’d you get that?” said Gus.
“A guy was passing them out with restaurant flyers on the corner of Southard,” said J.R.
“I’m not believing this,” said Gus.
“He hasn’t answered the question,” said R.J.
“Why won’t you answer the question?” said J.R.
“Look,” said Gus. “There’s a very simple explanation….”
R.J. produced a coffee mug from Las Vegas. “Is this yours?”
“What?”
“Don’t try to deny it,” said J.R. “We found it in your desk.”
“The bathing suits disappear,” said R.J. “The lab boys tested it numerous times under a variety of conditions.”
“Inappropriate material in a government office,” said J.R. “That’s a serious offense.”
“But I was going to take it home,” said Gus.
“We get the picture.”
“No, you don’t,” said Gus. “I didn’t even want it. That was a gift.”
“Who from?”
“My partner.”
“Oh, still trying to give up your partner?” said J.R.
R.J. held up the Xerox again. “Is this your dick?”
Gus wiped sweat off his forehead. “I can explain that piece of paper.”
“By all means.”
“It’s not what you think,” said Gus. “I wasn’t involved.”
“But this is your dick?” said R.J.
Gus nodded.
“And you weren’t i
nvolved?” said J.R.
“Yes, no, I mean it was done without my knowledge.”
“Someone drew on your dick without your knowledge?”
“No, I agreed to the drawing part.”
“That’s all the questions we have for now,” said R.J.
“Wait, I have to explain.”
“You have a funny way of explaining,” said J.R.
“The more you do it…” said R.J.
“…The worse it gets,” said J.R.
ANOTHER OFFICE IN Key West. This one had windows and diplomas. The marriage counselor flipped through the pages of a handwritten journal.
From time to time, his eyes bugged. He solemnly closed the book and looked up at Serge. “I want to thank you for allowing me to read this. It shows a commitment to making your marriage work.
“Why not?” Serge said in resignation. “I’m worn out.”
Serge and Molly were sitting as far apart on the couch as possible. Molly was all scrunched into herself at one end, trying to occupy minimum space. Serge was at the other, lounging with legs spread, tapping a foot. The counselor sat across from them in a padded chair. He wore a toupee that was too black. He patted the cover of the journal. “I think you subconsciously wanted her to find this.”
“That wasn’t it,” said Serge. “I had to run out. Coleman ended up in the emergency room again after a bar bet trying to uncap a beer bottle with his eye socket.”
“Coleman!” blurted Molly, folding her arms tight and looking away.
“Who’s Coleman?” asked the counselor.
There was a quick knock at the door, then it opened. A man with an eye bandage stuck his head inside. “Are you going to be much longer?”
“What are you doing?” said Serge. “This is a private meeting.”
“Yeah, but I have to go see the guy.”
“Excuse me, sir.” The counselor gave the man a stern look. “Do you mind?”
“Sorry.” He looked at the empty beer in his hand. “You have a place I can throw this?”
“There’s a wastebasket in the lobby.”
“Thanks.” The door closed.
The counselor looked at Serge. “Coleman?”
Serge shrugged. “What are you gonna do?”
The counselor opened a file in his lap. “Okay, who wants to start? Serge?”
Serge stared at his watch. “This wasn’t my idea.”
“But you did come,” said the counselor.
“I buckled. It was like a land-for-peace swap.”
“Molly?” said the counselor. “How about you?”
“I made him a sandwich last week, and he took off the top piece of bread and added potato chips. He’s not the man I married!”
“I need my space,” said Serge.
The counselor looked at him with concern, thinking, You never make the potato-chip sandwich around your wife. “Let’s talk about your space—”
“His space!” said Molly. “So he can write more mean things about me in that evil little book of his?”
“She’s completely unreasonable,” said Serge. “I even gave her the double balloon—the one with the heart balloon inside the clear one. That’s supposed to get me off the hook. You know the rules. Tell her!”
The counselor took a deep breath and wrote something in the file. “How about we start with intimacy? How’s that going?”
“Sex?” said Serge. “Exhausting! The woman’s a machine! Molly may look like a wallflower, but she’ll suck you dry! Half the time my testicles are like little walnuts….”
“Serge…”
“…The closets are filled with all these costumes and props and this plywood thing she built with leather straps. Then there’s her incredible Tibetan muscle control that’ll make your hat spin….”
“Serge!”
“What?”
The counselor had his hand up. “Details aren’t necessary.” He made a notation in the file. “Intimacy not a problem.” He looked toward the other end of the couch. “Molly, what would you say the problem is?”
She stared away.
The counselor read his file. “You told me you got engaged and married almost immediately. You had to expect some surprises.”
Still silent.
“Molly, since it was your idea to come here, I’m going to need your help. You have to open up.”
She hesitated, then turned her head. “I need a quieter lifestyle. I’m scared all the time. I never know what’s going to happen next.”
The counselor got a new expression. “Has he ever struck you?”
“Oh, no, no, no. He’d never. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“What are you talking about?”
“His job. I…I can’t take it anymore.”
The counselor glanced at the file. “What’s wrong with social worker. It’s an honorable profession. You must learn to support his career.”
“I thought I could. I was proud at first, watching him talk at the meetings. All that respect. But then the other stuff started. Strange phone calls. Clothes always ripped like he’s been wrestling. Sometimes he stays out all night. Then he rushes in and hides something and tells me if anyone asks, he wasn’t here. Once I saw him digging a hole behind the apartment building.”
“That’s the business we’re in,” said Serge. “I’m sure you have your own unorthodox methods.”
“I just want it to stop,” said Molly. “I want a safe family, dinners at home, maybe children. But his insane rhythms are making me a wreck.”
“Rhythms?”
“Everything’s crazy all the time. When he isn’t running all over the place, there are souvenirs and gadgets spread all over the bed. Or he gets into his books and suddenly decides we’re going to live like the pioneers and only allowed to eat roots, so I try to be understanding and eat roots with him for two solid weeks until he jumps up from the table and says he’s always hated roots and he’s going out for tacos, and I don’t see him until the next morning when he’s covered in mud and cleaning a claw hammer in the sink. Then there’s his best friend, Coleman. He’s there all the time, almost like he’s living with us….”
“I thought you liked to entertain,” said Serge.
Molly’s head snapped toward his end of the sofa. “Having some drunken oaf break all our shit isn’t entertaining!” She turned to the counselor and began enumerating on her fingers. “He broke one of the dishes that was part of a matched set, a lamp, the TV remote, a glass picture frame on the wall, a leg on the couch. I found a spaghetti sauce handprint on the bathroom ceiling. Oh yeah, he broke the toilet roll holder, snapped the shower rod out of the tiles, and I had to throw out one of our guest towels because it looked like he had—I don’t even want to know….”
Serge’s head fell back against the wall. “Those fucking towels again!”
Molly spun toward her husband. “What is your stupid friend doing using the guest towels in the first place!”
“He was a guest!”
“They’re the guest towels!”
Serge threw up his arms. “To this very day I don’t understand the towel rules!”
Molly turned to the counselor. “He said my towels cost more than blow jobs.”
The counselor raised his eyebrows. “You did?”
“In certain countries.”
“Coleman’s an idiot!” shouted Molly.
“He is not!” Serge shouted back.
Another knock at the door. It opened. “Where’s the rest room?”
“Down the hall on the left,” said the counselor.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Molly. She folded her arms, gave Serge a look, then stared away and refused to talk.
“There!” Serge pointed at Molly. “She’s doing it again! What the fuck is that?”
“Serge, please calm down—”
“No, I want to know what the hell that is. An amazing spectacle of nature. Lasts as long as a week. I’ll wake up in the morning all happy at the prospe
ct of another day of life, then she’ll walk through the room and shoot me that look. Uh-oh, almost forgot: Shit’s still on! Where do they get that kind of endurance? I mean, check the frost in that body language! Plummeting toward absolute zero degrees Kelvin, where all life ceases to exist and electrons refuse to orbit their atoms…”
“Serge, I don’t think this is help—”
“…If I have something on my mind, I say it. But if she’s got an issue, it’s the sixty-four-dollar question. Did I forget an important date? Did I not compliment you on dinner? Did I track dirt in? Did I leave the seat up? Did I look at one of your girlfriends the wrong way? Did you think I was about to do something? For the love of God, just please tell me, what the fuck did I do this time?…”
“Serge, it might be better if—”
“…She wants to know why I spend time with Coleman?” He extended an upturned palm toward Molly. “Exhibit A. Men don’t do that. We just hang out and watch the game and not harbor festering shit. Of course, we’re responsible for almost all the homicides, so I guess there’s a tradeoff. But in between the murders, it’s really quite pleasant. Women, on the other hand…. Watch out! Have you ever heard them talk about their friends behind their backs? Pick, pick, pick, pick!…”
The counselor looked at the clock on the wall.
Molly was crying in her hands. Serge made a hissing sound and clawed at the air like a cat. “…They’ll rip you to pieces!”
A woman shouted in the hall. “Look out! You’re going to break that!”
Crash.
The counselor closed his file and smiled. “Same time next week?”
39
D AWN BROKE OVER the Florida Keys. It began like any other day. But by sunset, the TV people would have the footage of a lifetime.
It started with unusually heavy traffic on U.S. 1. A giant vinyl banner hung across the road:
FIRST ANNUAL DONALD GREELY
COMMUNITY APPRECIATION JAMBOREE
Small print underneath:
Paid for by The Committee for Fairness to Donald Greely