The Big Bamboo

by Tim Dorsey

  “Look. The skyline.”

  “I feel like I’m in the forties.”

  “I thought there’d be more buildings.”

  “The city’s spread out.”

  The bus headed into the sprawl. The going became slow, red light after red, countless stops dropping off passengers. The road began grading up. “The Hollywood sign!”

  They finally arrived at the Cahuenga Boulevard stop. The driver yanked two duffel bags from the luggage compartment and set them on two gold stars in the sidewalk. Ford and Mark slung them over their shoulders and began hiking up the street, reading names under their feet. Will Rogers, Andy Griffith, Carol Burnett

  Someone selling celebrity maps was playing the Kinks on a tape deck

  James Cagney, Dean Martin, Betty Grable

  past the Kodak Theater, approaching another movie house with dirty impressions in the concrete.

  “

  You can see all the stars as you walk down Hollywood Boulevard

  ”

  “Ford, I think that’s Grauman’s Chinese.”

  “I’m getting photos.” He set his duffel down and pulled out a camera.

  “Check the hand prints,” said Mark. “Crosby, Harlow, Elizabeth Taylor

  ”

  “Look this way,” said Ford. “I’ll take your picture.”

  A female voice: “Would you like to be in the picture, too?”

  The guys turned. It was like a Beach Boys song, a California vision from a travel brochure. Long, straight, sun-bleached blond hair. More sun bringing out the freckles in her perfect tan. A smile from a teeth-whitening ad. Cutoff shorts and a Dodgers jersey tied in a knot above the navel.

  “Sure,” said Ford, handing her the camera. “It’s all set. Just press this.”

  “This?”

  “No, the other button.”

  “Okay.”

  The two buddies stood on Taylor’s prints and put their arms around each other’s shoulders.

  “Say ‘cheese’!”

  “Cheese!”

  Ford took his arm off Mark’s shoulder. “What’s she doing?”

  “I think that’s called running away with your camera.”

  ** Chapter 2

  TAMPA

  A toilet flushed in a grimy motel room along Tampa’s Nebraska Avenue. Serge emerged from the bathroom.

  Coleman was sitting cross-legged on the bed, scratching his feet.

  “Serge. I think I have athlete’s foot.”

  Serge walked over to the TV set. “Then stop scratching. It only makes it worse.”

  “I know. But you can’t help it. And if you’re toasted— they really got you.”

  Serge inserted a DVD in the personal player that he always took with him on the road.

  “Serge, it itches.”

  The DVD started. The night skyline of Tampa appeared over water. “Use foot cream.”

  “Don’t have any.” Scratch.

  “Then go pee on your feet.”

  “What!”

  “Pee on your feet,” said Serge. “Kills athlete’s foot.”

  “Like hell,” said Coleman, holding the flame of a Bic lighter near his toes. “You’re just trying to trick me into doing something stupid.”

  “If you don’t believe me, look it up on the Internet. Human urine has natural enzymes that knock out athlete’s foot like that!”— he slapped his hands together—“Also works on jellyfish stings. You have to know these things if you’re going to live here. I have to go to the bathroom.” Serge paused the movie and went around the corner.

  Coleman scratched. A toilet flushed. Serge came back.

  “Serge

  ”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I can pee.”

  “Give it time.” Serge reached in a suitcase and began fiddling with a small electronic gadget.

  “But you can go anytime you want,” said Coleman. “Matter of fact you’ve been going all the time lately.”

  Serge punched buttons on the gadget. “I’m on a new regimen. Drinking ninety-six glasses of water a day.”

  “Why?”

  “Purify my body. It’s a temple.” Serge pressed more buttons.

  “But don’t they just say to drink eight glasses a day?”

  “That’s why I drink ninety-six. It’s how you get ahead in this world.”

  “Can’t you make yourself sick?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m also taking diuretics.”

  “What for?”

  “I was getting sick.” He activated the gadget’s backlight.

  Coleman looked at the device in Serge’s hands. “Your new iPod?”

  “This thing’s amazing. Holds ten thousand songs. But I’m only up to eight hundred. I can’t stop thinking about it. The next thing I know, I’ve spent ten hours rearranging playlists and downloading show tunes.” Serge got up and headed for the bathroom, pressing buttons and working the patented click-wheel.

  Coleman sat down in front of the paused picture on the TV set. “So what’s this movie?”

  “The Punisher,” Serge yelled from the bathroom.

  “What’s it about?”

  “My favorite,” said Serge, coming back into the room. “Lots of punishment.”

  He sat down on the bed next to Coleman, restarted the movie with the remote and went back to his iPod.

  Coleman gestured at the skyline on TV. “I didn’t know Tampa looked so cool.”

  Serge pressed buttons and nodded. “The Punisher finally showcased our fine city in the light we so richly deserve. I was first in line opening night. I figured, this is it! Tampa’s on its way now! Then, the ultimate injustice.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nobody went to see the fucking thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Beats me. It had Travolta after all, plus a killer script. We really lucked out there.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Hollywood’s completely out of ideas. They could have easily stuck us with an unoriginal script, but fortunately we got the thirty-seventh movie about a comic-book hero.”

  “Weren’t you an extra in that thing?”

  Serge nodded. “Stood in line a whole day when they were taking applications. Even wore my best tropical shirt, which is why they selected me. Said I had the right look. That’s the way their culture works, lots of flattery right up until those guards dragged me off the set.”

  “What happened?”

  “Artistic differences. They were filming the climactic scene with Travolta, and I yelled, ‘You call that punishment?’ ”

  There was a metal box on the wall behind the bed. It had a slot. Coleman stuck a quarter in it. The quarter was on a string. He pulled it back out. The bed began to vibrate. Coleman reclined on a pillow, fired up a joint and began watching the movie. Serge played with his iPod.

  “Serge

  ”

  “What?”

  “Why do you like old motels so much?”

  “Florida history.”

  “Why do you like Florida history so much?”

  “Because it’s in short supply. We’re such a young state, it makes every piece extra special. Unfortunately, that’s also the problem. Too many carpetbagging developers from up north think something sixty years old isn’t important. But what else have we got? That’s another objective of my screenplay, to motivate preservation, like Miami Vice did for South Beach. If we don’t start right now, what will our grandchildren have?”

  “We’re having grandchildren?”

  “Universal grandchildren, like the president talks about in his weekly radio address.”

  Coleman hit his joint. “I don’t get that station.”

  “Nobody does. The most powerful man on the planet has the worst-rated program.”

  “That’s embarrassing.”

  “The shame is, it doesn’t have to be,” said Serge. “A few months ago I mailed the White House some suggestions to pump up the show.”

  “Like what?”

  “Prank calls. He’s already got the red phone. He could dial other world leaders and disguise his voice. It would be a scream! I also suggested he do like that guy on Howard Stern and play the pi
ano with his penis. He doesn’t even need to know the piano; he could team up with the vice president and learn ‘Chopsticks.’ People would definitely start tuning in. Then, right after the song, he could pitch another tax break for his buddies and who’d complain?” Serge walked over to the window and peeked through the blinds. “Did you notice the bottom of our motel sign? Says: COLOR TV, with each letter a different color. It’s like we’re at the pyramids.”

  Coleman’s voice warbled: “I like beds with the Magic Fingers.”

  “Another barometer of historic excellence.” Serge left the window and sat back down at his typewriter. “Okay. Focus. You can do it!

  ”

  “I’m bored,” said Coleman. “Let’s go do something.”

  “Can’t,” said Serge. “I’m way behind deadline on this script. I’ve already lost two weeks playing with my iPod and peeing.”

  Coleman went back to hitting his joint.

  Serge suddenly jumped up. “I have to get the hell out of here.”

  “I thought you were behind deadline.”

  “I am. But I’ve been in the same place too long. I can’t breathe— the walls

  ” He grabbed a suitcase. “Besides, the police are looking for us. The room’s gotten too hot.”

  Serge was cramming socks in his luggage when he heard a liquid trickling sound on the carpet. He turned around. “Coleman! What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Peeing on my feet. Like you said.”

  “In the shower!”

  “Ohhhh,” said Coleman, nodding. “That makes a lot more sense. I was beginning to wonder because usually your ideas are pretty good.”

  Serge threw up his arms in exasperation, then unplugged his DVD player. A regular broadcast came on the set. Local news. A reporter stood in front of an upscale ranch house swarming with detectives. “Police are still investigating yesterday’s apparent abduction of a nursing home mogul from his driveway in this exclusive north Tampa enclave. Shocked neighbors said they saw nothing but heard tires squeal just after dawn

  ”

  The camera zoomed in on a set of dropped car keys with an evidence flag next to a late-model Escalade.

  “Authorities have no leads. However, the victim was recently in the news in an unrelated matter after evicting dozens of Medicare residents to make way for more profitable private payers. Despite numerous complaints against the owner, state regulators said the facility complied with all current law and their hands were tied

  ”

  Loud banging from the closet again.

  Serge glanced in the direction of the noise. “What’s his fucking problem?”

  “Maybe his arm’s asleep.”

  Serge went over to the closet. He opened the door. A man lay tied up on the floor. His mouth had been duct-taped shut, blood trickling from his nostrils. Serge reached in his pocket and pulled out a Polaroid photo. The picture was of the same man lying in the same closet with tape across his mouth. Written on the bottom of the photo: Dodd.

  Serge leaned down and tore the tape off the man’s mouth. “Who did this to you?”

  The man looked baffled. “Uh

  you did.”

  Serge pressed the tape back on the hostage’s mouth and closed the door.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “Don’t you remember doing that? It was just the other morning. We jumped him in his driveway. Then you took that photo after shoving him in the closet

  And you’ve been pistol-whipping him for two days.”

  “Oh, I didn’t forget,” said Serge. “I was doing a scene from the movie Memento. One of my all-time favorites!”

  “I saw that one,” said Coleman. “But I could never figure out what was going on. Kept jumping around in time.”

  “Which is why it was such a pleasant surprise,” said Serge. “I usually hate it when some show-off wrecks a perfectly good linear story by jumbling the chronology.”

  Coleman looked toward the closet door. “So what’s the plan? Robbery? Ransom?”

  “Punishment,” said Serge. “Hand me my tools

  ”

  ZANESVILLE , OHIO

  Two men in dark suits and thin, dark ties rummaged through garbage bags on the porch of a two-story brick duplex. Their matching fedoras made similarities in height and weight seem closer.

  “Wonder where they went to,” said the man on the left. He reached in one of the sacks and pulled out a shower caddy with suction cups.

  “Anywhere,” said the other, studying a clock radio in the shape of a football. “Who would have thought they’d come here?”

  A group of kids in down vests rode by on bikes. One wore the orange sash of a school crossing guard. The unit on the other side of the duplex had an American flag in a brass holder and a dead wreath on the door.

  “They did it in reverse,” said the first man, tossing aside a liberated ant farm. “People from Ohio usually flee to Florida. Think they might head back?”

  “Doubt it.”

  The door on the other side of the duplex opened, but the outside screen door stayed latched. A old woman in curlers had a cordless phone in her hand and a Pall Mall in her mouth. “What are you doing out there? I’m calling the police!”

  The man on the left set down a plastic stadium cup and walked up to the screen. He opened a gold badge. “Ma’am, would you mind answering a few questions?”

  She hung up the phone. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “No, ma’am. The two gentlemen who lived next door. Did you know them?”

  “Not really. They were quiet, always paid on time.”

  “So you were their landlord?”

  “What did they do?”

  “Nothing, ma’am. We’re just trying to locate next of kin.”

  “Did something bad happen?”

  “We’ll ask the questions,” said the other, joining his partner and flipping open a notebook. “Did they say where they might have gone?”

  “No.” She grabbed a ceramic frog from a table near the door and flicked an ash in its mouth. “They were such nice boys.”

  “You know where they worked?”

  “I just know the mall.”

  “Which one?”

  “Colony Square’s the only one in Zanesville

  ” She flicked in the frog again, then stopped and squinted at them. “Thought you said you were with the local police.”

  “No, ma’am,” said the one on the left.

  “Know what they did at the mall?” asked the other.

  “Not really. I think they worked at the food court. I’d see them coming back late in their uniforms

  ” She touched a spot on the side of her chest. “They had these little designs. Choo-choo trains, except instead of smoke coming out of the stacks, there were pretzels.”

  The men looked at each other and nodded. “Pretzel Depot.”

  The woman snapped her fingers. “That’s the place!”

  “Remember anything else that might be helpful?”

  “Not really.”

  They tipped their hats. “Appreciate your help, ma’am.”

  The men trotted down the porch steps.

  “Oh, I do remember something,” the woman called after them.

  The men stopped and turned. “What’s that, ma’am?”

  “Funny little thing. I asked them about it once

  ”

  “Yes?

  ”

  “Come to find out, they hated pretzels. Can you beat that?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  ** Chapter 3

  TAMPA

  An itinerant burglar with a methamphetamine hobby walked briskly past a grimy motel room on Nebraska Avenue, confidently gesturing to an invisible audience and continuing his thirty-hour filibuster of incorrect conclusions.

  Inside the room, Serge unscrewed the thermostat cover and threw it over his shoulder. He dissected the exposed innards, canting his head back at the closet: “Another rule-breaker. Can’t tell you how tired I’m getting of their migration.” Serge carefully extracted the coiled metal thermal strip and glass bulb of mercury. “Nearly blew a gasket when I first read about that nursing home closing for renovations
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  ”

  The Magic Fingers started again. Coleman reclined and set a beer on his stomach. “What’s wrong with renovating a nursing home? Makes it nicer for the old people.”

  “Another Florida scam to exploit our seniors, and they keep getting away with it! The state always says its hands are tied

  ” He turned and smiled at Coleman. “

  But mine aren’t.”

  Coleman drained the can and crumpled it. “Scam?”

  Serge rummaged in his suitcase. “Ruthless, out-of-state investors look for old Florida nursing homes full of Medicare patients. They get them super cheap because Medicare doesn’t pay much. Then they float some bullshit why they have to close the place for six months— improvements, asbestos, whatever. They just turn all these old people out on the street, granny-dumping on a mass scale

  ” Serge rooted deeper in his luggage. “Where’s that darn thing?

  Then, once investors have emptied the place and made the ostensible repairs, they reopen— exclusively for private payers. Triples the home’s book value, and they immediately sell to a conglomerate

  I found it!” Serge set a sleep timer on the TV and commenced another suitcase search. “Some of the residents are ninety years old, confused, confined to bed, suddenly finding themselves shuttled on stretchers from one temporary shelter to another until they find a new home

  ” More stuff came out of the suitcase: metal hooks, fasteners. “

  Very traumatic, like repotting temperamental houseplants. Some die within weeks, or even in transit, but the investors don’t care

  ”

  “What are those hook things?” asked Coleman.

  “Marital aids. Got them at a porn store.” Serge sorted the hardware on the nightstand. “Was having chronic problems tying people down spread-eagle. The beds in economy motels are usually pretty plain without anything convenient to attach restraints.”

  The bed stopped vibrating. Coleman put the quarter in the slot again. The bed began humming. “But, Serge, I didn’t know you were the kind of person who shopped at porn stores. You’re always making fun of my adult videos.”

  “Because they are funny. A housewife answers the door for a plumber, and five minutes later she’s wearing nothing but leather riding chaps and blowing a referee’s whistle.”