by Tim Dorsey
“I’m lucky?” Hector snapped his fingers, and four men got out of the van with pistols and the sawed-off. “How would you enjoy ending up like your friends?”
“You forget,” said the sergeant. “This is our town. Nobody comes here and pushes us around.”
Hector hadn’t seen the other patrol cars before, waiting in the dark at the quarry’s entrance. A trio raced in, hitting their high beams. Hector raised a hand over his eyes. Officers jumped out with weapons drawn.
“Hector, our business deal has concluded,” said the sergeant. “Consider your port privileges officially revoked.”
“What about my money? I want that asshole brought to me on a platter!”
“You got your drugs. Consider it a bargain.”
“Fuck you!” He headed back toward the van. “This isn’t the end of it! We’ll be back! And with more men and guns!”
“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier? That changes everything.”
“What’s that supposed to mean—”
All the officers opened fire until their guns were empty.
The whole thing took less than ten seconds. That’s what police training on the shooting range will do. The smugglers’ eyes were still open in a permanent expression of shock, bodies perforated and limbs at weird angles. Smoke hung in the air with a heavy musk of cordite. One of the officers walked over and spit in Hector’s vacant face. “That’s for Roger and Pedro.”
Another officer walked up—one who’d had a sick child visited in the hospital by a famous local surfer. He spit as well. “And Darby.”
The patrol cars drove away.
Chapter 23
The Present
Bungee cords snapped free. A tarp flew off the bed of a pickup truck. Serge slapped a cheek.
“Wake up! Wake up!” He dropped the pickup’s tailgate down and dragged the man out by his ankles.
Thud.
“It’s time for the games to begin!” He helped the woozy captive up and got him into the driver’s seat. “There, that’s more comfy.”
Out came the duct tape. Tear, tear, rip, rip, until half the roll was gone. And the hostage was fully alert.
“Let me go! I’ll scream!”
“Go ahead,” said Serge.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
“I can scream louder,” said Serge. “Ahhhhhhh! . . . The Everglades are the perfect place to scream. You’re not bothering anybody.”
The man stopped to review the confusion of his circumstance. A laptop taped to his lap. Hands taped to the steering wheel. He struggled to free them, but no luck.
“And I taped your neck to the headrest of your seat, because there’s no way to get your hands loose unless you think like me and chew through the tape. But I also made sure the neck tape wasn’t too tight or it would be unsafe.”
The captive took a deep breath. “What’s going on? What have I done to you?”
“It’s what you’ve done to all of us,” said Serge. “Dumping the worst possible refuse in the most delicate of our ecosystems.”
“Oh, a tree hugger.”
“Literally,” said Serge. “Have you ever tried it? You connect to the life force that flows through the entire universe, and sap.”
“Fine, I’ll clean it up.” He wiggled his fingers. “Now cut me loose.”
“Too late. You’ve violated the contract of existence.” Serge gestured up and down the man’s chest. “You think the cells in your body came without strings?”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“Be a happy contestant.” Serge began clapping. “That’s the audience applause. And here’s the contest you’re about to play . . .”
The man listened to a convoluted, tortuous explanation about the science of the new batteries, why they were bad for the environment and might soon be very bad for him.
“The only thing left is the bonus round. I always give my contestants a bonus, some better than others.” Serge shrugged. “The home office makes the rules.” He held up a thick cable with a familiar adapter on the end. “This is an emergency charger. It fits into the cigarette lighter, which is good for you, because unlike using a wall socket, this takes much longer to charge.” Serge turned the key in the truck’s ignition. The instrument panel came to life. “I see you have a quarter tank of gas. That’s either good or bad for you, depending on gas mileage. Your engine runs the alternator, which charges your truck’s battery, which in turn charges the laptop on your legs. Once the engine turns off, the big battery under the hood won’t get any more juice and start to deplete. And there you have the bonus round: Will the gas run out and your pickup’s battery die before the computer has a chance to overcharge? If so, you’re free to go. My promise to you . . . Now here’s the key part: If you’re really limber and can get your toes up to the dashboard, you can turn on the headlights and wipers to speed the depletion.” He saw the captive’s eyes go to the side of the steering column. Serge grabbed the roll of duct tape again and secured the key in the ignition. “Sorry, no cheating.”
Serge closed the pickup’s door. He opened it again. “Almost forgot. I need to tax you for my research trip.” He reached behind the man and extracted his wallet. “Driver’s license here says your name’s Diego. Nice knowing you . . . Ooo! And a company-issued credit card for travel expenses. I’m back in the workforce! . . . Well, cheerio!” The door slammed.
Serge headed back to the Nova, where Coleman was already seated with a joint and a beer, rewatching a video on a cell phone.
“What do you think?” said Serge. “Pretty cool contest?”
“He’s thrashing around,” said Coleman, “and his leg is out the window.”
“He’ll get the hang of it.”
Coleman turned off the phone and took a hit. “Too bad we can’t stay and watch.”
“This time we can.”
A big, round head swung sideways. “You’re kidding! Whenever it’s a long contest, you always make us leave.”
“This time’s different. I checked the battery level and charge rate,” said Serge. “This could be a short contest.”
The leg struggled to get back in the window, and the truck’s headlights came on.
“Well, what do you know?” said Serge. “It looks like we have a game.”
“Now the wipers are going,” said Coleman.
“And the washer fluid, and the horn, and radio. Finally! Someone who listens.”
Coleman licked the back of a suction cup and re-attached his cat toy to the windshield. “How long before the fireworks start?”
“We’ve still got some time to kill.” Serge turned on his phone to surf the Internet.
Coleman batted the toy. Jingle, jingle. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m honing tactics to bend people to my will.” He called up another digital page. “You know my concept with clipboards, orange cones and safety vests? They’re everyday items that anyone can buy, and yet when you put them into play in society, people just assume you’re official and don’t question.”
“You want something else official-looking?” Jingle, jingle.
“No, this definitely won’t look remotely official. I’m going hard in the opposite direction this time.” Serge scrolled down the tiny screen. “But what’s the underlying principle of the other three things? They throw people off balance and tilt the interpersonal equation in your favor.”
“So you’re looking to buy something on there?”
“Already bought it. This is just further research.” He rummaged under the driver’s seat and handed Coleman a plain brown bag.
Coleman reached inside. “A giant dildo?”
Serge nodded. “I put a lot of thinking into that one. Everyone views dildos in the sexual context. We all know they’re out there, except we never, ever see them in public. But what if some creative person introduced one into a non-sexual scenario? They’d automatically have the advantage.”
“How so?”
Serge grabbed the flesh-col
ored column from Coleman. “Say you’re at a customer-service desk trying to return something you purchased. They’re giving you a hard time, and you start to lose it: ‘What do you mean “thirty-day limit”?’ ‘What do you mean “all the original packaging”?’ ‘What do you mean “underwear is excluded”?’ So you pull the dildo from your pocket as casually as if you were getting out a piece of gum. Then you start slapping it into your other hand for emphasis with each point you make: ‘I’m one of your best customers!’” Slap. “‘Do you know how much money I spend here?’” Slap. “‘I demand an immediate refund!’” Slap . . . “Of course by now they’re not hearing a single word you’re saying. You may get the refund, or they may call the manager, and then you take the more subtle route, shaking his hand and saying it’s a pleasure to meet him, while your other hand is sticking the dildo in your ear and twisting it like a big Q-tip. It’s all about establishing home-field advantage.”
Coleman grabbed it. “Or you could pretend to think really hard and tap your forehead with it, like this.”
“Precisely,” said Serge. “It’s the element of the unexpected, like that famous Monty Python surreal skit about the Spanish Inquisition.”
“I remember that one,” said Coleman. “Nooooooobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”
“Nooooooobody expects the dildo!” said Serge.
Jingle, jingle. “I enjoy talking to you like this. It makes me feel intelligent.” Coleman pointed. “The bottom of your dildo has a suction cup. What’s that for?”
Serge threw his arms up. “An utter mystery! Who knows what these people are doing? That’s why I needed further information from my phone to explore the possibilities.” He glanced at Coleman’s cat toy, then licked the bottom of his sex device and stuck it to the windshield. He went back to typing on the small electronic screen. “As I said before, America is way over-sexed and under-laid. The first time I saw an adult superstore, I thought they must have made a mistake at the sign shop. But now the concept is so mainstream that they’ve gone online. Check out this website catalog: double strap-ons, O-rings, ball gags, latex cat-woman masks, stilettos, whips, remote-control ten-function panties, here’s a full-scale rubber ass, bullet vibrators, ‘hands-free’ vibrators—I assume for the multi-tasker—pocket rockets, pocket pussies, indoor adult swing sets, simulated mouths from seventeen to eighty-nine dollars depending on your budget and quality needs. And here’s a ‘narrow your search’ function where you select essential criteria: multi-speed, single-entry, pulsate, rotate, glow-in-the-dark, made in the USA. This is so embarrassing! I’d be mortified to get caught with this stuff!”
Coleman looked up at the windshield. “I didn’t know your dildo had flashing lights.”
“In case I’m arguing with someone when it’s dim.” Serge clicked to a new page. “And here’s another product section for people with allergies and dry skin. Don’t they realize nothing’s private anymore? That just by visiting sites like this, their identity is passed all over the place on marketing lists? And those lists are always getting hacked and posted publicly. Think of the shame!”
“How could you possibly explain it?” asked Coleman.
“I guess I’d just say I’m an author doing research for a book.”
The dildo began chirping.
“There’s even a pop-up box on this site for ‘live chat with a service representative.’ Can you imagine having that job? Not to mention the training class and PowerPoint presentation.”
Other lights began flashing outside in the swamp. Coleman poked Serge’s shoulder. “I think the show’s starting.”
Serge looked up. “You’re right. The first battery cell just vented.”
The pair sat back and watched as the interior of the pickup truck produced a light show of flame and smoke. Multicolored streams of sparks sent flecks of metal ricocheting around the driver. Then the illumination died down before the next, bigger eruption. The sixth battery cell cut loose, then the seventh, eighth, ninth . . .
Coleman gestured with a beer: “I think the inside of his roof just caught fire.”
Serge took a deep breath and rested his head back. “I love this place.”
The pair continued sitting in a muscle car with a cat toy and a blinking, chirping dildo attached to the windshield, watching flaming geysers of molten heavy metals inside a pickup.
“That’s the beauty of the Everglades,” said Serge. “Everything’s natural out here.”
Chapter 24
1989
Just after dawn, a phone rang in a bedroom in Riviera Beach. A woman in a nightgown rolled over on the far side of the bed and adjusted her sleeping mask. A man in skivvies fumbled for the receiver. He was bald, except for the sides.
“Hullo?”
His legs went quickly over the side of the bed, feet in blue socks.
“Are you crazy, calling me on this line? . . . No, I’ll just be a minute. Call you right back.”
The man jumped in his pants and raced down to a pay phone on Broadway near the pawnshop. Quarters went in the slot.
“It’s me . . .” He quickly pulled the phone away from his ear. “You’re screaming! I can’t understand a word . . . Yes, I know what happened at the marina last night. That’s why I was sleeping. I was working on the problem practically till it got light . . . What? No, I didn’t know about that. What quarry? . . . You’re screaming again . . . Listen, we’re on top of it. Just keep watching the news . . . And don’t call me again unless I call you.”
The man hung up and drove back home in his police car.
Two hours later, more patrol cars arrived at the sergeant’s home on Silver Beach Road. So many black-and-whites, you’d think it was a murder scene.
Inside, a very private meeting.
A very jumpy meeting. All the officers from last night’s shootout at the OK Quarry. Most of them had a can of cheap beer in their hands. Not partying; steadying nerves.
“We just need to remember two things,” said the sergeant. “Stick to our story, and everyone remain calm. I don’t need to mention that this whole group depends on every single one of us hanging tough. No weak links.”
Then the floodgates, talking fast over each other.
“It’s too much . . .”
“I didn’t sign up for this . . .”
“Last night at the quarry will be our undoing . . .”
“Stop! Everyone!” yelled the sergeant. “This is the opposite of remaining calm.” The sergeant’s name was Franklin, but everyone called him Duvall, because he bore an uncanny resemblance to actor Robert Duvall, and he received more respect than normal because of it. “To start with, that business out west is the least of our worries. A bunch of dead drug smugglers—guns in their hands, no less—in a remote quarry. Clearly a deal gone bad, and other drug guys waxed them. It couldn’t have a more beautiful bow on it if we tried.”
“He’s right,” said a corporal.
“Of course I’m right, so put that one out of your heads. Everything’s sealed up. The only thing we have to fear is ourselves.”
“One question?” asked a patrolman.
“What’s that?”
“Hector.”
“I just told you that ending couldn’t have gone better,” said Duvall. “Weren’t you listening?”
“No, I’m not worried about being suspected for that bloodbath in the quarry. Hector was strictly middle management. I’m worried about the rest of his organization down in Miami. They’re bound to notice him missing by now and start nosing around.”
“They already have,” said Duvall. “I talked to them a couple hours ago.”
“What!”
“Called me first thing this morning, my home line no less. So I drove to a pay phone.”
“What did they say?”
“Pretty much what you’d expect. Apparently they use that quarry for a lot of meetings and discovered the whole clusterfuck around dawn. Then there was a lot of profanity and threats to kill a bunch of people,” said
Duvall. “But I told him we were on the case. Just watch the noon news. We were about to announce a suspect.”
“The reaction?”
“They wanted to come down here guns a-blazin’ and whack the guy we’re going to pin it on. Jesus, we’re only blaming this stooge to divert our department’s attention away from us. But now with all the dead guys west of town, Hector’s people think that this innocent schmuck is part of some rival gang moving in on their territory.”
“I may be sick,” said a corporal, trying to sip beer with shaking hands. “If they come up here acting crazy with revenge and one of them gets caught, they could spill the beans on all of us.”
“Relax,” said the sarge. “That’s why I told them it wasn’t an especially good time for a turf war. The attorney general is already involved because of the dead officers, and the feds will be swarming everywhere because of the drugs and port angle. I suggested they indefinitely suspend their whole Palm Beach County operation because this would soon be the hottest spot in the whole state.”
“Did it work?”
“They’re businessmen. After settling down, they agreed it was best. But they said they would never forget about this, especially the money. I told them that’s exactly what they needed to do. Write it off as a business expense. I explained that if we found any rival group working around here, it would be in our own interest to take them out ourselves. But they insisted this was personal, and would wait as long as it took to get even.”
“How long do you think that is?”
“Quote: ‘We’ll die of old age before we forget about this,’” said the sergeant. “What’s wrong with those people?”
“There is one loose end,” said a corporal.
Duvall sighed. “What?”
“The guy we’re pinning it on . . .”
“If he talks . . .”
“Life in prison for everyone . . .”
“I don’t care,” said a rookie named Wes. “Enough killing. I’m not taking him out.”