by Tim Dorsey
Before the goat could ring the bell on its neck, Rolando-berto promptly dispatched the animal through the side of a quaint and gaily painted barn, and entire villages were leveled without warning.
News of the death toll in the Leewards whipped Florida into action and cranked up the state’s Hurricane Industrial Complex. Commemorative “I survived Rolando-berto” T-shirts were printed in advance, and shelves were stocked with packing tape, weather radios and splatterproof party ponchos. Water was bottled, plywood nailed, and candles and batteries shipped in by tram. TV advertising time was purchased to demonstrate two-hundred-dollar panes of miracle glass that could withstand coconuts fired from special cannons. Florida Cable News bought a new wardrobe for Toto.
N ews of the hurricane was playing in hi-fi in the Lexus, and Sammy Pedantic changed the station to techno-dance.
“Those were great guys,” Joe said as they drove through Orlando on I-4. “What a deal-just drive their car across the state to Tampa Bay and give it to their cousin and we get five hundred bucks.”
“I’ve heard about this before-rich people actually pay someone to drive their cars city to city. It’s like house-sitting. Except there’s no house.”
“Plus a free weekend on the beach!”
“And chicks, too!” Sammy turned around and saw City and Country driving eight lengths back in their maroon Mercury Cougar. He popped two beers and handed one to Joe. “Now, this is living.”
They concentrated on drinking for a moment, then threw the empties onto the leather backseat. Joe burped first, then Sammy, then it became a contest.
“You know anything about the Gulf Coast?” asked Joe.
“Are you kidding? It’s ten times better than the East Coast. And Miami has nothing on Tampa. We’re lucky we fell into this deal.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Those guys told us, remember?”
“That’s right.”
“There is a God,” said Sammy.
“And he has plans for us,” said Joe.
On the way through Orlando, Joe and Sammy began hearing a peculiar sound inside the dashboard, but it didn’t seem to be affecting the car’s performance. They continued southwest on Interstate 4, past a collision of money and architecture. Castles and resort hotels and imperial pagodas. Wild West sets and Polynesian discos. Artificial beaches and heliports. Down both sides of the highway, like the master growth plan of a small, oil-producing state. Pirate ships and towers of terror. Giant Las Vegas signs: “Buffet $4.99.” Reptile petting farms, go-cart tracks. Fun World, Fun Mania, Fun ’n’ Sun. And it wasn’t even Disney yet. The Great White Shark was still ahead; these were just the remoras and trash fish that clean its teeth and suck the scales for sidestream commerce.
They hit heavy traffic, then construction, and the boys lost City and Country just past the American Gladiators Dinner Theater.
“Where’d the girls go?” asked Sammy.
“Shhhh!” said Joe, trying to listen to the engine.
They noticed the engine sound growing louder as they drove through Lakeland. It was a rhythmic noise, a whap-whap-whap like a baseball card in the spokes of a bike. Joe leaned toward the dash.
“I’ve heard engines about to go, and this doesn’t sound the same,” said Joe. “We’re pretty close to Tampa. We’ll make it.”
He was right. It wasn’t the engine. The problem was the air-conditioning. One of the fan blades was rubbing. Only a little at first. The blade had shifted slightly and began clipping some plastic in the cowling. As the clipping wore on, the plastic became frayed and gave the fan blade more to dig into, which tore up more of the plastic.
By the time they took the exit ramp into downtown Tampa, the puttering sound filled the car. Sammy read the map and said where to turn. Joe made a right on Polk, and Sammy pointed at the bus station a block ahead. “That’s where we’re supposed to meet the guy’s cousin.”
Something they didn’t know: The plastic that the fan blade was clipping wasn’t supposed to be there. It was the tight outer binding of a kilo of cocaine. As Joe and Sammy rounded the corner, the slightest aperture opened through the last bit of plastic wrap and a thin, invisible current of coke blew out the vents.
Sammy sniffed the air. “Smells musty in here.”
The fan now had something to work with. Once that first hole had broken the seal, the blade ripped open the rest in short order like a Christmas present.
Suddenly, the air conditioner blew a swift, solid cloud of white dust that filled the passenger compartment, blinding and choking them. Joe began hitting parking meters and garbage cans all down the right side of the street until he crashed into the back of a van outside the bus terminal.
A police officer ran from a sandwich shop. The electric windows rolled down and a thick cloud of cocaine billowed out. Joe and Sammy opened their doors and fell to the ground, gagging. The officer pulled his gun.
I n all, the cocaine in the air conditioner and other parts of the Lexus tipped police scales at just over four hundred and ten pounds, a weight which, under new federal law, required a roomful of politicians to appear at the press conference announcing the arrests. Seven hours into the interrogation of Joe and Sammy, a team of detectives, prosecutors and city officials met secretly in a conference room at police headquarters. Something had happened for the first time in their collective crime-fighting experience. Suspects found in a car full of drugs-actually covered in drugs-appeared to be innocent. But since they had already held the press conference, the two young men would have to be convicted and imprisoned.
While they discussed the case, a corporal walked around the conference table with plastic fast-food sacks, placing a child’s Happy Meal, complete with toy prize, in front of each top official. The embattled and paranoid chief of police looked around the room at a Who’s Who of Tampa ’s power structure. He looked down at the Happy Meals in front of them and thought: This is political-someone in the department is trying to make me look like an idiot. The officials discussed legal and strategic options and made a decision. They would let the suspects go and keep them under surveillance.
The surveillance team, however, lost Joe and Sammy in the heavy traffic of TV and radio vans following the suspects, so they had to break off and track them on live TV back at police headquarters. Outside the command room, a disgruntled police major slipped a corporal a hundred-dollar bill for making the chief look like an idiot with the Happy Meals.
After nightfall, when the news helicopters returned to the airport, Joe and Sammy were kidnapped outside a convenience store in Dunedin by a van with TV news markings. Inside were their new friends from Daytona Beach, the Diaz Boys, three brothers and a cousin.
“Hey, you’re really drug smugglers!” Sammy said as the men gave them injections of sodium pentothal.
They drove to a motel room, where Joe and Sammy were tied to tropical chairs. The men made drinks and got the hockey game on TV. Under the truth serum, Joe and Sammy told them about the police interrogations. A man arrived with a deli tray and chips.
“Did you go by the wedding rental shop?” asked Tommy Diaz.
“I forgot,” said Juan Diaz, still holding the platter of cold cuts and cheeses.
“Better get going before it closes,” said Tommy.
“How come I always have to go?” asked Juan. “It’s because I’m the cousin, isn’t it? The rest of you are brothers, so it’s always ‘Send Juan to do it.’”
“Absolutely not,” said Tommy.
“You know who I feel like?” said Juan. “Norman Durkee.”
“Who the hell’s Norman Durkee?” asked Rafael.
“You don’t know, do you?” said Juan. “He was the guy in Bachman-Turner Overdrive whose name wasn’t Bachman or Turner.”
“He just played piano,” said Tommy Diaz. “The piano guy never counts. In concert, they’re always way over on the side in the dark, with the guy who plays those tall bongos and the three chicks singing backup.”
“What about Rick Wakeman from Yes?” countered Juan. “Or Keith Emerson from Emerson, Lake and Palmer?”
“Those were keyboard-dominated bands,” said Tommy. “BTO was wall-of-sound guitar.”
“Excuse me?” Sammy interrupted. “Is this a Latin thing?”
Everyone glowered at him, including Joe Varsity.
“Sorry,” said Sammy. He grinned nervously, then made a straight face.
Tommy turned back to Juan. “What are you talking about? You’re one of us! Your name’s Diaz, too! We’re the Diaz Boys!”
“Yeah, but it could be the Diaz Brothers. Like in Scarface! I know that’s what you’ve really always wanted. Like the Garcia Brothers and the Rodriguez Brothers. You only let me in the group because you felt sorry for me and you promised my mom.”
“Where do you get these ideas?” said Tommy. “You’re family!”
Tommy gave Juan a big hug and kissed him on both cheeks. “I don’t want to hear any more of this foolishness. Now get going before the wedding shop closes.”
Juan wiped a tear and smiled and rushed out the door.
As soon as he was gone, Rafael Diaz said, “Let’s get rid of that guy. Then we can finally be the Diaz Brothers.”
“I can’t,” said Tommy. “I feel sorry for the guy and I promised his mom. Besides, he runs all the errands.”
“Can we at least change the s to a z?” asked Rafael. “We could be the Diaz Boyz.”
Tommy Diaz looked at Rafael like he had an extra nose. “Okay, follow me carefully. We smuggle cocaine. We don’t sing fuckin’ doo-wop.”
Juan Diaz returned from the wedding shop in thirty minutes with a giant box of deflated balloons and a floor-standing tank of helium. Everyone drank heavily watching the hockey game. They untied Joe’s and Sammy’s hands so they could eat roast beef sandwiches and drink beer. There weren’t enough chairs so Juan had to sit on the cooler because he was the cousin, and he complained about having to get up every time someone wanted a beer.
“It’s because I’m the cousin, isn’t it?”
“Nonsense!”
They all cheered when the Lightning scored the go-ahead goal in the third period. After the game, Florida Cable News’ Blaine Crease appeared on TV at the top of the Sunshine Skyway bridge.
“…And this is where the bloody trail of the Keys Killer came to an end, where he jumped to certain death and was swept out to sea in the powerful currents at the mouth of Tampa Bay…”
Crease stopped to pull a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
“…Just before he decided to take his own life, the notorious murderer wrote an exclusive letter to me, Blaine Crease…”
Crease put on reading glasses, held up the letter and began reading:
“‘Dear Mr. Crease, You report too many depressing stories. More happy news, please. Warmly, Serge A. Storms.’”
Crease dramatically whipped off his reading glasses. “Obviously the rantings of a seriously deranged mind!…”
Tommy Diaz and the others started filling balloons with helium, tying them off and letting them float up to the low ceiling.
The men took turns inhaling helium and talking funny.
“I didn’t know drug smugglers were so much fun,” said Sammy, hair disheveled and head bobbing from the injection. “I thought you’d be mad at us.”
“No, we’re not mad,” Tommy said and took a hit of helium.
“So, you’re not going to kill us?”
“Oh no,” Tommy said like Donald Duck, “we’re still going to kill you.”
One of the men went outside and got two beach loungers from the patio next to the pool. They tied and taped Joe and Sammy into the loungers and attached a hundred balloons to each.
“Hey, what are you guys doing?” asked Joe Varsity.
Nobody answered. They kept tying on more balloons and taping Joe and Sammy more securely to the beach loungers.
“Okay, this is starting to not be funny anymore,” said Joe.
More balloons.
“Are you trying to make us blimps?” asked Joe. “It’ll never work. You can’t lift a person up with regular party balloons.”
Just then, Sammy floated away from his handlers. His hands were tied to the sides of the lounger, and his nose mashed up against a hanging lamp.
“Stop clowning around,” snapped Tommy. “Get him down from there.”
Sammy wasn’t coming out of the drug as quickly as Joe, and he giggled as they retrieved him.
“I heard about this before,” Sammy told Joe. “Some guy up in Georgia was laid off at a factory. So he got loaded at his daughter’s wedding and tied a bunch of balloons to a cot and grabbed a leftover bottle of champagne and took off. He brought a frog gigger with him to pop balloons one at a time when he wanted to come down.” Sammy turned to the Diaz Boys. “You’re gonna give us giggers, right?”
“No giggers,” said Tommy, not looking up, tying off another balloon.
“What’ll happen to us?” Joe asked from the outskirts of panic.
Sammy answered. “We’ll go up real high and black out from lack of oxygen and then die. Or the balloons will explode from the low atmospheric pressure and we’ll crash and die. Even odds which will happen first.”
Joe started crying.
“I hear Tampa Bay is beautiful from the air at night,” said Sammy.
Tommy Diaz cracked the front door to the room, stuck his head out and looked both ways. “Coast is clear.”
Joe sobbed and Sammy giggled as the men jockeyed with the loungers like Macy’s parade ground crews. They bumped into each other in the close quarters of the motel room and Sammy got wedged in the doorway. Rafael Diaz shoved from the rear and a few balloons popped as Sammy came free and shot up into the night air faster than they had expected. “Wheeeeeeeeee.”
Then it was Joe’s turn, but he went up screaming and crying.
Some people in the bar heard the commotion and looked out the window, but didn’t see anything. Two doors down, City and Country thought they heard something and stepped out of their rooms onto the sidewalk. City checked her watch and shook it. “Where can those guys be?”
Sammy drifted out over the Gulf, but Joe caught a thermal crosswind and blew back across the bay toward Tampa, over the big green glass dome of the Florida Aquarium.
15
Lenny had been staying with Serge the last two days in room one of Hammerhead Ranch. From the moment they jumped in Lenny’s Cadillac on the Sunshine Skyway fishing pier, there was instant hypergolic chemistry.
Serge upon arriving in the room: “First we establish a bivouac. I’ll deploy my gear over here by the TV and check the escape routes; you fill the tub with ice… If we do it right, the room should look exactly like we’re on a stakeout.”
“This is so great!” said Lenny.
Serge cleared the wicker writing table with the round glass top and laid out precision tools, electrical meter, soldering iron and snacks. He began taking apart the homing signal receiver, trying to figure out why it wasn’t picking up the briefcase. Soon he had the guts all over the table, frayed wiring sticking out everywhere, looking like it would never work again. Serge talked to himself. “It’s gotta be something simple, like a bad rheostat… Hmmm.” He stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth in concentration. He plucked a semiconductor off the chassis with needle-nose pliers like a kid playing the old Milton Bradley game Operation. In the background, Lenny was a one-man bucket brigade, making repeated trips from the ice machine to the tub with the motel’s tiny plastic ice pail.
“These things don’t hold shit,” said Lenny, dumping his twentieth bucket of cubes.
“That’s so inconsiderate guests don’t hog all the ice.”
“Some people spoil it for everyone.”
Lenny dumped another bucket, and the ice finally crested the top of the tub.
Serge finished reassembling the homing receiver, extended the telescopic antenna and turned it on. Nothing. “Piss.” Serge turned it off
and tossed it on the near bed. “Supply run!”
“Check!” said Lenny, and they sprinted out the door.
They had been tooling around the barrier islands ever since in bursts of aimless but urgent activity.
On the third day, Serge slouched in the passenger seat at an open drawbridge on the Pinellas Bayway. His arm was over the side of the car, slapping the “Don” in “The Don Johnson Experience” in time with the music. He looked up to the sky and made a scrunched face.
“My spider senses are tingling… First time I felt like this I was three, just before Betsy hit.”
“Betsy?”
“One of the craziest hurricanes on record. Labor Day weekend 1965. It was first spotted by a Tiros weather satellite, and it curled up near the Bahamas. Then it continued tracking northeast, out to sea, and Florida breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone got out their barbecues and went swimming. But Betsy stalled out there. Everyone gulped hard and kept watching the TV reports in disbelief as it did a complete U-turn. Nobody had seen anything like it. Betsy headed right back at south Florida with hundred-and-forty-mile-per-hour winds…” Serge swirled his arms.
“What happened?”
“Raked the bottom of the state. My family huddled in the hallway of our house. Everything got real dark and quiet. I was a little kid so I thought it was fun, but I remember it was the first time I had seen the grown-ups afraid. A small palm tree came through our living-room window, and my mother screamed. We rode it out, but seventy-four others weren’t so lucky.”
“Wow,” Lenny said softly.
The drawbridge closed and they began moving again. Serge fished in the glove compartment and found a Phil Collins tape, and he stuck it in the stereo. They passed the Pelican Diner.