by Tim Dorsey
“Turn in this parking lot. Let us go our separate ways.”
Coleman pulled in to Toys R Us. “He’s following.”
“Park here,” said Serge.
The Datsun screeched up alongside. The driver jumped out and grabbed the locked door handle, banging on Serge’s window. “Open up!”
Serge rolled his window down a crack. “You look like you could use a big hug.”
“I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” He hopped on the balls of his feet, throwing punches in the air. “Come out here, you wuss!” He ripped Serge’s hurricane flag off the antenna, threw it to the ground and began stomping.
“Coleman, you’re a witness. Didn’t I try to walk away?”
“That you did.”
“Just so it’s noted in the official record.” Serge grabbed his door handle. “Okay, I’m coming out….”
MIDNIGHT
Police cruisers and flashing lights filled the parking lot of a budget motel on Busch Boulevard. The Pink Sea horse.
Agent Mahoney was getting out of his unmarked vehicle when a newspaper reporter drove up in an oil-dripping ’84 Fiero.
“Got here as fast as I could,” said the journalist. “What do we have?”
“Someone’s ticket got punched, and it wasn’t a round-trip.”
They headed for the open door of a room that was the source of all the attention.
“That motel sure is pink,” said Jeff.
“It’s the Pink Sea horse.”
A stout police officer ran out and became ill in unpruned shrubs.
They went inside. The reporter caught a brief glimpse and jerked away. “Oh, dear God! What kind of madman…”
The victim was still tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Blood aggressively streaming from every natural orifice. No wounds.
Mahoney offered a hanky.
“Thanks.” The reporter wiped his mouth. “What the heck happened in here?”
“Serge is what happened,” said the agent. “Watch your hooves.”
The reporter looked down. The entire floor was a spaghetti plate of electrical cords and cables. Miles of wire, tangled and snarled and plugging together an eclectic menu of raw electrical components and cannibalized acoustic magnets bolted to the walls.
The lead hom i cide detective shouted into a cell phone and slammed it shut. Mahoney approached. “What’s the skinny?”
“A horror show.” The detective marched toward one of his subordinates. He signed something official and handed it back. “Usually when we get a Hip-Hop Redneck in a motel room this involved, it’s a meth lab. Except there are no chemicals. Just all these wires and magnets. Doesn’t make any sense.”
Mahoney pointed. “Why’s plywood bolted over the window?”
“Haven’t figured that either,” said the detective. “Got our best guy on the way.”
“Anyone in the other rooms hear anything?”
“Everyone. Shook the whole motel. And the strip mall across the street. Dozens came out to rubberneck, but nobody saw anyone leave this room. That’s how we know he was alone when it happened.”
“Explosion?” asked Mahoney.
“Music,” said the detective.
“Music?”
“Witnesses said it sounded like the Stones, but their statements differ on the album.” Another aide approached with something else to sign. “The press is going to have a field day….” The detective happened to notice something over Mahoney’s shoulder. “You brought a reporter in here?”
“It’s copacetic. He’s a friendly.”
“He’s contaminating the crime scene.”
“Jeff ’s hip not to paw anything.”
“No, I mean he’s literally contaminating it. He’s throwing up.”
A police officer who did not look like the others entered the motel room. He was Dipsy the Hippie Cop. Tie-dyed T-shirt, gray ponytail halfway down his back, sandals manufactured from recycled tire treads. General appearance regulations did not apply to Dipsy, because he was the department’s technology wizard.
“Whoa!” said Dipsy. “Someone’s been busy!”
“You know what happened?”
“Abso-fuckin’-lutely.” His smile broadened as he surveyed the room. “I definitely want to rock with these cats!”
HURRICANE #1
ALEX
CHAPTER ONE
TAMPA
The consistently inventive positions of the hurricane-flung bodies validated the chaos theory, particularly those equations involving trajectory, procrastination and trailer parks. Certain corpses seemed purposefully arranged, the rest very much not. Some appeared to have been scattered by mortar strikes, others peacefully reclined like stuffed pandas on a child’s bed, still others looked like sick practical jokes being played on the recovery crews. The disturbing circumstance of one particular body, the next to be discovered, was no accident.
But wait, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s back up….
June 1.
The opening day of the Atlantic hurricane season was like any other: dire predictions in the media and cheerful sales at the home-improvement centers.
How people ramped up for hurricanes depended on experience. If you’d been through a direct hit, you didn’t fool around. Plywood, gas, go. Those with small children were the first to bolt, followed by seasonal residents, who had more options. The old-timers went one of two ways: Most had developed keen instincts and knew precisely when to pull the trigger; the crustier stayed put no matter what and were interviewed on CNN. Newer residents forgot to charge up cell phones; the wealthy scheduled unscheduled vacations; families gathered family albums; insurance executives canceled coverage. Prescriptions and sandbags were filled. Some believed in the power of hoarding canned meat; others lost faith in electricity and withdrew massive amounts of cash from ATMs. Door-to-door entrepreneurs purchased chain saws for the brisk post-strike downed-tree business. There were the tourists, who stared bitterly at unused portions of multi-park passes; sailboat owners, who spiderwebbed vessels to docks; the motor-oil-baseball-cap people standing in the beds of pickup trucks, making everyone wonder by loading the heaviest, most worthless shit; and college students, whose hurricane preparation consisted of not knowing a storm was coming.
The memories of 2004 were supposed to greatly improve public awareness. Charley, Frances, Ivan, Jeanne.
Since then, authorities found less trouble getting residents to heed evacuation orders. But not a lot less. The culture of complacency had deep roots in nearly four decades of borrowed luck. There was one ten-year period from 1975 to 1985 when but a single hurricane made landfall in Florida. The next seven years saw only three more. Meanwhile, thousands of new communities and condos sprouted along coastlines with the growth-speed and sturdiness of spring-shower mushrooms.
Then 2004. As many hurricanes that had struck during seventeen years pummeled the state in less than six weeks.
A lot of residents learned their lesson and installed the latest storm shutters. Others drank beer.
Then 2005.
Dennis, Katrina, Rita, Wilma.
Another wake-up call. Someone hit the snooze alarm.
Hurricane shutters were already up on an old theater in Seminole Heights. It was now a low-rent professional building. A clock ticked on the wall of an upstairs office, postmodern feng shui. Two people sat in white leather chairs, facing each other twenty feet apart. Only one could see the clock. That was by design.
A self-assured woman with pulled-back strawberry hair folded her hands on top of a small notebook. She smiled with genuineness. “What are you thinking about?”
“It’s dark in here.”
“The shutters are up,” said the psychiatrist.
“I know,” said Serge. “A big one’s already on the way, and it’s only the beginning of June. It’s all I’ve been able to think about.”
“The anxiety’s perfectly normal. Especially after the last few years. I’ve been seeing a lot more patients—”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” said Serge. “I’m cookin’! I love hurricane season!”
Her expression changed. “Why?”
“Potato chips.”
The doctor took a deep, poised breath and looked down at her notebook. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
Serge slouched in his chair. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“I just moved to this office. That means you had to look me up.”
“Happened to be reading the Yellow Pages.”
“Give yourself more credit. The last time we saw each other, you were involuntarily committed. This time you came on your own. You’re taking steps.”
“See? And you wonder why I’ve been away so long. You still think I’m crazy.”
“That’s an unfortunate term we don’t like to use.”
“I like to use it,” said Serge. “You want to talk about crazy? I knew this caseworker who was checking on a guy in a St. Pete transient hotel. One of those beautiful old places with the striped awnings over the sidewalk. But that’s another tragedy, another day. My friend knocks on the door and doesn’t get an answer, so he tries the knob. Unlocked. He goes in, and there’s shit everywhere. I don’t mean trash or PlayStations. I mean real shit. The smell hit him like a shovel. The guy he’s looking for is sitting in the middle of the floor wearing nothing but one of those hats with the moose antlers, singing Peter Gabriel—Shed my skin!—playing with more turds, sculpting little bunny rabbits. He’s got a whole bunch of them lined up on the floor in an infantry formation like some kind of Easter-morning nightmare. My friend says, ‘Tito, you haven’t been taking your medication, have you?’ Then he gets hit in the chest with a shit-bunny. But he tells me he likes his job because it’s something brand new every day. In my thinking, there’s good brand new and bad. Know what I mean?”
“And this story is important to you how?”
“That’s crazy. I just want someone to talk to.”
“Then let’s talk. How have you been? Do you recognize the improvement?”
“Not really.”
“I can,” said the doctor. “When we first met, you were wearing a straitjacket.”
“Since then I’ve learned to dress for success.”
“What about your medication? Have you been taking it?”
Serge squirmed into a different slouch. “Those pills made my head thick. I was turning into my friend Coleman. You know how you are the first few seconds after waking up in the morning? He’s stretching it into a life.”
“We can adjust the dosage.” The doctor got out a prescription pad. “There’s a drugstore one block over.”
“Maybe next week,” said Serge. “I’m busy revising my global strategy for the president.”
“Listen to what you just said.”
“What?”
“The president. Global plans. Don’t take this wrong, but doesn’t that strike you as a bit…delusional?”
“Oh, like I can do any worse. You watch the last State of the Union? Talk about delusional.”
The psychiatrist handed him a slip of paper. “Please get this filled.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t need it.”
“Just look at your body language. All the fidgeting.”
“I can’t see the clock. That’s no accident.”
“But you have a wristwatch.”
“I need the official time. I have to know The Deal.”
“This is why I want you to get that prescription—”
“Tom Cruise says it’s a crock. Born on the Fourth of July is a classic, so I’m forced to side with him on this one.”
“Those were some uninformed interviews. Did a great disservice.”
“Remember the one with Matt Lauer? I thought Tom was going to pop him. Matt acts all nice, but underneath he’s a snake. I’m on the edge of my seat: Come on, Tom, you can do it. His guard’s down, quick left jab. Knock that fuckin’ smirk into next week.”
“You’re still having violent urges?”
“I hope so.”
“Why?”
“You should know,” said Serge. “Any behaviorist will tell you it’s a healthy condition of the animal kingdom, how all living things are programmed for survival. But your medication deadens those urges. And if an animal stops having them, it means his wiring’s crossed, and he ends up doing something unnatural like beaching himself and flopping in the sand, making shrill clicking noises, and then the lifeguards ask you to move along because you’re ‘frightening the children.’…”
“Serge…”
“…Ever observe insanity in the wild? Even if it’s something small, it’ll freak you out. I once saw a squirrel lose its mind at the Lowry Park Zoo….”
“Serge…”
“…Jumped on one of the gorillas. Just didn’t give a fuck anymore….”
On the other side of the wall from Serge was another office. Another psychiatrist sat with an unlit Dr. Grabow pipe. This office had a couch.
A law-enforcement officer lay on it. He was out of uniform. Black slacks and lime-green dress shirt. A crumpled fedora rested on his stomach. His necktie had martini shakers.
The psychiatrist studied the patient’s folder. “Forgive me, but I’m not familiar with this condition. I’ve heard of paranoia, but not noir.”
“Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, The Maltese Falcon, diners, dames, dime novels.”
“Are these things real to you?”
“Of course not,” said Agent Mahoney. “It’s pulp. Like I told the shrinks at the drool farm, I’m over that now. I can separate reality.”
“What about your wardrobe?”
“What about it?”
“Seems you’re still in this ‘pulp’ world. Like that tie.”
“Doesn’t mean anything.”
“So you’re saying that sometimes a tie is just a tie?”
Mahoney turned slowly and stared stone-faced.
The doctor grinned. “Thought I’d lighten the mood. That’s a psychiatric joke. You know how Freud—”
“I get it.”
“You’re not laughing.”
“It’s one of those think-about-it jokes. I’m enjoying it inside.”
“You are?”
“That was a joke.”
“Oh…. Ha, ha, ha, ha…”
“When I just said that was a joke? That was sarcasm.”
“I see, okay…ahem…” The doctor nervously rustled papers.
Mahoney maintained his glare. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”
“Not really.”
“Didn’t think so. Heard you were working off a narco beef, writing scrips to yourself. Just got your license back.”
The doctor recoiled in his chair. “Where’d you hear that?”
“What do you think I do for a living? It’s how I picked you.”
“You did?”
“Saw your rap sheet. Makes our understanding easier.”
“Understanding?”
“You keep signing off that I’m making progress, and I make sure no crooked flatfoots plant any silly pills, if you catch my drift.”
“I do.”
“Good. Look, I like the way I am. Hell with everyone else. Sometimes I’m noir, sometimes I’m contemp.”
“How can you tell?”
“My threads, how I jaw.”
“Interesting.”
“No it’s not. I’m going to do some reading now….” Mahoney opened a dog-eared paperback with a hard-boiled broad on the cover. She had stiletto heels, a whiskey sour and the road map to Trouble Town.
The psychiatrist tapped his note pad. “Excuse me…?”
“Are you still here?” asked Mahoney.
“I’m not comfortable—”
“Jesus!” He slammed the book shut. “Would this go more jake if I just gave you the goofballs I was going to plant, and you can do up?”
“No, I mean, I’m not going to cause any trouble with the progress reports, but it would m
ake me feel less awkward if we at least went through the motions.”
“Would it?”
“It would.”
Mahoney sat up and cracked his neck. “Shoot.”
The doctor clicked open a pen. “So you’re only occasionally living in this noir fantasy world?”
“I prefer to think of it as an alternate lifestyle,” said Mahoney. “Society hasn’t caught up.”
“How’s that?”
“Today it’s a sickness, tomorrow you get a pride parade. I’ve started working on my float.”
“Help me with the concept,” said the doctor. “What’s your fascination?”
“Back then a cop was a cop. Black and white. You needed to lean on a twist, slip hopheads a yard, throw lead, no one snooped.”
“And now?”
“Everything’s sensitivity training.”
“You don’t agree?”
“Fuck sensitivity.”
“That’s a new way to put it.” The doctor wrote something.
“It’s the straight dope,” said Mahoney. “They’re never going to catch Serge without turning the big screws.”
“Serge?” The doctor flipped back to the front of his notebook. “Isn’t that the case that first landed you in the, um…hospital?”
Mahoney stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “Sharp cookie. The department doesn’t understand what it’s like inside his noodle.”
“And that’s why you’ve come back to Tampa?”
“His stomping ground. I can feel him. He’s real close.”
“But according to your file, you’re supposed to drop this whole Serge obsession. One of the terms of reinstatement.”
“They don’t have to know.”
“But…that doesn’t sound like you care about getting better. How am I supposed to treat you?”
“Like I said, we’re tripping for biscuits. So why don’t you just button it and validate my parking?”
The psychiatrist tapped his mouth with the pen. “Okay, let me try coming at this from a different angle. Say I’m a new partner you’re breaking in, and we’re looking for Serge together. I’m on your side.”