by Tim Dorsey
“I called him,” said Coleman. “Took the liberty of going through your address book. Except most of the entries were famous dead people and the names of cemeteries.” He pointed at the open door. “Have to get back to my guests.”
“The hostess with the mostest.”
Lenny watched him leave, then turned to Serge. “You hang out with that dude?”
Serge took another photo. “Yeah, why?”
“He seems like, you know, a real loser.”
“You’re judging?”
“But I thought I was your best friend.”
“You are.”
“Then what’s he?”
“My other best friend.”
“You’re seeing another best friend?”
PORT OF TAMPA
The SS Serendipity eased into its berth. Mooring lines secured. Gangway dropped.
The G-Unit stood near the front of a sweaty, impatient crush of people waiting for the hatch to open. It was important for them to be at the front because the ship had a short, ten-hour turnaround, and the ladies needed every second for their road rally around Tampa: prescriptions, banking, laundry, then back to their apartment to offload acquisitions and grab whatnot.
The ship finally opened up. Edith grunted against the weight of her rolling suitcase. “Can’t believe how heavy this is.”
Edna struggled with her own. “How much did those guys buy us?”
“Too much.”
Then down the ramp, and gravity reversed the problem, luggage threatening to steamroll the gals if it weren’t for helpful crew members, who assisted them into the terminal. They reached Customs and another massive backup. There was a clock on the wall. Eunice looked up at it through the swinging, fringed balls of her sombrero. “Already behind schedule.”
Edith was wiped when they reached the end of the luggage tables. “I need to lighten this.” She began jettisoning ballast.
“You’re getting rid of the statue?” said Ethel.
“Steve will never find out.”
It took an eternity, but they finally cleared inspections and played the sympathy card to cut to the head of the cab line. They tipped the driver extra at the outset, and again when he completed their chore run in record time, dropping them at their apartment.
Police were swarming the place. The landlord stood in the background.
“What’s going on?” asked Edna.
“Authorities uncovered a major counterfeiting operation.”
“Are we in danger?”
The landlord shook his head. “Left in the middle of the night.”
The women went inside their own unit, and Eunice bolted the door behind them. They fanned out, unpacking and repacking. Edith filled a dresser drawer. “I hope you’re not actually going to leave that thing out in plain sight.”
“What?” said Edna, carefully positioning her own Chac-Mool in a prominent spot on a bookshelf. “I think it looks great.”
“It’s hideous.”
“Edith,” said Eunice. “We’re barely ever here. If she wants to display that stupid thing, what’s the harm?”
They went back to their suitcases. “…still ugly.”
A knock at the door.
“We expecting anyone?”
DAVENPORT RESIDENCE
Debbie and Trevor stood in the living room, filling a beach bag with swimsuits and towels.
Jim and Martha were out on the back porch for discussion privacy.
“What do you mean you don’t like him?” asked Martha.
“I didn’t say I don’t like him. I’m just not sure he’s right for Debbie.”
“Jim, he’s perfect. Comes from a great family.”
“He doesn’t even have a job.”
“You just didn’t like him disagreeing with you at dinner the other night.”
“I didn’t.”
“See?”
“Martha, it’s not about my feelings. If he’s not deferential to parents on first meeting, how’s he going to be treating her in a few years?”
“You read too much into nothing. It’s good that he knows a lot about business.”
“You’re not picking up on this guy’s act?”
“It’s a natural fatherly instinct,” said Martha. “He’s competing for the attention of your daughter. Now, let’s get back inside before they think we’re talking about them.”
“They won’t think we’re talking about him.”
Trevor stuffed sunblock in the bag. “They’re talking about us.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Debbie.
“Your dad doesn’t like me.”
“Of course he likes you.”
“It’s perfectly natural for a father. Especially one whose dreams have passed him by.”
Jim came in through the back door. “Oh, great. You’re going to use our pool.”
“No.” Debbie continued stuffing her bag. “There’s a big party down the block.”
Across the room was a louvered closet door. Inside, a pair of eyes peeked through two of the top slats. The eyes belonged to an immense man with a self-amputated left hand.
“There’s a party?” said Jim. “Where?”
“Three houses up. Big postmodern place,” said Debbie. “You and Mom are invited, too.”
“When?”
“Guy just came to the door.”
“What guy?”
Debbie snapped the bag shut. “Stocky fellow.”
“Mr. Wainscotting?”
“Didn’t say. But he knew your name.”
“I’m surprised he even remembered me.”
Martha came in from the kitchen. “What’s going on?”
“Wainscotting came by and invited us to a party.”
“He did?”
Debbie hoisted a strap over her shoulder. “Me and Trevor are heading there now. You should join us.”
Two jaundiced eyes kept watch from inside the closet. White knuckles quietly unholstered a .44 Magnum.
Jim walked over to his wife. “What do you think?”
“We do have to begin meeting the neighbors,” said Martha. “And if he came by to personally invite us, it’s only polite.”
The Davenports continued talking in a part of the room out of sight from the closet, but they could still be heard. Tex McGraw held the pistol against his chest and slowly cocked the hammer so there would be no loss of accuracy from the rotation of the double-action mechanism.
“Okay,” said Jim. “Let’s go to the party. We need to get out of the house anyway.”
One, two, three!…
The front door of the home closed; the closet door flew open. McGraw jumped out and spun around in the middle of an empty room. He ran to the windows and saw a couple strolling up the sidewalk.
FORTY
OTHER SIDE OF DAVIS ISLANDS
Knock-knock-knock.
Edith checked the peephole. “I don’t believe it.” She undid the chain and opened the door. Tommy Diaz and his smiling brothers.
“Steve!” said Edith. “What the heck are you doing here?”
His hands were behind his back. “Is that how you welcome your old friends?” He whipped out a bouquet.
Edith sniffed the roses. “It’s just such a surprise. Come on in.”
“Lovely place you have here.”
“Only for storage.” She reached for a vase on the bookshelf.
“Edith!” said Tommy, looking at the shelf. “You already put out the present I gave you. That means so much to me!”
Edith glanced at Edna and telegraphed the conspiracy, then looked back at Tommy. “What did you think I was going to do, throw it out? I couldn’t wait to find the perfect spot. First thing I did when we got in, isn’t that right girls?”
“Absolutely.” “First thing.” “Hasn’t stopped talking about it.”
“That’s great,” said Tommy. “Some people think it’s ugly and would have tossed it away, but I could tell you have sophisticated taste.”
“It’s t
he most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Eunice looked at the men’s hands. “What’s in those bags?”
“More presents!” said Tommy. They unloaded designer clothes, handbags, chocolates.
“You have to stop spending money like this,” said Edith.
Ethel sat to try new shoes. “She’s talking crazy.”
“It’s nothing,” said Tommy. “You’re doing us a favor allowing the pleasure of treating such lovely ladies.”
“Oh, stop it,” said a blushing Eunice. The women became engrossed opening presents.
“How can I stop?…” Tommy turned with his back to the room, blocking the view of the bookcase. “…We’re helpless in the presence of such lovely creatures….” The Chac-Mool came off the shelf and went into Tommy’s bag. A second, identical statue came out of the sack, replacing the first. “How about dinner tonight on the ship? Say, eight?”
“We’re there.” Edna pulled tissue from a Gucci purse. “By the way, how’d you find our apartment?”
The women looked up. The men were gone.
Serge recited poetry to the Jim Morrison ants. “…Abyss, nothing, silent scream, eternal void, plus I’m just a fucking ant…” He stopped and stretched. “I need a break. They’re all starting to look like regular bugs.”
He walked across the dark office and opened the door. “What?—” Four times as many people. Serge ran down the stairs.
“There you are!” said Coleman. “Check it out: This is the best party I’ve ever thrown!”
“Where’d all these people come from? I thought you said just a few of your closest friends.”
“That’s right. The rest are neighbors.”
“What are neighbors doing here?”
“I invited them.”
“Coleman!”
“Rule number one of power-partying: Avoid the police. Which means you invite all the neighbors. Some will come, but the real point is to make the ones who don’t come feel included. Then they’re less likely to call the cops when things get out of hand because, in a way, it’s like reporting their own party. I went up and down the block knocking on doors.”
“This is insane.”
“Notice any police?”
“Yes!” Serge pointed out the front window. “Two in the driveway!”
“They’re supposed to be there,” said Coleman. “Rule number two: Rule number one doesn’t work, and some assholes always call the cops. That’s why I phoned the police department last week and hired a pair of off-duty officers for security….”
“God help us.”
“…And when on-duty cops respond to the noise complaints, they see their buddies making overtime and don’t want to screw up that sweet deal because next time it’s their turn. Just keep bringing food to the curb.”
Serge looked out the window. A squad car pulled up. The driveway officers smiled and waved with half-eaten hamburgers. The car left. Serge closed his eyes and massaged his temples.
“Serge…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t mean to pry, but you know that friend of yours?”
“Lenny?”
“Did you really used to hang out with him?”
“Yeah, why?”
“He’s kind of like…a total loser.”
A long sigh.
“Serge?”
“What?”
“But I’m really your best friend, right?”
PORT OF TAMPA
“People are such slobs.”
It was the quiet lull in the changeover between cruises. The ship took on fuel and food. Dockhands pressure-washed the hull. The afternoon Customs crew cleaned house in an inspection terminal that looked like the aftermath of a British soccer riot.
“Look at all this trash,” said a short-sleeved inspector with an eagle patch on his shoulder. They swept up the small stuff and shoveled the rest: candy wrappers, Kleenex, soda cups, water bottles, newspapers, empty suitcases with broken zippers and handles. And the nontrash: wallets and cameras and cell phones forgotten in the rush. And stuff remembered at the last minute: pills and joints bought on the streets of Cozumel.
“Norton, look at this chess set.”
“That’s a nice one, Ralph. Too bad you can’t keep it.”
“I know.” He set it in a styrene collection bin. “And here’s another one of those ugly statues. I can’t believe people actually buy this shit.”
“I got one for my daughter’s birthday last year.”
“I mean the other statues.”
“You wouldn’t believe what those things are worth.”
“What? This?” Ralph held out the clay Mayan figure. “It’s just a cheap souvenir.”
“No, I’m saying if it wasn’t a replica. The genuine ones they’ve dug up go for like a hundred thousand dollars.”
“How do you know?”
Norton looked back at a glassed-in break room at the end of the terminal. “Bulletin they posted last week.”
“What bulletin?”
“You’re supposed to read the board.”
“Remind me.”
“That State Department summit in Oaxtal. Armed guerrillas coming at night and looting archaeology sites. We’re supposed to cooperate with the Mexican government to stop the smuggling of artifacts.”
“While they publish guidebooks encouraging the smuggling of people?”
“I’m just telling you what’s on the board.”
Ralph went to toss the statue in the bin.
“Hold it!”
They turned. Another Customs officer. This one was exempt from trash detail because he had a “W.E.T.” badge. Warrant Entry and Tactical Team. “What are you doing?”
“Throwing away trash.”
The officer shook his head. “Have to tag and save anything that remotely looks like an artifact. Keep the diplomats happy.”
“Since when?”
“Didn’t you read the board?”
“Oh, that. I thought it started tomorrow.”
“Just tag it.”
“No problem.” Ralph went to place it on the table. His right hand hit his left. He lost his grip. The statue bobbled. His hands shot out to make the grab, but it just tipped the figure higher into the air. He lunged and caught it…Nope, still loose. It bounced off his chest. The bumbling seemed like it would go on forever until Ralph finally trapped it against his thigh. “That was close!” He placed it on the table.
The W.E.T. officer shook his head again and walked away.
Norton came over. “Nice save. Can you imagine if that was real?”
“But it’s not.” He grabbed a tag from his pocket and turned around, knocking something off the table.
FORTY-ONE
WAINSCOTTING’S PAD
Jim Davenport sprayed Cheez-Whiz on a Ritz. Someone came over. A peck on the cheek.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“Hi, Debbie. Having fun?”
She nodded. “Great party. And your friend’s real nice, although I think he’s a little drunk. What did you call him? Wainscotting?”
“You talked to Wainscotting again? I haven’t seen him.”
“He’s right over there.” She pointed at Coleman.
“Oh, no.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Jim looked around. “Where’s Trevor?”
“Out by the pool.”
Jim looked through sliding glass doors at his future son-in-law chatting up two bikini bunnies. “Debbie, I wanted to talk to you about Trevor. Are you sure—?”
“Isn’t he wonderful?”
Jim smiled. “Yes, he is.”
Another peck on the cheek. “Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you, too.”
She trotted off. Jim grabbed another Ritz. He stopped and stared at something on the counter. A round black-and-white TV. He pressed the power button. Nothing. He slapped the side.
“Jim!” said Serge. “Great to see you!”
A cracker went into the ceil
ing fan.
“What’s the matter?”
Jim’s eyes shot around. “Martha can’t see you!”
“She’s still mad about the propeller?”
Davenport grabbed Serge by the arm and jerked him into a hallway.
“What is it?”
“Over here…” Jim darted into a bathroom with a five-hundred-dollar aqueduct faucet.
“You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“Serge, I’m begging! Please leave my family alone!”
“No can do. My code of friendship: I’ll always be there for you.”
Jim whined with pursed lips.
“Okay, spill it,” said Serge.
“What?”
“Something else is bothering you. Serge can always tell.”
Jim looked at the ground. Serge bent way over and turned his head so he was staring up at Jim. “You can trust me, buddy.”
“It’s…Debbie…”
“No!” yelled Serge, springing up and reaching under his shirt for the bulge in his waistband. “She in some kind of danger?”
“Getting married.”
Serge’s expression changed, and he shook Jim’s hand vigorously. “Father of the bride! That’s fabulous! Caterers, a big hall, DJs, florists, twenty grand just for openers unless you want dickheads to gossip. Plus Melvin’s in college, and you got a new jumbo mortgage, so count on at least five years of skull-cracking financial pressure, which means even more tension with the wife. Congratulations!”
“That’s not it,” said Jim. “It’s Trevor.”
“Who’s Trevor?”
“Big athletic type wearing the Yale bathing suit.”
“You mean that guy out by the pool sticking dollars in Rachael’s boobs? What about him?”
“It’s probably just me. Martha thinks I’m overreacting….” And Jim told him everything, blow by blow.
When he finished, Serge looked at him thoughtfully. “You aren’t overreacting. Kid’s got no respect. Luckily, you told me in time.”
“Serge! No! Not this! Especially not this!”
“Exactly. I won’t do a thing.” He winked. “That way you can deny whatever happens with a clear conscience.”
“Serge!…”
He ran off.
PORT OF TAMPA
A taxi screamed up to the cruise terminal. The driver jumped out and unloaded luggage. Edith opened her wallet. “And here’s a little extra for your speeding.”