by Tim Dorsey
Among the historic features of the church and neighboring old convent—accessible from a long winding path off Truman—is an ancient grotto for Our Lady of Lourdes. Anyone can drop in twenty-four hours a day, but few do. At night, colorful votive candles flicker in the darkness of the cave. Even if you weren’t raised Catholic, it’s well worth the visit. And Serge had been an altar boy. His head popped up behind the candles.
Clint pitifully shuffled along. He passed a used-book store and a Cuban sandwich counter—his hand permanently outstretched toward the street in a futile attempt to signal cab after packed cab. Because you can’t get a cab at Fantasy Fest.
After crossing the intersection with Grinnell, Clint decided to stop and make a stand. The pain radiating from his hip was now just too much; he would simply stay put and wait as long as it took for a taxi. His luck instantly changed. A pink car pulled to the curb.
Clint limped forward. From behind, a forearm wrapped around his neck in a choke hold and dragged him backward through the open corner door of Don’s Place.
The bartender named Lubs looked up from the draft spigots. “Serge! No! Not in here! Not again!”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” Clint’s heels skipped across the floor as Serge dragged him past a long line of occupied bar stools. “This is just a transfer station.”
“Then make it quick,” yelled the barkeep. “A lot of people have to pee.”
Serge pulled Clint into the men’s room and locked the door. Another bartender, named Boomer, hung an out-of-service sign from the knob.
A jingling sound, the theme of Flipper.
Serge opened his cell. “How’s it going? I’m almost done, and then we can really have some fun!”
“Uh, Serge,” said Reevis. “We got a little problem here.”
“Really?” Serge tore off another piece of duct tape. “Well, it’s got to pale against what we’ve already been through today.”
Reevis stared into the black hole at the end of a Smith & Wesson barrel aimed between his eyes. “Actually, it’s kind of a priority.”
Serge tightened a plastic strap around Clint’s ankles. “So what is it?”
“Your wife’s here. She somehow found our room.”
Serge’s shoulders sagged from the buzzkill. “Okay, I can see the picture now. Just tell her to stop pointing the gun at you and hand her the phone.”
Reevis’s voice turned away. “He wants to talk to you.”
“He does?” She grabbed the cell.
“Molly, listen. Will you leave those people alone if I agree to go out on a date?”
“You really mean that? So you do still love me? I knew it!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Another piece of tape ripped. “We’ll see how it goes.”
“Where are you going to take me? What are we going to do?”
“I want it to be a surprise.” Serge kicked already bruised ribs. “Can you drive over and meet me behind Don’s? And pick up a few things?”
“I’m on my way.”
A banana-yellow Eldorado convertible cut the lights as it pulled off Grinnell and into the gravel behind the bar.
Molly jumped out and threw her arms around Serge’s neck for a big wet kiss. “I knew you still cared.”
Serge pulled her arms away. “It’s just a date.”
She grinned mischievously. “I know how you really feel . . . So what are we going to do on our date?”
“First”—Serge pointed back at a bound-and-gagged Clint Racine lying in the dark along the rear of the building—“help me get him in your trunk.”
Molly grabbed the hostage’s feet. “It’s so good to be back together.”
Serge grabbed him under the armpits. “It’s just a date.”
Thunk. In he went. Serge slammed the trunk. “I’ll drive.”
The Cadillac crossed the Cow Key Channel Bridge to Stock Island; Molly scooted all the way over, snuggling into Serge.
“I need a little more room to drive here,” said Serge.
“You do? I’ll give you some room.” She unzipped his pants . . .
Ten minutes later, the Eldorado rolled quietly up an isolated driveway on Boca Chica. The couple got out, and Serge sliced open the crime-scene seals on the door of a rusty trailer.
Molly helped carry Clint inside. “Have you been eating well?”
“Of course: 7-Elevens are everywhere.”
They dropped the captive on a lumpy mattress in the back. The pair stood at opposite ends of the bed, fastening Clint down spread-eagled.
Molly clicked a pair of handcuffs shut. “Ever think about children?”
Serge tied an ankle. “All the time, just not mine.”
They went back out to the car for the rest of the equipment.
“What do you need me to do?”
Serge screwed an eyelet into the wall next to the bed. “Spray silicone on the petcock valve and attach it to the propane tank.”
Molly grabbed the canister. “I’ll also file the gasket to decrease torque.”
“Good thinking.” Serge threaded a piece of string through the eyelet and ran it across the room to the valve’s lever.
“Where’s the candle?” asked Molly.
“In my duffel.”
She set it on a shelf and lit the wick. “This should be high enough. I found the cutest little place on Sugarloaf. Want to take a look at it later?”
Serge strained to crank open the propane tank’s main valve. “Might not hurt to take a peek.”
Clint thrashed and tried to scream under the tape across his mouth.
Molly tested the tautness of the string running across the room. Then she stood back and appraised the rest of their work. “I think that’s just about it.”
Serge knelt next to Clint. “Here’s the deal. The valve on that propane tank is way too hard to open for my needs, so I already opened it in advance. But don’t worry: There’s no gas coming out because I attached a little petcock valve that’s closed for now. But it’s got a hair trigger, which is why it’s dangerous to tie string to the handle and run it tight across the top of your bed to that bolt on the wall . . . Dang it, your thrashing just opened the valve . . . Molly, would you be a sweetie and close that for me?”
Clint stopped wiggling, but the tape-muted screams continued.
Serge tapped Clint lightly in the middle of his chest. “As you can see, the string’s resting right on you, also not very safe. However, if you can remain perfectly still and don’t breathe too deeply, there’s a good chance they’ll find you in time.”
“He’s looking at the candle,” said Molly. “I’m guessing he doesn’t know that propane is heavier than air, and if he accidentally trips the string and releases the gas, it will begin to fill the room from the floor up until it reaches the ignition source of the flame. That love nest on Sugarloaf has the perfect room for a nursery.”
Serge rechecked the eyelet at the end of the trip wire. “We’d probably need to take parenting classes.”
Molly looked around the trailer at the implements of death and began panting hard through flared nostrils.
Serge patted Clint on the head. “Sweet dreams.” He stood and turned. “Molly, why are you pointing that gun at me?”
“You motherfucker!”
Serge whipped out his own gun from his waistband. “You conniving bitch!”
Molly pulled back the hammer with her thumb. “Drop your gun or I’ll fucking kill you right now!”
“Not a chance!” Serge tightened his index finger around the trigger. “Should have never trusted a treacherous cunt like you!”
Clint screamed even louder beneath the tape. Both guns simultaneously swung toward his head. “Shut up!”
Then the couple aimed at each other again.
“Get ready to die, cocksucker!”
“Eat shit, you whore!”
“Ready?” said Molly.
“Think so,” said Serge.
They dropped their weapons and tore each other’s clothes off. Molly socked Serge in the jaw and threw him to the floor.
Serge seized her hips. “You always did like the top.”
Molly rode him like a bronco, her head whipping side to side, curly red locks flying.
“Oh yes! Oh God! Oh yes! . . .”
“Your bucking just hit the string,” said Serge. “Turn off the gas.”
“ . . . Oh yes! Oh God! . . .” She reached over and twisted a valve. “ . . . Harder! Harder! Yes! . . .”
Two minutes later, they got dressed.
“You still have it,” said Molly.
“You’re even better.”
“Been doing Pilates.”
She took his arm in hers and they strolled out of the trailer.
Epilogue
KEY WEST
Knock, knock, knock.
Brook checked the motel room peephole and turned to the others. “It’s just Serge.”
She opened the door. “You’re safe!”
“Of course.”
He walked into the room.
Then Molly.
The others gasped and jumped back.
“Don’t worry,” said Serge. “Everything’s cool.”
“What happened to Clint?” asked Reevis.
“Better you not know. But you won’t have to look over your shoulder anymore.”
“That’s a relief,” said Brook.
Serge plopped down in a wicker chair. “So what have you kids been up to since I left?”
“Me and Coleman designed this great bong from a Styrofoam fishing float—”
“Not you, Ziggy.” Serge pointed the other way. “I was talking to them.”
Brook stared down, a wet washcloth in her hand. “I’ve been putting ice on Reevis’s finger. He’s also got a bunch of bruises all over his stomach and chest. Clint worked him over good before he called us, the asshole.”
“I’ll be fine,” said the reporter.
“You just let me take care of you,” said Brook, wrapping more cubes in the cloth.
Serge stood back up. “So what’s everyone’s plans?”
“Power party,” said Ziggy. “I’ve decided to chill down here a couple more days.”
“Brook?”
“Huh?” Pressing the ice pack to Reevis’s ribs.
Serge glanced over at Molly, impatiently tapping a foot in the doorway.
“Uh, listen, Brook,” said Serge. “I don’t really know how to say this. Just put the blame on me—it’s all my fault. You see, Molly and I . . .”
Brook dabbed Reevis’s forehead with another damp cloth. “Oh, you poor sweet boy.”
“I’m twenty-six,” said the reporter.
“. . . Anyway,” said Serge. “Molly and I were talking on the drive back, and we’ve decided—”
“You got another bruise back here,” Brook told Reevis. “. . . What were you saying, Serge?”
Serge just smiled and turned to Molly. “Let’s split.”
The couple headed down the stairs. A third set of footsteps clomped behind them. Molly looked back. “Coleman’s coming with us?”
“I swear it will be different this time.”
BOCA CHICA
Frantic eyes darted back and forth from a string to a candle.
From the front of the trailer came a creaking noise that Clint couldn’t quite make out. Then more little sounds. Clint raised his head. Nothing was there . . . Wait, what’s that down near the floor in the bedroom’s doorway?
Under the tape: “Mmmmm! Mmmmmm! Mmmmm!”
Something hopped up on the foot of the bed.
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm! . . .”
Clint was eye to eye with a giant green iguana as it slither-crawled over his legs and toward his chest in search of warmth. Of course, the string was in the way. A petcock valve turned. Clint began spazzing violently. The startled iguana scampered off the bed and climbed back out the doggie door as a ’76 Cobra flew by on U.S. 1.
Molly snuggled into Serge and put her head on his shoulder.
Coleman was alone in the backseat eating Cracker Jacks and a Klondike Bar.
Fleetwood Mac played softly on the radio.
Molly began rubbing Serge’s chest under his shirt. “It’s so good to be back together.”
“ . . . You can go your own way . . .”
“Absolutely,” said Serge. “In fact, while we were loading the car, I snuck off to Fast Buck Freddie’s and bought you a special gift.”
“Fast Buck? I love that store!” said Molly. “What did you get me?”
“Something romantic and sentimental,” said Serge. “It’ll be different this time. You’ll see.”
Molly looked around with anticipatory glee. “Where is it?”
“The backseat.” Serge glanced in the rearview. “Coleman, can you hand me that bag?”
“What?”
“The bag.”
“Sure thing.”
“Coleman! . . . No! . . . Hand me the whole bag; don’t stick your hands in it!”
“Here you go.”
Serge took the gift from Coleman and sulked. He passed it to Molly. “Set of guest towels. They have sea horsies.”
“They’re all fucked up! Chocolate and caramel smeared everywhere!”
“I’m sure they can easily be washed,” said Serge.
“That’s because you never did the wash! I’ll need stain fighter, and let it set, and put the washer on a special cycle! . . .”
“Molly—”
“I am not a doormat! I am not your maid! Do you know how much the work of a wife is worth? I try to keep a clean house! Sixty-eight thousand dollars is how much! . . .”
“Molly—”
“You take me for granted! You men are all alike! You’ll never change! When are you going to get rid of those disgusting sneakers! . . .”
The Ford muscle car screeched to a stop on a desolate shoulder of the road. A door opened. Molly flew to the ground, followed by her purse. The car took off.
She quickly got up and grabbed her handbag.
In the background, a fireball rose in the night sky over Boca Chica as Molly emptied her .38 in the direction of a ’76 Cobra disappearing up the Overseas Highway.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999, and is the author of seventeen novels: Tiger Shrimp Tango, The Riptide Ultra-Glide, When Elves Attack, Pineapple Grenade, Electric Barracuda, Gator A-Go-Go, Nuclear Jellyfish, Atomic Lobster, Hurricane Punch, The Big Bamboo, Torpedo Juice, Cadillac Beach, The Stingray Shuffle, Triggerfish Twist, Orange Crush, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, and Florida Roadkill. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
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ALSO BY TIM DORSEY
Florida Roadkill
Hammerhead Ranch Motel
Orange Crush
Triggerfish Twist
The Stingray Shuffle
Cadillac Beach
Torpedo Juice
The Big Bamboo
Hurricane Punch
Atomic Lobster
Nuclear Jellyfish
Gator A-Go-Go
Electric Barracuda
When Elves Attack
Pineapple Grenade
The Riptide Ultra-Glide
Tiger Shrimp Tango
CREDITS
Cover design and illustration by Julia Gang
Author photograph by Janine Dorsey
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn fro
m the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SHARK SKIN SUITE. Copyright © 2015 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-0-06-224001-9 (hardcover)
EPub Edition JANUARY 2015 ISBN: 9780062240033
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