by Tim Dorsey
Mahoney shook his head ruefully. “If I had a nickel every time I heard that…”
“…You’d have a lot of nickels.”
“World’s changing,” said Mahoney. “I can remember when you could leave your front door unlocked.”
“I can remember when the juvenile delinquents were the kids who toilet-papered the principal’s house,” said the sergeant.
“I can remember when convenience stores closed at eleven,” said Mahoney. “Everyone was in bed at a decent hour.”
“I can remember when you could walk the streets safe at night and not have to worry about being approached by an undercover cop posing as a hooker, and you feel sorry for her and give her cab money and then have to spend the next six months explaining it to internal affairs.”
“It was a simpler time.”
“Cab money was cab money. Nobody questioned it.”
“You can’t live in the past.”
“You can’t look back.”
“You can’t go home again.”
“You can’t tell me that girl looked fifteen in that dark theater.”
Mahoney gestured toward the chalk outline. “What do your years on the street tell you?”
“The work of a joker. Some wise guy. A regular comedian. Thought he was real cute. Must have talked his way in because there were no signs of forced entry.”
“Sounds like a smooth operator.”
“Ice in his veins.”
“A cool customer.”
The sergeant pointed at the blood on the ceiling. “Then something went wrong. He got buggy and spooked.”
“Then he went squirrelly.”
“And wigged out,” said the sergeant. “So he pulled his piece.”
“You mean his rod?”
“No, his heater.”
Mahoney looked down at the coffee table. There was an empty evidence baggie, lighter written in black grease pencil. Mahoney pointed at it. “Is that the lighter I got the fax about? That’s the reason I’m here.”
“What?” said the sergeant, then noticed the bag was empty. “Oh, sorry. Must have used it to light my cigar.” The sergeant stretched out his leg to reach in a pocket and retrieve the lighter. “Here you go.”
Mahoney put on a latex glove and accepted the lighter gingerly. “They didn’t get up to the part about fingerprints at the academy before you graduated, right?”
“I already said I was sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. I know whose this is.”
“Really? How?”
“Orange Bowl. 1969. Super Bowl Three. I’ve seen this lighter before. I’ll never forget it.”
Mahoney picked up the evidence bag from the coffee table, dangled the lighter over it like a spider and dropped it in. He sealed the Ziploc and handed it to the sergeant.
“I’d like to get this processed for prints anyway, just in case you missed a spot.”
“Sure thing,” said the sergeant. “The lab boys are really backed up, but one of them owes me a favor. I’ll call in some chits.”
“One hand washes the other.”
“Then we scratch each other’s backs.”
Mahoney headed for the door.
“Just one more question,” said the sergeant.
Mahoney turned around. “What’s that?”
“You stop someone for speeding and they just start unbuttoning their blouse. Now how is that my fault?”
32
J IM AND MARTHA ate instant waffles on the front porch of their bungalow.
“Morning!” Gladys walked up the steps with a straw basket of blackberry turnovers. “Tell me if these are any good.”
The Davenports each took one.
Gladys looked around. “Where’s your new car?”
“Stolen on the crime watch,” said Jim.
Gladys took a seat on the swing. “I was on the crime watch once. Gave me a completely new perspective on the neighborhood.”
“That’s what I was telling Martha. It’s like a human coral reef—at night an entirely different set of critters comes out.”
“It can’t be that bad,” said Martha.
“You kidding?” said Gladys. “Do yourself a favor. Some weekend at three A.M., go to one of the twenty-four-hour supermarkets. It’s like a zombie movie.”
“I told you,” said Jim.
“Remember the horrible student murders a few years back?” said Martha. “I had a friend who was on the police department at the time. He said as soon as it happened, the cops went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a ‘usual suspects’ list of like two hundred people. Some had no warrants or even records, but there had been instability indicators. The cops knew who they were, where they lived, and had no trouble believing any of them could snap. All these people living throughout the community, blending in. And that was a small town.”
“I’d like to see the list for Tampa Bay,” said Jim.
“No kidding,” said Gladys. “We’ve got all kinds of odd circadian rhythms just on Triggerfish Lane alone. There’s Mrs. Glasgow with her telescope, and Mr. Brinkley with his insomnia and his pogo stick. Mr. Renfroe told us the lights were burning late because he was up working on a children’s novel until we found out he was really making pipe bombs. And of course there’s Mrs. Anderson and her midnight Alsatian yodeling. Florida Power and Light told police that the Crumpets had tripled their energy consumption, and a search warrant turned up the grow lights in the rumpus room. Who am I forgetting? Oh, yes. Tommy Lexington, who never got married and lived with his mother until he was forty-five and was finally picked up at McDonald’s covered with blood and eating a Happy Meal.”
“Hey, Gladys,” said Martha. “Didn’t you tell me you’ve never even seen Mr. Oppenheimer?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, don’t look now.”
The automatic garage door slowly rose at the Oppenheimer place. Mr. Oppenheimer wheeled out his kit-built experimental aircraft.
“I’ll be!” said Gladys. “He finally finished it. After twelve years.”
“Is that thing safe?” said Martha.
They stared skeptically at the craft: a tiny transparent egg-shaped cockpit attached to a Delta wing and twin rotors on the tail. It was very light, and Mr. Oppenheimer towed it with a rope as he walked up the street and into the park at the end of Triggerfish. He opened the cockpit.
“Doesn’t he need some kind of permit or FAA clearance?” asked Martha.
“Moot point,” said Gladys. “My Jacuzzi has a better chance of getting airborne.”
A Lincoln Navigator pulled up. The driver got out and slammed his door extra loud. He came up the Davenports’ walkway.
“Heard you were fired,” said Lance Boyle. “I’ll pay top dollar for your house.”
“Who the hell are you?” said Martha.
Gladys answered. “That’s Lance Boyle, the guy I pointed out who owns all the rentals.”
“Where did you hear my husband was fired!” demanded Martha.
Lance pointed at Gladys.
Gladys smiled and turned red. “I took your side when I told the story.”
“We may sell some day, but not to a creep like you!” said Martha.
“Suit yourself,” said Lance. “But the whole street’s going rental. I just signed a lease with a couple of drug dealers for one of the places across the street. The longer you wait, the less your property’s worth.”
“No thanks to you!” said Gladys.
“I’m not breaking any laws.”
An Audi pulled up across the street and two huge Rastafarians with waist-length dreadlocks got out. “Your new neighbors,” said Lance. He set a business card on the porch railing. “If you change your mind…”
He drove away.
“What a jerk,” said Gladys.
“Look!” said Martha, pointing down the street. “It’s Mr. Oppenheimer! It’s working! It’s really working!”
“He’s flying!” said Jim.
“I can’t believe it!” said Gl
adys. “He’s up! He’s up! He’s…in the power lines…Oooooooo. That didn’t look good…”
OVER THE NEXT few days, the Davenports observed a steady stream of people driving up to the Rastafarians’ house at all hours, walking to the door and leaving quickly.
Lance Boyle had been delighted when the Jamaicans answered his classified ad for the rental, but his glee faded when he discovered they were computer programmers instead of drug dealers. So Lance did the next best thing. He told everyone they were.
Jim and Martha were on their porch swing the following Monday when Lance parked across the street at 877 Triggerfish. He went up to his rental and took down the silk flag of sailboats hanging over the mailbox, replacing it with one that had a big marijuana leaf. Lance drove off as a VW microbus pulled up. Four Deadheads got out and knocked on the door. A Rastafarian answered. There was a sharp exchange.
“We’re computer programmers! We don’t sell drugs!” The door slammed.
The Deadheads left, and Coleman arrived. He knocked on the door.
It opened. Coleman began singing.
“I shot the sheriff!”
The door slammed.
Serge came running across the street with a baseball glove and stopped in front of the Davenports’ porch. “Is Melvin home?”
“Yes,” said Jim.
“No,” said Martha.
Martha looked at Jim. “I mean, no,” he said.
“Oh, okay,” said Serge, and he ran back across the street. Coleman had just returned from the Rastafarians’ pad and was sitting on the porch with a beer. Serge joined him with a National Geographic.
“Why’d you say Melvin wasn’t home?” asked Jim.
“I don’t want that man near our son.”
“Why not?”
“Jim! There’s something wrong with him! His roommates, too!”
Across the street, Serge was showing Coleman a National Geographic article about a tribe in Africa. “Check out how they make their necks really long with metal neck coils.”
Coleman popped another beer. “We should get some neck coils.”
“I have an idea.”
They walked over to the hedge, and Serge pulled out a long garden hose, the collapsible flat kind full of pinholes that inflates with water to irrigate flower beds. Serge started wrapping it around his neck. “Okay. When I give the signal, turn on the water, and I’ll have neck coils.”
“Right,” said Coleman, pushing his way through the hedge to the faucet.
“You’re overreacting,” Jim told Martha.
“They’re dangerous!”
“Maybe to themselves.”
“There’s something weird about those men!”
“Maybe they’re simple. Wouldn’t you feel bad if you found out that was the case and you’d been talking like this?”
“They’re not retarded—they’re dangerous!”
Jim and Martha heard something across the street. Serge was flopping around the front yard, turning blue and fighting a garden hose wrapped around his throat like an anaconda. Coleman thrashed drunkenly in the bushes, trying to turn off the water.
Coleman finally cut the pressure, and the hose deflated. Serge unwrapped his neck and sat up, panting.
Jim turned to Martha. “I don’t think you’re supposed to use the word retarded anymore. It’s offensive or something.”
Coleman pointed across the street. “Are the Davenports looking at us?”
“Yeah, they are.” Serge smiled and waved.
Jim waved back.
“Another close call,” said Serge, feeling his neck. “I think God is trying to tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“I think I’m going to try going straight.”
“You?” Coleman laughed. “That’s a hoot!”
“I’m serious.”
“What brought this on?”
“We’ve been staying here a few weeks now, and I’ve been watching Jim over there. Talk about living on the edge. Guys like him don’t get any glory. They’ve just quietly put away childish things and faced the relentless adult responsibility of taking care of others.”
Coleman shook with the willies. “That’s some scary shit!”
“No kidding,” said Serge. “Jim’s kinda like my hero now. I think I’ll start hanging out with the guy and study him to see what his secret is.”
“What about our financial situation? Looks like Sharon will be out of work for a while with the mayor closing the titty bars.”
“We need a big score to make up ground in a hurry. I was thinking about kidnapping someone for ransom.”
“I thought you were going to go straight.”
“I think I can handle both,” said Serge. “It’ll be a full schedule, but that’s what coffee’s for.”
“No, I mean isn’t that a contradiction?” asked Coleman.
“You know the quote: ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.’”
“Who said that?”
“Either Emerson or the Unabomber.”
Sharon came out on the porch with some coke.
“Would you mind doing that in the house?” said Serge. “This is a family neighborhood.”
Sharon made a face.
“He’s trying to go straight,” said Coleman.
“That’ll be the day!” Sharon stomped back inside.
“And don’t slam the—”
Sharon slammed the door.
A noise came up the street, a black ’76 Chevy Laguna with Landau top and a stereo like a concussion drill. Across the top of the windshield in Goth script: NO FEAR. The young, shirtless man behind the wheel had a tattoo on his shoulder of a skull with a snake crawling through the eye sockets. He stopped in front of the Davenport residence and flicked a cigarette onto the lawn.
Debbie Davenport came out the front door and ran down the steps.
Jim stood up on the porch. “Debbie, come back here! I forbid you to—”
Debbie jumped in the car. Jim ran down from the porch, but the Laguna took off.
“See what I mean?” said Serge. “I feel for the American family. I don’t know how Jim handles the pressure.”
“Isn’t there something we can do to help?” asked Coleman.
“You’re right,” said Serge. “We should do something.”
“But what?”
“You know any couples with small kids?”
“No.”
“People forget to invite them anywhere. We should try to get them out of the house and do something. Remind them what it’s like to have fun.”
“You really think that’s what they want?”
“Of course! I’ll bet they’re just dying for me to come over and ask them. They’re just too polite to bring it up themselves.”
Martha pointed across the street. “Jim! He’s coming back over here! Get rid of him!” She went in the house.
Jim stood on the porch talking politely with Serge. Martha peeked out through the curtains. They smiled and shook hands, and Jim came inside.
“What did he want?” asked Martha.
“He wants to do something with us.”
“What do you mean, ‘do something’?”
“A double date.”
Martha cracked up. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Us and him and that woman? Can you image how funny that would be?”
“We’ll find out Friday.”
Martha stopped laughing. “You told him no, didn’t you?”
Jim pulled out the phone book. “We still have a few days to find a baby-sitter.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Honey, they’re making an overture to be good neighbors. We have to give them the benefit of the doubt. If we reject them, what does that say about us? What does it say about our commitment to the community? We forfeit any right to be treated well ourselves.”
“Okay, we forfeit,” said Martha. “I can live with that. Now, go over there and tell him we changed our minds.”
&nbs
p; “Honey, I can’t just—”
“Do whatever you want, but I’m not going anywhere with that man.”
33
A GENT MAHONEY ARRIVED AT the Little League field a few days after Coach Terrier’s body was found. The pitcher’s mound was still roped off by police tape. The sergeant guarding the scene recognized Mahoney.
“If it isn’t my favorite state agent,” said the sergeant. They shook hands. “I can remember when we didn’t need parents or fancy uniforms to play the game.”
“I can remember when aluminum was for beer cans, not baseball bats.”
“I can remember breaking Miss DuBois’s first-grade class window.”
“We’ve all broken our share of windows.”
“I had a crush on Miss DuBois. She wore these cute little berets that drove me wild.”
“But that’s not really the point, now, is it?”
“No, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong.” Mahoney gazed wistfully over the left-field fence. “What do you got for me?”
The detective pulled a notepad from his pocket. When he did, several little berets fell out. The sergeant stared at them on the ground for a moment, then looked at Mahoney. “I’m getting help.”
“I can remember back when you couldn’t get help.”
“I can remember when they weren’t called diseases. They were hobbies.”
“The world’s changing.”
“The mayor’s closing down all the hobby shops.”
Mahoney stared down at the pitcher’s mound. “What a sick, pathetic bastard.”
“Jesus! They’re just little berets!”
“I mean the killer.”
“Oh.”
The radio in Mahoney’s Crown Victoria cracked with static. “Mahoney! Come in!”
Mahoney reached in the window and grabbed the mike.
“Mahoney here.”
“Where have you been?” asked Lieutenant Ingersol. “I’ve tried to reach you all morning.”
“Sir, I found Serge’s Super Bowl Three lighter at a murder scene, and now I’m at another murder scene. I think—”
“What did I tell you about this Serge thing? You’re supposed to be on the McGraw case. You let the locals handle this! You’re out of your jurisdiction!…”