by Tim Dorsey
“Which number should I use?”
“The New York office. That’s where the decision-makers will be.”
Coleman punched up the two-one-two area code.
“Remember to use the voice scrambler I gave you,” said Serge.
“Right,” said Coleman. He reached under the seat and pulled out a Dixie cup and put it over his mouth. He pressed the bottom of the cup against the phone.
Sharon looked at Coleman, then Serge. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Shhhhhhhhh! He’s making the call!” snapped Serge. “They’ll recognize your voice. You don’t have a scrambler.”
Serge handed Coleman a scrap of paper with the script he’d written. Coleman took the phone away from his ear. “It’s an answering machine.”
“Read it anyway,” said Serge.
Coleman put the Dixie cup back over his mouth and began reading. “We have Insert Name Here…”
“Ambrose!” said Serge.
“We have Insert Name Here Ambrose. Do not call the authorities. Put ten million dollars in small, marked bills…”
“Unmarked!”
“…correction, unmarked bills in a duffel bag and await further instructions. This is the Simian Liberation Army.”
Coleman hung up. He popped a beer and poured it in the scrambler.
Serge stopped the car and turned around.
“What?” said Coleman. “What are you looking at me like that for?”
“What the hell was that last part?”
“What last part?”
“The Liberation Army. That wasn’t on the script.”
“Oh yeah,” said Coleman, smiling proudly. “I added that myself. I found it in your history papers. Pretty cool, eh?”
“Symbionese.”
“What?”
“It’s Symbionese, not Simeon. You’ve made us into some kind of radical animal-rights brigade.”
Coleman chugged the beer. “I thought you’d like it.”
Serge turned back around and resumed driving. “Next time I read the note.”
“Fine,” said Coleman. “I didn’t ask to read any note.”
“But I’m driving. I can’t do everything. I need some help in here…Sharon, what the fuck are you doing?”
Sharon was taking off her clothes as fast as she could. “Things are crawling on me! Get’em off!”
Serge turned to their hostage. “Ambrose. Ambrose!…Coleman, he’s dead! We killed him!”
Serge reached back and shook Ambrose, and he woke up.
“Jesus, Ambrose! You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry.”
“Ambrose, you’re a maniac!” said Serge. “The rest of us are all jumpy, and we’ve got the guns. But you’re back there catching some winks. You are stone cold, my man!”
ROCCO SILVERTONE GOT a busy signal in New York. He sat at his desk with Ambrose’s business card in his hand. He hung up and tried again.
“You really think John stole the Ferrari?” asked Vic.
“I don’t think—I know! I saw him driving it!”
“But what did he do with the old man?”
“I don’t know,” said Rocco. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Maybe we should tell the boss?”
Rocco reached across the desk and grabbed Vic by the arm. “No! We can’t say anything! I wasn’t supposed to get out of the car.” He let go of Vic. “I have to figure out a way to handle this without anyone finding out.”
“Good luck.”
Rocco dialed the New York number on Ambrose’s card again. This time he got through.
“Shoot,” Rocco said under his breath. “Answering machine.”
He hung up and tried to think.
“CHECK IT OUT,” said Coleman, pulling a driver’s license from Ambrose’s wallet. “He lives on Triggerfish Lane. Don’t we live on Triggerfish Lane, too?”
“Can’t be the same one,” said Serge. “Let me see that.” Coleman passed the license forward.
Serge looked at his license. His rubbed his eyes and held the license closer. He looked up and hit the gas.
The Barracuda whipped around the corner of Triggerfish Lane and skidded to a stop in front of a tiny house with 918 over the door. Serge double-checked the license. 918.
He looked at Ambrose. “Tell me this isn’t your home.”
Ambrose stared down and nodded.
“Would you mind explaining what the hell’s going on?”
Ambrose looked away, out the window.
“I’m talking to you!” yelled Serge. “We’ve gone through a lot of trouble for you! Now what’s the story?”
Ambrose wouldn’t look at him.
“That wasn’t your Ferrari, was it?” said Serge.
Ambrose shook his head.
“The other cars. None of them yours?”
He shook his head again.
“Then what gives?”
Ambrose mumbled.
“Louder,” said Serge. “I can’t hear you.”
“Test drives,” said Ambrose.
Serge started punching the roof of the car. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!…” His knuckles started to bleed and he stopped. He turned back to Ambrose. “Would you just tell me why?”
Ambrose hung his head.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you! I asked you a question!”
Ambrose looked up.
“Well?”
Ambrose’s voice was barely a whisper. “I was lonely.” A tear started down his cheek.
“No! Not that! Anything but that!”
More tears.
“Stop it! Stop it right now!”
It only got worse.
Serge kneeled backward in his seat, grabbed Ambrose by the shoulders and shook him. “What have I ever done to you! What is it you want from me!”
“Can I stay with you?”
“No! No, you can’t stay with me!” Serge reached over and opened Ambrose’s door. “Get out right now! You’re free to go!”
“I promise I won’t make any false moves.”
“Didn’t you hear me? Go!”
Ambrose looked down and the tears started again.
“Okay, okay! You can stay! But only briefly. Very temporarily. Just until I can figure out what to do, so don’t get all attached or anything.”
Ambrose raised his head and smiled.
Coleman took a hit on his joint and tapped Serge’s shoulder. “Does this mean his company won’t pay the ransom?”
“Oh no. They’re going to double the amount.”
Coleman grinned. “Really?”
Serge faced forward and gripped the steering wheel. “All right. What’s done is done. Can’t get paralyzed by this. Have to do damage assessment…” Serge’s brain time-lapsed through the last hour. “…The Ferrari! Dammit! We had a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car! Ohhhhhhh—this nightmare just won’t end!…Okay, keep going. Don’t get hung up on that SAT question. What else?…The ransom demand…”
Serge turned back to Coleman. “We have to get that ransom message off the voice mail. It’s evidence. Those things have retrieval codes.” He turned to Ambrose. “What is it?”
“Eleven.”
“Coleman, dial the number again, punch in eleven and follow the instructions to erase messages.”
Coleman dialed. He tapped Serge’s shoulder again. “I’m getting a busy signal.”
“Who could be calling?” said Serge.
42
D AMMIT, I’M STILL GETTING A RECORDING,” SAID ROCCO.
“Are there any other menu options?” asked Vic.
“It says if you don’t want voice mail and need to speak to someone right away, hit one. I’ve been hitting one but nobody answers!” Rocco began banging away in frustration at the number one. There was a click on the line and a new recording. “Hold on,” said Rocco. “I’m getting something.”
It was a robotic voice: “You…have…one…new…voice mail…message.” Then a beep and
another voice. “We have Insert Name Here…”
“What is it?” asked Vic.
“Shhhhh!”
Rocco listened to the entire message, then quietly hung up.
“Rocco, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“It’s a kidnapping,” said Rocco. “It’s John.”
“John’s been kidnapped?”
“No, the old man’s been kidnapped. John’s the kidnapper!”
“You recognized his voice?”
“No. He was using a scrambler.”
“You have to call the police!”
“I told you—this can’t get out.”
“What are you going to do?”
Rocco thought a second, then nodded to himself. “His company. Maybe I can work through them. I’ve got information they need, and big corporations always like to keep kidnappings quiet.” He dialed again.
“But there’s nobody there,” said Vic.
“I’ll leave a message.”
“Maybe they’ll give you a reward.”
The recording started and Rocco waved for Vic to keep it down. The machine told Rocco to wait for the beep. Rocco waited.
Beep.
“Hello, this is Rocco Silvertone in Tampa, Florida. I understand your president, Ambrose Tarrington the Third, has been kidnapped. I have some important information you may be able to use…”
“Remember to ask about a reward,” whispered Vic. Rocco pushed him away.
“…I think I know who the kidnapper might be, and I may even be able to help you locate Mr. Tarrington…”
Vic held up a piece of paper with REWARD in big letters.
“…I’m not seeking anything for myself, but any gratitude you might wish to show my favorite charity, I’d be happy to handle the delivery…”
Rocco left his phone number and hung up.
“I’M STILL GETTING a busy signal,” said Coleman, hanging up.
“Try again,” said Serge.
Coleman dialed again. “I’m getting through this time.”
“Remember to hit eleven,” said Serge.
Coleman pressed one-one. He heard his ransom demand begin to replay, then followed the instruction to erase it. Hewas just about to hang up when another message started. He listened and began to shake.
“Coleman. What’s wrong?”
“They’re on to us!”
“Who is?”
“Rocco Silvertone. He says he knows who we are!”
“Who the hell’s Rocco Silvertone?”
“I can’t go to prison!” His hands trembled as he lit another joint.
“Nobody’s going to prison,” said Serge. “Now who’s Rocco Silvertone?”
Coleman handed him the phone. “Listen to the message.”
Serge dialed again and pressed eleven and listened. He closed the phone. “Who on earth is Rocco Silvertone?”
“I know,” said Ambrose.
He told Serge all about the most successful salesman at Tampa Bay Motors.
Serge popped a stick of gum in his mouth. “As if the plot isn’t thick enough!”
Coleman took another deep hit and tapped Serge on the shoulder again.
“What is it?”
“Remember the two Darrins in Bewitched?”
“Yeah?”
“Their names were Dick Sargent and Dick York.”
“Your point?”
“Don’t you see? Dick Sargent. Dick York. Sergeant York!”
“So…?”
“So it makes you wonder.”
“Uh, yeah, Coleman. It makes me wonder all right. I’m going to turn back around now and start driving again. Butplease feel free to report in with any more bulletins as they become available.”
Coleman nodded and took another hit.
Serge made a left. Before they knew it, they were back on Triggerfish Lane. Serge pulled up in front of Ambrose’s house.
“Well, here she is! Home sweet home!” said Serge.
Ambrose didn’t move.
“I told you when this started it was only temporary. We have to go our separate ways. Fly high, oh freebird, yeah!…Come on, Ambrose, get out of the car.”
Ambrose began moving slowly. He took off his wristwatch and held it out to Serge.
“Ambrose, really, that’s not necessary.”
He kept holding it out to Serge.
“Okay, if you insist.” Serge took the watch and looked at it. “Nice Rolex.”
“It’s a fake,” said Ambrose.
“The thought that counts.”
“Sure I can’t stay?”
“No, I—” Serge looked at the watch again. “Holy cow! Look at the time! Today’s Friday, right?”
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
“I’ve got a commencement address to deliver at the University of South Florida! The dean asked me back when I was teaching there this summer.”
“Ha!” Sharon laughed. “You’re no teacher!”
“Can’t you let me have my little dreams?”
“What about Ambrose?” asked Coleman.
“I guess he’s coming. I can’t argue with him now. I have to think of the students.”
THE DEAN WAS onstage in a cold sweat, checking his real Rolex.
Serge turned the Barracuda off Fowler Avenue and blew through the security gate. The floor of the Sun Dome was already a sea of gowns when Serge hopped a curb and parked on a downed handicapped sign.
“You go ahead,” said Coleman. “We’ll catch up.”
Serge took off on foot.
The dean was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief when Serge bounded up the stairs and slapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry I’m late, teach.” He ran out onstage.
The audience quieted as Serge walked up to the podium. He tapped the microphone.
“Has anyone heard that Jerry Springer now has a place in Sarasota?”
A few people nodded.
“I mention this because I’m still waiting for Tonya Harding to move down here and make it a clean sweep. I’m going through withdrawal because I haven’t heard anything about her since she beat that guy in the head with a hubcap at a hoedown. And what about the poor guy? I don’t think there’s any better time to sit down for that little heart-to-heart with yourself. ‘Good morning. This is your wake-up call. It’s from Darwin.’ But that’s just one person’s tiny drama, meaningless except in the bigger picture, which is trying to isolate the exact moment we turned into Trash Nation, and nearest I can tell, it was one second after Nancy Kerrigan took a telescoping blackjack to the knee. Now there was a cute little soap opera. What an absolutely fascinating underwater view into the Kmart inflatable backyard American gene pool. I have a dirty little confession. I loved it! We may have learned everything we needed to know about life in kinder-garten. But you know what? We can learn everything we need to know about the incredibly rude, selfish, infantile country we’ve become by observing the human spokes revolving around the Tonya Harding sociocultural axis. The Greeks reveled in Homeric tragicomedies; the English lived out Shakespearean dramas. But we, America, are the cast of the Kerrigan farce. Is it any wonder we’ve thrown manners, compassion and respect out the window? We’ve become one big, self-absorbed nation holding up an ice skate, pointing at a broken lace and blubbering our eyes out. We don’t know our neighbors anymore. We have no shame, no consideration, no sense of duty or sacrifice. Need more metaphors? We won’t go the extra mile, meet anyone halfway, and if, somehow, somewhere, anything at all goes wrong in our pathetic daily wanderings, if some random misfortune drops at our feet and splatters like a Taco Supreme, we don’t commence to tidying up the floor and getting on with our lives. We start making a litigious radar sweep of the room, seeing if there’s anyone in recrimination range, some entitlement cadet to whom we can construct a Bridge-over-the-River-Kwai blame-path of tortured logic and sheer, reality-sculpting self-deception. Maybe they handled a taco once, maybe even made tacos. Maybe they could have warned you—yes, they knew all about that t
reacherously viscous emulsion of grease and sour cream on wax wrapper. They deliberately chose not to say anything as they saw it slipping out of your hand in Peckinpah slow motion while you were trying to eat, talk on the phone and log on to eBay at the same time. Well, here’s a news flash for you. Believe it or not, the blacks and the gays and the Jews did not drop your taco. You dropped the fucking taco, my friend! It doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t even mean it’s your fault. What it does mean is that this cosmic slapstick we call life has just elected you the shmuck who has to go get the mop. So go get the goddamn mop already! Don’t just stand there staring down, reliving the lunch-that-could-have-been and trying to figure out how affirmative action did this to you. That’s just the way life is. It can be exquisite, cruel, frequently wacky, but above all utterly, utterly random. Those twin imposters in the bell-fringed jester hats, Justice and Fairness—they aren’t constants of the natural order like entropy or the periodic table. They’re completely alien notions to the way things happen out there in the human rain forest. Justice and Fairness are the things we’re supposed to contribute back to the world for giving us the gift of life—not birthrights we should expect and demand every second of the day. What do you say we drop the intellectual cowardice? There is no fate, and there is no safety net. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist. I believe in God. But he’s not a micromanager, so stop asking Him to drop the crisis in Rwanda and help you find your wallet. Life is a long, lonely journey down a day-in-day-out lard-trail of dropped tacos. Mop it up, not for yourself, but for the guy behind you who’s too busy trying not to drop his own tacos to make sure he doesn’t slip and fall on your mistakes. So don’t speed and weave in traffic; other people have babies in their cars. Don’t litter. Don’t begrudge the poor because they have a fucking food stamp. Don’t be rude to overwhelmed minimum-wage sales clerks, especially teenagers—they have that job because they don’t have a clue. You didn’t either at that age. Be understanding with them. Share your clues. Remember that your sense of humor is inversely proportional to your intolerance. Stop and think on Veterans Day. And don’t forget to vote. That is, unless you send money to TV preachers, have more than a passing interest in alien abduction or recentlypurchased a fish on a wall plaque that sings ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy.’ In that case, the polls are a scary place! Under every ballot box is a trapdoor chute to an extraterrestrial escape pod filled with dental tools and squeaking, masturbating little green men from the Devil Star. In conclusion, Class of Ninety-seven, keep your chins up, grab your mops and get in the game. You don’t have to make a pile of money or change society. Just clean up after yourselves without complaining. And, above all, please stop and appreciate the days when the tacos don’t fall, and give heartfelt thanks to whomever you pray to…. You’ve been a fine audience!”