by Tim Dorsey
Bob stayed at the table and watched Tony walk all the way across the restaurant and out the front door into the warm Orlando night, the last time he would ever see him. Bob went to the pay phone.
“Tell Mr. Palermo he was right. Tony’s working with the feds…. Just left a minute ago…. Goes into the program Friday morning at ten…. I heard the phone call. He’s meeting them at Miami Executive Airport.”
15
F OUR MIDDLE-AGED MEN in Michigan State alumni jerseys strolled down Collins Avenue on a quiet Miami Beach morning. A tall one, a skinny one, a bald one, a short one. They came to Fourteenth Street and made a left. They walked another half block and turned up an alley. They stopped and looked around. Grime.
“Are you sure this is the place?”
The tall one nodded.
“It can’t be right,” said the bald one. “Why would they want to meet here?”
“Guess it’s supposed to be part of the experience.”
“Are you sure about these guys? Where’d you find them?”
“On the Internet.”
“Oh, great!”
“No, really. They had an impressive website.”
“Anyone can put up a website.”
The bald one watched a burly cockroach scurry up a wall covered with peeling dance-club flyers. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t feel safe.”
The skinny one jumped. “What was that?”
“What?”
“That sound.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“There it is again. It’s coming from that Dumpster.”
“I heard it that time, too.”
They took cautious steps forward and peeked over the lip of the metal bin.
The garbage exploded. A mangy old man jumped up.
The alumni jerked back.
“I was here first!” said the bum, climbing out of the bin. He slammed his hand loudly against the steel side. “Dibs on everything in here.”
“It’s all yours,” said the bald one.
The bum opened his hand to reveal a crumpled fast-food burger wrapper. “My lucky day. A whole bite left.” He popped it in his mouth.
“Oooo! Gross!”
“Oh, excuse me,” said the bum. “Did that upset you? I’m so sorry. I forgot all about my reservation at the Four Fucking Seasons!”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I know how you meant it. Gimme a dollar.”
“Don’t give it to him,” said the skinny one. “It will only support his addictions.”
“C’mon, ya pampered prick, gimme a fuckin’ dollar. I’m not going to buy malt liquor. I want an espresso.” The bum pointed at the Cuban lunch counter across the street.
“In that case I guess it might be okay.” The bald one slowly pulled a bill from his wallet with lingering indecision.
The bum snatched George Washington out of his hand. “Don’t be so damn melodramatic. It’s only a dollar.” The bum looked both ways and ran across the street to the lunch counter.
“At least we got rid of him.”
“Are you sure this is where we’re supposed to meet? It’s taking forever.”
“Just hold on—we’re a little early.”
“Ten more minutes and that’s it.”
“Don’t look now.”
The bum trotted back across the street, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “You waited for me.”
“We’re waiting for someone else.”
“You think I’m just a bum, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. But I used to be somebody. You look around at all these homeless people on the street—every one of them used to be somebody. And I’m going to be somebody again.” The bum pulled a stained wallet from his back pocket. “Check this out.” He flipped it open to display a pink-and-white Florida lottery ticket in the transparent ID sleeve. “I’m going to be rich Sunday morning. This is my week; I can feel it!”
“If you didn’t spend the dollar on that ticket, you could have bought your own espresso.”
“What is your fucking hang-up with the dollar? You don’t see me getting all bent out of shape about money, do you? God has blessed you with so much, yet you’re so self-absorbed and ungrateful. Shame on you!”
“Sorry. I guess you’re right.”
“It’s okay. Gimme another dollar.”
“Why?”
“I need a beer.”
“I thought the money wasn’t for beer.”
“That was the last dollar. But now I’m all wired from the caffeine. You did this to me. This is your problem now. You can’t take me to the ball and expect me not to dance.”
“I don’t think I’m going to give you any more money.”
“It’s just a dollar, for chrissake!”
No response.
“Tell you what,” said the bum. “Pick a number between one and ten.”
“What for?”
“Just pick a number already! You know, you’re a very difficult person to talk to.”
“Four.”
“All right, since you were so nice giving me the other dollar as well as the next dollar you’re going to give me, this is what I’ll do. Next week after I win the lottery, I’m buying me a candy-apple red Rolls-Royce. Always wanted one of those. But right after that, I’ll come by and give each of you four thousand dollars. That’s right, four thousand. No need to thank me—that’s just the kind of person I am. You have my word. Yes, sir, when you see that red Rolls coming down the street, you’ll know it’s going to stop and a man in a fancy new suit will jump out and hand each of you four big ones!”
“I want to change to seven,” said the short one.
“You idiot! He’s not going to win the lottery!”
“Why not cover bases?”
“Because you’re encouraging him!”
“Sorry, contest’s closed,” said the bum. “Gimme a dollar.”
Tires screeched. A black Dodge van skidded up to the opening at the end of the alley.
The bum turned. “Oh, no. Not those guys!” He took off running and dove back in the Dumpster headfirst.
The bald one squinted. “I think that’s them.”
The four started walking toward the van, reading the magnetic sign on the side as they got closer: SERGE & LENNY’S FLORIDA EXPERIENCE…NOW FEATURING MOTELS OF THE TERRORISTS!
The passenger door flew open. A lanky man in dark aviator sunglasses jumped out. White sneakers, untucked floral shirt, .38 shoulder holster. He jerked his head around, then began urgently waving the four men toward the van with a windmilling motion of his arm.
“This is going to be so cool,” said the tall one. “That fake gun really looks real.”
“Hurry up!” yelled Serge. “This isn’t a joke!”
The men each paid Serge fifty dollars as they climbed in the van. Serge slammed the side door shut and jumped back in the passenger seat.
“Hit it.”
Lenny punched the gas and patched out, skidding around the corner of Washington Avenue. A moment later two police cruisers with sirens and flashing lights came flying up the alley, sending a trail of paper trash into the air. They stopped at the corner. One of the officers got out and looked around. He reached back into the car for the radio microphone.
The bum stood up in the Dumpster, annoyed at all the racket. He watched the police cars turn off their lights and drive away peacefully. He ducked back down in the trash. A merry humming emanated from the bin. The bum found half a bagel from Einstein Brothers. He sniffed it, took a bite. Suddenly a screech, doors slamming. The bum popped his head up again.
The black van was back at the end of the alley. The side door flew open. Four men in Michigan State jerseys scrambled out. They handed four guns back to Serge and began running away as fast as they could.
“Wait! Come back! I can explain!” yelled Serge.
“You’re a madman!”
Serge pointed angrily. “You can’t handle the truth!”
16<
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F OUR ELDERLY MEN in plaid pants and flat Scottish golf caps sat in a row of wheelchairs. The chairs rested near the box-seat railing at the horse track in Hialeah. Blankets in their laps. Four bodyguards in back.
A gourd-shaped man in size-too-small Sansabelts waddled down the stairs from the venerable clubhouse. He stopped next to the old man at the end of the row and caught his breath.
“Mr. Palermo, we just got a call from Orlando. Afraid it’s bad news.” He leaned over and whispered in the old man’s ear.
Mr. Palermo nodded.
The man stood back up. “What do you want us to do about it?”
Mr. Palermo made a slight motion with his hand. The man bent over again. Mr. Palermo spoke into his ear as a pack of racehorses thundered by the railing. Jockeys in yellow, scarlet, teal, orange.
The Sansabelts man stood up and nodded.
Mr. Palermo leaned forward trying to see the end of the race, but they were already leading a horse over to the winner’s circle. He sat back and opened the program in his lap.
There was a beeping sound. It came from the pocket of a bodyguard. The guard pulled out an electronic device the size of a cigarette pack. “Mr. Palermo, time to check the pacemaker.”
The old man nodded and took the device from the guard. He held it to his chest and pressed a button. The box automatically dialed a computer at the hospital. Data flew back and forth a few seconds. The box displayed a green light. The old man handed it to the guard again and smiled at what he’d lived long enough to see. “Technology. Amazing.”
“Yes, it is, Mr. Palermo.”
The old man raised an unsteady arm and pointed across the track, toward a sea of pink in the infield, hundreds of the track’s trademark flamingos around a glistening lagoon.
“Those birds—I wonder how old they are,” said the old man.
“I don’t know, Mr. Palermo.”
“I’ve been coming here since the track opened in 1925. I was a child. Did you know it was Florida’s first major sports facility?”
“I didn’t know that, Mr. Palermo.”
The old man nodded. “Big social scene. Everyone came—Churchill, Truman, Kennedy. I remember Amelia Earhart making her national farewell here in 1937 before she flew away, never to be seen again. But the birds never fly away. There’s no cage. Why do you think they don’t fly away?”
The bodyguard shrugged. “Maybe they’ve gotten comfortable.”
The old man nodded once more. He reached his right arm out again and moved it generally over the two hundred manicured tropical acres. “Still beautiful, like I remember.” Then he moved the same arm up toward grandstands dotted with the occasional person here and there. “But they don’t come anymore. There’s no tradition.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Is it because of the cocaine?”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Palermo.”
The last race of the day ended. The air was cooling. Four bodyguards began wheeling four wheelchairs.
Sansabelts walked beside them. “Mr. Palermo, who do you want me to give the job to?”
The old man held up a hand for him to stop. “We’ll talk in the car. You’ll ride with us to the Fontainebleau…. You play cards?”
The man shook his head.
“Too bad.”
Everyone was silent as the phalanx of chairs rolled toward a line of waiting limos. Sansabelts got in the backseat with Mr. Palermo.
“You sure you don’t play cards?” asked the old man. “We play gin at the hotel.”
“I’ve heard a lot about those games. They’re legendary.”
“The younger guys—none of them want to play gin. I blame the cocaine.”
17
A BLACK VAN with magnetic door signs pulled up the driveway of a ranch house in Pompano Beach. Serge and Lenny moped as they came through the front door.
“How was business today?” asked Mrs. Lippowicz, knitting a religious toaster cover.
“Our customers ran away,” said Lenny.
“Serge, you got a phone call,” she said.
Serge jumped back. “Cops?”
Mrs. Lippowicz chuckled. “Why on earth would the police call?”
“Gave to their ball once. Now they won’t leave me alone.”
Mrs. Lippowicz made a loop with a big needle. “Some reporter from the newspaper. She mentioned a press release. I left her number on the fridge.”
Serge grabbed Lenny. “This could be our big break!” He ran in the kitchen and snatched the number from under a pizza-delivery magnet.
Three hours later Serge and Lenny sat in a booth in the back of a dark bar. Across the table was a rookie lifestyles reporter in unfashionably large glasses and a green beret, jotting personal shorthand in a steno notebook.
“This is great!” said Serge. “We’re really going to be in the paper? I’ve never been in the paper before. At least not in the light I’d like. Remember to tell them about the website. And the customized tours—that’s important. Mix and match your stops, doesn’t matter to us. Grave sites, famous hotel rooms, infamous crime scenes where you can still see blood if you look close enough, historic bars…”
“Like this place?” asked the reporter, bending over her pad.
“Fox’s? Are you kidding? This place is ‘the bomb.’ That’s what you kids are saying these days, right? I mean, look at the joint, stuck forever in the 1940s when it opened. Ultradark lighting, smoke, Mike Hammer vibes, neon martini glass over the door, red vinyl booths—the kind of place Joe Pesci might walk in any second, located on an up-for-grabs stretch of South Dixie Highway, cutting across the underside of the state below Miami, desperately tapering toward the Keys like a doomed escape route. The death of hope.” Serge inhaled with pride. “Smells like…Florida!”
“So you decided to capture all that with an offbeat travel service?”
“What do you mean ‘offbeat’?” said Serge. “In my world this is straight up the middle.”
The reporter kept writing.
“Why? Is it better to be offbeat?” asked Serge. “You understand the media end of things better than we do. Will we get more customers that way?”
“Maybe.”
“Then we’re offbeat.” Serge turned. “Lenny, we’re offbeat from now on.”
“Cool.”
A waiter arrived with two sodas for the reporter and Serge, a White Russian for Lenny.
“What are your last names?”
“No last names,” said Serge. “It’s just ‘Serge and Lenny’s.’ We’re trying to build a mystique, like, ‘Who are those guys?’”
“You also said something about solving mysteries?”
“Don’t forget that part,” said Serge. “That’s the most important facet that distinguishes us from all the cheap imitation offbeat tours.”
“How does it work?”
“While visiting all the best points of interest, we’re also in the process of trying to figure out some of the area’s oldest unsolved crimes. You get to see live, real-time casework, meet unsavory characters, even carry your own gun.”
The reporter chuckled. “You don’t mean real guns.”
“Is that not good?” said Serge. “Again, I’m new at all this. Maybe that’s what spooked those customers. Lenny, no more guns for the customers.”
“This thing has milk in it,” said Lenny.
“It’s a White Russian.”
The reporter was getting a kick out of the guys. She began smiling. “Tell me about one of the mysteries your customers might see.”
“Cold case, strange death. I’m thinking murder.” Serge reached in his wallet and pulled out a yellow newspaper clipping, January 2, 1965. He handed it across the table. The reporter read the headline: ECCENTRIC STORYTELLER DROWNS IN NEW YEAR’S EVE PARTY TRAGEDY. A photo of a cop on the beach holding the shiny, dripping 1965 party hat.
“Doesn’t mention anything about foul play,” said the reporter. “A lot of drinking on New Year’s Eve, old guy goes f
or a swim in the ocean. Stuff like that happens all the time.” The reporter noticed a thumbnail mug shot of the victim. A resemblance. “You related?”
“My grandfather. Namesake. Sergio. Heard all kinds of stories over the years. I just know he didn’t drown. Someone punched his ticket. He was always shooting his mouth about who killed Kennedy, when they were going to invade Cuba again, what the CIA was up to. Who knew the truth? He led a complex life, played with too many matches. He had big plans, but maybe they were too big. Or maybe he talked too much. He belonged to this gang, real hard-boiled cases…. What’s the matter?”
The reporter was laughing. “That’s pretty good. Is it like a noir script you’ve memorized for the customers.”
“What are you talking about?”
The reporter stifled her laughter and went back to her notebook. “Okay, stay in character. I kinda like it.”
Serge looked at Lenny. “What’s she talking about?”
Lenny shrugged with a white mustache.
The reporter reached in her purse and took out a Canon Sure Shot. “Mind if I get a picture?”
“No problem,” said Serge. He put an arm around Lenny’s shoulder. “Smile, Lenny.”
Flash.
“Mind if I get one?” Serge pulled out his own camera without waiting for an answer.
Flash.
The reporter bent back over her notebook. “Tell me more about your granddad’s gang.”
Miami Beach—1964
Eleven in the morning. Ninety degrees on the beach. Five men in hats and guayaberas entered the Aladdin Room at the Algiers. Drinks arrived. The bartender made change.
“Check it out,” said Greek Tommy. “I got one of the new half-dollars.” He held up a silver coin with the profile of JFK.
“That sure was fast.”
“Did you read where Miami might get a football team next year?” said Mort. “Supposed to be the Dolphins or something. Danny Thomas is involved.”
“Look who finally decided to finally show up,” said Chi-Chi.