by Tim Dorsey
“What is it?” asked Lenny.
Serge didn’t answer. His skin tingled with little bumps. He reached in the drawer and carefully removed an old wooden box with an S etched on top in a verdigris brass plate. Serge’s heart pounded in his eardrums as he slowly opened the lid and began removing stuff, delicately setting items in precise rows on the floor. Plastic white dolphin, Hotel Nautilus ashtray, citrus sipper, matchbooks, coasters, ticket stubs. He came to a stack of black-and-white publicity photos, all inscribed. “To my pal Sergio” “To my friend Sergio.” John Lennon, Muhammad Ali, Jackie Gleason…He went through the pictures faster and faster. Underneath the photos was a little black book. Serge flipped to the last page.
“Little Serge, if you’re reading this, keep going.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?…Oh, my…”
Serge dug through the rest of the box, placing more items on the floor until the case was empty. He pressed his hands flat against the bottom of the box. He took out a pocketknife and pried up the edge, removing a thin piece of wood used to separate layers of expensive cigars.
There it was. Velvet drawstring bag. Serge dumped the diamonds on the floor. Twelve stones sparkled.
The door opened behind them.
Serge spun with a gun.
“Don’t shoot me! Take what you want!”
An old woman stood in the doorway with a sack of groceries in one hand, gallon of two-percent milk in the other. Dangling avocado earrings.
Serge blinked in disbelief. “Louisiana?”
“Yeah?” she said, putting down her stuff. “Who are you?”
“Lou, it’s me! Serge!”
It was the woman’s turn to adjust her eyes. “Little Serge?”
Serge nodded fast with a broad smile, and they ran together for the reunion hug. Then they held each other out by the shoulders.
“You look great!”
“So do you!”
“But what are you doing in my apartment?” said Lou.
“That’s what I want to know. We found your address in this guy’s wallet. He’d been shooting at us, which really isn’t all that unusual in itself—”
Lou stepped back and grabbed her heart. “Oh, my God! That was you?”
“What is it?”
“I can’t believe what I almost did! Oh, I’m so sorry! How could I?”
“What?”
“I started hearing things. People were poking around, asking questions about your granddad. It all started right after Rico Spagliosi’s funeral. I thought it was Carmine Palermo’s people, so I hired some guys.”
“But why?”
A new voice: “I’ll take those diamonds.”
They turned around. Agent Miller stood in the doorway with gun drawn.
“Put the gems back in the bag and slide them over here.” He pulled out handcuffs.
Serge got down and began picking up the stones. He slid the bag across the floor and into Miller’s shoes. “Let’s make a deal—”
Another voice: “Drop the gun!”
Everyone turned. Doug was pointing a pistol at Agent Miller. Miller slowly bent over and set his piece on the floor.
“Doug, have you lost your fucking mind?” said Serge. “And where’d you get the gun?”
“Toss me the bag,” said Doug. Miller picked it up from the floor and underhanded it. Doug snatched it out of the air and stuck it in his pocket. He walked over to an old black rotary phone on the wall and dialed. “Honey, it’s me. Yeah, I got the stones…. Better send the guys. Some FBI agent crashed the party.”
“Time out!” said Serge. “Now I’m completely confused…. Your wife…?”
Doug hung up the receiver. “That’s not my wife. It’s my female contact with the Palermos. Or what’s left of them, thanks to you. That’s how we were supposed to stay in touch during the contract on Tony.”
“You mean you didn’t shoot him at the airport by accident?”
“Not remotely. That was a hit all the way—just wasn’t supposed to happen so fast. The Palermos saw you in the papers, suspected you and Tony were mixed up. If Tony wouldn’t lead us to the diamonds, maybe you would.” He patted the pocket with the jewels. “And he was right.”
Serge slapped himself in the forehead. “Just hang a big ‘kick me’ sign on my back. No wonder my progress was so slow. A Master Plan’s only weakness is another Master Plan…. I’m seeing it all new. Like over at the warehouse, Mr. Palermo wasn’t going to kill you. That was a meeting.”
Doug nodded. “They paid off the cops. But not to betray us. To deliver us. Once you said you were going to kill Mr. Palermo, we needed to get out of that limo and warn the Family. You had busted up my cell phone—”
“You guys were fucking great actors. You should get your SAG cards.”
Doug pulled out his wallet and flipped it open.
“You already got one! So you’re really actors?”
“Only part-time. Mostly we do contract work for families across the country when they need top-notch talent for delicate undercover operations. I’m just doing this until I get my big break. I want to be taken seriously.”
“What have I seen you in?”
“Nothing you’d remember, just some commercials. I was the smiling guy in a sweater riding a bicycle past a field of daisies in that ad for prescription antidepressants. But Rusty had a small recurring role on Days of Our Lives. Guess they’ll have to write him out…. Now, all of you, up against that wall and turnaround.”
“You’re going to shoot us?” said Serge. “After all we’ve been through together?”
“You won’t feel a thing,” said Doug.
Another voice: “What the fuck is going on here?”
Everyone turned. A ratty old bum stood in the doorway with a big sack of trash.
Serge used the split-second distraction to dive for Doug’s gun.
A struggle. A gunshot. Serge checked his own chest. No holes. Doug fell to the floor.
Serge looked around. Smoke curled out the barrel of the pistol that Agent Miller had picked back up.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Shut up.” Miller kept his pistol on Serge as he walked over and kicked the gun away from Doug’s hand. He bent down and retrieved the sack of gems from Doug’s pocket. He stood back up and faced Serge again. “This is the end of the road.”
Serge laughed nervously. “I’ll bet you want to talk about all those murders. I can explain. It’s been a comedy of errors….”
“I’m not going to arrest you.”
“You’re keeping the gems?”
“Do you have any idea what kind of pension I’m looking at?” Miller waved his gun at the bum. “Away from that door.” Miller backed out of the room and tipped the brim of his hat in the hallway—“Have a nice day”—then took off down the stairs.
Serge started after him, but Lou grabbed his arm. “Let him go.”
“But the diamonds!”
She smiled at Serge.
“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on!” yelled the bum.
“This is Little Serge,” said Lou.
The bum tilted his head. “Grandson?”
THE CREW DOUG had called from the wall phone was just pulling up in a fleet of Cadillacs when Miller came out of the building. “Uhoh.” He took off running.
“There he is!”
Miller sprinted down an alley. He had a solid block head start. The alley dumped into a construction site. Miller hid behind an unattended cement mixer. He knelt and dug a quick hole in the graded dirt and threw the velvet bag in. He covered it up and marked the spot with a stray orange ribbon from a surveyor’s stake.
Yelling from the alley: “He went that way!”
Miller took off.
“SO THAT’S WHY you hired the gunmen,” said Serge.
“I thought Carmine might have found out Sergio was still alive,” said Lou. “You wouldn’t believe how jealous he is.”
“Was,” said Serge.
�
��I heard. That was you?”
Serge nodded.
They ignored the distant gunshots as a brief firefight broke out before Agent Miller got riddled.
Lou looked down at Sergio’s trash bag. “How’d you do today?”
“Pay dirt. All kinds of cool things. I find the best stuff on Miami Beach. It’s the only place for me!”
“Me, too!” said Serge.
Sergio pulled a pizza crust from his bag and started munching. “So much has changed. I could give you a whole new tour.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“Let’s go!”
“We’re on!”
Lou pointed at the floor. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
The pair looked down at the body, then at each other, then started nodding.
“He’ll keep.”
“Sure, he’ll still be here.”
They ran down the stairs to the limo. Lou followed at a more casual pace. Sergio and his bag of trash displaced Lenny in the front passenger seat. He opened the plastic sack and stuck his head inside. Serge turned the ignition.
“Let’s see what we have in here. Oooooooh, a matchbook. You collect matchbooks?”
Serge nodded and pulled into traffic. His granddad handed the pack across the seat. “You can have these. I already got them. What else is in here?…Cool!” He pulled out a crumpled soda cup. “The McDonald’s Instant-Peel contest! And it hasn’t been played!” He grabbed the corner of the sticker. “I feel lucky. Bet I won some fries.”
Epilogue
Miami International Airport
C URBSIDE PARKING. TRAVELERS sweating for reasons other than heat. Castanet music from an unseen speaker.
People moved at an anxious clip that suggested an underlying current of drama, like a Turkish bazaar or illegal aphrodisiac market in Bangkok.
Pink and yellow sports coats. Hotel vans. Luggage wheeled quickly over the crosswalks from the Dolphin and Flamingo long-term garages. A man in a Panama hat struggled with a duffel bag of deceptive ballast. Others rushed for cabs to take them wherever they go to get the condoms out of their stomachs.
A limo screeched up. Doors opened.
Mick Dafoe got out with a gym bag.
Serge and Lenny joined him on the sidewalk and shook hands.
Mick twisted his Yankees cap around backward. “Those two chicks were hot! Why’d you ditch them at that convenience store?”
“City and Country?” said Serge. “Oh, I didn’t ditch them. They wanted to be dropped off.”
“But they were running after the limo.”
“They’re into that new exercise craze.”
Mick turned and punched Lenny in the shoulder.
“Ow.”
“Remember what I told you. Always take the points and the home dog after a divisional road loss, except on Astroturf.”
He punched the shoulder again.
“Ow.”
Mick gave Serge a quick salute. “Had a great time, saw Miami in a whole new light…. Just wish I could remember a little more of it.”
“You were pretty busy maintaining that carefully constructed buzz.” He handed Mick a couple pieces of paper. “Don’t forget this.”
“What’s that?”
“Your Miami column. You wrote it last night.”
Mick looked over the first page. “I don’t remember doing this.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Serge. “It was something to watch. Giving it all you had, tapping a vein, pushing beyond the natural limits of artistic human endurance like van Gogh.”
Mick flipped to the second page. “Wow. I write this good?”
“With the proper inspiration. I told you, you’re a genius.”
“But, Serge,” said Lenny, “I saw you writing—”
Serge elbowed him in the stomach.
“Ow.”
Mick headed for the automatic doors. He turned around to wave. The limo was gone.
FIVE OLD MEN sat on five stools at the bar. Wearing bathing suits. The water in the pool was up to their chests. They were in a cave under a waterfall. The bartender served them through a hole in the grotto.
“The Fontainebleau sure has changed,” said Tommy.
“It’s weird,” said Chi-Chi. “Not the good weird.”
“I like it,” said Coltrane. “Bartender! Double!”
There was splashing behind them. Someone making his way through the curtain of water from the falls.
“Sergio!” said Mort.
Sergio had cleaned up well with the help of Lou, his grandson and some spending money. Close shave, executive haircut, new clothes, back on meds…somewhat. He grabbed a submerged stool.
“I nearly fainted when I heard the news,” said Mort.
“The police said you drowned.”
“The water wasn’t even over my head. I was standing there in the dark a hundred yards offshore, watching all the commotion on the beach.”
“Why didn’t you ever contact us during all those years?” asked Tommy.
“I was crazy.”
“We would have helped.”
Sergio shook his head. “It was Lou’s idea. When I disappeared New Year’s, she saw it as our big chance. My death would close the case on the missing jewels and stop Carmine Palermo’s jealous rampage. The only hitch was, we could never move the gems. If they ever turned up, Carmine and the cops would know I was still alive. And I couldn’t contact friends or family, which Lou knew I’d do if I took my medication, so she kept me off it. She really loves me.”
“So what happened to the gems?” asked Tommy.
“Someone stole them a couple days ago.”
“That stinks.”
“But then I won the McDonald’s Instant Peel game.”
“Which prize?”
“The big one. Million dollars.”
“Oh, right!”
“Chi-Chi, you were in the limo,” said Sergio. “Tell them.”
“All I heard was a lot of yelling and you hanging out the window before they pulled you back inside.”
“But I really did win.”
“Still the storyteller,” said Mort, smiling and putting a hand on Sergio’s shoulder. “Glad to have you back.”
CIA Headquarters, Miami
The stereo was cranked. Everyone laughing, smoking cigars, even the female agents. The phone rang again. Station Chief Renfroe answered with delight. “No comment. You know I can’t answer that…. Yes, that’s music you hear…. ‘Havana Day-dreamin’,’ Buffett’s fourth album, sixth if you count the Barnaby label releases…. Sure, you’re welcome.”
Agent Schaeffer arrived with the morning papers. “It’s a clean sweep. The Herald’s leading with a big headline. ‘Sources: CIA Trumps Castro.’”
“El Nuevo Herald?”
“‘Fidel Sucks Ass.’”
THE MIAMI CHAMBER of Commerce couldn’t believe their eyes. They blinked a few times, but the newspaper article lying on the conference table didn’t go away.
MIAMI NICE
by Mick Dafoe
I love Miami!
What was I thinking before?
I love everything about her, from Bill Baggs to Bal Harbour. It is the People’s City—has to be, because the officials are always getting locked up. And I’m here to report she is in good hands.
My newfound affection for this great metropolis reminds me of words spoken long ago in the Rudolph Wilde Platz, when, on June 26, 1963, President Kennedy faced a sea of Germans and proclaimed, “Ich bin ein Berliner.” Except he got the translation slightly off and actually said he was proud to be a jelly dough-nut—true fact, look it up. But that’s another topic, another day.
What JFK was really getting at before he said he was pastry is that people can come together and take pride in each other. So, as all lovers of their fellowman, wherever they may live, are citizens of Miami, I therefore take pride in the words, I am a Miamian!
Walk into any Miami sandwich shop at one A.M. and check out the human menu at the
lunch counter. Stripes you never imagined, all dancing to the same tune: It’s cool to be different.
Sure we get some bad press—a clash here, a protest there, another boycott—but that’s only the Cubans. Just kidding. We all really know it’s the blacks’ fault. That was another joke. See the fun you can have with tolerance? This city is out of sight on the national getting-along curve, the complete spectrum of humanity braiding together like sailors’ rope. Strong. Weather-ready. Latins, Asians, Africans, Eastern Europeans, Australians, Eskimos—all united in brotherhood toward a common goal: teaching the Canadians how to multiply by fifteen to twenty percent.
And speaking of restaurants, there’s the food! Stone crabs, jerk chicken, alligator tail, blackened snapper, coconuts, guava, mango…
And the arts! The Wolfsonian, the Lowe, the Bass, the Gusman Center, the Coconut Grove Playhouse…
And sports! A great major league baseball club, plus a couple of pretty decent pro football teams, the Dolphins and the Hurricanes.
I love Miami! Come at once!
Only leave the stupid Florida jokes at home. And stay on your toes. Philadelphia may be the City of Brotherly Love, Atlanta “Too Busy to Hate,” but Miami conks you on the head and shoves you in the back of a limo for an eye-popping visual tour that plays out like a rhapsody, an exquisite looping composition blurred in a dizzying wash of palms, tiles, stucco, faces and flowers, building in heart-pounding delirium like the whirling symphonic transition from “A Day in the Life.”
So what if we have all those wacky crime stories here? Consider it spicy topping, like salsa.
Salsa! The food again! I love Miami!…Somebody stop me!
And on it went. The praise more gushing and effusive until Mick finally said he owed his epiphany to his new friends at a small, offbeat tour service.
“So that’s what happened,” said the chamber president. “It wasn’t a kidnapping after all. It was one of those novelty travel deals.”
“Someone must have double-booked tour services,” said the treasurer. “That’s where the confusion came.” He looked around at the others. “Who booked the second company? Jim, did you? Mary? Steve?”
They shook their heads.
“Well, someone certainly deserves our thanks,” said the president. “We’ve had nothing but trouble with Sunshine Tours.”