by Tim Dorsey
Dedication
For Henry Ferris
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
A Note on the Type
About the Author
Also by Tim Dorsey
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Epigraph
I stopped believing in Santa Claus when my mother took me to see him in a department store, and he asked for my autograph.
—SHIRLEY TEMPLE
Prologue
My name is Edith Grabowski. I’m ninety-three years old, and I’ve decided to stop having sex.
I guess you just reach a certain age.
There are only so many positions. Even fewer with the medical equipment. And the scares are more and more frequent. The guy shows up and smiles, “I brought my little blue pills,” like it’s the funniest romantic line ever. An hour later, his eyes bug out. “My heart! My heart!” And just before we hit the Life Alert button, “No, wait, another false alarm. Where were we?” Then he thinks we just simply pick up where we left off. You get old enough, you realize that’s the difference between men and women. Stopping to grab the nitroglycerin tablets is a definite mood-kill.
Oh, and venereal disease. All these TV stations now reporting that some of the highest rates of STD in Florida are at senior citizen communities.
That’s true, look it up on the Internet.
It’s usually those places that have clubhouses and aqua-therapy swimming pools and newsletters with calendars of things to do. And I’m here to tell you they ain’t listing everything.
So anyway, here we are backstage. Me and my girlfriends. Again. Another round of the TV shows. I mean what are the odds? It’s the third time in our lives we’ve landed in the middle of a major news event.
Make that four. But the first time doesn’t really count. It was more of a feel-good story. Fifteen years ago, me and the girls started a little investment club during our morning coffee klatch. Something to do while knitting. And we blew away like ninety percent of the mutual fund managers. What’s the big deal? We just read those glossy financial magazines with profiles of CEOs and picked companies run by the hottest hunks. But then the media got ahold of it and went bonkers, like us old people can do nothing but sit around playing pinochle and pooping our pants. There are three of us besides me: Eunice, Edna, and Ethel. So they dubbed us the E-Team, without even asking. We said bullshit on that alliteration. We all have grandchildren, and renamed ourselves the G-Unit. It’s what they have to call us. It’s in the contracts.
But back to today’s story. That’s why we’re at the TV studio. It’s a Christmas tale. Except not one you’ve remotely heard before. Like the other times we were in the news, it all swirled around our neighbors, the Davenports. Mainly Jim Davenport. And he’s such a mild-mannered person you can’t help but feel sorry for him. I don’t see how he holds up. In just over a decade, three weird blowups of violence and mayhem. Again, what are the odds?
Here are the odds:
Serge.
He started hanging around Jim again during the holidays. They say Serge is a serial killer. I didn’t get that vibe. He’s just another Florida lunatic, hyperactive as they come. He has this sort of offbeat charm, and not too hard on the eyes if you ask me. I said I’d given up sex, but I’d let him eat crackers in my bed.
So now we’re back on the TV circuit. And even though it’s a great story with enough action for three movies, the TV people still just want to ask about our sex lives, especially the VD angle at the senior centers. They have such a knee-slapping good time bringing it up and joking about those commercials for “Active Retirement Communities.” Last time they asked, I turned to Eunice: “Tell ’em how you gave us all the crabs from the sofa where we play pinochle.” Talk about your screeching halt. The show’s anchor acted like his head had just burst into flames, and they cut to a commercial. They don’t ask those questions anymore.
Hold it, the TV people just gave us the signal. We’re on in five minutes.
All the stations have these spunky hostesses. Supposed to tend to our needs backstage, patronizing us because of our age. Smiling and using a singsong voice like you’d talk to a toddler: Would we like juice and cookies? No, vodka. They’re mostly blondes with fake boobs. Sluts.
So here’s what we do: When the hostess says we’re at the two-minute mark, one of us gets a funny look, stands up, and turns around. “I just pooped myself. Hurry up and wipe me before we go on. We only have two minutes!”
The woman usually turns white and runs off.
And then me and the girls giggle our fucking dentures loose.
Here we go. One minute to airtime. The hostess just ran off. We can hear the audience applauding.
Story time again. It all started just over a month ago, right before Thanksgiving . . .
Chapter One
A bulbous head popped up from the backseat of a 1972 Chevelle. Bloodshot eyes. Hair staging a riot.
“What time is it?”
“Right before Thanksgiving,” said the driver.
“I mean time of day.”
“When you usually get up. Sunset.”
“Oooo, don’t feel good.” A hair-of-the-dog flask went to the passenger’s lips. The Chevelle raced east across the Gandy Bridge.
A hand went up in the backseat. “Serge?”
Serge looked in his rearview. “Yes, you in the rear. Coleman has a question?”
“Where are we?”
The Chevelle came off the bridge with a bounce, and Serge pointed a digital camera out the driver’s window. Click, click click . . . “See that welcome sign?”
“Yeah?”
“Any clues?”
Coleman shook his head.
“ ‘Welcome to Tampa’ generally means we’re not somewhere else.”
“We’re back in Tampa?”
“I’d like to see a flashier sign, though. Something with lightning bolts, titty bars, and sandwiches.”
“Are you off your meds again?”
“Yes.” Serge chugged a thermos of coffee. “This place has some of the best Cuban sandwiches in the country. We need a slogan, too. And not the old slogan. Know what the old slogan was? I’ll tell you!” Serge tossed the thermos over his shoulder.
“Ow.” Coleman rubbed his forehead.
“The old slogan was this: ‘Tampa: America’s Next Great City.’ I’ve heard of playing the politics of low expectations, but what the hell?”
“It’s not a good slogan?”
Serge made a skidding right on Westshore Boulevard. “Coleman, the slogan is so bad that the human brain wasn’t designed to process it. Or at least its journey: A college president actually presented someone with a marketing diploma, and then later someone else handed that same person a bunch of money for those words. Was everyone drunk at that slogan meeting? I mean, what the fuck were they rejecting? ‘Tampa: Still waiting for the Milwaukee-Racine hub to blow the bond rating,’ or ‘Visit again soon: Almost got our shit together.’ ”
“I like the last one.” Coleman began climbing over into the front seat.
“At least it’s truth in advertising—” Serge quickly raised his right
arm. “Watch the foot!”
“Whoa! Need a little help here.”
“I’m driving.”
A brief flurry of flailing.
“It’s okay now. I’m good.”
Serge looked over to the passenger side. “Coleman, your head’s down at the floorboards again and your legs are on the seat.”
“I know. It’s weird.” He twisted the end of a joint in his mouth and flicked a Bic. “At least the cops can’t see me burning a number this way.”
“It’s baffling that more people don’t ride like that.”
Coleman exhaled a pot cloud up toward his feet. “Tell me about it.”
Another skidding turn. Serge raised his hand again to block Coleman’s legs.
“Serge?”
“We have another question from the marijuana section. Proceed.”
“Why do you have that gun?”
“What gun?” Serge looked toward his left hand, where he was steering with a 9mm Glock pistol for all traffic to see. “Oh, this thing?” He waved the weapon around the Chevelle’s interior. “Completely forgot I was holding this.” Serge aimed the gun out the window and squinted with one eye closed. Then made a shooting sound with his mouth.
“But why are you holding it?” asked Coleman.
“Getting ready for the holidays.” Serge racked the slide, chambering a fresh round. “You know how I love this time of year.”
“Anyone particular in mind for that thing?”
“Actually yes. Thanks for reminding me.” He flipped open a cell phone and hit speed dial. “Manny? Serge here . . .”
Coleman exhaled another Cheech hit. “You mean from Manny’s Towing and Salvage?”
“Pipe down, chowderhead! Can’t you see I’m busy with a steering wheel, cell phone, and gun? Don’t be irresponsible and distract me— . . . No, not you Manny. Drugs are involved. Long story, explain later. Listen, anything further on That Thing? . . . I see, I understand . . . You’re keeping your ears open, and I’ll be the first person you call . . . Peace, out.” Serge clapped the phone shut and aimed the gun from the window again.
Bang.
“Shit! How’d that go off?” Serge hit the gas. “We have to get the hell out of here.” Rubber squealed. “And stop smoking that dope. You’ll draw attention . . .”
Did you hear a gunshot?” asked Martha Davenport.
Jim Davenport looked around from the driver’s seat of a white Hyundai. “Where?”
“Watch out!”
Jim cut the wheel at the last second, rubbing tires on a curb.
A ’72 Chevelle whipped past them within inches and accelerated.
Jim let his car come to a stop, waiting for his heart to calm down.
“Why are you stopping?” asked Martha.
Rapid breaths. “Just collecting myself. That was close.”
“But they’re getting away!” Martha pointed out the windshield. “I want their license number!”
Jim sighed and sat. “Martha, you can’t keep reporting everybody.”
“Jim, what’s wrong with you?” asked his wife. “That Charger almost hit us!”
“I think it was a Chevelle.”
“Do you always have to disagree with me?”
“No—”
“That’s disagreeing.”
“Yes?”
“Then stop it.”
“Okay.”
He put the car back in gear and proceeded under the speed limit. “I know why you’re upset.”
Martha stared out her window. “I hate this time of year.”
“But it’s the holidays.”
“It’s a nightmare,” said Martha. “Like I don’t have enough to do: cook the turkey dinner, get the artificial tree down from the attic, shop at those madhouse malls, put the lights up outside, address Christmas cards to people we never see anymore because they still send us cards and we might see them again . . . It’s too much pressure.”
“That’s not the real reason,” said Jim.
“What is the reason?”
“My mom.”
“Why do we have to let her visit anyway?”
“Because she’s my mom.”
Martha folded her arms tight. “Whenever it’s this time of year, and the days grow closer to holiday dinners with her, I’m not even thinking about it, but the stress just subconsciously builds.”
“Because you let it.” Jim changed lanes and pulled into a grocery-store parking lot. “Relax and let me handle her.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” Martha grabbed her purse off the seat. “You’re not the one under the microscope. You’re her son. You can do no wrong. But she watches me like a hawk, every move I make, everything I say, every dish I cook . . .”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Whenever I offer her iced tea or something, she rewashes the glass. And it’s right out of the cabinet, like I don’t keep a clean house.”
“She’s probably not even aware she’s doing it.”
“Oh, she knows all right. You’re just blind to the whole mother-in-law-versus-daughter thing. It’s all-out war. I think she’s actually making lists and studying her battle plan for hours, because it’s always the same pattern. First she fluffs the couch cushions, then wipes down the bathroom sinks, then asks if I have bleach. Bleach! Men don’t care, but between women, bleach is a laser-guided bomb. Everything she does means something. Like when she asks you to say grace before dinner.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s an attack on me. She knows you converted when we got married, but that’s her way of pretending we never told her. She’s passive-aggressive like that. Not to mention her supposedly idle comments.”
“Maybe they really are idle.”
“Jim! Every visit without fail, right in the middle of when I finally think everything’s going nice for once, she stops and turns: ‘I’ll be dead soon.’ ”
“But your mom says the same thing.”
Martha shook her head. “Another holiday war.”
“But she’s your mom.”
“She thinks your perfect, too,” said Martha. “Concerned I’m not feeding you properly. And it’s been too long since I visited my cousin.”
“The one who got out of prison?”
“Plus she keeps hinting about moving in with us.” She stared out the window again. “I’d have to kill myself.”
Jim drove down a row of cars near the front of the store. “There’s a spot.”
Martha pulled a purse strap over her shoulder. “Let’s just go get the turkey.”
“I’ll get the bleach.”
“Not funny.”
“Only trying to lighten the mood.”
“Watch out!”
Jim cut the wheel, almost clipping four parked cars. A Delta 88 whipped by on the left and screeched around the corner.
“Jim! Go after him!” She pulled out a notepad and pen. “I only got the first three numbers.”
Jim parked instead and turned with understanding eyes.
“Oh, so take his side.”
“Martha, maybe it’s a dangerous person. Just like the Chevelle. He’s already demonstrated a reckless lifestyle. That’s a red flag.”
“And that’s why the authorities need to know. Start the car! He’s getting away!”
“You can’t stop every jerk in the city.”
“But if everyone else did their part.”
“Look, you’re right, he’s a menace. But now he’s driven out of our lives. The last thing we need to do is reel him back in. And we know nothing about him. He could be capable of anything for revenge.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Martha, my job involves threat assessment. The odds are slim, but if we report enough people . . .”
“You and your red flags.”
“I love you.”
She opened her door. “I hate this time of year.”
A black Delta 88 came flying around the corner on MacDill Avenue. The
driver wanted to make the traffic light, but it was a short yellow, and the sedan screeched to a stop just after it turned red.
A convertible Mustang pulled up alongside. Four frat boys with baseball caps on backward. The horn honked. One of the frat boys made a cranking motion with his hand for the driver of the Delta 88 to roll down his window.
The glass slowly lowered.
“Hey, asshole!” yelled the Mustang’s driver. “You almost hit us back there. Are you retarded or something?”
The door of the Delta 88 opened. A man in a uniform got out and approached the sports car. “I’m really sorry. My mother’s in the hospital and my mind’s been elsewhere—”
Suddenly the man nailed the Mustang’s driver in the jaw with a wicked sucker punch. Then he reached in and playfully pinched the driver’s cheek. “Advice for the day: Don’t fuck with people you know nothing about. I see you again, I’ll kill you.”
The man got back in the Delta 88 and sped off.
The Mustang remained stopped at the green light. Four shocked faces. One was crying.
Watch out!” yelled Coleman, grabbing the dashboard.
Serge cut the wheel. A Delta 88 screamed by. “Typical Tampa driver.”
Coleman relit his dropped joint. “Someone should report him.”
The Chevelle continued south on Dale Mabry Highway.
“I love this time of year,” said Serge, ejecting a bullet from his Glock and stowing it under the seat for safety. “Every time the weather turns cool in Florida, it subconsciously triggers déjà vu memories of past holiday seasons.”
Coleman cracked a beer. “Like what?”
“Getting cool toys for Christmas. Even better, getting shit I didn’t like and blowing it up with firecrackers. My folks were always puzzled by the debris.”
“I blew up something I made of LEGOs.”
“That’s the primary use of LEGOs, even though they keep quiet about it.” Serge put his fingers together, assembling something invisible. “The interlocking blocks allowed flexibility of design so you can engineer a directional charge. Excellent demolition training, which was otherwise unavailable at that age.”