No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  “When did this happen?” “Are you sure?” “The news people already have it?”

  Another official person arrived at the proceedings. Black suit and thin black tie. A badge flashed. “FBI. Is there a Benmont Pinch here?”

  The employees in the holding area stepped aside and pointed at the meek analyst, now standing alone in the middle of a dark-blue carpet with random paisley patterns to conceal dirt and coffee stains.

  “Please come with me,” said the suit.

  “What for?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there. But right now time is sensitive.”

  The agent led him into the lunchroom.

  “Why are we going this way?”

  “The back exit is best.”

  Benmont began shaking again. “You’re scaring me.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” said the agent. “It’s standard procedure.”

  They passed one of the flat-screen TVs with local news.

  “. . . Well-known local attorney Thomas Ramsey was found dead this morning in his Bayshore mansion, an apparent suicide . . .”

  “Ramsey’s dead?” said Benmont.

  “Hurry!” said the agent, pushing open an exit door.

  Back outside the office of Quint Powers, the rumor mill was running on nuclear power.

  Another suit arrived with another badge. “FBI. Is there a Benmont Pinch here?”

  Empty stares.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the agent. “Is he here or not?”

  “He just left with another FBI agent.”

  “What other FBI agent?” asked the suit.

  Shrugs.

  “Which way did they go?”

  A dozen arms pointed toward the lunchroom, and the agent took off . . .

  . . . Just outside the back exit, Benmont stood in a rare moment of defiance next to the passenger door of a Crown Vic waiting at the curb. “I demand to know what’s going on right now!”

  “Once you’re safe,” said the agent.

  “I’m in danger?”

  “I’ll explain later.” The black suit put on dark sunglasses and glanced around. “Right now you’ll just have to trust me. We have to get you out of here as fast as possible.”

  “I don’t feel so good.” Benmont grabbed the edge of the roof and began sagging.

  “Shit, another limp one.” The agent ran around the car and indelicately loaded Benmont inside like old luggage. He raced back to the driver’s side and jumped behind the wheel.

  Blackwall tires screeched as the sedan took off for the exit.

  Suddenly someone on foot appeared before them, standing in the middle of the pavement. In a shooting stance.

  Bang.

  “Ahhh!” The windshield cracked, and the driver took the slug in the shoulder. He lost control of the Crown Vic and crashed into the rear of a parked Jeep Cherokee.

  Benmont coughed in a white chemical haze as he pushed away the deployed airbag. His passenger door quickly opened as he looked up in surprise.

  Someone seized his arm. “Hurry!”

  “Who are you?”

  “FBI.”

  “You shot one of your own agents?”

  “No, he was an imposter.” A firmer tug on the arm. “Come with me if you want to live!”

  They sprinted over to another Crown Vic in the back of the lot and jumped in. Rubber spun again as they took off for the exit.

  “Wait a second,” said Benmont. “How do I know you’re not the imposter, and the other guy was the real agent?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “That’s what the first guy said.”

  They raced past the scene where the other Crown Vic had crashed into the Jeep.

  Bang.

  “Ahhh!” The bullet came through the side window and struck the driver in the arm. His sedan spun sideways into a parked Chevy Cruze.

  Benmont pushed away another deflating airbag. “Fuck this!” He opened the passenger door and spilled onto the pavement, scampering away on hands and knees between rows of other parked cars with company stickers on the windshields.

  Just when Benmont thought he might actually crawl to safe harbor, it started again.

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  He flattened himself on the ground and peered under the parked employee fleet. Three rows over and twenty yards apart, two pairs of black dress shoes frantically shuffled behind the bumpers of crashed cars.

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  The local police who had been inside rifling through Quint’s office were drawn out to the parking lot by all the gunfire. They aimed their weapons at the two combatants, who were shielding themselves behind Ford products.

  “Drop your weapons!” shouted a lieutenant.

  They didn’t. Just continued their firefight. But they didn’t turn their guns on the police, either.

  “I’m FBI!” called out the first agent, squeezing off a shot over the hood. “Shoot him!”

  “He’s an imposter! I’m the real agent!” Bang, bang, bang. “Shoot him!”

  Confusion in the ranks.

  The uniformed officers on the building’s steps swung their pistols one way and the other, like they were following a tennis match.

  “What do we do?” asked a corporal. “They both look like feds.”

  “But one’s clearly not,” said a sergeant.

  “Then who do we shoot?”

  “We’ll just have to let this play out a little more.”

  The opponents changed out their guns’ magazines and fired some more, essentially killing a pair of cars. Then the second agent decided to take a gamble. A big one. It had to be timed just right.

  He kicked his gun out and raised hands in the air, still crouched behind the bumper. “I give up.” He began standing, and just as he was exposed, he immediately ducked back down a split second before his nemesis fired off a shot.

  The police had their imposter.

  Their first bullet winged him in the elbow, and he spun toward the cops to fire. Bad move.

  It was all over in a very noisy ten seconds. The officers ran out into the parking lot and kicked the pistol away from the imposter’s hand.

  And while all the nonsense was going on, Benmont Pinch had crawled to his Nissan Versa in the parking lot’s last row, slowly driving it out the side exit and toward the interstate.

  Chapter 21

  That Night

  St. Petersburg lies on a peninsula forming the western edge of Tampa Bay. On the other side of the city is the Gulf of Mexico. Running along the coast are a string of quaint barrier-island towns. Belleair Beach, Indian Rocks Beach, Redington Beach, Madeira Beach.

  Gulf Boulevard connects them all in a lazy, winding drive past the souvenir shacks and swimsuit boutiques until it reaches Treasure Island.

  The town has been lovingly passed over by time, leaving a nostalgic row of mom-and-pop motels with old Florida architecture and 1950s neon. The Arvilla, the Algiers, the Bilmar, the Ebb Tide, the Tahitian, the Thunderbird, the Trail’s End.

  The landmark Buccaneer Motel had been demolished in 2011 for condos, but the pirate on its roof that greeted visitors for decades was salvaged and adopted as the city’s mascot. He now stands in a public park on his peg leg. His other foot, in a big black boot, rests atop a treasure chest. He’s swinging a cutlass.

  Headlights came on as light traffic trickled down the boulevard, and beach strollers took photos as the sun sank into empty water. A few claimed they had just seen the elusive flash of green. Back along the street, those trademark retro signs came on in succession.

  The Sands, the Surf, the Satellite, the Sea Jay.

  The evening wore on past midnight, and the sleepy coastal strip went to sleep.

  The moon tracked down low over the Gulf as clocks in the motels reached three a.m. Any insomniacs up at that hour couldn’t have missed a different complexion to the beach. A blinding bright circle of light flooded the edge of the waves, as if a UFO were about to land.
r />   The light was supplied by several high-intensity, battery-powered lamps atop industrial-grade tripods arranged around the perimeter of the crime scene. Police also had erected a temporary plastic curtain, because the body was still on-site.

  A sweaty man in a white dress shirt trudged across the sand. His jacket was back in the car. He stepped behind the curtain and bent down next to the medical examiner. “I’m Detective Parsnip. Caught this case in the middle of REM sleep. What have we got here?”

  “Crafty fellow with anger issues.” A gloved hand held up a small, charred metal rectangle.

  “What’s that?” asked Parsnip.

  “Your murder weapon.”

  “A nine-volt battery?” said the detective. “You mean it was part of a detonation timer?”

  The examiner shook his head.

  “A remote-control triggering device? The power source of a small drone?”

  “Nope, just a regular nine-volt.” The examiner stood and dropped the battery into an evidence bag. “This was definitely your murder weapon.”

  The detective studied the ghastly discovery. “What’s that all over his body?”

  “A common grocery-store item that you probably have in your house right now and wouldn’t think twice about.” The examiner told him what it was.

  The detective’s head pulled back. “But that can’t harm anybody.”

  The examiner held up the evidence bag again. “Not without this.”

  “But how can you murder someone with a single nine-volt battery? . . .”

  Several Hours Earlier

  In room 5 of a quaint mom-and-pop motel facing the beach, a caregiver sat tied and gagged in another unforgiving wooden chair.

  “Gil?” said Serge. “May I call you Gil? I hate to be presumptuous. But I have great news! This is your lucky day! You’re going to get the easiest bonus round I’ve ever concocted. Don’t you feel swell?”

  The captive thrashed and shook the chair, trying to wiggle the duct tape off his mouth as captives are known to do.

  “What? Not totally swell?” said Serge. He stared off in thought, then raised a finger in revelation. “Of course! I completely skipped ahead in the conversation again! The bonus round doesn’t make sense unless you know you’re in a contest. And, oh, are you in a contest! I’m always jumping ahead, like when out of the blue, I just suddenly start yapping about the Spanish-American War—like now—leaving out the beginning when Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders sailed from the port of Tampa, and his troops are now immortalized by Rough Rider condoms. If you don’t believe me, look it up on the Internet. Some people question the taste of that product, but I’m a firm believer that anytime you can get in a history lesson just before boinking, it’s A-OK!” Serge tore open a foil condom pouch. “The imprint on the memory is stronger during periods when you’re paying attention, and I’m taking a wild stab that sex and being a hostage are near the top of that list.” He reached in the little pouch and removed a Rough Rider. “Here, hold this . . .” He stuck the condom on Gil’s nose. “I’ll bet you’re imprinting like a bastard right now, and you’ll ace that next exam on San Juan Hill. No need to thank me. It’s just how I roll.”

  Serge grabbed grocery bags off the dresser and dumped the contents on a musty bedspread with a pattern of vintage biplanes.

  Gil looked down in confusion. All the products from the bags had the same box with the same design. A burst of red and orange and yellow around a single word:

  Brillo.

  “You’re wondering about the scouring pads,” said Serge. “Intellectual curiosity is one of my favorite traits. I just love to keep a clean crib, and steel wool is the bomb! Those boxes contain the extra-fine grade, which is best for our contest today.”

  Serge sat next to Gil with a fresh roll of tape. “As you can plainly see, I fitted you with a reflective-yellow caution vest before strapping you down because safety is number one! You’ve heard of the Michelin Tire Man? You’re going to become the first Brillo Man!” He stopped and scratched his neck. “Although if this works the way I think, don’t be expecting any TV endorsements. Advertising is a treacherous business!”

  Brillo pads were taped down one side of Gil’s chest, then up the other. Serge leaned him forward and affixed more to his back. Then a second layer and a third. Next, the pants, and even more pads stuffed into his pockets until he was a bulging mound of steel wool.

  “Coleman, what do you think?”

  Coleman popped a Pabst. “Brillo Man. Wooo.”

  Serge grinned big at Gil and slapped his back. “Hey, bud! Don’t look so gloomy! You might need that look later.” He rubbed his palms. “I’ll bet you’re itching to find out what your contest is! The key awaits in my final shopping bag!”

  He snatched it from the dresser and dumped it on the other bed.

  Coleman stumbled over. “Look at all those freakin’ batteries.”

  “I’ll admit I always go a little overboard when buying batteries, because you know that insane facial expression everyone gets when you’re at home and need just one battery, and then you check the battery drawer and discover all these different sizes except the one you’re looking for: ‘Motherfucker!’” Serge sorted through the various types on the mattress. “People worry about the government, but it’s the battery people who have us by the throat, always making us get out of our pajamas and drive to the store for some D-cells. And you’re staring at the rack, thinking, ‘I’ll bet I’m also out of triple-As,’ because when do you ever buy that size? Then you come home and open the drawer again: ‘Goddammit! I always buy triple-As because I think I’m out, and now I’ve got an insane surplus of these little metal turds!’”

  Coleman drained the Pabst. “Fuck triple-A.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Serge ripped open a pack. “But the small rectangular nine-volts are a whole different story. Smoke detectors, radios, alarm-clock backup power: nine-volts are the humbly dependable workhorse of the battery world. No guile or secret agendas.” He nodded. “You always know where you stand with nine-volts.”

  Coleman sat on the corner of the mattress and cracked another cold one. “So you need all these dozens of batteries of every shape for your science contest?”

  “That’s the most fascinating part of the contest.” Serge violently flung a pack of triple-As that burst against a wall. “I actually only need a single battery.” He held a nine-volt in front of his eyes. “And it just happens to be my favorite battery friend.”

  “But, Serge! How can one battery make a difference in today’s world?”

  “Glad you asked.” Serge headed for the bathroom. “Follow me. And while you’re at it, bring one of those leftover Brillo pads on the bed.”

  Coleman joined him at the sink. “Here you go.”

  “Okay, notice how I stuffed Gil’s pockets to the breaking point with scouring pads?”

  “Definitely!”

  Serge held a paper cup to his friend’s face. “Pretend this is Gil’s pocket.”

  “I’m pretending.”

  “You don’t have to close your eyes.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Now, to increase the wow factor . . .” Serge turned on the faucet, thoroughly soaking the Brillo pad. Then he picked up a portable kitchen fire extinguisher that he’d brought into the room for the occasion. He stuffed the steel wool into the paper cup.

  Coleman pointed. “Gil’s pocket?”

  Serge held the nine-volt battery to Coleman’s face. “Observe and learn.”

  He tossed it into the paper cup.

  Coleman jumped back. “Holy crap! It’s all, like, on fire! Shooting up with smoke!”

  Serge blasted it with the extinguisher.

  Cole crumpled a beer can. “But how’d you ever think of this crap?”

  “Three places.” Serge sat down on the closed toilet lid, crossed a leg, and uncapped a bottle of spring water. “First, I learned about Brillo pads as a kid on the Fourth of July. If you were poor and couldn’t afford spar
klers, you’d straighten out a wire coat hanger. Then you’d make a loop on one end for your finger, and a hook on the other end for a scouring pad. You’d set the pad on fire, and spin it with your finger, shooting sparks off in a wild circle. Then it turned out that scouring pads cost more than sparklers, and everyone got spankings.”

  “What about the battery?” asked Coleman.

  “Two sources of knowledge there. A Brillo pad and battery are a little-known survival trick to start a fire in an emergency,” said Serge. “You’re out camping, watching some birds, and then you’re inside an avalanche. The matches are obviously soaked, but you have a scouring pad to clean your mess kit, and a nine-volt battery for your weather radio. So you have fire and live.”

  “You mentioned two sources,” said Coleman.

  “I knew this arson investigator. He told me they often got cases that looked suspicious because there was no readily apparent source of the fire, plus an unlikely spot of origin, a small drawer. Investigators began comparing cases nationwide, and they found that most of those drawers were junk drawers.”

  “I love junk drawers!” said Coleman.

  “Me too!” said Serge. “They have no rules or social norms where the self-righteous can boss you around.”

  “I saw this other dude’s junk drawer once,” said Coleman. “It was fucked up!”

  “That’s the only governing principle of junk drawers,” said Serge. “Everyone else’s is fucked up, whereas yours are always quite reasonable. ‘Hey, I have this extra cap for a pen, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away because as soon as I do, I’ll find its capless mate: Into the junk drawer!’ . . . ‘Hey, there’s a molly bolt lying on the kitchen floor that fell off of something but I have no idea what. So just in case the door falls off the dishwasher . . .’”

  “Into the junk drawer!” said Coleman.

  “And for the record, I just like saying ‘molly bolt,’” said Serge. “But the coolest aspect of junk drawers is their evolutionary development in humans. Everyone simultaneously came up with the idea on their own. There was no corporate Big Junk Drawer with slick TV ads of supermodels storing pipe cleaners. So there had to be a tiny amino acid marker in our ancient DNA, lying dormant, waiting for the dawn of drawers and junk on the planet. Greek philosophers were debating an Epicurean conundrum, when: ‘What’s in this drawer?’ ‘I don’t know. It fell off the Acropolis, but it might be important.’ And the human race never looked back: glue sticks, poker chips, thumbtacks, rubber bands, paper clips, broken scissors, one-cent stamps, Las Vegas key fob, magnet calendar from 1996, plastic ruler advertising a fabric store, a Canadian quarter, a Chicklet, Wite-Out, dead cockroach.”