by Dorsey, Tim
“I’M HOME!”
“Daddy!” yelled Melvin, running down the hall.
Jim set his briefcase on a table and lifted Melvin into the air.
Debbie was on the couch, watching The Real World.
“Hi, Debbie,” said her father.
No answer.
“That’s Drusilla,” said Melvin.
Martha came in from the kitchen with oven mittens. “How was your day, honey?”
“Really good until I was fired.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I know.”
“You’re serious?”
He nodded.
“What for?”
“They said I have a belligerent attitude.”
“You? Belligerent?”
“They don’t like my reports anymore.”
“They can’t do this! They made us move! We have a bigger mortgage, new car, kids to feed!”
Jim nodded with understanding.
“Oh, Jim. This is a really bad time. You have to go back and tell them they can’t fire you right now.”
“Honey, I think you need to sit down.”
“How were you belligerent? This wasn’t over principles, was it?”
“Not really.”
“Well, was it or wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Martha became dizzy and braced herself against a window frame.
It would take something major to get Martha’s mind off of what Jim had just told her, but she saw it when she looked out the window.
“I don’t believe it!”
“What?”
“Come look at this!” said Martha. “That dog’s loose again! And Jack is just standing there, trimming his hedge.”
Martha stomped out the front door.
“Hold on,” said Jim. “I’m not so sure you’re thinking straight…”
She marched across the lawn. Jim ran after her.
“Hey, shithead!” Martha yelled across the street, not breaking stride. “I want to talk to you!”
Another near riot on Triggerfish Lane. The shouting was quite loud; curious neighbors poured into the street like a bench-clearing brawl. Since authorities weren’t present, Jack didn’t care to mind his manners.
“Why don’t you shut your wife up and get her in the house before she embarrasses you again!”
“Me?” said Jim, pointing at himself.
“Are you going to let him insult me like that?” said Martha. “Hit him!”
“What?” said Jim.
“You’re going to hit me?” said Jack. He put his hands up to shield his face, then gave Jim a preemptive sucker punch in the nose.
“Ow! Shit!” said Jim, cupping his nose and reeling off balance.
Martha lunged at Jack again, but Gladys restrained her. More neighbors arrived.
Serge and Coleman pushed their way through the crowd.
“Excuse me,” Serge said to Jack. “Do you know anything about history? The polio vaccine? The Berlin Airlift?”
“Who the fuck are you?” said Jack.
“A lot of people struggled so you can live in the land of milk and honey,” said Serge.
“Get away from me, you weirdo!”
Serge stepped forward and tapped Jack in the chest with his index finger. “These people are living by the rules and you’re not. That offends me.”
Jack slapped Serge’s finger away. “Eat shit and die!”
Serge tapped Jack’s chest again. “Respect the rules.”
“Yeah,” said Coleman, tossing a beer can on Jack’s lawn. “The rules!”
Jack screamed in falsetto. “You threw something on my lawn!” He ran and picked up the can and raced it over to the garbage.
“What’s with owning a vicious dog, anyway?” said Serge. “You know what I think?” He held a thumb and index finger a half-inch apart in the international tiny-penis sign. The crowd began laughing.
Jack looked around in a fury. “To hell with all of you!”
Serge turned. “Coleman, do your thing.”
Coleman lifted his right foot, displaying the bottom of his shoe. Golf spikes.
“You wouldn’t,” said Jack.
Coleman began shuffling across the lawn.
“No!” shouted Jack.
Coleman moonwalked.
“My grass! Stop!”
Coleman pirouetted.
“Rasputin! Kill!”
The dog stood still, Coleman tap-dancing in the background.
“I said, ‘Kill!’ ”
Rasputin didn’t move.
“What’s wrong with you? Kill! I command you!”
Rasputin sat down and scratched his ear. Coleman did jumping jacks.
“You stupid mutt!” Jack kicked Rasputin in the side, and the dog yelped.
Coleman ran up to Jack and grabbed him by the arm. “Hey! Don’t kick animals!”
“Get the fuck out of my face!” He shoved Coleman to the ground.
When he did, he heard a growl. He turned in time to see Rasputin lunging through the air. The dog knocked Jack over and clamped down on his right arm.
“Not me! Him!” yelled Jack. “Get off me! Let go!”
Rasputin whipped his head side to side, tearing flesh.
“He’s killing me! He’s gone berserk! Help!”
Gladys shook her head. “It was just a matter of time.”
“A tragedy waiting to happen,” said Martha.
“Somebody shoot him! Shoot this fucking thing!”
The crowd began to disperse.
“Help! Don’t leave me!”
Serge and Coleman walked back to their rental house, Coleman’s spikes clacking on the sidewalk.
“I didn’t know you were an animal lover,” said Serge. “I’m not an extremist about it or anything, but yeah, every living thing has feelings.”
“I guess I underestimated you.”
“You can’t just judge me when I’m fucked up.”
“True, true.”
19
JOHN MILTON didn’t take his second firing in as many months sitting still. He had a nervous breakdown.
It wasn’t one of those dramatic things where you end up crouched naked in the middle of the living room floor, shivering with the heat on full blast. It was a much slower spiral, like walking pneumonia, and John was able to maintain normal outward appearances until just before the big crash.
The following Monday, he got out the classifieds again. After a weeklong search, John took the only job available. He began working entirely on commission selling used cars at Tampa Bay Motors.
John quickly got to know the whole gang on the sales lot. Stu and Vic and Rod and Dutch and Frenchy and Rocco. Rocco Silvertone, the most aggressive used car salesman in Tampa since the untimely death of “Honest Al.”
The other salesmen had an understanding. As customers strayed onto the lot, they would rotate alphabetically and take turns ambushing them. Except for Rocco. His first day on the job he announced that he would go after anything he wanted. If they didn’t like it, they were free to fistfight him. Nobody objected. They let the big dog eat.
It took John Milton only a week to establish his own space at Tampa Bay Motors. At the bottom of the pecking order.
On the third Friday in June, Rocco Silvertone arrived early and hungry at the sales lot. This would be a big day—he could feel it. There was an extra bounce in his step as he headed for the sink to chase bootleg yellow jackets with a paper cone of water. Then he crumpled the cup and bounced it off John’s forehead.
“Hey!” said John. “Stop it!”
“Stop it!” mocked Rocco.
The others laughed, and it encouraged Rocco to get John in a headlock.
“Let go!” said John.
“Let go!” said Rocco. John wiggled and thrashed and finally farted, which triggered more mirth until Rocco spotted a well-dressed customer and released John and headed across the showroom.
Rocco didn’t know a damn thing about cars and
sold them like nobody’s business. What he did know was people—which ones needed approval, which ones folded under intimidation, and who wanted to hear the latest ethnic jokes. It helped that Rocco was huge and dashing, with broad shoulders that filled out his tailored suits. It was a natural athlete’s build, no workout required. Rocco knew all the standard sales tricks and a few more. If he was dealing with a couple: “Please, don’t let me rush you. Here, I’ll leave. Take your time to discuss it privately in my office”—which he had bugged to learn the top price they would pay. Then he’d offer that price, which was bumped up four hundred dollars by the hidden “dealer prep” charge preprinted on the sales form.
Rocco could break any rule he wanted because he had the owner in his pocket. One of the first things Rocco did when he came to Tampa Bay Motors was look for the owner’s weakness. It was fishing.
Rocco didn’t know anything about fishing, either, but how hard could it be? He took the owner down to the Keys, and they went out on the flats. They saw a tarpon in the shallows, shiny dorsal slicing the water. The owner took out his fishing rod. Rocco took out his rifle.
The owner put down his rod as the silver fish floated by on its side with bullet holes. “Let me try that.”
“Be my guest.”
That afternoon, the owner pointed up at the sky.
“Look. A roseate spoonbill.”
Rocco raised his rifle and fired, and the spoonbill helicoptered out of the sky and splashed next to the boat. The two men looked over the port gunwales at the scarlet carcass.
“It’s beautiful,” said Rocco.
“Then why’d you do that?” asked the owner.
“Wanted to get a better look.”
The next Rocco fishing story had become legend. On their second trip to the Keys, the owner said he wanted to try deep-sea fishing in the Gulf Stream. Rocco rented a boat with a tuna tower, and they went out twenty miles. Soon, Rocco spotted five Cubans bobbing across the Florida Straits. He pulled alongside.
The refugees cheered the arrival of their rescuers and waved tiny, homemade American flags. The flag-waving became less enthusiastic as Rocco and the owner cast fishing lines under the raft. Rocco had heard that fish liked shadows. The pair drank beer and laughed and reeled in four fish apiece and left.
TWO WEEKS WENT by, and John Milton still hadn’t sold his first car. He was living off credit cards.
An hour before lunch on a Friday, this customer comes in and asks John if he has any new Jaguars. He’s real nonchalant, says he’s just browsing. John gets in the golf cart and takes the guy out and shows him one in jade green, and just like that the guy pulls out his checkbook.
John rode back to the showroom on a cushion of air. This was the turning point, he told himself. No more grits for dinner.
John led the man into one of the sales offices and started on the paperwork. Rocco appeared in the doorway.
“Trevor?”
“Rocco?” said the customer.
“You two know each other?” asked John.
“Play racquetball at the club,” said Rocco. “Or rather, he plays. I take a beating.”
“You’re holding your own,” said Trevor.
“Compared to you? Are you kidding? You’re a killer out there!”
Rocco turned to John. “Would you mind if I had a word with Trevor?”
“Actually, I—”
Rocco pulled a chair up next to the customer. “You can wait out in the hall. This won’t take long.”
John stood in the hall muttering to himself, thinking of all the comebacks he wished he had thought of in the office.
The door opened and Rocco stuck his head out. “You talking to someone out here?”
“Me?”
“Try to keep it down, okay?”
“Listen—”
Rocco closed the door.
Five minutes later, the door opened again and Trevor came out, followed by Rocco, carrying paperwork for the Jag. He patted John on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help. I’ll take it from here.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you know? I told Trevor about this place at racquetball. Said he should come by sometime and check us out. That technically makes it my commission.”
John was speechless.
Rocco punched him in the shoulder. “I owe you one.”
Then Rocco and Trevor walked away chatting together, Rocco making a backhanded swing with an invisible racket.
WHEN ROCCO FINISHED the Jaguar’s paperwork, it was lunchtime. Rocco sped through traffic on Dale Mabry Highway, tapping the steering wheel to the stereo. Nothing made Rocco feel better than closing a sale. Especially someone else’s.
Rocco’s car was a new black Corvette convertible. He’d added a hundred-watt amp, eight three-way speakers and subwoofer bazooka tube in the trunk. He was playing his theme song, “Right into the Danger Zone,” by Kenny Loggins. Whenever Rocco played his theme song, he wore his green-tinted aviator sunglasses and a leather bomber jacket. On the passenger side was a set of the latest graphite-and-titanium golf clubs. They looked great in his car. And since he already had the clubs, Rocco decided he might as well take up golf. The Corvette had a single bumper sticker: NO FAT CHICKS.
Rocco sang along with the song at a red light, occasionally giving the cymbals a rimshot with a phantom drumstick. He wanted everyone to know he could pick the coolest songs. In a way, it was almost as if he were playing the music himself. Rocco felt great about Rocco. Yes, I am a Top Gun.
After every big sale, Rocco had a tradition of treating himself to a new toy at The Sharper Image. He drove over to Old Hyde Park Village, Tampa’s chic, high-end shopping district with sidewalk cafés. Rocco pulled into the no-parking zone in front of The Sharper Image and stuck his CLERGY sign on the dash. He would only be a minute, so he left the top down and the stereo on full, as a service to others. Then he went inside and asked a clerk about the global-positioning wine stopper.
SERGE AND COLEMAN strolled up Howard Avenue. Serge told Coleman to stop drinking from the thirty-two-ounce bottle of Colt 45.
“But it’s in a bag.”
“This is a very nice place,” said Serge. “We have to remember that we’re guests.”
“What’s so great about this old village, anyway?”
“Old Hyde Park Village,” corrected Serge. “It’s the history. The whole area’s been tastefully preserved. Everything screams class. But best of all, they’ve really clamped down on crime.”
Serge and Coleman stopped and pressed their noses and hands against the window of The Sharper Image. “Gadgets,” Serge said in a monotone. “Must have gadgets.”
A salesman inside silently shooed them away from the glass.
“What’s that music?” asked Serge.
“ ‘Right into the Danger Zone,’ ” said Coleman. “From Top Gun.”
“God, I hate that song. Where’s it coming from?”
They looked around the corner and saw a black Corvette.
“Nobody’s in it,” said Coleman.
“Look,” said Serge. “The latest graphite-and-titanium clubs. I’ve heard wonderful things about them.”
Serge removed a two iron from the bag and swished it in the air. “These are supposed to have a huge sweet spot and incredible memory in the shaft.”
He carefully wrapped his fingers around the leather grip.
“Remember to keep your head down,” said Coleman.
“Check,” said Serge. He pulled the club back over his shoulder.
“…right in-to the dan-ger zone!…”
Wham.
The head of the iron buried itself deep into the stereo’s faceplate, and the car went silent. The outdoor tables at the café across the street stood and gave Serge an ovation. He slipped the two iron back in the bag on the passenger’s seat. Then he and Coleman went up the sidewalk and pressed their hands and noses against the window at Victoria’s Secret.
20
MAHONEY! GET IN HERE!"
Ma
honey arrived in Ingersol’s doorway with a tuna sandwich. “You wanted to see me?”
“We’ve got work to do.” Ingersol held up a videocassette. “Agents just brought this in. Found it in the woods at the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings house near Gainesville.”
Ingersol got up from his desk and walked to the television set and stuck the tape in the VCR. A picture appeared on the TV: a burly, bearded man tied to a tree.
“What’s the plot here?” asked Mahoney.
“Sound technicians were able to lift the muffled conversation in the background,” said Ingersol. “That poor bastard tied to the tree is a trucker accused of selling the McGraw Brothers some bad speed.”
On the screen, the McGraws paced back and forth in front of the camera, talking fast, waving pistols and rifles.
“Looks like good speed to me,” said Mahoney.
“That’s one of the effects of good speed,” said Ingersol. “Makes you think it’s bad speed.”
“Where’d they get the video camera?”
“Trucker had it. Used it to make crushing videos to sell on the Internet.”
“Crushing videos?”
“Narrow sexual bandwidth of the foot-fetish strain. But even the regular foot people think they’re weird,” said Ingersol. “A few guys get woodrows watching women’s feet step on bugs and little frogs and stuff. We had a case on the east coast where one sap had it so bad he asked his wife to crush him. With a pickup truck no less. She was only supposed to crush him a little, and they made this plywood ramp, but something went wrong and they found him with a Dodge Ram four-by-four parked on his rib cage and his pants around his ankles.”
“Why did the McGraws film an incriminating video, anyway?” asked Mahoney.
“Good speed makes you think you can make movies.”
Mahoney nodded. “Ishtar.”
“They must have been so high, they forgot about the camera and left it.”
“What’s happening now?” asked Mahoney, pointing at the screen.
“This is where the trucker still thinks they’re just trying to scare him. And here comes the gut shot with the Marlin rifle.”
The trucker doubled over, held up by the ropes tying him to the tree. A whoosh of air left his lungs.