Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  “I told you,” said Jim.

  “Remember the horrible student murders a few years back?” said Martha. “I had a friend who was on the police department at the time. He said as soon as it happened, the cops went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a ‘usual suspects’ list of like two hundred people. Some had no warrants or even records, but there had been instability indicators. The cops knew who they were, where they lived, and had no trouble believing any of them could snap. All these people living throughout the community, blending in. And that was a small town.”

  “I’d like to see the list for Tampa Bay,” said Jim.

  “No kidding,” said Gladys. “We’ve got all kinds of odd circadian rhythms just on Triggerfish Lane alone. There’s Mrs. Glasgow with her telescope, and Mr. Brinkley with his insomnia and his pogo stick. Mr. Renfroe told us the lights were burning late because he was up working on a children’s novel until we found out he was really making pipe bombs. And of course there’s Mrs. Anderson and her midnight Alsatian yodeling. Florida Power and Light told police that the Crumpets had tripled their energy consumption, and a search warrant turned up the grow lights in the rumpus room. Who am I forgetting? Oh, yes. Tommy Lexington, who never got married and lived with his mother until he was forty-five and was finally picked up at McDonald’s covered with blood and eating a Happy Meal.”

  “Hey, Gladys,” said Martha. “Didn’t you tell me you’ve never even seen Mr. Oppenheimer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, don’t look now.”

  The automatic garage door slowly rose at the Oppenheimer place. Mr. Oppenheimer wheeled out his kit-built experimental aircraft.

  “I’ll be!” said Gladys. “He finally finished it. After twelve years.”

  “Is that thing safe?” said Martha.

  They stared skeptically at the craft: a tiny transparent egg-shaped cockpit attached to a Delta wing and twin rotors on the tail. It was very light, and Mr. Oppenheimer towed it with a rope as he walked up the street and into the park at the end of Triggerfish. He opened the cockpit.

  “Doesn’t he need some kind of permit or FAA clearance?” asked Martha.

  “Moot point,” said Gladys. “My Jacuzzi has a better chance of getting airborne.”

  A Lincoln Navigator pulled up. The driver got out and slammed his door extra loud. He came up the Davenports’ walkway.

  “Heard you were fired,” said Lance Boyle. “I’ll pay top dollar for your house.”

  “Who the hell are you?” said Martha.

  Gladys answered. “That’s Lance Boyle, the guy I pointed out who owns all the rentals.”

  “Where did you hear my husband was fired!” demanded Martha.

  Lance pointed at Gladys.

  Gladys smiled and turned red. “I took your side when I told the story.”

  “We may sell some day, but not to a creep like you!” said Martha.

  “Suit yourself,” said Lance. “But the whole street’s going rental. I just signed a lease with a couple of drug dealers for one of the places across the street. The longer you wait, the less your property’s worth.”

  “No thanks to you!” said Gladys.

  “I’m not breaking any laws.”

  An Audi pulled up across the street and two huge Rastafarians with waist-length dreadlocks got out. “Your new neighbors,” said Lance. He set a business card on the porch railing. “If you change your mind…”

  He drove away.

  “What a jerk,” said Gladys.

  “Look!” said Martha, pointing down the street. “It’s Mr. Oppenheimer! It’s working! It’s really working!”

  “He’s flying!” said Jim.

  “I can’t believe it!” said Gladys. “He’s up! He’s up! He’s up! He’s…in the power lines…Oooooooo. That didn’t look good…”

  OVER THE NEXT few days, the Davenports observed a steady stream of people driving up to the Rastafarians’ house at all hours, walking to the door and leaving quickly.

  Lance Boyle had been delighted when the Jamaicans answered his classified ad for the rental, but his glee faded when he discovered they were computer programmers instead of drug dealers. So Lance did the next best thing. He told everyone they were.

  Jim and Martha were on their porch swing the following Monday when Lance parked across the street at 877 Triggerfish. He went up to his rental and took down the silk flag of sailboats hanging over the mailbox, replacing it with one that had a big marijuana leaf. Lance drove off as a VW microbus pulled up. Four Deadheads got out and knocked on the door. A Rastafarian answered. There was a sharp exchange.

  “We’re computer programmers! We don’t sell drugs!” The door slammed.

  The Deadheads left, and Coleman arrived. He knocked on the door.

  It opened. Coleman began singing.

  “I shot the sheriff!”

  The door slammed.

  Serge came running across the street with a baseball glove and stopped in front of the Davenports’ porch. “Is Melvin home?”

  “Yes,” said Jim.

  “No,” said Martha.

  Martha looked at Jim. “I mean, no,” he said.

  “Oh, okay,” said Serge, and he ran back across the street. Coleman had just returned from the Rastafarians’ pad and was sitting on the porch with a beer. Serge joined him with a National Geographic.

  “Why’d you say Melvin wasn’t home?” asked Jim.

  “I don’t want that man near our son.”

  “Why not?”

  “Jim! There’s something wrong with him! His roommates, too!”

  Across the street, Serge was showing Coleman a National Geographic article about a tribe in Africa. “Check out how they make their necks really long with metal neck coils.”

  Coleman popped another beer. “We should get some neck coils.”

  “I have an idea.”

  They walked over to the hedge, and Serge pulled out a long garden hose, the collapsible flat kind full of pinholes that inflates with water to irrigate flower beds. Serge started wrapping it around his neck. “Okay. When I give the signal, turn on the water, and I’ll have neck coils.”

  “Right,” said Coleman, pushing his way through the hedge to the faucet.

  “You’re overreacting,” Jim told Martha.

  “They’re dangerous!”

  “Maybe to themselves.”

  “There’s something weird about those men!”

  “Maybe they’re simple. Wouldn’t you feel bad if you found out that was the case and you’d been talking like this?”

  “They’re not retarded—they’re dangerous!”

  Jim and Martha heard something across the street. Serge was flopping around the front yard, turning blue and fighting a garden hose wrapped around his throat like an anaconda. Coleman thrashed drunkenly in the bushes, trying to turn off the water.

  Coleman finally cut the pressure, and the hose deflated. Serge unwrapped his neck and sat up, panting.

  Jim turned to Martha. “I don’t think you’re supposed to use the word retarded anymore. It’s offensive or something.”

  Coleman pointed across the street. “Are the Davenports looking at us?”

  “Yeah, they are.” Serge smiled and waved.

  Jim waved back.

  “Another close call,” said Serge, feeling his neck. “I think God is trying to tell me something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I think I’m going to try going straight.”

  “You?” Coleman laughed. “That’s a hoot!”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What brought this on?”

  “We’ve been staying here a few weeks now, and I’ve been watching Jim over there. Talk about living on the edge. Guys like him don’t get any glory. They’ve just quietly put away childish things and faced the relentless adult responsibility of taking care of others.”

  Coleman shook with the willies. “That’s some scary shit!”

  “No kidding,” said Serge. “Jim’s kinda like
my hero now. I think I’ll start hanging out with the guy and study him to see what his secret is.”

  “What about our financial situation? Looks like Sharon will be out of work for a while with the mayor closing the titty bars.”

  “We need a big score to make up ground in a hurry. I was thinking about kidnapping someone for ransom.”

  “I thought you were going to go straight.”

  “I think I can handle both,” said Serge. “It’ll be a full schedule, but that’s what coffee’s for.”

  “No, I mean isn’t that a contradiction?” asked Coleman.

  “You know the quote: ‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.’ ”

  “Who said that?”

  “Either Emerson or the Unabomber.”

  Sharon came out on the porch with some coke.

  “Would you mind doing that in the house?” said Serge. “This is a family neighborhood.”

  Sharon made a face.

  “He’s trying to go straight,” said Coleman.

  “That’ll be the day!” Sharon stomped back inside.

  “And don’t slam the—”

  Sharon slammed the door.

  A noise came up the street, a black ’76 Chevy Laguna with Landau top and a stereo like a concussion drill. Across the top of the windshield in Goth script: NO FEAR. The young, shirtless man behind the wheel had a tattoo on his shoulder of a skull with a snake crawling through the eye sockets. He stopped in front of the Davenport residence and flicked a cigarette onto the lawn.

  Debbie Davenport came out the front door and ran down the steps.

  Jim stood up on the porch. “Debbie, come back here! I forbid you to—”

  Debbie jumped in the car. Jim ran down from the porch, but the Laguna took off.

  “See what I mean?” said Serge. “I feel for the American family. I don’t know how Jim handles the pressure.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do to help?” asked Coleman.

  “You’re right,” said Serge. “We should do something.”

  “But what?”

  “You know any couples with small kids?”

  “No.”

  “People forget to invite them anywhere. We should try to get them out of the house and do something. Remind them what it’s like to have fun.”

  “You really think that’s what they want?”

  “Of course! I’ll bet they’re just dying for me to come over and ask them. They’re just too polite to bring it up themselves.”

  Martha pointed across the street. “Jim! He’s coming back over here! Get rid of him!” She went in the house.

  Jim stood on the porch talking politely with Serge. Martha peeked out through the curtains. They smiled and shook hands, and Jim came inside.

  “What did he want?” asked Martha.

  “He wants to do something with us.”

  “What do you mean, ‘do something’?”

  “A double date.”

  Martha cracked up. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Us and him and that woman? Can you image how funny that would be?”

  “We’ll find out Friday.”

  Martha stopped laughing. “You told him no, didn’t you?”

  Jim pulled out the phone book. “We still have a few days to find a baby-sitter.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “Honey, they’re making an overture to be good neighbors. We have to give them the benefit of the doubt. If we reject them, what does that say about us? What does it say about our commitment to the community? We forfeit any right to be treated well ourselves.”

  “Okay, we forfeit,” said Martha. “I can live with that. Now, go over there and tell him we changed our minds.”

  “Honey, I can’t just—”

  “Do whatever you want, but I’m not going anywhere with that man.”

  33

  AGENT MAHONEY ARRIVED AT the Little League field a few days after Coach Terrier’s body was found. The pitcher’s mound was still roped off by police tape. The sergeant guarding the scene recognized Mahoney.

  “If it isn’t my favorite state agent,” said the sergeant. They shook hands. “I can remember when we didn’t need parents or fancy uniforms to play the game.”

  “I can remember when aluminum was for beer cans, not baseball bats.”

  “I can remember breaking Miss DuBois’s first-grade class window.”

  “We’ve all broken our share of windows.”

  “I had a crush on Miss DuBois. She wore these cute little berets that drove me wild.”

  “But that’s not really the point, now, is it?”

  “No, I just thought—”

  “You thought wrong.” Mahoney gazed wistfully over the left-field fence. “What do you got for me?”

  The detective pulled a notepad from his pocket. When he did, several little berets fell out. The sergeant stared at them on the ground for a moment, then looked at Mahoney. “I’m getting help.”

  “I can remember back when you couldn’t get help.”

  “I can remember when they weren’t called diseases. They were hobbies.”

  “The world’s changing.”

  “The mayor’s closing down all the hobby shops.”

  Mahoney stared down at the pitcher’s mound. “What a sick, pathetic bastard.”

  “Jesus! They’re just little berets!”

  “I mean the killer.”

  “Oh.”

  The radio in Mahoney’s Crown Victoria cracked with static. “Mahoney! Come in!”

  Mahoney reached in the window and grabbed the mike.

  “Mahoney here.”

  “Where have you been?” asked Lieutenant Ingersol. “I’ve tried to reach you all morning.”

  “Sir, I found Serge’s Super Bowl Three lighter at a murder scene, and now I’m at another murder scene. I think—”

  “What did I tell you about this Serge thing? You’re supposed to be on the McGraw case. You let the locals handle this! You’re out of your jurisdiction!…”

  “You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”

  “Don’t give me that old trick!” said Ingersol. “Drop this Serge business right now! You’re insubordinate! You’re over the line!…”

  Mahoney turned off the radio.

  THERE WAS KNOCK at the door of 867 Triggerfish. Serge answered it wearing a chef’s hat and eating a chicken salad sandwich.

  It was Jim Davenport.

  “Hey! Jim! What’s up, buddy?”

  Jim stepped inside. He looked troubled. “I have to talk to you about something.”

  “Sandwich?” asked Serge, showing Jim his own partially eaten one.

  “No thanks. I—”

  “Chicken salad,” said Serge, pumping his eyebrows.

  “Listen, I have to talk to you about our double date. Martha doesn’t—”

  “My special recipe,” said Serge. “I’ll give you half. Take a bite. You don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it.”

  “No, I—”

  Serge tore his sandwich in two and handed Jim half and left the room.

  Jim looked around uncomfortably. He glanced over at the couch and saw Coleman staring down, picking at something.

  Serge came back in the room stirring a giant mixing bowl with a spatula. “Okay, you start with a bucket of KFC extra crispy. Debone and dice. Then mix with mayo and—here’s the secret ingredient that puts it over the top—cashews!”

  “Serge, I have to tell you something.” Jim absentmindedly took a bite. “I came over here to—” He stopped and looked at the sandwich. “Say, that’s not bad.”

  Serge pointed at the couch. “Have a seat.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  Serge sat down and clicked on the TV with the remote. “Sit down. You’ll hurt my feelings.”

  Jim sat tentatively on the edge of the sofa. Serge changed channels to Deliverance on TBS.

  “Serge, listen—”

  “I love Deliverance!” exclaimed Serge. “I’ll make you a s
andwich, and we’ll watch the rest together. This is a good bonding movie.”

  “Serge—”

  “Shhhhh!” said Serge. “Here’s the Ned Beatty scene. Cracks me up every time.”

  “Damn it, Serge, I have to talk to you!”

  Serge clicked off the TV. “Geez, Jim, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so important. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s about Melvin—”

  Serge stood up fast. “What’s the matter with Melvin? He’s okay, isn’t he?”

  “Melvin’s fine—”

  Serge sat back down. “Whew! You had me worried. He’s a fine boy.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “You should be proud.”

  “I am.”

  “Listen, Jim. I love that kid. I wish I had a son like that but, well, things never worked out. You tell me what the problem is. I’ll do anything to help you. Just name it. Anything.”

  Jim hesitated and looked down.

  Serge put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “What is it, Jim? You can tell me.”

  Jim looked up at Serge. “Martha doesn’t think…We don’t think we can go on that double date.”

  “I see.”

  “In fact, we would prefer it if you didn’t come over anymore…”

  Serge got up and went over to the window. He put his sandwich down on the sill. He stared outside silently with his hands in his pockets. He could hear songbirds. He picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

  “I feel terrible about this,” said Jim. “But we have kids, and you have…this lifestyle.”

  Serge turned and walked back to the couch. He put a hand on Jim’s shoulder again. “Is that how you two feel?”

  “That’s how we feel.”

  Serge took another bite and nodded. He sat down on the coffee table facing Jim. “You know, Jim, Martha’s a fine woman. You’re a very lucky man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And she’s a great mother.”

  “I know.”

  “And a mother has to do what she thinks is in the best interests of her children. If she doesn’t, she’s not a good mother.”

  “I agree.”

  “So I understand completely. I’ll stay away.”

  “Serge, I hope you don’t take this—”

  “No, no,” said Serge, holding up a hand for Jim to stop. “No need to explain. Family comes first. I’m not going to interfere with that.”