Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  “I know you’re in there!” Serge said cheerfully.

  “I have to answer the door. We look silly.”

  “He’s looking in the window! He’s spotted us!”

  Jim turned to see Serge smiling and waving through the window, holding up a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and pointing at it. Jim smiled painfully and waved back.

  “Now I feel stupid,” said Jim, walking toward the door.

  “Don’t mention the party!”

  “There are streamers all over the place. He already knows there’s a party.”

  “Don’t invite him. And if he asks, say he can’t come.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Say anything you want. If he shows up, I’m leaving.”

  Jim opened the door a crack and slipped out onto the porch.

  Serge tried to look around him into the house, but the door closed. “What were you doing? Hiding in there?”

  Jim turned red. “What’s up?”

  “Looks like you’re going to have a party. I must have been away when you handed out invitations. I’d love to help any way I can.”

  “No, everything’s taken care of. Actually it’s not really a party party. It’s just going to be an intimate little gathering of immediate relatives—”

  “That’s great!” said Serge. “I’ll get to meet all your kin!”

  “What I’m trying to say is—”

  Serge held out a paper bag. “Doughnut?”

  “No, look Serge—”

  “They’re still good.”

  “Serge, Martha and I—”

  “You’ll hurt my feelings.” Serge opened the bag so Jim could see inside.

  “Okay, I’ll take a doughnut.” He pulled one out. The right third had been sliced off.

  “I had to cut out Coleman’s bite marks.”

  Jim put the doughnut back.

  “Don’t blame you,” said Serge. “God only knows where he’s been.”

  “Serge, there’s something very important I have to say. You can’t—”

  “Wait,” said Serge. “I want to go first. I’ve got some big news. Sharon and I are engaged! We’re going to get married and have kids, just like you!”

  “Serge! Congratulations!”

  “Isn’t it great? After we went out to dinner the other night and I saw what a wonderful marriage you and Martha have, it really got me thinking. It all started making sense. So I decided to marry Sharon and raise a family.”

  “Really? When?”

  “Well, I have to tell her first. And then I have to convince her to have kids, because she doesn’t want any. And of course she’ll have to give up the cocaine. And the stripping. But right after that!”

  It sounded shaky to Jim.

  “I want to have what you have,” said Serge. “It’s these last few weeks living across the street from you, seeing what an incredible thing a family is. You must be a very proud man. I was telling Coleman, you’re my new hero. I’ve decided to model my life after yours.”

  Jim blushed.

  “Okay, now your turn,” said Serge. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “We’re having a Fourth of July party. Would you like to come?”

  “Great! I’ll bring my fiancée!”

  LANCE BOYLE ASSIDUOUSLY waxed his gold Lincoln Navigator. He had gone over the whole vehicle four times now with a hirsute rag and had been working on this one particular spot on the door for the last hour. He checked his watch. Still time for some more buffing before his appointment with the new renters.

  Lance pulled out his nitroglycerin container and snorted. Nothing happened.

  “What? Empty?” He held it up to his eyeball. “How could I have gone through all that speed? I better slow down. I need to exercise some discipline. I have to get some more right now.”

  Lance jumped in the Navigator and took off.

  He pulled his appointment book out of the glove compartment as he drove across the center line. Cars honked. Lance made a left on red. He opened the book on the steering wheel. Two o’clock: Turn over keys to new tenants renting the home of the late Jack Terrier. The three brothers had unnerved Lance the moment they walked in his office. They propped their boots up on Lance’s desk and put out their Pancho Villa cigars on his restored wooden floor. They called themselves the Snyders. The smallest one had this horrible scar that deeply cleaved his left cheek. The middle one had a milky right eye and black gums. The biggest one had tattoos across his knuckles. H-A-T-E and H-A-T-E. They were the worst applicants he had ever seen. They were perfect.

  Lance checked his watch again—still a few minutes before they were due to arrive. He dropped in at the college rental and knocked.

  “Coming, dude.”

  Bernie opened the door.

  Lance’s eyes were ostrich eggs. “Haveanymorespeed?”

  “Man, you are toasted!”

  “Haveanyornot?”

  “Maybe you should drink a beer instead.”

  “Iwantspeed.”

  “Your call,” said Bernie. He turned and yelled. “Wasteoid! Got any crank left over from finals?”

  Lance walked across the street, covering his nose, tooting up. He stopped in front of the Davenports’ porch and sniffled.

  “Readytosellyourhouse?”

  “What?” said Jim.

  “Readytosell?”

  “We already told you!” said Martha. “We’re not selling. And even if we were, it wouldn’t be to the likes of you!”

  Lance sniffled and pointed across the street. “Newtenants.”

  “What?”

  “Newtenants. Don’t you under stand English?”

  “I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” said Jim.

  “If you change your mind,” said Lance, placing another business card on the porch railing.

  A brown Cutlass pulled up across the street, and Lance went to meet it.

  “What was wrong with him?” said Martha.

  “Probably too much coffee.”

  “Coffee doesn’t do that. He wasn’t blinking.”

  Jim and Martha looked back across the street. Three huge, frightening men got out of the Cutlass.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” said Martha.

  “Me neither.”

  “Let’s go inside.”

  Lance turned over the keys to his new tenants and climbed back in the Navigator. He had had it with unreasonable people like the Davenports. Fair was fair, but they were standing in his way. He had done some checking, totally illegal but incredibly easy. He found out that Consolidated Bank held the mortgage on their house. They were paid up but consistently late, seven to ten days a month. Lance also learned some other things. He called Consolidated Bank and told the loan officer that he was Jim Davenport and had lost his job and tried to trade in his car for a cheaper one, but the loan got kicked back. Now, he said, he couldn’t afford the house and wanted a way out of the mortgage. The loan officer said he’d call him right back. Lance gave him his cellphone number.

  The loan officer did some checking, totally illegal but incredibly easy. Jim Davenport had indeed lost his job and applied for a loan to trade down his car, but for some reason it had never gone through. The guy’s in bad shape, he thought. But the officer had taken three defaults already this summer and his keys to the executive washroom hung in the balance. He called Lance back and said he was sure they could work something out. Lance said it looked bleak.

  “Let’s meet.”

  “Great,” said Lance. “I’ll come to your office.”

  “No, I’ll come to your home. Tomorrow.”

  Lance panicked. “But it’s a holiday! It’s the Fourth!”

  “Not a problem. Anything for a customer. Because we have babies, too.”

  They set the meeting for 4 P.M. on Independence Day.

  Lance hung up. Shit, he thought. I never even considered he might come out to the house. Now I’m screwed! Why did I think this idiotic plan would work? It’s all because of this stupid
speed I’ve been taking. I need some more.

  He tapped out the rest and did it, then got a brainstorm. He picked up his cell phone and called Insult-to-Injury Process Servers.

  “…The address is eight-eighty-eight Triggerfish…Yes, Elvis will be fine…”

  44

  THE COLLEGE STUDENTS POUTED on the front porch of their rental.

  “There’s nothing to do,” said Chip. “We don’t have any money. We don’t have any dope…”

  “This sucks,” said Waste-oid, chin in his hands.

  Bernie looked around. “Want to drive out in the county and tip cows?”

  “We did that last night,” said Frankie.

  “Why don’t we go out there and look for ’shrooms instead?” said Waste-oid.

  “I’m tired of mushrooms,” said Bernie.

  “I’m not!” said Waste-oid.

  “What’s the point?” said Bernie. “Remember the last time you did ’shrooms and spent half the night in your closet?”

  “Don’t make fun. There was a big storm with lots of thunder. It was very upsetting.”

  “Is that why you puked?”

  “No. I didn’t boil the ’shrooms long enough to get the toxins out when I made the tea. For about two hours it was like there were all these little knives trying to stab their way out of my stomach.”

  “What happened?”

  “Tried to get my mind off it by focusing on something else. I started staring at that painting of the lion we have in the living room. But then the lion came alive and looked like it was going to jump off the wall and I began screaming, and the knives in my stomach got worse. Then the thunder and lightning started and I barricaded myself in the closet.”

  “Then you threw up and fell asleep in your own vomit?”

  “Right.”

  “So why on earth do you want to go back and get some more?”

  “Because ’shrooms are the best!”

  The front door opened and Siddhartha the solipsistic student walked out and punched Waste-oid in the shoulder.

  “Ow! That hurt!”

  “No it didn’t. You’re only a figment that I control. I can make you do anything I want. I can make you say ‘Ow’ again.”

  “What?”

  Siddhartha hit him again.

  “Ow!”

  Siddhartha walked back in the house.

  The front door opened again and Bill the Elder came out.

  “They said on TV it’s the Fourth of July tomorrow.”

  “Wow,” said Waste-oid. “July already?”

  “We need to buy fireworks,” said Bill.

  “We don’t have any money,” said Bernie.

  “Let’s collect aluminum cans,” said Chip.

  “Let’s pick ’shrooms and sell them,” said Waste-oid.

  “I know,” said Chip. “Let’s sell our textbooks!”

  “I don’t know where mine are,” said Waste-oid.

  A BLUE SIERRA cruised north on rain-slick Dale Mabry Highway, Bernie in the driver’s seat, red afro pressed against the roof. They passed the strip clubs and car dealerships and stopped at a light.

  A Camaro full of University of Tampa women pulled up on the left.

  Waste-oid leaned out the window and put the tips of his thumb and index finger to his lips. “Hey pretty things, wanna get high?”

  The women laughed and peeled out when the light turned green.

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Bernie, putting the Sierra in gear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re always embarrassing us. It’s the same thing every time. ‘You wanna get high? You wanna get high?’…”

  “What’s the matter with that?”

  “What’s the matter is this isn’t 1973 and you’re not in Grand Funk Railroad.”

  “The babes love it.”

  “No they don’t. You have never gotten laid with that. Not once!”

  “Yes I have!”

  “When?”

  “Well, it was Christmas break. You weren’t around.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “There it is!” said Chip.

  A giant hot-air balloon stood in front of a red circus tent. A man in a gorilla suit waved cars into a dirt parking lot under a banner: INDEPENDENCE DAY FIREWORKS BONANZA BLOWOUT!

  A chain-smoking ex-carny was on a portable phone when the students arrived. “Gotta go. Some live ones just walked in.” He hung up and stubbed out a Camel on a box of bottle rockets.

  The students began pawing the cellophane on some Roman candles.

  “I can tell you fellas know quality,” said the salesman. “Those are the best Roman candles in the world. Direct from China.”

  The students walked through the tent in awe: Black Cats, M-80s, stink bombs.

  “Take your time. I’ll be right over here.” The salesman went back to the register and lit another Camel.

  The students finished browsing. The salesman was staring down at a magazine and heard them whispering. “You ask him!” “No, you ask him!”

  The salesman looked up. “Got a question?”

  Bernie glanced around to make sure nobody was listening. He leaned over the counter. “Got anything special?”

  “Oh, right.” The salesman winked. “The special stuff. Follow me.”

  He led the students to the “employees only” area of the tent and pulled back the curtain. He produced a box from under a table. The students gathered around. He began opening the box with slow drama, then stopped and closed the flaps. “You sure you’re cool? For all I know you could be cops. How do I know you’re not The Man?”

  “I’ll show you my penis,” said Waste-oid.

  “What!”

  “You idiot!” said Bernie. “That’s how you prove you’re not a cop to prostitutes!”

  “Oh.”

  Bernie turned back to the salesman. “We’re not cops.”

  “You know what? I believe you. Because I like you guys.”

  He stepped away from the box and gestured toward it. The students approached and cautiously opened the cardboard flaps.

  “Oh, man!”

  “I’ve heard about these!”

  “Those are the professional models,” said the salesman. “Thousand-foot tricolored whistling air bursts. Same ones the city launches from barges in the bay.”

  “We gotta have ’em!”

  “I’m only allowed to sell to licensed fireworks handlers.”

  The students hung their heads.

  “You are licensed fireworks handlers, aren’t you?”

  The students didn’t answer.

  The salesman slowly repeated the question and nodded. “You are licensed fireworks handlers?”

  “Oh, that’s right. We are.”

  “Good. That’ll be three hundred dollars.”

  “We don’t have three hundred dollars.”

  “What do you got?”

  “Textbooks. They’re in the car.”

  “Same as cash in here. Go get ’em. I’ll wait.”

  The students returned with armloads of books, and the salesman worked quickly with a calculator, tossing the books on top of the giant pile of textbooks already behind the register.

  “Nice doing business with you,” said the salesman. He chain-lit another Camel and threw the old one over his shoulder.

  AGENT MAHONEY SAT at the bar in a tweed jacket and black fedora. He was on an island in the bay. The bar was called Yeoman’s Road.

  “Another one, Louie,” he told the bartender.

  The bartender poured whiskey. “My name’s not Louie.”

  “It should be,” said Mahoney. He swiveled on his stool and pointed out the front window. “What’s the deal with the weird red phone booth, Louie?”

  “It’s a British phone booth.”

  “What’s it doing here?”

  “This is a British pub.”

  “Are we in Britain?”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t like the i
dea.”

  Mahoney pulled out a pack of Chesterfields, stuck his finger in the opening, then took his finger out and looked in the hole. Empty. Damn. He crumped the pack and got off the stool. “I gonna get some smokes at the machine. Don’t let anyone take my spot. The night’s still young, Louie, and full of irony.”

  “It’s Rich.”

  “It certainly is.”

  Mahoney walked up to the silver machine and pulled hard on the Chesterfield knob. He bent down and grabbed the cigarettes from the tray and began smacking the end of the pack in his palm on his way back to the bar.

  A stranger was waiting.

  “Who’s this mug, Louie?”

  “Says his name’s Blaine,” replied the bartender, wiping a beer mug.

  “Blaine Crease,” said Blaine, extended a hand.

  Mahoney looked down at it skeptically, then back at the stranger.

  “I don’t like you, Blaine.”

  “Fine. We don’t have to be friends. I have a business proposition—”

  “Mickey.”

  “What?”

  “I might like you if your name was Mickey. You look like a Mickey. Or a Floyd. Blaine—that’s the name of some guy who drinks peach schnapps.”

  Blaine looked at the bartender, who shrugged and walked away.

  “I understand you’re looking for some bad dudes,” said Blaine.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m a TV reporter for Florida Cable News. I can help. I’m the host of Florida’s Most Wanted.”

  “You connected with America’s Most Wanted?”

  “Only if you call stealing the name being connected.”

  “Where do I fit in? Better yet, where do you fit in?”

  “We can team up. You feed me information. Or disinformation—doesn’t matter to me. I’ll put a segment on the air and we flush ’em out into the open. You just give me the exclusive when it’s all over. What do you say?”

  Mahoney took off his fedora, pulled a sawbuck out of the lining and tucked it under an ashtray. He put his hat back on and turned to Blaine. “Where’s the action in this town?”

  THE SUN SET on the third day of July.

  John Milton walked down the street, waving his arms and talking to himself, repeating the same thing over and over. He had just called the phone company, asking for the address of one Jim Davenport, the name he had found on the back page of the consultant’s report that had gotten him fired from Consolidated Bank.