by Dorsey, Tim
A crowd gathered immediately when Boris’s Corvette cruised into the parking lot at the Calusa Pointe condominiums. Boris got out of the car wearing dark sunglasses and a size XXXXXL metallic silver jogging suit that was designed to deflect heat and sometimes caused Boris to show up on radar. There were two Cuban cigars in the shirt pocket of the jogging suit, and he removed one and lit it. He signed dozens of autographs with a simple circle as he headed straight for the bar next door behind the Hammerhead Ranch Motel.
The Proposition 213 rally wasn’t for another four hours, and the bar was as good as place as any to get chicks. He walked inside and didn’t take off his sunglasses. He took a seat against the wall, leaned back, crossed his arms and thought: Come to Papa.
Boris had a few nibbles in the first hour. The teenage girls had been star-struck, but not quite enough to overcome the gag reflex to Boris’s appearance and hygiene. After the last gaggle walked away, Boris looked out the window to check the progress of the workers preparing the outdoor stage for the rally behind Calusa Pointe. He looked closer up the beach and saw smaller, separate preparations under way for another function—a VIP waterfront luau for the visiting Olympic delegation. There were a few rows of beach chairs, a small podium and a giant work-shaped dish that was a replica of the Olympic stadium torch and doubled as the barbecue.
Boris heard some laughing in the bar and turned his attention to City and Country. He liked what he saw. He realized they weren’t going to come to him, so he chugged another beer and began working his way to his feet.
“What’s shakin’?” Boris asked when he arrived at their table.
Country turned around and let out a startled yell upon first seeing Boris, which he did not take as a good sign. They tried to ignore him, but Boris couldn’t take a hint, and he hovered over their table like a weather balloon.
Art walked into the bar and sat down three tables away from City and Country. He placed a zippered leather pouch on the table and stared at Boris.
Serge sipped a mineral water at the end of the bar and heard a rumpus over in the corner. Boris was trying to grope Country and had her by the arm. It looked like he was leaning in to administer a hickie.
“Let go!” Country yelled, and pulled her arm away.
“Lesbians!” Boris shouted, and stormed out of the bar.
Boris went out on the beach, where a crowd again formed. A guy on a beach lounger was made to get up and offer his seat to Boris, who took off his jogging outfit to reveal an inadequate bathing suit, and he reclined in the glow of adulation.
Art picked up his zippered leather pouch and walked out of the bar down onto the beach. He got inside a portable toilet set up for the Proposition 213 rally.
Boris was having the time of his life. Teenage girls in bikinis surrounded him. Boris snapped his fingers and someone materialized with a cell phone. Boris chewed someone out for a minute, then tossed the cell phone over his shoulder. His Man Friday caught it on the fly, and a young girl handed Boris a fresh drink and her phone number.
Art Tweed peered out a small, screened vent in the side of the portable toilet. He ripped the screen out of the way. He unzipped his leather bag, took out the Colt Python and rested the barrel in the vent hole. An easy shot at that distance. Art began squeezing the trigger.
A high-pitched Latin twang came from the direction of Hammerhead Ranch. Boris and his retinue turned around to see where it was coming from. Art let off the trigger and withdrew the gun. He pressed his eyeball to the vent hole to get a wider view of what was going on.
“Lotion boy! Lotion boy!” said Serge as he hopped light-footed down the beach wearing a small, incredibly fake mustache. He stopped next to Boris’s lounger and set down a canvas beach bag. He pulled out towels and tubes of lotion.
“I didn’t know this place had a lotion boy,” said Boris, glancing back at Hammerhead Ranch.
“Sí! Sí! Lotion boy!” said Serge, rubbing lotion vigorously over his palms and smacking them together.
Boris laid his head back on the lounger and closed his eyes. “In that case, it’s about fucking time!” he said. “Give me the full treatment and make sure you get the pecs. But no faggot stuff or I’ll snap your neck.”
For the next five minutes, Serge lathered up Boris good, not missing a spot.
“Say, that doesn’t smell too bad,” said Boris. “Like bananas and coconut.”
“Sí! Sí!”
When Serge was done, he just stood there, and Boris finally opened his eyes.
“Oh, you must be waiting for a tip,” said Boris.
Serge nodded fast and smiled. “Sí! Sí!”
“Okay, here’s your tip: Speak the fuckin’ language!” Boris laughed at his own joke and looked around, and everyone else started laughing, too.
Serge smiled and nodded some more. “Sí! Sí!”
“What are you smiling about?” said Boris. “I just insulted you!”
“Sí! Sí!”
“Stop that!” yelled Boris. He leaned and shoved Serge in the chest. “Get the hell away from me! You give me the creeps.”
“Sí! Sí!” Serge said and hopped away.
With Serge gone, Art had a clean shot, and he lined up the Colt’s barrel again in the vent hole. One of the girls moved farther out of the way, giving Art an even better shot. He couldn’t miss. He closed one eye, carefully aligning the sight.
Boris pulled the last cigar from his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He looked around with a smirk at his fan club and nodded in the direction Serge had departed. “Man, those spics are stupid.”
The kids laughed again. Art began squeezing the trigger. Boris raised a gold Zippo to his cigar. The Colt’s hammer was all the way back. Boris flicked the Zippo.
Everyone was momentarily blinded as if a giant flash bulb had gone off. When they could see again, Boris was on fire from head to toe as if he was covered in napalm. Serge’s new bananas and coconut island-scent napalm to be exact.
“Farts!” said Tweed, and he put his unfired gun away in disappointment.
Boris ran screaming for the nearest body of water—the pool only yards away behind Calusa Pointe. The incredible shrinking mayor of Beverly Shores saw Boris coming, and just as Boris reached the pool fence, the mayor slammed the gate shut. “Residents only!”
“Auuuuugh!” screamed the flaming Boris, and turned for the Gulf of Mexico. He reeled frantically toward the water, but he was beginning to succumb, stumbling on fire through the sand.
The president of the chamber of commerce was at the beach podium reading a proclamation welcoming the Olympic delegation when Boris staggered up and belly-flopped into the Olympic torch/hibachi, igniting a magnificent blue-orange flame. There were several oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s and then a polite round of clapping.
The delegates lined up and grabbed paper plates. The Viennese delegate spooned out potato salad and whispered to the representative from the Maldives: “Saw better special effects at Universal Studios.”
Shhhhhhh! Everybody shut up!” yelled Zargoza, pulling a chair up in front of the television in the boiler room. He clicked the set over to Florida Cable News. The goons gathered around.
Zargoza had sent C. C. Flag out to Vista Isles that afternoon to calm things down. The place was getting a lot of bad attention from all the missing Alzheimer’s patients. State officials everywhere, going through files, interviewing people. The investigative TV crew showed up unexpectedly. That was because Zargoza had tipped them off personally—told them the famous Daddy-O of Rock ’n’ Roll, C. C. Flag, would show up to answer questions.
It was Zargoza’s attempt to staunch the bleeding. There had been a damning, week-long series of TV reports about the nursing home. Zargoza was sick and tired of seeing some stupid factotum at Vista Isles acting defensive on television, stuttering, vacillating, giving wrong answers or, worst of all, running and hiding in a closet. This was the real problem, thought Zargoza. It couldn’t possibly be that he was kidnapping patients. He was conv
inced that investigators had descended on the home for one reason and one reason only—the staff wasn’t telegenic.
He was right.
Zargoza wondered how deep into the newscast Flag would be. Maybe fourth or fifth item. Third if they were lucky. He couldn’t wait to see Flag confidently lying on the air. That ought to call off the state agencies. What’s fair is fair.
To Zargoza’s surprise and delight, Flag led off the news. There he was, filling out the screen in his safari jacket and pith helmet. Zargoza heard cheering and clapping in the background.
“All right, Flag!” Zargoza said. “Way to go!”
On TV, Flag stepped to the microphone again and held up his hands for everyone to be quiet. “…And another thing,” he barked, “I say cut off their benefits. And what are their kids doing taking up valuable space in our classrooms when they should be out in the fields picking tomatoes? And if they don’t like subminimum wage, they should have chosen another country to sneak into, and learn what real oppression is…like Canada!”
The applause was overwhelming.
“What? What the hell’s this?” said Zargoza.
The television camera pulled back to show C. C. Flag on a large stage.
This isn’t Vista Isles, thought Zargoza. This is the condominium next door. Standing onstage next to Flag, applauding his every word, was Malcolm Kefauver, the incredible shrinking mayor of Beverly Shores. Behind them hung an American flag and a giant banner: “Proposition 213.”
“Holy shit,” Zargoza yelled. “This is that stupid anti-immigration thing. This can’t be happening!”
The TV panned over the large crowd in front of the stage. Several people waved signs: “They don’t look right!” “Different is evil!” and “If you can’t understand something, kill it!”
Zargoza leaped to his feet in front of the TV. “You bastard! You stupid, stupid bastard! What are you doing to me! Somebody give me a gun so I can kill myself.”
One of the goons handed him a gun.
“No, you fool!” He slapped the gun away. “Go get Flag, now!”
Three goons ran out the door.
Zargoza squatted like Yogi Berra in front of the TV set, punching a fist into an open hand. On TV, there was a commotion up onstage. Flag struggled with three men, then disappeared off the back of the scaffolding.
Moments later the door to Zargoza’s boiler room slammed open, and the goons hustled C. C. Flag inside and pushed him to the ground.
“You wanted to see me?” Flag asked, standing up and brushing off his pants.
“Have you lost your mind! What do you think you’re doing!”
“I met the mayor. Real nice guy. His main speaker for the rally didn’t show, so he asked me to fill in.”
“Shut up! I know what you were doing. But why? We’ve got state and federal investigators all over us, the Diaz Boys are running around like the James Gang, there’s probably a hit man after me, and I send you to fix a little problem and you turn up on TV coming off like Son of Sam!”
“That might be a little strong.”
“I want you to stop it! Now!”
“I can’t.”
“What did I just hear?!”
“I can’t stop it. It’s grown too big. My charisma has become a force to be reckoned with.”
Zargoza knocked Flag to the carpet and began kicking him in the rear. “Reckon with this foot in your ass, you ultra-nationalist prick! Now get over to the nursing home!”
27
C. C. Flag slammed two more shots of Irish whiskey from the decanter in the office at Vista Isles. The press was gone; and so was the Vista Isles staff. Zargoza had ordered Flag over to the home after the Proposition 213 fiasco. He’d done his best to explain away all the missing Medicare patients by changing the subject and bashing immigrants. Now he deserved a reward. He hit the intercom and called the night nurse.
She arrived in his doorway with her medication cart. “You buzzed me?”
She was young and curvy with long sandy hair. Not too hard on the eyes, Flag thought.
“Come over here and have a drink with me,” he said.
“I’d love to, but I have to make my rounds.”
“Don’t worry about your rounds. I have a lot of pull around here.”
“But these are prescription medications. These residents are on a very rigid schedule. Some of their lives depend on it.”
Flag picked up a medicine container. “Oooooooh! Dilaudid!” He dumped the pills in the breast pocket of his safari jacket.
“Hey! Those are for a patient who’s gonna die from cancer!”
“My point exactly.”
“Wait!” she said. “I’ve seen you on TV. You’re the Proposition 213 guy. You’re my hero. You really tell it like it is. I’m so tired of how migrant workers keep exploiting us.”
She strolled over to the desk. “Well, I guess one drink won’t hurt anything.”
“Now you’re talkin’!” Flag poured her a double over rocks.
By the time the first drink hit her bloodstream, she was on her third. Then Flag forced more liquor into her. Then she was bent over Flag’s desk without panties. Then she was bent over the toilet, hair hanging in the water. Funny, thought Flag, I could have sworn she was more attractive earlier.
“Hey, baby. I gotta use the restroom,” said Flag, banging on the door. “Get a move on.”
She only moaned and her head lolled over the bowl.
“Damn,” said Flag. Already smashed, he poured another. When she was still in there fifteen minutes later, he could wait no longer. He decided to use the restroom down the hall. He was down to his underwear and socks, so he grabbed a Vista Isles bathrobe from the closet and headed out the door.
A little after midnight a brown panel truck pulled up outside the veranda of Vista Isles and two of the Diaz Boys climbed out.
They flashed corporate ID at the front desk and made their way to the third floor and poked around.
Weaving up the hallway toward them was an old man in a Vista Isles robe. They watched him smack into a doorjamb and bounce off a fire extinguisher.
The man walked up in his bathrobe and socks, and he put out his hand to shake. “How ya doin’, young fellas. I’m C. C. Flag. Hope ya’ll will vote for Proposition 213. Take the state back from the fuckin’ Latins.”
The two Diaz Boys looked at each other and smiled.
“I’m the Daddy-O of Rock ’n’ Roll. I’m a famous radio personality, loved and admired by millions,” said Flag, swaying off balance.
One of the Diaz Boys whispered to the other: “Classic dementia.”
The second one turned to Flag. “Sir, are you a Medicare patient?”
“Medicare?” said Flag. “Absolutely! I’m an American. I deserve my Social Security and my Medicare, goddammit!”
The two looked at each other again and grinned. This was too easy.
They slapped electrical tape over Flag’s mouth and carried him down the fire escape to the waiting truck.
An hour later, Flag’s Vista Isless robe was gone and he was dressed in homeless rags in anticipation of his drop at the Tampa bus station. The Diaz Boys took the Twenty-second Street exit on Interstate 4 so they could catch a little of the Latin Heritage parade on their way downtown. They pulled onto a side street next to Seventh Avenue and found a parking space with a good view.
The parade hadn’t started yet, but the two Diaz Boys were already talking excitedly about the Gloria Estefan Revue. “It’s supposed to sound exactly like her,” said Juan.
They turned around and looked behind them. The back doors of the van were open and Flag was gone. The two looked at each other and shrugged. Bus station, Ybor City, what’s the difference? They looked back out the windshield and waited for the parade.
Three Latin Heritage Festival officials were at the parade staging area on the east end of Seventh Avenue, going over their clipboards. Everything was ready except the grand marshal hadn’t arrived and two road-tour members of Miami
Sound Machine were still in the can. The officials saw an old bum in tattered rags wobbling toward them.
One pointed with his clipboard. “What’s this comin’ at us?”
Another official was about to run the bum off when he felt a twinge of recognition. “Hey, you’re someone famous…. I got it! You’re that guy on the sweepstakes envelopes!…C. C. Flag.”
The chairman of the Latin Heritage Festival grabbed Flag’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “I’m a big fan.”
“Is he our grand marshal?”
“He’s got to be,” said the chairman. He turned to Flag. “You done parades before?”
“Of course I’ve done parades.”
“I dunno,” said the first official. “That’s not what it says on my clipboard. It’s supposed to be someone from the mayor’s office.”
“That’s got to be an out-of-date program,” said the chairman. “You want somebody’s nephew when we can have a bona fide celebrity?”
“So what’s with his rags?”
“You idiot! He’s supposed to be one of the refugee rafters,” said the chairman. “That’s this year’s theme. Weren’t you at the meeting?”
The official threw up his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.” He turned to the parade’s support crew and clapped his hands to get their attention. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” He turned and yelled at the row of blue portable toilets: “Miami Sound Machine—time to shit or get off the pot!”
The festival chairman waved over two assistants, who placed a silk sash across Flag’s chest and helped him up on the grand marshal float.