Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  Mr. Grande’s smile broadened as he watched through the binoculars. The crowd’s approval grew louder until cheering broke out. The sub moved into deeper and deeper water, until the periscope finally disappeared. Bubbles. Then nothing.

  They waited.

  The reason for the Hunley’s simplicity: It was the first submarine ever used in combat. Built during the Civil War, it was launched off Charleston in 1864.

  The Mierda Cartel couldn’t read English, so they didn’t know the vintage or history of the Hunley, but they had no problem with the diagrams. They followed them perfectly. Too perfectly, in fact, and, like its historic predecessor, the cartel’s sub promptly sank on its maiden voyage with all hands.

  Mr. Grande lowered his binoculars. “Damn.”

  The crowd was silent. The cartel owed all of them money, but they decided it was an awkward time to bring it up, and they parted and let Mr. Grande pass through unmolested.

  10

  A pink Cadillac sat quietly at the end of an empty parking lot, catching shade from some jasmine. Lenny sat alone in the car, head back over the headrest, exhaling smoke straight up, flicking the nub of a roach out on the pavement. He turned and squinted toward the long, bright-white building with the string of Mediterranean arches facing some train tracks. The building had twin cupolas in the middle, topped with Moorish domes, and between them, curved over the main arch: ORLANDO.

  “Will you come on!” yelled Lenny.

  Serge’s shout came back faintly: “A couple more seconds!” Lenny watched him in the distance, standing in the middle of the train tracks, snapping photos of the back of a departing Amtrak heading south to Kissimmee. A handful of weary passengers had just gotten off and carried suitcases across the pavement toward the depot. Otherwise, the place was deserted, the Florida sun directly overhead without clouds. No wind. Crickets, sandspurs. The stagnant heat seemed to have weight.

  “Will you come on! I’m getting something on the tracker!”

  Serge took a couple parting shots, then sprinted back to the car and vaulted into the passenger seat without opening the door.

  “What the hell were you doing?” asked Lenny.

  “I’ve decided to completely dedicate my life to the study of trains and things that look like trains.”

  Lenny started up the engine. “I knew I should never have asked you about trains. Now we’ll never catch up with that briefcase.”

  “This was on the way to the briefcase—sort of. And besides, we’ve got them cornered with the five million.”

  “Really?” said Lenny. “I thought this was just fucking around. Not that I’m against that.”

  Serge pointed his arms in two different directions. “The logical escape routes are Daytona and Miami. But the tracker’s pinging due east, which can only mean the port and the cruise ships out of the country. The next one leaves Friday.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I have the schedule memorized,” said Serge. “I go over my own escape routes all the time. To survive in this state, you have to think like the French Resistance.”

  Lenny took the entrance ramp for I-4, and Serge stood to snap a final elevated photo back toward the train station. He sat down and stowed the camera. “I can’t believe nobody visits that depot anymore. They’re all too busy heading for the Tower of Terror or the Aerosmith roller coaster. What’s happening to us as a people?…”

  “They have an Aerosmith roller coaster?”

  “…The depot’s barely changed since it was built in 1926. This is where the town began, for heaven’s sake. People should be flocking here whether they’re taking a train or not. But now the only people who still come are forced to after making a horrible mess of their lives through a series of gross miscalculations until they can’t scrape together airplane money.”

  “Now I can see how you got arrested that time in that old train car.”

  “You mean the first time.”

  “There were others?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s like life is out to get me,” said Serge, reaching in the glove compartment for his novelty 3-D glasses.

  “Flashback?” asked Lenny.

  Serge nodded, slipping on the glasses. “Courtroom scene.”

  “You ever watch The People’s Court?” asked Lenny.

  “Shhh,” said Serge. “The flashback is starting…”

  One year earlier, courtroom 3C, Palm Beach County Judicial Circuit.

  The judge levied a stiff fine and probation on a retired banker for killing a prize swan with a pitching wedge at a local golf course.

  “Bailiff, call the next case.”

  “Number six-nine-seven-two-five, People versus Serge A. Storms.”

  “Will the defendant please rise…” The judge stopped midsentence and took off his glasses. “Back already?”

  “I can explain, Your Honor,” said Serge. “This is all a tragic miscarriage. A mockery of justice. If what I did was wrong, I don’t wanna be right!…”

  “Your Honor,” interrupted the prosecutor. “The defendant is charged with burglary, trespassing, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest and vandalism, to wit: applying paint to an object of historic national importance.”

  “What does that mean in English?” asked the judge. “Spray-painting graffiti? Throwing paint balloons?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what exactly?”

  “Uh, um…”

  “You’re mumbling,” said the judge.

  “He was in a historic railroad car, restoring some detail work that was chipping.”

  The bailiff handed the judge an evidence bag marked “Exhibit A,” an extra-fine camel’s-hair brush with dried gold paint on the tip.

  “There I was,” said Serge, “minding my own business…”

  “Your Honor,” said the public defender. “This is really a mental-health case. The defendant needs professional care. He shouldn’t be in criminal court at all.”

  “Why is he in my court?” asked the judge. “As I understand it, this all happened in Miami’s jurisdiction, at the…” He paused and flipped through some papers. “The Gold Coast Railroad Museum.”

  “Your Honor, this violates the conditions of the probation that you placed upon him last week for breaking into the railroad car at the Flagler Museum, so it throws it back here,” said the prosecutor. “Most disturbing is the resisting-arrest charge.”

  “What’s that about?” asked the judge.

  The prosecutor picked up a copy of the police report. “When officers arrived, the suspect was applying paint in the dining compartment of an antique passenger car. When said officers attempted to effect arrest, the suspect dove from the car and ran across the museum, where he proceeded to climb into a nearby locomotive engine, refused to come down, and began singing, and I quote: ‘Riding that train. High on cocaine…’”

  The judge ran his fingers through his hair and turned to the public defender. “Is your client on drugs?”

  “That’s just the problem, Your Honor. He refuses to take his drugs.”

  “That locomotive was number one fifty-three, Florida East Coast Railway,” said Serge, “which pulled a rescue train out of the Keys during the Labor Day hurricane of 1935…”

  The judge held up a hand for Serge to stop and turned to the public defender. “So what’s with all the trains, anyway?”

  Serge kept talking in the background: “…and that railroad car I was painting was the famous Ferdinand Magellan, built in 1928 and later retrofitted with armor plating and bulletproof glass for none other than the president of the United States!…”

  “Your Honor, Mr. Storms, like so many other unfortunate Americans, is battling severe mental illness. He’s going through a phase right now.”

  “A phase?”

  “…You see,” said Serge, “this was in the days before Air Force One, when the president had to travel by rail. The Magellan was first used by Franklin Roosevelt in 1942. And it was on the rear platform of this very c
ar that, on November 3, 1948, a grinning Harry Truman held up the Dewey Defeats Truman newspaper in the now-famous photograph…”

  “Your Honor, he gets on these compulsive tangents,” said the public defender. “He has to find out every single thing there is to know about a subject, talk to as many experts as he can, see and touch everything…”

  “I object!” said Serge, jumping to his feet. “He’s making it sound weird.”

  “Weirdness isn’t grounds for an objection,” said the judge. “And that’s your own attorney.”

  “Then I respectfully withdraw.” Serge sat back down and turned to the public defender. “Proceed.”

  “Your Honor, why is this man even being allowed to speak?” complained the prosecutor. “He’s not even representing himself anymore, and he’s completely out of line. As a matter of fact, we’re not following any of the procedures at all!”

  “First thing—relax,” said the judge. “This is a minor case. Second, this is my court, and third, I kinda like the guy. Is that okay with you?”

  The prosecutor sat down and sulked. The judge turned back to the public defender. “Continue.”

  “He’ll go days without sleep, covering incredible distances on foot, and he only stops when he passes out from sheer exhaustion.”

  “Interesting,” said the judge. “And right now it’s railroads?”

  “Railroads.”

  Serge raised his hand.

  “You’re not in school,” said the judge.

  “May I?” asked Serge.

  The judge leaned back in his chair and got comfortable again. “Go ahead.”

  The prosecutor snapped a pencil in two and threw the pieces on his table.

  “You see, the railroads made Florida,” said Serge. “They played a major role in most states, but not like here, where their influence was an iron fist, the train companies owning much of the land and businesses along their routes. I’m not saying it was wrong or right; I’m just saying it worked. Completely opened up the peninsula.”

  “What about air-conditioning?” asked the judge. “I understand that when Mr. Carrier went into mass production, it jump-started all kinds of development.”

  “Your Honor,” interjected the public defender, “Mr. Storms had, uh, a number of arrests last year dealing with the air-conditioning and refrigeration industry. I don’t think we want to go there.”

  “Understood,” said the judge. “Continue, Mr. Storms.”

  “Thank you, and Your Honor’s point is well taken. But that never would have been possible if it wasn’t for the rail pioneers. It all started with Flagler…” Serge began pacing in front of the empty jury box. “Time? The Gilded Age! Place? Jacksonville! The rich valued their leisure, and the railroads went down to Florida just to get to the new luxury hotels, which were built just for the railroads. After traversing the St. Johns, Flagler erected the Ponce de Leon in St. Augustine, then the Alcazar, and remodeled the Cordova and Ormond, laying tracks all the way. The Royal Poinciana and the Breakers went up in Palm Beach, more tracks, still going south, right through the big freeze of 1895—chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug…”—Serge shuffled across the courtroom, arms going in circles like pistons moving the wheels of a steam engine—“…chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug. Woo-woo! The tracks reached the bottom of the state, and residents were so happy they wanted to name their town Flagler. But did Big Henry accept this honor? Hell, no! He said, ‘Why don’t we name this place after the Indian word they use for the river.’ That little town? Miami! Fresh produce moved north, tourists south, the Florida East Coast Railway kept on going, right up to the beach, then into the sea. He had to be crazy to keep going—crazy like a fox!…Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug…Another Henry, Henry S. Sanford, ran the South Florida Railroad down the middle of the state in the 1880s. And on the Gulf Coast, yet another Henry—where were they all coming from?—this one named Plant, built a third railroad and more hotels. His line made it down to Cedar Key, and the little fishing village exploded as it became the southernmost port at the end of the tracks. But then the tracks continued south, and Cedar Key was forgotten. The tracks stopped again at another tiny outpost. Its name? Tampa!…Bang, bang, bang! War breaks out in Cuba! Troop trains to Florida, Teddy Roosevelt, the Rough Riders, Hearst, José Martí. The war ends! We win! More trains, more tourists, more hotels! The Boca Grande Line, the Gasparilla Inn, hope and prosperity for all!…Chug-a-chug, chug-a-chug…Train fares drop, the bourgeois climb on board, everyone riding south on The Havana Special, The Florida Special, The Orange Blossom Special. Then, daring! Railroads unveil the deco streamliners! In 1939, The Silver Meteor debuted its New York–Miami night runs with a sleek Electro-Motive diesel. The Atlantic Coast Line countered with The Champion and Illinois Central rolled out The City of Miami…”

  The judge looked over the top of his bifocals. “Don’t you mean The City of New Orleans, like the song?”

  “And a great song it is. But no, I mean The City of Miami. Few people realize there ever was such a train, but what a train! The trademark orange-and-green paint scheme, the coach cars with those wonderful names: Bougainvillea, Camellia, Japonica, Palm Garden, Hibiscus, Poinsettia and the Bamboo Grove tavern-observation car—very popular…. Ridin’ on The City of Miami…Don’t you know me? I’m your native son…”

  “No singing in court, Mr. Storms.”

  “Sorry. Then came the twin enemies of the iron horse—airlines and interstate highways. The trains hung on gallantly until the 1960s, when all appeared lost…. But wait! A last-second reprieve! The government stepped in, and Amtrak was born in 1971. The old Silver Meteor came back into service, now joined by The Silver Star, The Silver Palm and The Silver Stingray. But then, the stake through the heart—apathy! Nobody gave a damn. The depots deteriorated, and Overseas Railroad spans were torn up and sold off. A few noble groups fought uphill. They restored Union Station in Tampa, and my heart just goes pitter-pat every time I see that cute little spruced-up depot in Lake Wales. Unfortunately, it’s looking like too little, too late. Amtrak isn’t making the grade, and there’s been talk of pulling the plug in a couple years. Our kids will probably only see the pictures in the history books. Right now could be your last chance to head up to New York, hop a train in the snow and take the slow ride south to the Sunshine State, the way you’re supposed to…”

  A half hour later, everyone in the courtroom was silent, leaning forward on Serge’s every word.

  “…So in conclusion, Your Honor, and the good people of this courtroom, I may not have had a right to do what I did, but I had a duty. I did it for all of us, not just those alive here today, but for the memory of our ancestors and the future of our unborn descendants.” Serge’s lip began quivering and he sat down.

  The judge took off his glasses again. “Mr. Storms, I’m going to give you yet another chance. Probation and community service. But I never want to see you in my courtroom again.”

  Courtroom 3C, Palm Beach County Judicial Circuit.

  “Bailiff, call the next case.”

  “Number nine-three-five-one-two, People versus Serge A. Storms.”

  Serge smiled and waved at the judge.

  “You were just here yesterday!”

  “There’s a very simple explanation. Then we can all laugh about it and go home—”

  The judge stopped Serge and turned to the prosecutor. “What’s the charge?”

  The prosecutor glanced at his docket. “There are any number of possibilities, but we’ve decided to file under disturbing the peace.”

  “What exactly did he do?” asked the judge.

  “I think you need to see the video. Words cannot do justice.”

  A bailiff wheeled a twenty-seven-inch Magnavox and VCR to the front of the courtroom.

  “This was shot at a local funeral. It was taken by one of the mourners, the deceased’s only brother, who was later x-rayed for chest pains.”

  The bailiff inserted a tape and handed the remote to the prosecutor. The courtroom saw a tent in t
he middle of a sunny lawn full of tombstones. Folding chairs, people in black, a preacher.

  The prosecutor hit pause and pointed to the right side of the screen. “This is where Mr. Storms enters the picture and takes a seat in the back row of chairs.” He hit play; on the screen, a wiry man in swim trunks and tropical shirt joins the mourners.

  “Hit pause again,” said the judge. He folded his hands and looked toward the defense table. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but did you even know these people, Mr. Storms?”

  “Never met them in my life.”

  “What were you doing in the cemetery?”

  “Taking rubbings of a historic headstone, a famous train engineer. Suddenly, a funeral breaks out.”

  “And you just walked over and helped yourself to a seat?”

  “I like people.”

  The judge nodded at the prosecutor, who restarted the tape. “Okay, now here’s the point when Mr. Storms approaches the podium and tells the preacher he’d like to say a few words.”

  “Hit pause again,” said the judge, turning. “You never even met these people before! What on earth could you have to say at a time like this?”

  “Anything,” said Serge. “The preacher was bombing. You should have seen the long faces, people crying…”

  “It was a funeral!”

  “That’s the whole problem,” said Serge. “Everyone takes that view. I don’t buy it.”

  The prosecutor started the tape again. “Mr. Storms opens with a few jokes, talks about the deceased in generic terms, praises the Greatest Generation, blah, blah, blah, a few more jokes…”

  The judge pointed at the TV. “It doesn’t look like the audience is too distressed. A few are even beginning to smile. What he did may have been highly inappropriate, but I don’t see any criminal disturbance of the peace here…. See? He’s even starting to get some laughs.”

  “Hold on. The good part’s coming up,” said the prosecutor. “Mr. Storms wraps up his little talk and steps away from the podium. That’s the urn that he’s picking up now, and he starts walking away. The audience is confused. They begin to realize they better do something. They go after him. Mr. Storms begins running. The funeral party starts running—that’s all the bouncing and jiggling you’re seeing from the camera now. This is the ditch at the edge of the cemetery. Mr. Storms takes the lid off the urn. An uncle grabs him by the arm, and now the full-scale free-for-all gets under way. That’s some off-camera screaming you’re hearing, and this is where the ninety-year-old mother accidentally gets punched in the eye by the uncle, and Mr. Storms breaks free and runs to the edge of the ditch and yells—we’ve had an audio technician verify this—‘It’s for your own good. You need closure.’ And, as you can see…he dumps the ashes in an open sewer.”