Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  The man handed over the videocamera.

  “You were filming when we went into the tunnel, is that not true?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t filming Preston—I was shooting out the window at the two guys on horseback. Besides, it was completely dark in the tunnel.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Serge. “All we need is sound.”

  Serge rewound the tape, turned up the volume and hit play. Everyone crowded around and watched the tiny screen.

  “Here they come,” said Serge, the Russian and the Jamaican approaching the train on the monitor. “And here’s where they jump to the train…and now the critical part…”

  Serge turned the volume way up. “Listen carefully.”

  Nobody made a sound; the screen went black.

  “…Hic…hic…hic…(Thud).”

  Serge turned off the camcorder. “And there you have it!”

  Everyone looked puzzled. “There we have what?” said Spider.

  “The identity of the killer,” said Serge. “My guess is someone planted a hypnotic suggestion to get rid of his hiccups. He was probably given instructions for his soul to leave his body and take the hiccups with him. He had a heart attack, just like in 1894, when that hypnotist accidentally killed his assistant onstage the same way.”

  “That’s right,” said Frankie Chan. “Preston talked about that case all the time back in Reno. He swore it was true.”

  Serge addressed the whole car: “Find the person who hypnotized Preston to get rid of his hiccups, and you’ve got your killer.”

  “But that was you,” said Frankie. “I heard you. I was sitting right there.”

  “I guess that settles it,” said Serge. “It was me.”

  “Bullshit,” said Andy. “You can’t hypnotize someone to death!”

  “I also sort of broke his neck, just to be careful,” said Serge. “But I’m sure it was the hypnosis. I’m getting pretty good at it.”

  The BBB stared at him in disbelief. “But why?” asked Sam.

  “Because of what he did to all of you. He was an embarrassment to my gender.”

  The train lurched a final time, sliding the last twenty feet into the shallow swamp, tumbling everyone and rupturing a hole in the side of the car. Serge went headfirst into the wall. The BBB ran to help him up.

  “Serge, are you okay?” asked Sam.

  “Who?”

  “Serge. That’s your name.”

  “I don’t know any Serge.”

  They began to hear helicopters.

  “Look at that knot on his forehead,” said Teresa. “He really conked himself.”

  “Serge,” said Sam. “Do you know who I am?”

  Serge stood up and shook his head.

  “We better get that looked at,” said Maria.

  “You must have the wrong person,” said Serge.

  The helicopters got louder and louder. Then thuds on the top of the car as a National Guard rescue team rappelled down.

  Voices outside. “Hold on! We’ll have you out in a second.”

  Rebecca touched Serge’s arm. “You need to sit down.”

  “Really, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” said Serge, warily backing away from the women. “It’s been nice talking to you, but I have to be going.” And with that, Serge jumped through the ruptured side of the dining car.

  “Serge!”

  But Serge kept going, deeper and deeper into the swamp.

  EPILOGUE

  A Greyhound bus cruised down the Florida Keys on a perfect cloudless day. The ride was comfortable on the Overseas Highway. The bus had plenty of air-conditioning, the tinted windows kept out the heat and bright light, and the insulated diesel provided a soothing, rhythmic amniotic hum.

  The wino thought the passenger sitting next to him was nice enough, but he sure was different, even by wino standards.

  Click, click, click, click.

  The passenger lowered his camera from the window. “Excellent day for photography. The polarized filter is giving me killer stuff.”

  The wino offered a bottle. “Night Train?”

  “No, thanks…. Hey! There’s the Grassy Key Dairy Bar!” The passenger raised his camera again. Click, click, click, click, click. He lowered it. “The Overseas Railroad has been gone many a year, but the concrete arches remain. You can see them at Long Key and elsewhere, still going strong after a century of Florida hurricanes, outliving the critics and their worst predictions for Flagler’s Folly. The trains only ran for twenty-three years, from 1912 to 1935, until an unnamed hurricane dropped a curtain on the works. Then they slapped roads down and built new spans to accommodate more lanes. And now, if you book Amtrak to Key West, you have to get off the train in Miami and take a bus the rest of the way. But imagine what it was like for just a brief period in history. You drive a car over the bridges today, and you sit low on wide bridges with tall railings. But back then, you sat high up in the train, perched naked on the narrow rails with nothing on the sides, just a wide-open view of the sea all around. How precarious and exciting it must have been!…Ooooo, there’s the Brass Monkey Lounge!” Click, click, click.

  The wino began to stand, but Serge grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down. “You know, the closest you can get today to that Overseas Railroad experience is what we’re doing right now: riding the Greyhound, way up high, the illusion of no guardrails.” Click, click, click. “Did you know that?”

  The wino indicated he hadn’t considered it.

  “It’s true,” said Serge. “The place we’re in now is called Marathon. And that’s the Seven-Mile Bridge coming up. The view is spectacular—better than any mind-altering drugs. I should know. They keep trying to get me to take them, but I just tell them, no way José!…”

  The wino got up again before Serge could stop him and went up front and told the driver he would like to get off now.

  “Hey, where are you going? I didn’t tell you how it got the name Marathon yet!…It’s because of how long it was taking them to build the…oh, well…Alone again, naturally…” Click, click, click.

  Hydraulic brakes wheezed as a Greyhound bus pulled into Key West an hour before sunset, the fading orange light glancing off the silver frame. Passengers carried battered luggage and cardboard boxes into the station. The driver thought the bus was empty until he noticed one last passenger sitting in back, not moving.

  The driver walked toward the rear of the bus and looked the man over with concern. The passenger’s eyes were unfocused, staring.

  “Hey, buddy. You okay?”

  Serge nodded.

  “We’re here. We made it to Key West.”

  “I know,” said Serge. “I can hear the children, but I can’t see them.”

  “Will you get off my bus, already?”

  Six months later.

  A red Jaguar convertible pulled up the drive of the historic Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. A valet in white shorts ran around to the driver’s side and opened the door for Samantha Bridges.

  A red BMW convertible pulled up behind the Jag; Teresa Wellcraft got out. Then a red Mercedes convertible, a red Audi and a red 1962 Corvette. Rebecca Shoals, Maria Conchita and Paige Turner.

  The women hugged on the steps of the Mediterranean resort before crossing the lobby for the courtyard.

  They set five books on the table and pulled out chairs. Meeting time.

  The waiter arrived.

  “Strawberry coladas,” said Sam. “Five.”

  “Diplomatico rum,” said Maria.

  The waiter nodded and left.

  Sam patted the cover of her new hardcover. “Did everyone finish it?”

  “Imagine that,” said Teresa. “Sam’s a Krunkleton fan.”

  “Of course I am. He put us all in the book.”

  “I think it’s his best yet,” said Maria.

  So did the critics, and Ralph Krunkleton’s career had rocketed into mediocrity with the release of Blender Bender. Ralph turned Sam’s character into an underco
ver OSS agent, judo-chopping her way through a human jungle of deadly narco-criminals and ex-husbands. Paige became a plucky crusader against the bloody ivory trade in West Africa who is marked for death and overcomes the odds with an unwavering moral code and trusty machine gun. Maria and Teresa teamed up to run a prestigious New York fashion house until their top designer is snuffed by the mob, and they go on a merciless rampage of vengeance and cleavage. Rebecca became a nun with attitude, who finds no sin in hair that holds up under all conditions. Ralph even created cameos for Dee Dee Lowenstein and the other performers from the train, which Tanner Lebos was able to parlay into small but crucial roles in Police Academy Eight and Nine.

  The five women all stopped for a long moment and looked at each other with knowing smiles, all sitting there in thousand-dollar sundresses.

  “Has it sunk in yet?” asked Teresa.

  “Not remotely,” said Maria. “I’m still walking on air.”

  “It’s like I’m permanently trapped in the moment I opened my suitcase,” said Paige. “A million dollars takes up a lot less room than I would have thought.”

  “I remember every second, every detail,” said Maria. “We’re all standing there looking in Paige’s suitcase, thinking, what the heck is going on? That can’t be real money.”

  “Then Sam opened her suitcase…”

  “No, Teresa opened hers next,” corrected Maria. “I told you, I remember every single detail. The National Guard rescued us, Amtrak put us up in suites at the Hilton, and there we were in the room, Paige’s open suitcase full of money, nobody breathing, so Teresa opened hers. When we saw the second million dollars, the rest of us literally dove for our own suitcases…”

  “…every one full of money,” said Rebecca. “And then we all looked at each other and said it at the same time: ‘Serge!’ ”

  “I still can’t believe we’re being allowed to keep it,” said Paige.

  “Believe it,” said Sam. “We paid that lawyer enough. We paid everyone enough.”

  “What a country,” said Rebecca. “You can buy anything.”

  “You sure we don’t have anything to worry about?” said Maria. “I’m still expecting a knock at my door.”

  “I told you, it’s all a matter of knowing which lawyers are wired in with the current administration,” Sam explained. “Our attorney knows the Washington attorney who had lunch with the IRS attorney…”

  “What on earth did he tell him?”

  “The truth,” said Sam. “That he was representing a Florida attorney who was representing an offshore corporation—remember? The company they set up for us?—and the attorney says the corporation tripped over five million dollars of drug money but had nothing to do with any of the crimes connected to it.”

  “And they gave us immunity just like that?”

  “No, they turned it down,” said Sam. “That’s when the IRS started getting calls from the staff of congressmen sitting on their budget committee. The ones we contributed to.”

  “But what about those drug guys? Won’t they come looking for it?”

  “They think it floated away. Everyone on that train thinks it floated away.”

  “But if we have the money, what blew into the river?”

  “We can thank Ralph Krunkleton for that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You remember how everyone in The Stingray Shuffle was chasing five million bucks?”

  “Yeah?”

  “And you remember how Ralph’s agent brought a briefcase on the train full of scripts and props to act out the book, toy guns and knives…and play money…”

  “Play money blew into the river?”

  “It’s the only answer.”

  The drinks arrived, and Sam proposed a toast. “To Serge, wherever he is.”

  The women clinked glasses.

  “To Serge…”

  A twenty-eight-foot trimaran tacked across the Gulf Stream below the Bahia Honda Bridge in the Florida Keys.

  “Hey, Johnny,” said Sasha, an alternate Tampa Bay Buccaneers cheerleader and first-string dope date. “Let’s go to Key Lois.”

  Johnny Vegas was a member of the all-virility team, wearing an America’s Cup rip-stop nylon yachting jacket, his black Vidal Sassoon mane snapping in the wind. He stood at the helm, turning the large chrome wheel with panache.

  “But baby, Key Lois is off limits,” he said. “It’s federal law.”

  “I know,” she purred. “It’ll be deserted.” She came up from behind, sliding her left hand up between his legs. Johnny reacted nonchalantly by losing sensation in both arms and letting go of the wheel. The main boom whipped over their heads and the sailboat momentarily pitched up on its port hull before Johnny grabbed the spinning helm and straightened her out.

  “It’s right over there,” said Sasha, pointing at the low profile of a mangrove island on the horizon.

  Johnny set his course for Key Lois, a mile south of Cudjoe Key and twenty miles east of Key West. He approached from the leeward side to make harbor and showcased his seamanship by gently rupturing the center hull on the rocky beach.

  “Where’s your coke?”

  “Right here.”

  “Dump it out.”

  He did. She vacuumed.

  “Weeeeeeee!” squealed Sasha, hopping over the side and running down the beach ripping off her bikini. “Let’s go see the monkeys!”

  Johnny was close behind but losing ground, trying to run with his trunks around his knees.

  The monkeys Sasha had mentioned were the reason Key Lois was off limits. Charles River Laboratories of Massachusetts, a subsidiary of Bausch & Lomb, uses the island to breed rhesus monkeys for scientific experiments. And breed they do.

  But Johnny didn’t see a single monkey as he wiggled his swim trunks down to his ankles and flicked them aside with his left foot. He caught up with Sasha near the breakers.

  “Where’s your cocaine?”

  Yes! She wants a little nitro to get her engine primed, then it’s off to the races! Johnny ran back and got the swim trunks he had kicked off. He returned and pulled a watertight capsule from a Velcro pocket.

  “Gimme that!” She snatched it out of his hands and stuck it up her nose until it was empty.

  Her eyes glassed over, and her lower lip jutted and tremored with predatory sensuality. Show time, thought Johnny. But instead of making her amorous, it only made her want to look for monkeys.

  “Here, monkey, monkey…”

  Johnny followed her all the way around the island, four miles total, but no monkeys. They splashed out into a few inches of water to skirt the last outcropping of mangroves before returning to the sailboat. Johnny felt a hand on his thigh. The silly dust had kicked in. Sasha put her mouth to his ear and whispered in a husky voice: “I love seafaring men. Let’s fuck in the boat…I feel a big blow’s acomin’.”

  Johnny developed a certain carefree spring in his step as they held hands and skipped merrily through the shallow water. They rounded the mangrove bend, and there was the boat.

  Sasha screamed. Johnny gasped.

  The trimaran—what was left of it—was covered with monkeys. Hundreds of chattering, swinging, shitting monkeys, ripping up the sails, tearing the stuffing out of life preservers, ransacking the galley. The monkeys cavorted across the stern and hung by their tails from the cabin railing. A dozen monkeys armed with marlinespikes and galley utensils jumped onto the beach and charged. Sasha screamed and took off in the opposite direction. The monkeys ran past Johnny and chased Sasha back around the bend. Johnny fell to his knees in the water. “Why me?…”

  When he finally looked up again, he saw something he would never forget as long as he lived. It was a fleeting but searing image, like a Loch Ness sighting.

  What he saw was a wiry man in a royal blue astronaut jumpsuit. The man stood atop the sailboat’s cabin, arms akimbo, a monkey on each shoulder and more monkeys clustered around his feet in loyalty and affection. Then the man jumped down off the boat and
disappeared into the mangrove thicket, and the hundreds of monkeys followed.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Gratitude is due once again to my agent, Nat Sobel, and my editor, Henry Ferris, for throwing friendship in with the bargain.

  PRAISE FOR THE IRREPRESSIBLE TIM DORSEY AND THE STINGRAY SHUFFLE

  “Consistently entertaining…an exhilarating ride…comic-edged crime adventure…[Dorsey] in no time flat has turned into a contender in a genre shared with the likes of wacko Florida chroniclers Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry. Their younger colleague, in fact, may have the edge when it comes to the rapid pace of the action and the over-the-top escapades of the characters…If loving Serge is wrong, we don’t wanna be right.”

  Sarasota Herald Tribune

  “Dorsey has created an irresistible lead character in the serial killer and Florida history buff Serge A. Storms…He only terminates folks who really deserve it, and then in quite imaginative ways. We’re delighted to spend time in his pan-fried, revved-up company.”

  San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Bizarre…wicked…outrageously and absurdly funny…always a trip…Dorsey is blessed with a very strange imagination indeed.”

  Birmingham News

  “Imagine the violence of Edna Buchanan married to the skewed worldview of Dave Barry. Now you’re ready to meet Tim Dorsey.”

  Booklist

  “A wild ride…terrific, laugh-out-loud fun. And enough to make you choose even a lousy New England winter over the sunshine-fried lunacy that seems to take over south of Disney World…Dorsey, in typical fashion, takes on the citrus growers, book clubs, Las Vegas lounge acts, medflies, and hypnosis en route to a riotous finale aboard a mystery train bound from New York to the Sunshine State…Few [authors] pack a bite as sharp and scathing as Tim Dorsey.”

  Providence Journal-Bulletin

  “Dorsey knows how to get your attention…and quite often a belly laugh…Tim Dorsey has become quite adept at leading readers on a madcap romp through Florida’s finest and foibles, mostly its foibles…He lures the reader in with absurd humor, ludicrous situations, and even some affection for the state he calls home.”