Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  Chicago Tribune

  “What a trip!…Memorable…entertaining…[a] comic romp…fueled by satire and outright farce.”

  New Orleans Times-Picayune

  “A madcap adventure.”

  Stuart News

  “Serge is Dorsey’s finest creation: He may be crazy, but he knows his stuff…It’s a sweet relief to discover that Dorsey can keep up with himself. Heaven knows nobody else can.”

  Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel

  “We’re in Dorsey’s world…and we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Miami Herald

  “It’s safe to say that there is no other state in the nation quite like Florida. It has alligator wrestling, pregnant and swinging ‘chads,’ manatees, and the largest collection of authors writing edgy, offbeat thrillers anywhere. The quirkiest of them all might be Tim Dorsey.”

  Denver Rocky Mountain News

  “Mad magazine, the Three Stooges, and ‘It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World’ blended together…Dorsey revs up his arsenal of screwball characters and situations…We want to know what happens to this oddball collection…The mystery in any Dorsey novel is not whodunit…but how over the top Dorsey can go yet still stay close to the truth about Florida.”

  Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “Insanely creative…[Dorsey’s] novels feature an astounding variety of lowlifes…It’s always a blast to spend time in Serge’s company (providing you don’t make him mad).”

  Albany Times-Union

  “Dorsey is compulsively irreverent and shockingly funny…For readers with a high threshold for prurience and violence, Dorsey’s books are definitely funny ha-ha.”

  Boston Globe

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE STINGRAY SHUFFLE. Copyright © 2003 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition © MARCH 2006 ISBN 9780061842306

  06 70 08 09 10

  Dedication

  For my mother and father

  Epigraph

  Man is what he chooses to become.

  —John Spenkelink

  Contents

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE ON THE TYPE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PRAISE

  COPYRIGHT

  Prologue

  WITH THREE WEEKS to go in the Florida governor’s race, the Tallahassee morning newspaper ran the following headline: 2 HEADS EXPLODE IN SEPARATE INCIDENTS

  TALLAHASSEE is the capital of Florida, up in the north end of the state near Georgia. The land is less flat, more wooded; the people not as hurried or transient. In the eighteenth century the population centers of old Florida were Pensacola in the panhandle and St. Augustine on the Atlantic—too far apart to be managed under a single provisional government. Officials went looking for a spot in between. But the Talasi Indians were already on that spot, so the officials told the Indians they needed to borrow their village for about three hundred years.

  Tallahassee was established the capital in 1823. East Tallahassee High School was established in 1971. On a balmy October evening in 2002, a banner hung in the high school’s auditorium: GO FIGHTING SENATORS! Another hung over the stage: WELCOME GOVERNOR CANDIDATES.

  A smattering of people sat in the sea of folding chairs on the basketball court. Technicians taped electrical cables to the parquet floor and checked the sound system. Agents swept the school with bomb-sniffing German shepherds. Reporters shuffled around in a tight herd, stepping on each other’s shoelaces, interviewing The Man on the Street, then each other, looking for that fresh Pulitzer angle. The debate was less than two hours away.

  THE majestic old Florida Capitol building, with its trademark red-and-white Kentucky Fried Chicken awnings, stands proudly at the foot of the Apalachee Parkway. Behind it is Tallahassee’s only skyscraper, the new Capitol, a sterile monolith built of the finest materials someone else’s money could buy.

  At 5:46 P.M., a man in a dark suit and dark sunglasses stepped out a side service door of the Capitol and held it open. A platoon of ten identically dressed men jogged out of the building. The tallest one had a stopwatch and wireless headset, and just as he reached Pensacola Street, a black super-stretch limo screeched up to the curb. The man with the stopwatch opened the back door of the limo, scanned the surroundings, and turned to the rest of the men, who had taken up sentry positions across the Capitol lawn. He twirled a finger in the air, followed by a series of third-base-coach signals. A clutch of elegantly dressed men and women emerged from the service door. The array of sentries collapsed around them to form a circle of human shields, then hustled the group to the curb and shoved them in the back of the limo, which sped north on Monroe Street. A pair of forest-green Hummers joined the limo, an escort in front and a trail vehicle in back. Two small flags snapped in the wind on each side of the limo’s hood. The flag on the right corner displayed the seal of the Florida governor’s office. The flag on the left used to have the same seal but now read: “The Outback Steakhouse Florida Governor’s Race.”

  Local law enforcement was worried about security. Due to the state’s proliferation of military assault weapons, violent narcotics gangs and middle-aged loners in one-bedroom apartments, the capital police force reported it was no longer capable of providing what it deemed was adequate security for the governor, lieutenant governor and their families and mistresses. They said they knew of only one group who could get the job done.

  The governor’s office hired the people who handled security for the Rolling Stones.

  The governor and staff were violently tossed left, then right as the limo slalomed the back roads of Tallahassee in textbook UN convoy maneuver. The governor and his campaign manager faced each other in the posh opposing backseats. The manager flipped flash cards.

  A bright yellow card: “Wetlands Despoilment.”

  The governor scratched his head. “We for or against that?”

  “For,” said the manager. “You feeling okay? That’s the third easy one you’ve missed.”

  The governor nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. A political world that had been second nature his entire life now seemed alien, oblique, clumsy. He felt light-headed, and the periphery of his vision dissolved
with a hallucinatory tinge. He looked around the spacious interior of the limo, packed with the usual suspects. The leather bench seating seemed to go on forever, all the way up to the chauffeur’s soundproof partition, like a hall of mirrors. The governor squinted and took a hard look for the first time. Who the hell were all these people? They stared back at him, smiling and nodding—handlers, trainers, therapists, linguists, donors, spokesmen, media consultants, speechwriters, image makers, spin doctors, crisis teams, spiritual gurus, food tasters, pollsters, pundits, wags, wonks, interstate bagmen, unindicted co-conspirators, miscellaneous hangers-on, and three bimbos who looked like the Mandrell Sisters.

  The campaign manager snapped his fingers in front of the governor’s face.

  “Wake up! I have some people I want you to meet.”

  The manager patted a bald man on the back. “Governor, this is Big Tobacco.” The manager then pointed to others who had wiggled their way back from the forward seats and now crowded shoulder to shoulder in the rear of the limo. “And this is Big Oil, Big Sugar, Big Insurance and Big Rental Car…”

  The limo approached a sprawling compound north of the Tallahassee limits. A guard waved them through the twin white metal gates with musical notes that replicated the entrance at Graceland. The vehicle entered a tunnel of nineteenth-century oaks. The residence sat on an elevated bluff—ten thousand square feet, three stories, brick, with portico and columns of Federal architecture. One hour until the debate, one last stop. Fund-raising. A high-end cocktail reception at the home of a man who needed no introduction other than “Perry.”

  Periwinkle Belvedere, the most influential lobbyist and political tactician in the state of Florida, who only drank mint juleps.

  Perry would have been imposing, even frightening, if it wasn’t for his gamma-ray smile. Six-four and full head of obscenely red hair. He was trim, but his hands and head were extra-large, and he greeted everyone with a fluid personal manner and a handshake that—through years of practice—precisely matched the pounds per square inch of his guest’s.

  Power was everywhere in Tallahassee. Political, industrial, sexual. Puddled up all over the city. Periwinkle simply connected the puddles and organized the water. Soon he had a raging river on his hands, which he dredged, dammed, reservoired and viaducted according to his fee schedule.

  But the times were changing. Laws limiting gifts, requiring disclosures, a full public accounting. The fun had already started to wheeze out of the capital balloon. Perry was mingling in the library, trying to hide his irritation at the legislators peeking through the blinds and curtains every few minutes, keeping an eye out for reporters like lookouts at a safe-cracking. Journalists, thought Perry, now there’s an attractive bunch. They could put a damper on an orgy.

  If ever a place had an orgy in mind, it was Perry’s. The Roman fountain in the foyer pumped Dom Pérignon. Inside the dining hall and out on the torch-lit patio: tables almost collapsing under Keys lobsters, beluga caviar, Périgord truffles, Peking duck and Alaskan salmon. All top-shelf, except for the two Sterno trays at the end of the last banquet table, specially ordered by Periwinkle to cater to the particular tastes of the Florida speaker of the house. Pigs-in-a-blanket and Beenie Weenies.

  When the lawmakers first reached the buffet tables, there was aggressive jockeying, the bright glint of cutlery and serving ladles, and finally a blinding piranha frenzy. In minutes, it was quiet again. The aftermath was chilling. Salmon stripped to the spinal column. Blue cheese chunks bobbing in the punch bowl. Beluga flung across the linen like coffee grounds. Cocktail sauce splattered mob-hit-style.

  But what really inspired Perry’s awe was their Light Brigade desiccation of the open bar. “My God,” he said in a reverent, hushed tone. “They’re worse than sportswriters.”

  No matter how many parties Perry threw, he couldn’t get over one of nature’s marvels, the sights and sounds of lawmakers at the trough, storing up complex carbohydrates for the winter in their woodchuck cheeks and distensible pelican throats. Early on, Perry learned that perks had a curious Bermuda Triangle effect on lawmakers, sending the instrument needles spinning in their judgment cockpits. It worked out to about a dime on the dollar. Fifty bucks of complimentary food, drink and knickknacks bought as much influence as a five-hundred-dollar campaign contribution.

  Despite the adorable government-in-the-sunshine reforms, Perry’s soirée tonight began to show signs of life, and a smile crossed his face as the foyer echoed with the hollow din of clinking glasses, self-important laughter and cell phones.

  Another cell phone went off, and a half-dozen people at the petit fours checked their jackets and purses. The ones who came up with nonringing phones winced in public shame; the one with the activated phone smirked.

  The smirk belonged to Todd Vanderbilt, who answered his cell phone loudly for the benefit of those around him: “It’s your dime!”

  Todd was Perry Belvedere’s top lobbyist, and his cell phone rang every five minutes because he told his personal assistant to “call me every five minutes.”

  “What do I say?”

  “You don’t say anything.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.”

  Between phone calls, Todd’s beeper went off. So did his Palm Pilot, Sky Pager and self-correcting wristwatch, receiving microwave data from the Atomic Clock in Colorado.

  Another alarm went off somewhere on Todd. He reached in his jacket, pulled out an e-gizmo and grinned at the crowd. “Stock split!”

  “Ha!” countered a rival. “The market’s closed!”

  “Tokyo,” said Todd.

  “Ooooooooooo,” the impressed crowd responded, then clapped.

  Todd was everything Tallahassee was looking for: young, handsome, ambitious and completely full of shit. From his wardrobe to his manicure, everything was consciously in place. Except for one puzzle piece. The girl on his arm. His date was Sally Brewster, Perry Belvedere’s accounting wizard. She was twenty-three, which was right in Todd’s usual kill zone, but that’s where it ended. Sally had scored something like a million on her SATs and graduated magna cum laude from Princeton, where she had a full scholarship and no dating life. There were a number of reasons. Her long hours studying left little time for extracurricular activity. And she had a nose like a stromboli.

  Consequently, Sally remained awkward and frumpish. Her brown hair was straight and stringy, and her clothes looked like the uniform at a Cracker Barrel. She was also sweet as they come. And when a girl is as intelligent and nice as Sally, nature—with its charming brand of whimsy—makes her have a crush on a guy like Todd.

  Sally had hovered around Todd for months, running to get him coffee, baking him cookies and banana bread, laughing at jokes that were at her expense. He routinely took out frustrations on her because she was the path of least resistance, and she forgave him.

  Last Friday morning, Todd checked the market action on his office computer and chewed with his mouth open. Sally stood demurely with a baking tray.

  “Killer brownies,” said Todd, still chomping. “Hey, you wanna go to Perry’s party with me next week?”

  Todd thought Sally had gone into anaphylactic shock.

  He got her a chair and a glass of water. “Tell me if you’re gonna be sick, okay? ’Cause I can’t get anything on this tie.”

  Sally spent the next week shopping. She ran up charges for clothes, her hair, everything. Even was fitted for contact lenses so she could ditch the granny glasses.

  It would be nice to say the change was stunning, and that Sally emerged like a beautiful swan. It was not to be. She looked as natural and graceful as a rusting robot, stiffly hobbled on high heels, blinking rapidly from new contacts and bumping into things.

  PERIWINKLE Belvedere glanced from his watch to the doorway, waiting for the governor. Standing with him was Elizabeth Sinclair, Perry’s office manager. Todd Vanderbilt may have been Perry’s hottest lobbyist, but Elizabeth was the glue of maturity that held his staff tog
ether. Dignified dark business suit and pearl stud earrings. Blond hair in a short, conservative Meg Ryan cut. She was forty-eight years old, wondered why she was still single, and remembered why every time she came to one of Perry’s parties.

  “You certainly look nice tonight,” said Perry.

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth.

  “Although we talked about your clothes.”

  “I know.”

  “I really wish you’d wear something a little more…”

  “More what?”

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Perry sighed. “Why can’t you be a team player like Todd?”

  Elizabeth and Perry looked over to the faux fireplace, where a series of electronic beeps, pulses, tones and buzzers were going off all over Todd, who smiled and produced a device in each hand and announced: “The sound of success!” He flicked open the cell phone. “It’s your dime!”

  Elizabeth turned to Perry. “Your star pupil.”

  Perry shook his head. “Look, I’m depending on you—” Something across the room caught his eye and he perked up. “Here comes the governor. Try to be nice.”

  Heads turned as the state’s chief executive crossed the ballroom. His campaign manager and press secretary trailed close behind, whispering over his shoulders, overlapping each other, identifying people just before the governor shook their hands.