Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  “You mean he’s not dangerous?” asked Escrow. “Not even a teeny weeny bit?”

  “Absolutely harmless.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” said Marlon, and Escrow showed him out of the office.

  Escrow shook the doctor’s hand in the hall. “Say, about that patient confidentiality…c’mon, you can tell me.”

  “Afraid not,” said the doctor. “It’s a very serious oath. It’s almost like religion.”

  Escrow handed him a hundred-dollar bill.

  “He has amnesia,” said the doctor.

  “Amnesia!” repeated Escrow. He grabbed his forehead and fell back against the wall. “If this gets out, I’m finished! Who knows what kind of monster I have in there!”

  “You got a pussycat—gentle as a kitten,” said the doctor. “The odds are his memory will come back on its own anyway. I wouldn’t worry.”

  ACROSS town in a dingy apartment, Pimento rocked back and forth on the edge of his couch, watching a tape of Taxi Driver for the fourteenth time in as many days.

  He got up and went in the bathroom and stared in the mirror. “Who are you?” He pounded on the mirror and it broke, blood trickling down the sides of his hands.

  Pimento had drawn a blank for six months, but two weeks ago—the first day of the Taxi Driver film festival—he started getting flashbacks during the climactic shootout scene. Disturbing stuff. Phantasmagoria. Snippets of guns and gore, a chainsaw and severed fingers, and somewhere in the middle he was at the World Series. How did that fit?…Through it all, he still couldn’t remember his name, which was Serge A. Storms, or that he had, you know, killed a bunch of people.

  He came back in the room as Taxi Driver was ending and replaced the tape with The Manchurian Candidate.

  9

  THE SUN WAS setting in a primrose sky. Tiny mangrove humps in the Florida Keys appeared on the horizon as the South American airliner began its descent from forty thousand feet for the approach to Miami International.

  The pilot and copilot were talking in Spanish about the defoliating blight that was Ricky Martin’s career.

  “Should have put a stop to Menudo when we had the chance—”

  He was interrupted by a cockpit alarm, and they looked at the blinking amber button. “Flight attendant needs assistance.”

  When the copilot opened the door in the back of the cockpit, he saw what he’d been fearing. There—in the aisle between seats 27C and 27D—the man in the business suit with his necktie wrapped around his forehead like a kamikaze. Unsuccessfully trying to light a cigarette, stumbling and falling into other passengers, who shrank back in their seats with revulsion.

  “How many has he had?” the copilot asked the flight attendant waiting outside the cabin door.

  “Only three vodkas,” she said. “Must have brought a bottle.”

  The man climbed on top of the beverage cart, which, because of the jet’s descent, began rolling forward. It accelerated, slowly at first, but rapidly picked up speed until it veered into the back of seat 14C at fifteen miles per hour, scattering empty cans of Sprite and Mr. and Mrs. T’s Bloody Mary Mix, and catapulting the businessman into the bulkhead separating first class from huddled mass.

  The flight attendant cringed at the force of the impact. But the businessman soon made his way to his feet again like the Terminator. He staggered and slid his necktie back down to his collar.

  “His muscles must have been all relaxed from the alcohol,” said the flight attendant.

  “What’s his line?” asked the copilot.

  “Commodities broker.”

  “Fits the profile.”

  The broker grabbed a lavender sunbonnet off a woman’s head and put it on. Another flight attendant tried one last time to coax him back into a seat. He swatted her with the bonnet and shoved her to the floor. “Fuck you, too!” And he began weaving aft.

  An anxious Brazilian dignitary in first class grabbed the copilot’s arm. “What’s going on?”

  “Air rage,” he said, starting to move down the aisle. “Routine. Nothing to worry about.”

  The broker made his way to the back of the plane and began yanking the handle on the door of what appeared to be an occupied lavatory. The door finally opened and the man went inside and slid the lock.

  The copilot and flight attendant stood guard in the aisle a few rows away. “Hopefully, he’ll stay in there till we land.”

  The pilot radioed ahead. Federal aviation agents were waiting on the runway.

  “What’s Ricky Martin got that I don’t?” the copilot asked the flight attendant.

  “You?” she said, giving him a quick up-and-down and laughing.

  “Excuse me,” said a passenger coming forward from the lavatories, wearing a red leather Miami Heat jacket, and the copilot and flight attendant parted to make room.

  “Look,” said the copilot, putting out his arms and thrusting his pelvis.

  After landing, the passengers quickly deplaned. Some ran all the way to baggage. Bodyguards ushered the Brazilian dignitary into a waiting Mercedes. The federal agents boarded.

  “He’s still in there,” said the flight attendant, pointing to the back of the plane, and agents in FAA windbreakers moved briskly down the aisle.

  They opened the lavatory door.

  AN hour later, the agents milled in the aisle, drinking coffee and flirting with flight attendants. A disheveled man in a tweed coat walked toward them and flashed a badge.

  “Mahoney, homicide.”

  “Mahoney, this is federal territory.”

  “Not while you’re on my runway.”

  “Is this going to get ugly?”

  “It already has.” Mahoney produced a flask and offered it to the federal agent.

  “That’s against the rules.”

  Mahoney took a pull. “The rules are different here.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “What else you hear?”

  “Take the Cowboys and the points at home.”

  “Air rage?” asked Mahoney, pointing to the rear of the plane.

  “Classic case.”

  They walked to the lavatory and the agent pushed the door open.

  Mahoney stepped inside, bent down and lifted the sheet.

  “We found him facedown in the metal toilet,” said the federal agent. “Someone tied a travel alarm clock on the end of his necktie, stuck it in the hole and flushed.”

  “And the pressurized suction of the high-tech commode did the rest?”

  The agent nodded grimly. “Must have been at least ninety pounds per square inch. Strangled him in short order. I had a hell of a time cutting him loose with my pocketknife.”

  Mahoney stood up and rubbed his chin. “My guess is he won’t be using those frequent-flier miles.”

  “Take a look at this,” said the agent. He bent down and lifted the victim’s shirt.

  “Somebody’s a comedian,” said Mahoney.

  “My gut tells me it wasn’t Lenny Bruce.”

  They stared back down at the words written in Magic Marker on the victim’s chest.

  FLY THE FRIENDLY SKIES.

  10

  MARLON CONRAD’S POLLS were out of sight.

  Nobody had ever been as popular in Florida. He had matured as a politician, growing more handsome and charismatic all the while. It almost didn’t seem fair. He wasn’t just good-looking for a politician; he was good-looking for a movie star, and he had mastered the art of looking you straight in the eye with a hint of empathy, making you believe for that moment that you were the only person in the world who mattered. He soon earned the nickname “The Great Communicator,” because of his unbelievably high approval rating among the people he was hurting.

  The newspapers were another matter. They never bought Marlon’s act. The editorials invoked Marie Antoinette and the fox guarding the henhouse. The papers’ sting was swift, on-target and ignored. Not even a blip in the polls. If anything, Marlon’s numbers were still going up.

  It was g
oing smooth. Too smooth. Just when Marlon’s handlers were their most smug, a reporter’s question came twirling into the camp like a German potato masher.

  ON a warm September evening just after sunset, Escrow and a bodyguard were standing outside a banquet hall overlooking Sarasota Bay near the Ringling Causeway. A peach-faced reporter fumbled with a large stack of Xeroxed public records and wouldn’t make eye contact. “Uh, when did Mr. Conrad register with the Selective Service? I can’t seem to find any record—” A bunch of the papers got away, blowing in a circle on the pavement, slipping over the seawall. The reporter ran around the parking lot, occasionally stomping on a document.

  The bodyguard laughed and flicked a cigarette butt end over end into the bay, enjoying the looping orange tracer. Escrow called over to the reporter in a W.C. Fields voice: “We’ll have to look into that one, kid,” and they went back inside the banquet hall.

  The next day the phone rang in Escrow’s office. He listened impatiently. “We’re still working on it…. I’ll give you a ring.”

  He hung up. “That kid again!”

  After ten days of persistent calls, Escrow was grumbling out loud. He slammed the phone. “Sick of this!…Can’t take a hint!…Now I have to get up!”

  A half hour later, Escrow stood in Marlon’s doorway with a file. “Houston, we have a problem.”

  A corporate jet from Big Phosphate was dispatched to retrieve the three-headed hydra—Governor Birch, Periwinkle Belvedere and Dempsey Conrad—from a weekend spokesmodel summit in a houseboat off Naples. That night the lamps burned into the small hours at Belvedere’s lobbying firm. Staff were summoned from home. The coffee kept coming.

  “How could you not register?” yelled Dempsey.

  “They don’t have a draft anymore, do they?” asked Marlon.

  “You still have to register! It’s a federal crime!”

  “I didn’t see the point. If I got called up, we have a million ways to get me out of it.”

  Dempsey to Perry: “He’s not getting it.”

  Birch: “They’re gonna Quayle him!”

  “Quayle me?” asked Marlon.

  “You know the joke,” said Birch. “‘Did you hear Stanley Kubrick made a movie about Dan Quayle’s military service? It’s called Full Dinner Jacket.’”

  “Ouch.”

  “Look, we’ll get the lawyers on it in the morning,” said Belvedere. “Have him nolo contendre, pay a fine. Shit, he’s too old now anyway.”

  “Of course he’ll skate in court,” said Birch. “What I’m worried about is the court of public opinion.”

  “Excuse me,” said Elizabeth Sinclair. “I think I know the solution—”

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” said Perry. “Would you be a sweetie and get us some more coffee?”

  Sinclair got up without reacting. As she poured Sanka in the next room, she wished she had the nerve to quit and start her own firm.

  Back in the bunker, Dempsey snapped his fingers. “I got it—preemptive strike! Have him enlist in the reserves! Think of the publicity from his two weeks of active duty!”

  “It’ll be like GI Elvis!” said Perry. “By the time that wormy reporter prints his story, we’ll have Robert Capa photos all over the place!”

  Birch smiled. “You know, we might even come out ahead on this one.”

  YOU’D have thought war had broken out. The state’s newspapers dutifully published photos of Marlon climbing an obstacle-course wall, belly-crawling under fake machine-gun fire, and sitting back in the barracks, writing letters to Babs on the home front. There were pictures of Babs, too, knitting, canning preserves, and staring out the bedroom window, surrounded by shelves of Belgian puppets, bravely awaiting her man’s return from the hell that is Lakeland.

  A week after Marlon completed his tour of duty, a limousine from Big Tire and Rubber picked him up on the runway at Orlando International Airport. Dempsey, Perry and Birch were already inside.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is with this guy,” said Marlon.

  “Don’t get cocky,” snipped Dempsey. “You were lucky on that military thing.”

  “But I don’t even like football,” said Marlon.

  Dempsey grinned at the governor. “He doesn’t like football.” He turned back to Marlon. “Son, the three of us are all huge football fans, but today we don’t give a jumping fuck who wins or loses. This is business.”

  “We think you’re finally ready,” said Birch. “We’re taking you to the mountaintop.”

  “Helmut von Zeppelin can make or break your career,” added Belvedere.

  “But I thought you three guys had all the power in the state,” said Marlon. “The notorious Birch-Belvedere-Conrad troika.”

  “Let’s just say we like to stay on friendly terms.”

  The limo swung through a private gate at Big Auto Parts Stadium.

  The four stood outside the private elevator leading up to the owner’s booth. The doors opened.

  Birch grabbed Marlon by the arm. “Whatever you do, don’t say anything about the monocle.”

  They stepped in the elevator, and the doors closed.

  “Hold on to your hat, son,” said Dempsey. “You’re about to make your first trip to the top of Mount Bastard.”

  “GOVERNOR! Damn fine of you to drop in,” said Helmut, jumping up from a sofa in his skybox and striding confidently toward the group. He pumped Birch’s hand like they do on the range. “And this must be The Kid!”

  Helmut grabbed Marlon’s hand. “I’ve heard great things about you! You’ve got an incredible future if you play your cards right. But what am I saying? Of course you will—you’re a Conrad!”

  They all laughed stoutly and then stopped.

  “Bet you want a mint julep,” Helmut said to Belvedere.

  “Does a bear shit on the pope?”

  “Got something new all of you should try.”

  Helmut walked over to an antique credenza and pressed a button. A hatch opened and a bar service ascended via hydraulics.

  “That’s some setup,” said Dempsey.

  “Only the best will do for our taxpayers,” said Helmut. They laughed again and Helmut filled five glasses with a brownish-orange liquid. “Speaking of which, did you hear the property appraiser won’t grant me an exemption for the stadium? Says he wants to tax it like any other business. I’ve never heard of such a thing! Churches don’t have to pay…”

  Birch turned to Periwinkle. “Destroy his career.”

  “Done.”

  “I expected no less,” said Helmut, handing out drinks. Birch held his glass to the light. “Looks good. What is it?”

  “Venezuelan rum. Forty years old,” said Helmut. He raised his own glass. “Death to the weak!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  They knocked the rum back all at once.

  Marlon wasn’t used to drinking straight, and he made a face.

  “You’re not going to puke, are you, kid?” Helmut slapped him on the back, sending a high-proof draft into Marlon’s sinuses, and he had to excuse himself, prompting another bout of jocularity.

  “I remember when I was comin’ up,” said Helmut. “Blew my guts hundreds of times.” The others smiled in recollection and agreement. Yes, nothing better.

  Birch sniffed his empty glass. “There’s something extra special about this stuff I can’t quite place.”

  “It’s duty-free,” said Helmut.

  Birch nodded. “Should have known.”

  Marlon came out of the bathroom, and he and Dempsey sat on the couch. The others pulled up chairs and got down to business. Helmut brought the bottle of rum.

  “Governor, I want to talk about the sales tax exemption for the stadium again. I’ve been hearing crazy talk of a move to repeal the provision. Don’t think for a second I doubt you. But it’s a pile of money, and I’m a count-hatched-chickens kinda guy.”

  “Well, I’m a bird-in-the-hand kinda guy, so that almost makes us kin.” The laughs just wouldn’t quit. More rum. “Look,
you got nothing to worry about. It’s arranged.”

  “I don’t know…” said Helmut, scratching his noggin. “I already got the thirty million committed. Seriously committed. Guys from New Jersey.”

  “Helmut, here’s your guarantee,” said Birch, patting his chest. “As long as I’m breathing, it’ll get done. And if something happens to me, there’s always my lieutenant, Marlon here.” Birch slapped Marlon’s knee.

  Helmut turned to him. “Can I count on you, son?”

  “You can count on me, sir.”

  “Good, ’cause you don’t know these Jersey guys. If it don’t come through, I’m in a world o’ hurt.”

  The afternoon wore on. More rum.

  At the beginning of the third quarter, the Cowboys ran ninety yards from scrimmage, making it thirty-five to nothing. A submarine sandwich disintegrated on the window of the skybox.

  On the ensuing kickoff, the Felons fumbled. A cheese steak smacked the glass, followed by soft drinks and a caramel apple with nuts that stuck like a rubber-tipped dart.

  Helmut nodded at his assistant, who reached down to a console beside the couch and flipped a recessed switch, activating water jets and giant windshield wipers.

  “Tough season?” asked Birch.

  “You have no idea,” said Helmut.

  By the fourth quarter the Felons trailed by forty-five, the bottle from Venezuela was empty, and they were all gassed.

  Marlon killed his drink. “Hey, Zepp, what’s with the fuckin’ monocle?”

  Horrified silence.

  Finally, Helmut reached over—“Come here, kid”—and punched Marlon in the shoulder. “I like you!”

  “Ow,” said Marlon, rubbing his arm.

  The others exhaled in relief.

  Some kind of incendiary device hit the window, setting the glass and wipers on fire, but Helmut’s assistant had it out quickly with the water jets.

  “I didn’t know football was so exciting,” said Dempsey.

  “Oh, you can’t just sit at home and watch it on TV,” said Helmut. “It’s a whole different game in person…. Who wants a ride in the ejection pod?”