by Dorsey, Tim
“Unbelievable,” said Marlon, turning the page.
Escrow arrived and stood in the doorway. Marlon’s desk was covered with papers, both his arms going with coffee and bagels and telephones, Pimento standing next to him with a steno pad and coffeepot.
“What the hell’s going on here?” said Escrow. He pointed at Pimento. “This is all your doing!”
Pimento scratched his nose with his middle finger, giving Escrow The Secret Bird.
Marlon flipped the last newspaper closed. “Okay, let’s hit it!”
MARLON was psyched.
So were Dempsey and Periwinkle. They had arrived early in the spectator section overlooking the House floor.
“Always knew he had it!” said Perry. “Wonder what brilliant plan he’s got cooking this time.”
“I smell dynasty!” said Dempsey.
Marlon marched through the rotunda with Pimento in tow. To their left, bright camera lights went on, followed by shouting and people flipping open notebooks. A press conference had broken out. It was Reform Party candidate Albert Fresco.
“I’m a say-what’s-on-my-mind kinda guy, and I’m madder than a sumbitch!” Fresco yelled at the cameras. “I’m a straight shooter, a no-nonsense type. I don’t beat around the bush. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say!…”
“Mr. Fresco, do you agree with the governor that we need to increase staffing for child protective services?”
“No, no, no!” Fresco shouted at the reporter, waving his arms. “I can’t be bothered with that pointy-headed issue stuff! I’ve got common sense, and I’ve had it up to here!…Did I already mention that I’m madder than a sumbitch?…”
To Marlon’s right, more camera lights went on. Free entertainment provided by a PAC pushing to allow power plants to burn a controversial South American fuel. A chorus line of women high-kicked their way across the south end of the Capitol, The Orimulsion Dancers.
Marlon kept walking. He entered the House chamber, where he was to address the joint opening session. Inside, everyone joked and chatted convivially, opening gift cards.
And the flowers.
An entire spring meadow. Marlon couldn’t see a single desk. It seemed to get worse every session, like the lobbyists were trying to outdo themselves. People started noticing Marlon and waving, but Marlon was feeling a little weird. At first he thought he might faint. People’s voices warbled and blended into swirling orchestra arrangements, everyone moving in slow motion. There was J.J. Weathervane, clutching another sterling gavel, and Boley “Bo” Bodacious, kissing a bottle of scotch with a ribbon around it.
Marlon began walking down the center aisle, faster and faster. He broke into a run. He swerved to a desk on the left, angrily sweeping the flowers to the floor. He grabbed a vase off another desk and smashed it in the aisle. He ran down an entire row with his arms out, knocking all the pots and wreaths to the ground. He grabbed the ridiculous floral horseshoe off the Ocala representative’s desk and bashed it against the plate glass of the spectator section.
On the other side of the window, Perry Belvedere turned to Dempsey Conrad. “This doesn’t smell like dynasty to me.”
The press gallery had been braced for another marathon yawner, but suddenly there was news on the floor. The TV people fumbled for blank cassettes, and photographers loaded film.
Marlon was out of breath but not finished. He was up at the front of the chamber, by the dais, looking for a new target. He saw a handful of men in the back of the chamber, and he knew they didn’t belong. Only lawmakers were allowed past the air lock of their new glassed-in chambers. But Marlon now saw these other guys in back, these lobbyists. How did they get in here? He knew how, the fuckers! Marlon charged.
The lobbyists saw that crazy look in his eyes and turned and ran—straight into the glass. Ow, Jesus! Where’s the door? It’s clear, too! We can’t find it!…They felt along the glass sideways, looking for a knob or hinges or something, but it was too late. Marlon caught one from behind. The spectators on the other side of the window watched in horror at his silent scream, his frantic pawing against the glass in a futile attempt to find traction—Marlon grabbing him by the ankles and pulling him off the window, dragging him down the aisle and all the way to the speaker’s chair. He let go of the ankles to grab some flowers, and the lobbyist tried to scamper away on his hands and knees. Marlon beat him over the head with bouquets of roses and chrysanthemums.
Dempsey and Perry couldn’t believe their ears. They looked around. Everyone was cheering and whistling. They had never seen such a response from the gallery. And it wasn’t confined to the Capitol. TV affiliates went live across the state. In living rooms and sports bars everywhere, robust applause. Down on the floor, the disgraced lobbyist, whimpering, trying to crawl away, all this pollen and petals and shit in his hair, and Marlon gives him a last kick-in-the-ass-to-go. Then Marlon stormed out of the chamber and was mobbed by reporters and spectators as soon as he cleared the air lock.
“Amazing. He’s tapped into the whole anger thing,” said Periwinkle. “Everyone’s always wanted to do that to a lobbyist. Even me. And I’m a lobbyist.”
“Let me run a radical notion by you,” said Dempsey. “Maybe he’s even better at this than we are.”
“From now on, we don’t interfere….”
“No matter how crazy it seems….”
16
MARLON WAS ALL over the evening news. The tabloids and England were calling.
It didn’t matter.
As soon as Marlon had left the chamber, the legislature went about its usual three-toed-sloth business. None of the governor’s bills got out of committee.
Marlon wasn’t daunted. The next morning he decided to redouble his efforts. He was optimistic as he left his office for the gun industry hearings.
When Marlon arrived in the packed committee room, the lawmakers were crowded at the gun lobby’s table, getting autographs from Jack Savage, former Hollywood semistar who now shilled for the munitions industry. Savage smiled as he signed scraps of paper and proposed legislation. He was wearing an unstrapped Army helmet, his trademark from his last nonflop, the 1959 war rhapsody Guns, Guts and God. Behind him, the right side of the gallery was filled with Second Amendment supporters in combat fatigues, martial arts robes and biological warfare hoods.
But Marlon had his allies, too. The left side of the gallery was full of law enforcement from around the state. They sat quietly with black bands around their badges, nodding their support to the governor.
Marlon took his seat next to committee chairman Mott Ewing. Ewing pounded his gavel, and the legislators frowned and stopped getting autographs and took their seats.
Marlon asked to be recognized. “I want to start with Teflon-coated bullets—their only purpose is to penetrate police officers’ vests.”
“Rubbish!” responded Savage. “They’re for sportsmen. They’re great for target practice.”
A ninja in the audience held up a sign behind Savage: TEFLON-COATED BULLETS DON’T KILL COPS. PEOPLE KILL COPS!
“I want to follow up,” said Chairman Ewing. Marlon nodded—good, an ally. Ewing paused, then broke into an embarrassed smile. “Will you sign this for me?” He held up a poster from Planet of the Chimps.
“I’d be happy to,” said Savage.
Marlon fell back in his chair and rolled his eyes.
By the end of the afternoon, the lawmakers had addressed the crisis of gun violence in Florida by drafting laws against flag-burning, needle-exchange programs and public art involving urine.
Ewing prepared to adjourn the hearing.
Jack Savage raised his hand.
“Yes?” said Ewing.
“I think we should close with a prayer.”
ON the third and last day of the session, Marlon was back in his office at daybreak, but he was starting to show wear. He chugged coffee, riffled the morning papers and triaged his proposed legislation, hoping to get at least something passed.
“Now I unde
rstand the old saying,” he told Pimento. “Two things you don’t want to see being made: sausage and law.”
“Could be worse,” said Pimento, pointing out a newspaper article from Alabama, where the legislature had tackled its state’s rural poverty and unsettling infant mortality rate by banning dildos.
“Just hope none of our guys see that and get any bright ideas.”
Escrow showed up with his clipboard. “Governor, Jack Savage is here to see you. He wants to know—and I quote—‘how he can help us.’ This could be a record contribution!”
“Don’t think I won’t hit you.”
Marlon took a last slug of coffee, and he and Pimento marched passed Escrow.
“Governor—” said Savage, smiling and rising from his seat in the lobby.
“Fuck yourself, Rambo.”
They stormed into the rotunda. To the right, a lobbyist for Jesus PAC was holding a press conference denouncing moral relativism as the greatest threat to intolerance that God-fearing Americans had ever faced. To the left, The Product Liability Mimes.
Marlon never broke stride.
When he hit the door of the House chamber, he was surprised and delighted. Everyone serious, reading glasses halfway down their noses, moving deliberately, reading bills. The clerk and the speaker sat at the dais, poring over upcoming business. That’s more like it, thought Marlon.
Following tradition, some lawmakers brought wooden train whistles into the chamber to blow when they wanted to kid other lawmakers that they were “railroading” bills. They gave the whistles a few practice toots, then blew the spit out of them.
Marlon walked optimistically to his key legislative point man. Every governor has several point men in both the House and Senate. Their job is to introduce legislation advocated by the governor, since he is not a member of the bodies and can’t do it himself. Marlon spoke urgently with his top man in the House.
“Don’t worry, I understand completely,” said the point man. “It’s a done deal.” He took the bills from Marlon and headed for the speaker’s desk.
Marlon and Pimento grabbed seats in back. “Okay,” said Marlon. “This is it.”
At the end of the day, when House Speaker Gomer Tatum finally gaveled the special session to a close, Marlon couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.
It had been a nonstop relay race of Robert’s Rules. The proceedings got off the line fast and accelerated with building efficiency. Bills rolled out. People took quick turns at the microphone. Votes came in rapid succession, tabulated on the new overhead Insta-Vote 5000. Feasibility study, Port Richey-to-New Port Richey bullet-train corridor. Passed! Five thousand dollars, Cape Sable Massacre Festival Dunking Booth. Passed! Pied-Billed Grebe, First Alternate State Bird. Passed! Hundred thousand dollars, Mulberry supercollider seed money. Passed! Increased criminal penalties for sports agents giving away Nikes. Passed!…
Someone blew a train whistle.
Toot! Toot!
Dominic Calabro of Florida TaxWatch strutted around the visitors’ gallery in a turkey costume.
Laughter filled the chamber.
Except Marlon.
He made an end run to the clerk’s desk. “What the hell is all this? The session is supposed to be about children!”
“Oh, right!” said the clerk, rustling through papers. “Your bills are coming up any minute….”
Marlon went back to his seat.
His point man made it to the front of the line. He grabbed the microphone and made an impassioned plea for the welfare of the state’s children.
Marlon leaned forward in his chair.
“…So I want to talk today about our decline in moral values.” He held up a newspaper. “Look what they’re doing in Alabama about it!”
Marlon slapped himself in the forehead.
The lawmaker proposed outlawing oral sex. However, a legislative aide whispered something in his ear, and the lawmaker amended his bill to exempt fellatio and only ban cunnilingus.
“Cunnilingus?” Dempsey said to Perry in the onlooker section. “Heard some of my assembly-line workers talking about that. Is that some kind of repetitive-motion injury?”
“Can be,” said Perry.
The bill passed.
Toot! Toot!
17
DETECTIVE MAHONEY’S WIFE had kicked him out of the house again.
“Every time you leave for work, I never know if I’ll ever see you again! I can’t take it anymore!”
“It’s just a job.”
“You love it! You’re just like the guys you arrest! You all get high on the action!”
In his heart, he knew she was right. He put on his tweed coat and cocked fedora, kissed her on the forehead and headed into the night.
Mahoney went for a long walk in the city. It was where he did his best thinking. It had just stopped raining, and he bought some smokes in a corner liquor store. A Camaro full of kids went by. “Look at the weirdo!” It splashed a puddle on Mahoney’s shoes.
Mahoney looked down at his soggy oxfords and shook his head. “Wrong-way kids on a dead-end street.”
He turned into a doorway with a pink neon martini glass above it. The place was extra dark with red light, the way he liked it. He put his hat on the bar.
“Give me a bourbon, Louie.”
The bartender set a highball glass in front of Mahoney. “The name’s Sam.”
Mahoney pulled out a George Washington and a handful of change.
“Your money’s no good here,” said the bartender.
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean it’s no fucking good. You gave me a bunch of peep show tokens.”
“Sorry.” Mahoney found some more money in another pocket and put it on the bar. “Crazy day at home, Louie.”
“Why do you keep calling me Louie?”
“You look like a Louie.”
Mahoney drained his drink in one long pull and set the empty glass down on the venerable bar. “Dames, Louie. One minute you think you’ve found true love, the next you’ve had your wallet lifted by a cross-dresser named Tallulah…Ever kissed a man, Louie?”
“What?”
“I mean by accident. Tongue and all.”
“Get the fuck out of my bar!”
“You’re right, sleep it off. Always watchin’ out for me. Good ol’ Louie.”
“I said, get the fuck out of here!”
Mahoney picked up his hat, fit it on his head at a jaunty angle, and strolled out of the bar.
He walked another hour down Biscayne Boulevard until he ended up in the cramped lobby of the Gulfstream Inn and got a room with extra mildew for twenty-nine dollars. For another sawbuck, he had a bottle of rotgut delivered to the room in a brown paper bag. He was asleep before Letterman came on.
Mahoney was startled awake at three A.M. by a horrible scream, a gunshot and a tremendous automobile crash.
“Probably nothing,” he said and went back to sleep.
The gunshot and crash were on TV in the next room, but the scream was real. It came from the room two doors down.
Inside, a young woman sat up alone in bed, panting. Over the back of a chair was a red leather Miami Heat jacket.
She threw the covers off her legs and went to the sink and turned on the light. She gazed in the mirror.
Looking back was a woman about five-eight, way too thin, tiny features much younger than her twenty-two years and black hair in a pixie cut, just over the top of her ears. A beauty mark on her right cheek, skin an elegant light cocoa. She was wearing white panties and a big Key Largo jersey. She noticed the bandage wrapped around her left hand. She had forgotten about that. It was now soaked through pink, like hamburger juice, and she began changing the dressing with disinterest.
It had been a busy week, coming in from the airport and all. Learning her way around Miami. She had ditched the Buick on the MacArthur and caught a taxi. The hack dropped her at a Walgreens and got out to help with her single bag. She tipped him, then remembered her Walkman in
the backseat—not paying attention as she reached in, and the driver slammed the door extra hard, the way cabbies do.
“Holy shit!” the driver yelled.
The door bounced back open on its own. The skin was gnarled back to the bone across the four knuckles, with plenty of blood. The fingers had to be broken.
She didn’t make a sound, just stared without expression at her hand, turning it over, looking at one side and the other, tilting her head quizzically. The driver panicked, ready to jump in ten directions at once. She grabbed him with her good hand as he started to faint.
The driver got his bearings and found a T-shirt in the front seat and wrapped it around her hand.
“Jesus! Doesn’t that hurt?”
She looked up at him blankly.
“You going into shock?”
She shook her head no.
“I’ll call an ambulance!”
He turned to run inside the Walgreens but suddenly felt electricity running along the insides of his legs. He looked down. Her good hand had him between the legs, and he saw it contract into a fist. He hit the ground. She held her bad hand to her chest and picked up her Calvin Klein duffel bag. The last the driver saw of the woman was the view from under the taxi, her bare feet on Biscayne Boulevard.
The first place she came to was the Gulfstream Inn, where she got a room on the second floor and now stood in front of the mirror.
The pink gauze fell in the sink in folds. The first long wet stretch came off. She grabbed the sports section of the Herald and wrapped the used bandage and dropped it in the wastebasket. She grabbed another section of the paper and set it beside the faucets, ready to take the next wad. She started to hallucinate. The nightmare that had awoken her a few minutes earlier was back again, this time while she was fully awake.
She was on a dirt street high up over the water. It was night and she could see small ships in the distance. There was a port, and cargo cranes lifted lumber and sugar and coffee at the Bay of Guanabara. To her left rose the steep peak of Mount Corcovado, with a large white statue of Christ on top. Way down below shined the city. Banks and skyscrapers, luxury shops and discotheques. But she was up in the favelas, the shantytowns of collapsing aluminum and cardboard, running sewage and confusion. She began to feel cold and hungry. She had a paper bag in her hands and she put it over her mouth and nose. Soon the hunger went away and she felt warm. She heard reverberating voices and there were others like her all around. Small boys and girls, six, seven years old, filthy, walking down the street with paper bags of glue. She was the smallest.