Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  “This is great!” said the network producer. “They’re ready to kill each other. Turn up the volume on the courtside mikes. I want the TV audience to hear every grunt!”

  In the ninth game, Jenny’s forehand overpowered Tanya, who put three in the net and had her service broken again. After the game, they switched sides of the court, breaking the rules by walking around the same end of the net. They elbowed each other.

  “Slut!”

  “Whore!”

  The mikes picked it up perfectly.

  “Whoa!” said Enberg. “Now that’s spunk!”

  “You idiot!” Tanya’s father screamed through the gorilla mask. “That old maid’s kicking your ass! Why can’t you do anything right! You’re a disgrace!…”

  Jenny’s serve was only getting stronger. She started the next game with an ace that froze Tanya on the baseline. Five minutes later, she won the second set on another wicked overhead.

  Both players dragged to the sidelines and collapsed in chairs. They panted and poured water over their heads.

  Tanya’s father was seated five feet behind his daughter.

  “What are you, a loser? You disgust me! You’re letting that skanked-out crazy old bitch beat you!…”

  Jenny walked briskly across the court and swung the side of her racket into Mr. Svenson’s Adam’s apple. His eyes poked out, and he fell back in his seat clutching his throat. The crowd cheered.

  “Ooooooo,” said Enberg. “That must have tickled.”

  “Thanks,” said Tanya.

  “M-m-m-my treat,” said Jenny.

  The third set was brutal. Halfway through, neither player had anything left—the boxers too tired to block any blows, just taking and returning punches. It was worse for the older Jenny. Tanya was exhausted, but Jenny was starting to see black around the edges. Spirit and adrenaline carried her.

  After the seventh game, Jenny fell into her chair and thought she would never get back out. She put her head between her legs and strained like a fighter pilot in a six-G turn to get more blood to her brain. The network went to a commercial break.

  “I’m so proud of Jenny,” Elizabeth told Marlon.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he replied. “I can see now why she was so famous.”

  Out in the parking lot, someone was arriving late in a red Ferrari with a vanity tag.

  The players staggered back onto the court. Each still had strong serves and first returns, but after that it was painful to watch. Jenny lunged for a backhand she would have easily reached in the first set, but this time she went sprawling. On the next point, Tanya got turned the wrong way going back for a lob and fell.

  Up high in the arena, in the maintenance room with the electrical fuses, the bolt of a Tango-51 slid shut, and the end of the barrel rested on the lip of a small observation window. Marlon’s head filled the bull’s-eye of the scope.

  Jenny reached back with everything she had and aced Tanya to even the set at six-all. They switched sides for the tiebreaker.

  In the rifle scope, Marlon turned silently and smiled at Elizabeth.

  Tanya ran to the net for a drop shot and took the lead.

  The rifle’s safety was clicked off.

  Jenny fired another ace that bounced off the rim of Tanya’s racket.

  A finger began to squeeze the trigger.

  Jenny fell down again diving for the ball, and it rolled into the net.

  The door opened in the maintenance room. The man with the rifle turned around. “Who are you?…Nooooooo!”

  Tanya dove for the ball, then Jenny, back and forth, giving every shot their all.

  Tanya was up, serving, match point.

  She placed it wide, then came to the net for Jenny’s return and hit it crosscourt. Jenny ran for it and dove and fell again. Just out of reach. It was over. Game, set, match.

  Tanya fell to her knees and started crying in a burst of emotion and exhaustion. Jenny stayed where she had fallen on the court and closed her eyes. The crowd went nuts. They stood and applauded and wouldn’t stop.

  Jenny finally got up and walked to her chair, staring at the ground the whole way. Her mouth quivered, but she refused to break. She fell in the chair and buried her face in a towel. After a few moments, she felt someone hugging her. She looked up. It was Tanya.

  Tanya pulled her to her feet, and they put their arms around each other and waved to the crowd. The standing ovation shook the arena.

  “I think I’m going to cry,” said Enberg.

  “Me, too,” said Evert.

  McEnroe wiped his eyes. “I’ve always loved Bjorn.”

  SIX hours later, the Miami arena was dark and quiet. Only a few people left, investigators up high in a maintenance area. A yellow crime tape sealed the doorway to the electrical fuses.

  Detective Mahoney arrived on the scene.

  The head of arena security shook his hand. “Cleaning woman found him.”

  “Dead long?”

  “Long enough so he’ll never play Carnegie again.”

  “He got a name?”

  “Yes, but we don’t know it.”

  “I see.”

  “His femur was contused, clavicle fractured and thorax crushed.”

  “You a doctor?”

  “No, but I slept at a Holiday Inn Express.”

  “You’re a real funny guy.”

  “Funny ha-ha or funny strange?”

  “That’s what everyone wants to know.”

  “I see.”

  Mahoney ripped the crime tape and walked into the room. DAY-TRADR was facedown on the floor.

  “What have you been hearing?” asked the head of arena security.

  “I hear you should take Dallas and the points at home.”

  “What else you hear?”

  “I hear your wife is loud in bed.”

  Mahoney rolled the man onto his back and unbuttoned his shirt. There was Magic Marker.

  “Just what I was afraid of.”

  “What’s that?” asked the head of arena security.

  “We have a copycat.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “This one’s reading a more interesting brand of bumper sticker. Also, the handwriting is different. Almost unnoticeable to the untrained eye.”

  “I see what you mean. The descenders slant more to the left.”

  “That and he dots his i’s with hearts.”

  JESUS SAVES…BUT GRETZKY GETS HIS STICK ON IT, HE SHOOTS, HE SCORES!

  34

  THE LAST WEEKEND before the election, the campaign went into the final turn. The Orange Crush swung across the Everglades and up the Gulf Coast home stretch.

  They were a half hour out of Miami on the Tamiami Trail, surrounded by swamp, and Pimento was counting alligators sunning on the banks next to the road. They came upon a massive, glitzy Vegas-like complex that rose by itself in the middle of nowhere at the crossroads of Route 997. An Indian bingo palace.

  “When did that go up?” said Marlon.

  The gang was really coming together, falling into the roadtrip groove.

  Jenny and Elizabeth sat cross-legged on the floor in back, laughing together as they went through magazines. Pimento and Ned were at the kitchenette playing a Hollywood board game. Ned picked a card. “‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!’”

  Marlon was content.

  Escrow was in a wad.

  “There’s no discipline in this campaign! Look at all these people!”

  “Lighten up,” said Marlon. “You’re missing your life.”

  Escrow grumbled and went back to the morning papers. The Post had a big front-page article about the upcoming execution of Frank Lloyd Sirocco. Escrow looked sideways out the corner of his eye as he slid the paper under the seat. Next was the Tribune. Escrow’s eyes widened. He held the paper out to Marlon.

  “Look at this! They found someone murdered at the Miami Arena just hours after the tennis match!”

  “So?” said Marlon.


  “So your dad’s right. You’ve gotta take a security team. First Todd Vanderbilt, now this.”

  “You worry too much.”

  Ned came forward and began filming out the windows, miles and miles of untouched sawgrass. On the horizon, islands of palms bloomed under billowing white clouds trailing off to the sea. They passed an Everglades-style country store with a bleached tin sign advertising frog legs and gator tails. Marlon turned up the radio.

  “…Some folks are born silver spoon in hand…Lord, don’t they help themselves, oh…It ain’t me! It ain’t me! I ain’t no fortunate son, no…”

  The Orange Crush passed the Big Cypress ranger stations and Micosukee chickee huts and made the wide turn north up through Naples.

  Twenty miles back, a westbound Lincoln Town Car doing a hundred and ten passed four cars at once on the two-laner, barely missing a gasoline tanker.

  Ned and Pimento were accumulating a tremendous amount of footage, and they’d been FedExing the daily rushes to Hollywood each evening, but they hadn’t heard anything back yet.

  “They’re fools not to jump all over this,” said Pimento, filming Escrow throwing incoming mail in the “You suk” pile.

  Much of the footage, however, was dubious. They had kept the cameras rolling without selectivity. There was a lot of bumping into things in the tight quarters of the RV, shaking the cameras. Also, plenty of off-center candid shots, and, when Ned started drinking, wholesale bad angles and wrong focus. It was all shipped unedited.

  Ned’s drinking had increased, and each night he ended up on his soapbox, cocktail in hand, delivering long-winded tirades against the packaging of candidates and the idiot-elite running Hollywood into the ground recycling the same predictable tripe. “Meryl Streep can’t carry that town forever!” He noticed Pimento filming him and took a swipe at the camera. He missed and fell on his face and farted.

  Later that same night, Pimento brought the camera with him and accidentally left it running when he locked himself in the bathroom again. He banged his forehead on the wall several times, then looked in the mirror. “Who are you?”

  Marlon took the second Naples exit off I-75, and the gang checked in at the nerve center of Gulf Coast culture—a convenience store. They pulled up to the pumps at an Addiction World. At the next pump, a carload of midwestern students had laundry piled in the back of a Plymouth with KEY WEST OR BUST! written across the back window in shaving cream. A group of shirtless, sunburned men towing a boat came out of the store with four twelve-packs of Old Milwaukee. A hyperactive family tried to regroup in a minivan—“We’re almost there!”—kids covered with grape Slurpee.

  Elizabeth and Jenny were happy as kids, standing barefoot on the cigarette-butt-littered black tar next to the RV, smashing up ten-pound bags of ice for the cooler. Marlon got a ham sandwich and an Arizona iced tea. Escrow thumbed through Fortune and Forbes at the magazine rack. Pimento bought a croquet set.

  Ned stayed in the RV, making calls on his cell phone. He dialed an East Side address.

  “Woody, Coppola here…Ned Coppola…. What do you mean, how did I get your number?…Listen, Woodman, this is your lucky day. Clear some space on the bookshelf for another Oscar. Are you ready? Annie Hall II, starring that Oriental chick you’ve been seeing…Hello? Woody?…”

  Pimento climbed back in the Orange Crush.

  “What’s with the croquet set?” asked Ned.

  “I’m feeling British today.”

  Ned’s cell phone rang. He looked at Pimento. “Who could this be?”

  He pressed the answer button.

  “Coppola here…Spielberg?” He covered the phone and whispered excitedly to Pimento. “It’s Spielberg!”

  Pimento gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  Ned uncovered the phone again. “What can I do for you, Steven?…Oh, Felix Spielberg…. Yeah, Felix, look, I’m kinda busy right now…. I know I said we’d do lunch…. My people tried to reach your people…. I forgot you don’t have people…. No, I’m not trying to rub it in…. I gotta run, Felix…. I gotta run…. Bye, Felix…. I’m hanging up, now, Felix….”

  He hung up.

  Ned gave Pimento an exasperated look. “How Schindler’s List could come out of the same gene pool is beyond me.”

  The cell phone rang again.

  “What now!” He flipped the phone open. “Coppola here.”

  “Ned, this is Isaac out in Hollywood…. What the hell is all this stuff you’ve been FedExing me?”

  “Isaac, I’m not in the mood—”

  “I love it!”

  Ned went mute.

  “Everyone out here is dazzled! It’s what we’ve all been looking for. The rawness, the energy, the edgework. All the bad camera angles, abrupt editing, horrible lighting. It’s so…”

  “Scandinavian?”

  “Exactly! And it was a stroke of genius getting a bunch of unknown actors! Adds to the realism. Who’s doing the screenplay? Sid? Murray?”

  Ned looked at Pimento. “A new guy.”

  “I don’t want another studio talking to him. Tell him he can name his price. Can you send the rest of the script over?”

  “It’s in revisions.”

  “Well, don’t tinker with it too much. The writing’s immediate! It’s now! The scene with the guy banging his head on the bathroom wall—it had my guts in knots! ‘Who are you!’ Very existential. Nobody’s captured that kind of intensity since Raging Bull!…And that cameo of yours! The whole Days of Wine and Roses thing. I didn’t know you could act. Forget Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas—your portrayal of a drunk has just raised the bar. And that was a nice tongue-in-cheek touch, calling the Motion Picture Academy one big circle jerk…”

  “Thank you.”

  “Gotta run, Ned…. I’m overnighting the contracts. Keep those dailies coming! This is going to be block-buster!”

  Ned closed his cell phone.

  “What is it?” asked Pimento, filming him.

  “In technical terms, we’re hot.”

  IT was after dark, another long day of campaigning. It started to rain. They were already on the north side of Bonita Beach, and Marlon decided to shoot for Fort Myers and put up for the night.

  The drive was relaxing. They abandoned the Tamiami Trail and headed to the coast. The Orange Crush crossed a bridge to the barrier islands, where they picked up the thin road along the shore, one of the least-populated beachfronts left in Florida.

  It was dark inside the Winnebago except for a couple of reading lights in back.

  Marlon now knew the group had gelled. They were so comfortable with each other that they had become themselves. They were together, and yet they were all doing their own thing in their own space.

  Jenny and Elizabeth sat at a small table in back, sipping cocoa. Jenny was asking Elizabeth her advice on men.

  “The key is to underestimate them.”

  Escrow was in the passenger seat reading a book under the map light, The Life and Times of the Nixon Plumbers. Ned paced in the middle of the RV with a glass of vodka, holding court on the travesty of a colorized Casablanca. Pimento had locked himself in the bathroom again, raving in the mirror. Marlon felt like he was driving the bus for the Partridge Family on acid.

  There were no streetlights for long stretches, and no other cars. Just the Orange Crush’s high beams catching occasional gusts of sea mist and a dog trotting along the side of the road. They entered Lovers Key State Recreation Area and crossed the bridge at Big Carlos Pass onto Estero Island. Marlon could see the lights ahead on Fort Myers Beach.

  Pimento came out of the bathroom a little drained. He sat down on the floor behind Marlon and Escrow and chugged some Gatorade to restore needed fluids.

  “You all right?” asked Marlon.

  “Fine,” said Pimento. “Listen, we’re gonna be in Fort Myers tomorrow, right? Can we go to Thomas Edison’s house? I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  “No,” said Escrow.

  “Don’t see why not,” said Mar
lon.

  “Why am I even here?” asked Escrow.

  “So we can rub off on you,” said Marlon.

  They slowed as they passed the strip on Fort Myers Beach. They heard Ned yelling in back. “Bogart looks like he has scurvy, and Peter Lorre’s wearing lipstick!” Then something got knocked over.

  The cell phone rang. It was for Marlon.

  “Son, you gotta accept some security,” said Dempsey Conrad. “You know another body turned up in the Miami Arena?”

  “I read the papers. Just a coincidence.”

  “Coincidence my ass.”

  “I’m perfectly safe,” said Marlon, hanging up.

  Back at Big Carlos Pass, a Lincoln Town Car flew over the hump at ninety, and the muffler bottomed out and showered sparks.

  THE women were asleep and Ned was passed out when Marlon finally pulled into Lazy Shores RV Park, which was nowhere near any water. He paid a night attendant, who had broken parole in Michigan and was hooked on cough syrup. The attendant held a spoon in his mouth as he handed Marlon sticky dollar bills in change.

  Escrow and Pimento were already snoozing when Marlon got back from the office, and he was hard asleep in minutes, too. Lazy Shores may not have had a shore, but it was definitely lazy. By midnight there was no sound but frogs, crickets, bug zappers and a light patter of rain.

  A little after two, the rain had really begun to come down. A Lincoln Town Car pulled into Lazy Shores and turned off the headlights.

  Periwinkle Belvedere had gotten his daughter’s first tearful messages, but he had missed her later ones—where she said the wedding was back on. She would just be marrying Marlon’s press secretary instead.

  Belvedere got out of the Town Car and cursed alliteratively. “Jilt my daughter like she’s some tawdry two-bit Tallahassee tramp—I’ll kill the son of a bitch!”

  Lightning crackled across the sky as he retrieved a Tango-51 from the trunk.

  Inside the Orange Crush, Pimento suddenly sprang upright in his bunk from a deep sleep.

  He got out of bed silently and pulled up his trousers. He grabbed his movie camera, put it in a watertight bag and slipped out the side of the RV into the driving rain.