Tim Dorsey Collection #1

by Dorsey, Tim

  As soon as the phone rang, the warden yelled for everyone not to move a muscle. He took the governor’s call.

  The warden hung up. “Get him out of there!”

  They unstrapped Frank and took him back to his cell, and he fainted.

  38

  ELECTION DAY.

  The Parrot Heads for Economic Progress were all jazzed up. Their biggest event of the year was only hours away. Months of preparation and thousands of dollars spent. They had their assembly permits from the city council, and the stage was already set up on the Franklin Street pedestrian mall in downtown Tampa.

  Blaine Crease arrived early in a bright floral beach shirt, preparing to moderate the final debate of the campaign. A debate had never been held so late, but the race was a statistical dead heat, and Crease smelled a ratings coup. He’d made the campaigns an offer they couldn’t refuse. If either turned him down, the other would show up alone and get an hour of free airtime and a crucial bounce in the polls. The showdown was set for noon sharp.

  “Quite an impressive gathering you’ve got planned,” Crease told the event chairman.

  “And it isn’t just Florida,” said the Parrot Head official. “We’ve got Jimmy Buffett disciples coming from all over the country.”

  “What’s this whole Parrot Head phenomenon about, anyway?” asked Crease.

  “It’s kind of like AA in reverse.”

  A giant banner went up over the stage.

  THE MILLION PARROT HEAD MARCH.

  A hair trimmer buzzed in room 308 of the Gaspar Motor Lodge on Tampa’s Kennedy Boulevard. Tufts of freshly cut hair fell and clumped in the bathroom sink.

  Pimento looked in the mirror and inspected his fresh Mohawk.

  He had finally remembered who he was. His name was Serge, and he’d lost all communication with the tower.

  Serge slipped on dark sunglasses and pointed at his reflection.

  “You talkin’ to me!…You talkin’ to me!…You talkin’ to me!…”

  Serge left the bathroom and went over to the window. He pulled back the curtain. On the street: crack deals, male prostitution, people pushing baby carriages filled with trash, screaming at invisible enemies. “Everything’s okay now,” he said to himself. “You’re home again.”

  Serge pinned a MARLON! button on his shirt, locked up the room and started walking the fifteen blocks to the Franklin Street Mall.

  REFORM Party candidate Albert Fresco sat in his kitchen madder than a sumbitch, watching a TV program showing preparations for the gubernatorial debate in downtown Tampa.

  “By God they’re gonna let me participate in this one,” Fresco said to himself as he loaded a .38 Special at the kitchen table. He stood up and grabbed his car keys.

  THE reporters showed up at dawn for Joe Blow duty. They knew something was wrong as soon as they turned onto Elm Street. That can’t be the same house, they thought, but they knew it was.

  Overnight it had been painted completely black, with dripping bloodred letters across the front: HOUSE OF PAIN!

  The reporters massed at the end of the street and cautiously approached the residence like they had come upon a big glowing crater. When they were all in front of the home, a powerful sound system began playing “Thriller” by Michael Jackson.

  Joe Blow suddenly appeared at the top of the roof, tap-dancing. He was naked except for a beaver head.

  The reporters flipped open their notepads.

  “I think the streak is over,” one of them whispered. “I can’t see this catching on.”

  Joe wasn’t through. He climbed down from the roof, got dressed in beach clothes and carried a tote bag out to his car. The reporters gave Joe a wide berth as he pulled out of the driveway and sped off toward downtown Tampa.

  A young Brazilian woman stood over the bed in room 17 of the Buccaneer Lodge, breaking down a Tango-51 and packing it into a padded attaché case. She stuck the briefcase in the trunk of a rented yellow Mustang, drove onto I-275 and headed south for the downtown Tampa exit.

  MARLON couldn’t sleep. He was the first one up that morning in the Orange Crush, and he sent a fax to the prison at Starke just before dawn. A half hour later he followed up with a phone call to the warden. “I’m granting clemency.”

  “I just got your fax. We should have the paperwork done by Friday.”

  “Release him immediately!”

  “But—”

  “Twelve years on Death Row for something he didn’t do? Every minute now is a further injustice. Release him!”

  It was an hour before the others got up. Marlon was scrambling eggs in the RV kitchenette when they began spilling out of their bunks.

  “W-w-w-what’s this?” asked Jenny. She had found Butts’s videotape on the dashboard. SIROCCO’S DAUGHTER was written on a piece of masking tape on the side.

  “That’s statement by Frank Sirocco’s daughter,” said Marlon.

  Jenny began shaking.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She didn’t answer. She ran to the VCR and stuck the tape in.

  “Are you okay?”

  Still no answer.

  The tape began. “Who’s that?” said Jenny, pointing at the woman in the video.

  “That’s Frank’s daughter.”

  “No she’s not!”

  Marlon noticed she wasn’t stuttering. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m Frank’s daughter.”

  “What!” said Marlon.

  “He’s a monster! He did this to me!” She slapped the back of her thighs. “The beatings only stopped when he went to jail for murder. My coked-out stepmom picked up where he left off, throwing things at me, singeing me with cigarettes. We moved to Florida. When she finally burned down the house, the authorities found my scars, and they got me out of there. I was adopted by a family in Sarasota and they changed my name. My records were sealed under the law protecting juvenile abuse victims.”

  Marlon’s stomach was a free-falling elevator.

  “Then who’s that in the tape?”

  “My stepmom.”

  “But she’s so young,” said Marlon.

  “She was the trophy wife!”

  Marlon dove for the phone and called the warden back at Starke. “Don’t let Sirocco go.”

  “Too late.”

  It didn’t matter anyway. Clemency is clemency; no double jeopardy.

  He called the lawyer from the night before. “You son of a bitch!”

  “Now, now, we have a deal.”

  “Deal’s off. She lied.”

  “No she didn’t. She was Frank’s hired gunman. She did kill him. They split the insurance. And you gave her immunity.”

  “She perjured herself! I’ll put her away! And I’ll have you disbarred for suborning that perjury!”

  “You got us there…. Wait—I can’t remember. You did put her under oath, didn’t you? Well, we can always check the video you took…. Oh, did you hear? We have a book deal, and Frank and Anita are going to renew their vows. If you don’t know what to get them, they’re registered at Saks.”

  “I’ll get you!”

  “Here’s the best part,” said the attorney, starting to laugh. “I’m a Democrat. Have a nice victory party tonight…. Gotta run. I need to call some TV stations.”

  Marlon and Jenny were silent in the front of the Orange Crush.

  Escrow walked up combing his hair. “You guys need to get moving. We have to start over to the debate.”

  39

  SERGE CHECKED HIS WATCH. Almost noon.

  Police had set up barricades in a twenty-block perimeter around the stage on Franklin Street, and they were overwhelmed by the thousands of people pouring into downtown Tampa on foot. The crowd jammed the pedestrian mall and spilled down the side streets. SWAT helicopters circled the high-rises. Sharpshooters on top of the Amsouth Bank Building passed a thermos of coffee. Serge approached from the south.

  Two grinning young executives stood at the rear of the crowd. Serge stood next to them, dark s
unglasses and Mohawk. The executives noticed Serge’s MARLON! button. They waved their Gomer Tatum signs in his face. YESSSSSSSSS! MARLON’S GOING DOWN!

  Serge smiled and grabbed them by the carotid arteries until they fell to the ground unconscious. He tore their signs to confetti.

  That was an interesting encounter, Serge thought as he continued on. They had absolutely no life experience to tell them that was coming. Such are the hazards of privilege.

  Serge spotted someone else with dark sunglasses at the corner of Zack Street. The man wore a black suit and had a small transistor earphone with a wire trailing into his collar.

  “You’re security, aren’t you?” asked Serge. “I’d like to join you guys. I think I’d be pretty good at it.”

  “Sure thing,” said the agent, opening a notepad. “What’s your name?”

  “Travis Bickle.”

  The agent waved over a security cameraman to take a photo, but Serge had disappeared into the crowd. As the agent craned his neck to find Serge, a young woman wearing a Miami Heat jacket walked behind him with an attaché case and turned into the lobby of an office building.

  There was a shout from down the street.

  “Hey, you can’t park there!” yelled a young police officer.

  “Sumbitch!” muttered Albert Fresco, backing his pickup out of a loading zone.

  Serge continued deeper into the mob. Everyone wore tropical shirts and sandals. Some had large plastic parrots on their shoulders. Some had parrots. A bank of kiosks with battery-powered boat blenders did brisk business in front of the landmark Tampa Theatre. Corona beer babes gave away T-shirts and can coozies. The lines were twenty deep outside the row of Port-O-Lets. A man went inside one of the johns with a parrot on his shoulder, but the bird got claustrophobia and went berserk, crashing into wall after wall, its owner grabbing drunkenly at empty air a foot behind the bird. Colorful pieces of feather flew out the side vents, and the Port-O-Let began to rock back and forth.

  Serge looked up at the stage. A crane lowered a massive plexiglass bowl onto an eight-foot reinforced plexiglass stand. The world’s largest margarita glass. Fire hoses began filling the bowl. Officials from the Guinness Book of World Records took notes.

  Serge stopped and stared up at the tall buildings around him. Something wasn’t kosher. He began picking up a frequency.

  The crowd exploded as Jimmy Buffett took the stage and began strumming the six-string intro to “Son of a Son of a Sailor.” He was backed up by Stephen Stills, who had gone to high school in Tampa and was a big Tatum supporter. Behind them, stagehands scaled ladders and placed a small canoe in the margarita. Then they steadied the little boat and helped Blaine Crease climb aboard.

  Thirty minutes later, Buffett ended the set with “A Pirate Looks at Forty.” He bowed to thundering applause and trotted off the stage. Crease turned on his portable microphone in the canoe. “Is everyone having a good time?”

  Serge threaded through the crowd.

  “I’ve been known to get a little crazy myself from time to time…” said Crease. He tried to stand in the canoe, but it began rocking and he had to sit back down. “…Made more than my share of visits to Margaritaville, if ya know what I mean!”

  “What a dork!” said a man in an iguana suit.

  “…So put your hands together and give your biggest Parrot Head welcome to Marlon Conrad and Gomer Tatum!”

  Marlon climbed the steps on the right side of the stage and waved.

  On the other side, Jackie Monroeville snatched a chalupa from Tatum’s mouth and stomped on it.

  “Hey! That was ninety-nine cents!”

  “Get out there!”

  Marlon was still waving to the crowd when Dempsey Conrad arrived with a platoon of men in satin jackets with big lips and tongues on the back.

  “I’m not even going to discuss it anymore,” said Dempsey. “They found another body at the Ice Palace after the wrestling match. It’s gotten way too dangerous! We’re staying with you to the end—I don’t care what you say—”

  BANG!

  Dempsey Conrad reflexively ducked at the sharp noise and spun around. A Port-O-Let had fallen over, and a parrot flew out. But the Rolling Stones people were already in motion. They tackled Marlon and formed a pile of human shields.

  “Get off me!” yelled Marlon.

  By the time he got up, Tatum was already at the microphone.

  “Did y’all hear Marlon pardoned a Death Row prisoner late last night?”

  Most shook their heads no.

  Tatum pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket and held it up. “This just moved on the Associated Press wire. The prisoner’s attorney has admitted to the Miami Herald that his client really was guilty. Here’s a picture of the killer holding up a MARLON FOR GOVERNOR sticker and drinking champagne!”

  The crowd booed.

  Tatum looked stage right. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  Marlon walked to the microphone with his chin up.

  “I made a mistake. I thought we were about to execute an innocent man.”

  The booing increased.

  “I’m sorry. I was trying to do the right thing…”

  The jeering became so loud, Marlon had to stop.

  Ten floors above Franklin Street, a rifle barrel poked out a closet window. Marlon’s head appeared in the scope.

  Serge was in the middle of the packed street. He began tingling again. He looked up at the buildings. Nothing…. Wait! What was that? Something about an old 1930s brick hotel that had been converted into law offices. He scanned window by window. His eyes got to the tenth floor, and he began tearing through the crowd.

  He got to the sidewalk and darted into the building’s lobby.

  The law office was empty for the rally. Only a receptionist. He pressed the up button on the elevator next to her desk.

  “Hey! You can’t just go—”

  Serge jumped into the elevator behind the unconscious receptionist and took it to the tenth floor and began checking room to room. The first two were empty. One to go. He grabbed the door handle.

  TEMPERS had started to flare. Marlon’s people and Tatum’s people were yelling across the stage at each other over political points. The Parrot Heads argued musical taste with the Rolling Stones security. The Parrot Heads were laid back, but the Stones security screwed together portable pool cues and began smacking them around. A major skirmish broke out in front of the stage.

  Marlon grabbed the microphone and urged calm. “Brothers and sisters, cool out! We don’t want another Altamonte!”

  Jackie Monroeville stood off the side of the stage holding up a chalkboard. Albert Fresco came up from behind. He jammed the .38 Special into her back. “You’re my ticket onstage. Florida is finally gonna hear my message. Start walking!”

  Jackie stiffly climbed the steps and moved across the stage.

  Tatum saw the gun first, and he backed away. Fresco kept the pistol in Jackie’s back. He had her around the neck with his free arm and dragged her toward Tatum’s microphone. When the Stones security saw the gun, they piled on top of Marlon again.

  “Get off me!”

  Twenty cops pulled their own weapons on Fresco.

  “Don’t shoot!” yelled Tatum. “You’ll hit Jackie!”

  A standoff.

  SERGE opened a closet door on the tenth floor of the law building. A thin young woman was at the window, bracing a rifle on a stack of boxes. She clicked off the safety and wrapped a finger around the trigger.

  Serge dove and knocked her over. He grabbed the rifle around the trigger guard and clicked the safety back on. He slugged her. She was much smaller, but made use of leverage and guile. She elbowed and bit. Boxes flew. She clicked the safety off again and ran to the window and aimed quickly. Serge caught her from behind and dragged her back. She stomped on his instep and ran to the window again.

  Ten floors below the struggle, Joe Blow was sitting behind the stage, sipping his seventh kamikaze from one of the k
iosk vendors. He had been waiting since eight that morning, and he struggled to his feet and started up the stage steps.

  ALBERT Fresco got to the microphone. “It’s a rigged political system and I demand to be heard! I’ve got street smarts, walkin’-around sense, and I’ve been to the school of hard knocks. I’m a meat-and-potatoes kinda guy. I put my pants on one leg at a time, and I’m madder than a sumbitch!…”

  And with that, Jackie snapped her head back as hard as she could, catching Fresco in the teeth. He shrieked and released Jackie and grabbed his bloody mouth.

  Jackie spun and judo-kicked him in the chest. “Don’t you ever, ever pull a gun on me again!”

  Fresco was knocked off balance, and police charged up the stage steps.

  In all the drama, nobody noticed Joe Blow weaving across the stage. He bumped into the back of Fresco.

  Fresco grabbed Joe and put the gun to his head. “Back off!”

  The police backed off.

  Fresco snatched the microphone again. “I’m a straight shooter, and I say what’s on my mind….”

  “Yak, yak, yak!” said Joe Blow.

  “What did you say?”

  “I wish you’d shut up.”

  “I’m madder than a sumbitch!”

  “I’m madder!”

  “I got a gun!” Fresco cocked the hammer and pressed the barrel harder into Joe’s temple.

  Joe ripped open his shirt, revealing sticks of dynamite strapped around his chest.

  “You win,” said Fresco, letting go and walking backward.

  Joe Blow stood alone in the middle of the stage. He looked around. Everyone was silent, staring at him. An orange lanyard hung from the side of the dynamite, attached to the detonator. Joe grabbed the cord and got ready to pull.

  “Good-bye, mediocre world!”

  A shot rang out from the tenth floor of a law office.

  Everyone looked around. They heard a creaking sound. The shot had hit the margarita glass, and hairline cracks snaked out in five directions. Then a chunk of plexiglass broke loose from the lip and a stream of margarita gushed out and hit Joe Blow just as he yanked the detonation cord.