by Tim Dorsey
“That I did.”
They ended up back at the ranger’s apartment. “So where are you off to now?” asked Bobby.
“To spread the word.” Serge reached into the Cobra and showed the ranger a homemade sign.
Bobby just chuckled and waved as he drove off.
Three Hours Later
Serge entered the economy motel room, wearing a shredded green robe and crumpled hat.
Coleman looked up from his bong. “What the hell happened to your Statue of Liberty costume?”
“Got in a fight with two guys.” He tossed a bent piece of cardboard in the wastebasket. “They said my sign was un-American.”
He went over to his corkboard, sitting upright on the dresser, and examined the overflow of notecards. “This is the best! I had a great-uncle who worked on Henry Flagler’s Overseas Railroad at Pigeon Key! Someone else worked with dolphins when the Miami Seaquarium first opened, and another guy operated a backhoe to clear land for Disney World.”
Coleman exhaled a bong hit. “Sounds like you have a cool family.”
“Well, they can’t all be winners. For every scallop farmer in Steinhatchee, there’s three guys living out of their cars.”
“We’ve done that.”
“Because we wanted to,” said Serge. “Did you really have to make a bong out of that?”
“You gave me the idea.” He blew another hit toward the ceiling. “I glued the two halves of a coconut bra together, and poked holes for the stem and carburetor. Plus it’s sexy.”
“Amelia . . .” Serge slapped the side of his head. “You bastard.”
“Uh-oh,” said Coleman.
“What is it?”
“The pills again.” He sprinted for the bathroom.
Serge went back to his board and tacked up a notecard for a distant aunt from the suffragette movement.
Coleman returned. “Another close one.”
“They always say be careful what you buy on the street.”
Knock, knock, knock.
Serge threw his arms up in triumph. “Backstory!”
He grabbed a box of detergent and opened the door.
An old woman was crying.
“Whoa! Take it easy!” said Serge. “What’s the matter?”
“Can you help with the vending machine?” Sniffles. “My corn chips are stuck on the corkscrew.”
“I have a feeling this goes beyond snacks.”
“It’s been a bad day.”
“Why don’t you come inside and have a seat.” He helped her by the arm like a Boy Scout. “And tell me all about it. What’s your name?”
“Madge. Madge Petrocelli.”
“What seems to be the problem, Madge?”
She wiped tears. “We rented a condominium down here. Never been to Florida before, but my husband Charlie isn’t in good health and doesn’t have long.”
“What do doctors know?” said Serge.
“It’s his pancreas.”
Serge winced. That’s rarely good.
“Anyway,” said Madge. “We decided to use all our savings to enjoy what time he has left down here in the sun.”
“What will you live on afterward?”
“I’ll figure something out,” said the retiree. “The only thing that matters now is spending time with my Charlie.”
“That’s very noble,” said Serge. “Sounds like you’re in for some happy days. So why the tears? Is Charlie okay?”
She nodded. “We went to the condo, and it turns out that it was already rented to someone else. The police said it was a scam, something about a cloned website. I don’t know what that is.”
“I do,” said Serge. “And I’m guessing you paid up front by Western Union for several months.”
“Six.”
Serge winced even harder. “Do you happen to have any of the paperwork?”
She opened her purse and handed over folded documents. “The police were so nice. They got us set up in this motel, but I don’t know for how long. We don’t know what we’re going to do . . .” Sobbing erupted again.
“Easy now,” said Serge. “Everything will be just fine.” He read through the documents. “I’ll get to work on this for you.”
“But the police said these people are very hard to catch.”
“For the police to catch.” Serge set the paperwork on the dresser. “I have more resources.”
“More than the police? How can that be?”
“The less you know the better.”
“You’re such a nice man . . .” Madge pointed. “What’s that thing?”
“A glued-together coconut bra. Just spend time with Charlie and put this out of your mind.” Serge took her arm again and helped Madge toward the door. “Here, have some detergent. Go with Christ.”
The door closed.
“Man,” said Coleman. “Life savings. That really sucks.”
“Did you have that bong out the whole time?”
“She didn’t know what it was.” He flicked a Bic lighter over the freshly packed bowl.
Serge shook his head in exasperation.
Coleman exhaled. “So how can you possibly help her?”
“The underground economy of shady favors.” He picked up his cell phone and pressed buttons. “Hello, Gypsy? It’s me, Serge. I need a favor.”
“Again?”
“Hey, didn’t I get you to that underground gunshot-wound doctor in time?”
“Right, and you still have my Cobra. When am I getting it back?”
“Forget the car,” said Serge. “This is about karma.”
“I can’t drive karma.”
“Then it’s about money,” said Serge. “You’re the best hacker I know, and I need the whole workup on a scam artist—IP address, everything. When I find him, I’ll add a surcharge for your trouble.”
“Okay, I guess. What are the details?”
“I’ll take pictures of the documents and text them to you.”
“That car better come back in the same condition—”
“Later.” Click.
Coleman coughed. “What now?”
Serge headed for the door. “Corn chips.”
Chapter 30
FDLE Miami Field Office
A new set of notecards was tacked up on a corkboard, thanks to a family Bible. Heather stretched a piece of red string between two pushpins. “I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”
Archie cut more string with scissors. “I’m still baffled by that odd visitor Dixon got.”
“We’ll know more when we hear back from the DNA company about a possible fourth relative. Did you make the call?”
“Yeah, but it was after hours by the time I got through. Left a message.”
“What about the sketch artist?” asked Heather. “I thought we would have something by now.”
“Told me he keeps calling Dixon, but no answer,” said Arch. “Even went to the house. Nobody home.”
“That’s strange.” Heather pinned up another card. “Better put on the coffee.”
Archie’s cell phone rang. “That’s the sketch guy right now . . .”
Twenty minutes later, a Crown Victoria screeched up to the curb in front of a house with a dead Christmas wreath on the door. Ten other official vehicles were already there, along with the TV satellite trucks held back at the end of the block. Detectives swarmed everywhere with gloves and evidence bags.
A lieutenant came over to the car as Heather and Arch got out. “Sketch artist found him. He couldn’t reach the guy for days, so he looked in the windows.”
They walked briskly inside, where police cameras were still flashing. They had seen a lot in their years, but this sight jarred them. Lying on the floor, surrounded by cans and bottles, was the seriously late Raúl Dixon.
Another detective emerged from the kitchen with an extra-large evidence bag containing a chef’s hardwood knife block. All the slots were empty, because the complete set of cutlery was still sticking out of the deceased, standing straight up, includ
ing the meat cleaver in the forehead.
“What do you think now?” asked Archie.
“I’d guess we’ve definitely touched a nerve,” said Heather. “Our cold case just got hot.”
Then she remembered something and glanced at a family Bible on a coffee table. Her business card was gone.
Sarasota
A small gray cylinder stood on a dresser in a budget motel room. It was plugged into the wall. A blue ring lit up on top.
Two men stared at it in reverence.
“I just bought it off Amazon,” said Serge. “I need answers, which is essential for my journey of personal growth.”
“How does it work?” asked Coleman.
“Voice activated.” Serge leaned closer. “Alexa, what is the meaning of life?”
“The meaning of life depends on the life in question. A good approximation is forty-two.”
Serge scratched his head. “She’s quoting Douglas Adams? I think it’s broken.”
“Can I try?” asked Coleman.
“Go for it.”
“Alexa,” he giggled. “What is smegma?”
“Smegma is a thick, cheese-like—”
“Alexa, stop!” said Serge. The cylinder went silent. He turned to his sidekick. “Can you not?”
“At least you know it isn’t broken.”
Serge sat down on the end of a bed with a laptop.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Research.” Serge’s fingers tapped keys. “I need to look someone up.”
“Family tree again?”
“Yes, but not mine.”
“Then whose?”
“Ranger Bobby.” Serge surfed websites. “I want to locate his daughter.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to pay her a visit.”
“But you promised him you wouldn’t.”
“Sometimes you just have to do the right thing. You saw what a great guy he is, and he’s not going to do this on his own,” said Serge. “Alexa, is it ever okay to break a promise?”
“Hmm, I don’t know that.”
“See? The jury’s still out.” Serge resumed typing. “Now we’re making progress. Three people living in Florida by her name.” He hit more keys, pulling up each person’s data. “Definitely the second one. The ages of the other two are improbable.”
“Wow,” said Coleman. “Look what she does for a living. Are you sure it’s a good idea to go see her?”
“What can go wrong?” said Serge. “We’d better be getting to bed. Got a long drive ahead of us tomorrow. And I still need to find myself.” He turned toward the gray cylinder. “Alexa, who is Serge Storms?”
“Serge A. Storms is the main fictional . . .”
He listened to the rest. “I’m a character in a series of books? That’s weird. I didn’t realize the name was that common.”
“Alexa,” said Coleman, “will you marry me?”
“I think that somehow would violate the laws of robotics.”
Serge just glared.
“What?” said Coleman. “She sounds hot.”
“If it makes you happy.” Serge took a seat at a stained desk in the bare-bones motel room with dark paneling from the fifties. He flipped through a little green book. “Which state park to visit next? Pennekamp? Fakahatchee? Bahia Honda? Cayo Costa? The choices are endless! . . .”
A phone rang.
“Hello? . . . Oh, hi, Gypsy.”
“I got your address. Have something to write with?”
Serge clicked a pen. “Fire away.” He wrote on a matchbook. “What kind of address is that?”
“You asked for an address. I got it. And I want my Cobra back!”
“Still with the car?”
“You said three months.”
“Things came up. So I’m a tad late.”
“It’s been seven. I kept trying to reach you!”
“I’ll make it up. Peace, out.”
Coleman raised his head from the coconut. “Well?”
Serge checked the writing in the matchbook, then flipped to a specific page in his green book. “Fate has chosen our next park . . .”
A five-hour drive later, Serge stood on a street in Miami surrounded by trendy coffeehouses and martini bars.
“What is this place?” asked Coleman.
“Coconut Grove! One of the oldest and greenest sections of the city! Practically a single giant, lush canopy!” Serge began counting off on his fingers. “You got your banyans, poincianas, champaks, raintrees, African tulips, copperpods, calabash, not to mention all the best palms!”
“But we’re in the city,” said Coleman. “I thought we were going to a state park.”
“And a fine state park it is!” Serge pointed across the street. “The Barnacle! Five acres preserved on some of the most expensive real estate in America! Come on!”
Soon, they were strolling down a long, manicured lawn stretching to the bay. “Cool, another stamp!” Serge stuck the passport book in his back pocket and turned around. “There it is! The oldest house on its original site in the whole county, built in 1891 by yacht designer Ralph Middleton Munroe.”
“An old house,” said Coleman. “Woo.”
“Shut your trap,” said Serge. “We’re on sacred ground. Back then, you really had to want to live down here because there were no railroads or streets yet, just a steaming hot jungle with mosquitoes. Munroe was the consummate frontiersman, fighting all hardships to plant his flag.” They walked up back steps, then a staircase. “But the coolest part of his vision is the layout of the house. Check out this towering two-story atrium featuring an octagonal balcony with gingerbread-style trim! Let’s go up and run around it!” Serge noticed the smiling park ranger. “Or maybe not . . .”
They concluded the tour and walked back to a parking lot. Serge thumbed the green book as they approached their blue-and-white Cobra. “What stamp of glory next? Oleta River? Homosassa?”
Bam, bam, bam.
The pair stopped and looked at the trunk.
Serge stowed his book. “I’d completely forgotten about him.”
One Hour Earlier
Serge stared into Biscayne Bay. Water splashed off the seawall at the downtown Miami marina, across from the historic Freedom Tower and the modern basketball arena. He walked along the dock and stopped at a slip for a luxury sailboat.
It had a brass ship’s bell and gold railings.
A bronze man was sunning himself on the rear deck, back to the world. Sipping a mimosa and smoking a cigar. The boat’s name was lettered across the stern: Winning.
“That’s quite a vessel,” said Serge. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”
The boat’s owner turned around. “Who the fuck are you?”
“If you’re Donovan Beck, then I’m interested in one of your vacation rentals.”
“Like I said, who the fuck are you?”
“The authorities,” said Serge. “Please come with us.”
“I’m calling my attorney.”
“You can call from the station.”
“Let me see some identification.”
Serge lifted his tropical shirt to reveal the butt of a .45 tucked in his waistband . . .
Ten minutes later, Serge marched the boat owner back to a Ford Cobra parked in an alley between sidewalk bistros on Flagler. He jammed the pistol’s barrel into a spine. “You’re not walking fast enough.”
“Okay, okay!” The captive picked up the pace. “Could you just tell me what this is about?”
“More than happy to.” The gun pressed harder. “The Petrocellis.”
“Who?”
“That old couple from Michigan,” said Serge. “I can’t wrap my brain around exploiting the most vulnerable among us. Life savings. You realize Charlie doesn’t have long. Pancreas. Jesus!”
“I swear I didn’t know.”
“Oh, well then that makes it all swell.” Serge stuck a key in the back of the car and popped the lid. “We’ve arrived at the station. Time
to get in.”
Donovan tentatively swung a leg over the lip of the trunk. “Really, who are you?”
“I told you, the authorities.”
“No, you’re not.”
Serge coaxed him the rest of the way with the pistol. “People just automatically think you have to be with some official agency, but you’re about to experience authority like you’ve never seen.”
The trunk slammed shut.
It was a short drive to one of the ubiquitous and rapacious check-cashing parlors that also sold money orders.
Serge poked his pistol in ribs and whispered over Donovan’s shoulder as they stood in line. “Pull any shit and I swear to God I’ll drop you right here, and I don’t care who sees it.”
“Fine, fine,” said the nautical man. “Let’s just get this over with.”
They approached bulletproof glass. Serge told him the amount of the money order he wanted.
“But that’s way more than what that couple paid me!”
“I have expenses,” said Serge. “You don’t know Gypsy, but it’s like having an ex-wife.”
They got the money order and walked around to the back of the building, where the Cobra was parked behind a dumpster.
“Nice doing business,” said Serge, tucking the gun under his arm as he stuck the money order into his wallet.
Donovan used the opportunity to snatch the pistol and step back. He sneered with a malevolent grin. “How does it feel now, tough guy?”
“I’m having a great day.”
“And I’ll take that money order, if you don’t mind.”
“Nope, it’s not mine to give.”
“Don’t think I won’t shoot!”
“You don’t have the stones,” said Serge. “Judging from the victims you choose, I’d say they’re tiny little peanuts.”
“Fuck you!” Donovan pulled the trigger.
Click.
He looked surprised at the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger four more times.
Click, click, click, click.
“Unbelievable,” said the scam artist. “This thing was unloaded the whole time?”
“I’m all about gun safety,” said Serge. “And I was going to let you off with a stern warning, but you just tipped over the chess board.” And Serge punched Donovan as hard as he could in the Adam’s apple.