Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (119 page)

The hearse arrived. Enrico’s widow was trying to get his two young children to settle down. A few friends and relatives arrived late from the church, dabbing tears with handkerchiefs as they walked up the path to the burial site. As each one passed Enrico’s old pickup truck, Sinatra stuck a paw out the window. It just made them cry harder.

Off to the side, in a separate section of chairs, sat a group of seventy-year-old men from the local VFW post who had volunteered to give Enrico a color guard. They straightened their VFW hats and looked respectful. Marlon went over and spoke with each one. He did quick math in his head. Probably Korea, he thought. Wow, the World War II guys are all but gone.

Marlon went to the edge of the parking lot to take his position as pallbearer. They hoisted the casket and followed the priest and altar boys down the path past the pickup, a paw popping in and out of the window. As the service began, one of Enrico’s sisters sang a rousing ren
dition of the Lord’s Prayer. Marlon sat on the edge of the VFW section. Out the corner of his eye, he noticed activity among the veterans, randomly taking off and putting back on their hats, over and over.

He heard whispering.

“No, we’re supposed to take the hats
off
for prayers but keep them
on
for songs.”

“But it’s the Lord’s Prayer.”

“But she’s
singing
it!”

The matter went unresolved, and hats kept going on and off.

WHEN
Escrow called in from the road the next day, he was surprised to find Birch in great spirits. The press had gotten hold of the story, and it was turning to gold. One of the VFWs had taken snapshots of Marlon as pallbearer, and they were printed in the tiny local paper and then picked up by the wire services and reprinted across the state. It was fabulous, said Birch. The war-hero lieutenant governor secretly visiting all the widows, shunning publicity. The reporters were a day or two behind, showing up at the widows’ homes, interviewing and taking photos. They all gushed about Marlon.

“He couldn’t have picked better places!” said Birch. “All these great American small towns. Mom, apple pie, a high school feel-up in the back seat of a—”

“Governor!”

“Sorry. I’m just so happy. I didn’t know he had it in him. He’s coming off like some kind of fucking
Man of the People
, God help us all!” Birch broke into deep laughter. “He must have had some kind of political epiphany over in Bosnia—”

“Kosovo.”

“—and finally hit his stride. This whole sincerity thing. It’s perfect. Fools ’em every time!”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“Mad! Absolutely not, son, you’re going places!”

“But you kept telling me to stop him and bring him in.”

“Will you learn to think for yourself?…Hold on, someone else wants to talk to you….”

Dempsey Conrad came on the line. “You’re doing a fine job, young man. I can’t tell you how proud I am of how Marlon’s turning out. He’s like the son I never had.”

“He
is
your son.”

“Keep up the good work,” said Dempsey. “Just one question. Do you know where his next stop is?”

“I don’t think he wants me to tell you.”

“
WHAT
the hell’s this?” Marlon shouted as the limo approached the Kluzinski residence in De Funiak Springs. Seven satellite trucks were parked on the street and short-sleeved reporters smoked and ate egg-salad sandwiches on the sidewalk. The Kluzinskis were barricaded inside, peeking out from the curtains.

Marlon looked at Escrow. “Did you have something to do with this!”

“Me?”

THE NEWS SENT
a shock through the state.

Governor Birch’s plane had gone missing. Then reported down. A Canadian aerial reconnaissance team spotted a Learjet sticking out the side of a glacier. The tail number matched the plane belonging to Perry Belvedere’s lobbying firm that had been carrying the governor.

It took dog sleds three days to reach the site, but the temperature had preserved the bodies, and they were recovered and shipped for thawing back in Florida. A DC-3 mosquito-spraying plane flew over the wreckage, dumping a bushel of navel oranges in a poignant memorial ceremony designed to garner free publicity for one of the state’s cash crops.

Flags flew at half-staff. Birch’s body arrived first, and there was a somber graveside service at one of the capital’s oldest cemeteries. Dempsey Conrad and Periwinkle Belvedere eulogized Birch with some homespun coon-dog stories. Then they went drinking for three hours before getting an urgent phone call and rushing across town to restrain Mrs. Birch, who—after word leaked out about the hookers’ bodies starting to arrive at the airport—was in the process of busting out every pane of glass in the governor’s mansion with a high heel.

ON
a breezy gray day in Tallahassee, Marlon Conrad was sworn in as the forty-third governor of Florida. There was a large, though understandably sedate inaugural crowd on the Capitol steps as the chief justice of the state Supreme Court administered the oath.

Perry and Dempsey were off to the left, behind the TV cameras.

“Terrible thing about Birch,” whispered Perry.

“Tragedy,” whispered Dempsey.

“On the bright side, Marlon will be running as the incumbent in five months. That’s worth at least six points in the polls.”

“Birch who?” said Dempsey.

They were still suppressing snickers when Escrow slid up to them and whispered out the side of his mouth, “I’m worried about Marlon. He’s different ever since he got back from combat.”

“Of course he’s different,” said Dempsey. “He’s coming into his own.”

“That little funeral tour last month was nothing short of brilliant,” said Perry. “Best thing in the world him going over to Bosnia—”

“Kosovo.”

“—and hanging out with the common man to learn what plays in Peoria.”

“But he’s different in other ways,” said Escrow. “Acting erratic, bizarre.”

“Like how?” asked Perry.

“He’s started
reading
.”

Dempsey nodded with concern. “Keep an eye on that.”

The chief justice was also worried. Marlon still had his hand on the Bible, but he was looking around, talking to
himself and not paying attention. As the justice read the oath, he thought he heard Marlon say at one point: “Blah, blah, blah…” When the justice came to the end and asked Marlon if he would faithfully execute the office, Marlon quietly said, “Whatever.”

The justice paused an anxious moment, then decided the answer met the constitutional minimum and proclaimed Marlon governor. There was a soft, polite round of applause as if Marlon had sunk a two-foot putt.

A
week later, Escrow placed an emergency call to Dempsey Conrad. “He’s having these behavior swings. Now he’s a workaholic.”

“Growing pains,” said Dempsey. “Give him some space.”

Marlon was indeed erratic. One day he was staring off for hours, the next he was hyperactive. He scheduled an emergency special session of the legislature to deal with the twin crises facing the state’s children that had been all over the newspapers Marlon had begun reading every morning: physical abuse and gun violence. He reactivated a half-dozen criminal probes into major campaign contributors that he had quashed the year before, and he canceled another half-dozen suspect state contracts that he had personally shepherded. He held back-to-back press conferences and told the truth. Then he spent the next day staring.

During one of his busy spells, Marlon quietly used a Republican Party discretionary fund to hire Florida journalism professor Wally Butts. Butts’s job was to secretly investigate the cases of prisoners coming up for the electric chair. Marlon didn’t have a problem with executing vicious killers; he had a problem killing the innocent. Butts was his death penalty goalie.

Butts opened his first case file. Frank Lloyd Sirocco. Frank didn’t fit the profile of a potential miscarriage of justice. He was wealthy and white. But you never knew. Butts flew to Boston and canvassed the old neighbors, the nearby stores and business clients. Traditional shoe-leather newspapering. Everything checked out.

When Butts got back to Florida, a message was waiting on his answering machine. A woman in Boston wanted to talk to him. It was about the Sirocco case. Butts returned the call. No, she wouldn’t talk on the phone.

Butts flew back to Boston courtesy of the GOP, and they met in an Irish bar. He found her alone, fidgeting by the window. She was middle-aged, gaunt and smoking like a construction worker. A waitress wearing a green felt derby served them Guinness. The woman killed hers, then bombshelled: George Braintree had molested Frank Sirocco’s daughter.

She shook her head emphatically when Butts asked her to give an affidavit. Wouldn’t even tell him her name. “I’ve said enough.”

Butts pleaded.

“You don’t need me,” she finally said. “There are others.”

“Who?”

“Give me the phone number at your hotel.”

Butts wrote it on a matchbook from the bar, The Paddy Wagon, and handed it to her.

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

She chain-lit another cigarette with a shaking hand. “He molested me, too.” She got up and left quickly.

Butts had planned to squeeze in a Red Sox game before they tore down Fenway Park, but now he was grounded in his hotel room for the weekend, within ringing distance of the phone.

He didn’t have to wait long. He got the first call at seven that night, then two more the next day. It became a routine, meeting a string of nervous women in O’Flannery’s Pub, Ye Olde Tavern and Cheers. They all said they had been molested by George Braintree, just like Frank’s daughter. None would agree to come forward.

The last woman walked away from the table, and Butts called after her: “But I need someone to go on the record!”

The woman turned around at the door.

“Find the daughter.”

MARLON WAS ON
an upswing the day before the special legislative session. He had almost forgotten that he’d scheduled the thing just a week earlier. He sequestered himself in his office, drafting and redrafting legislation he planned to have introduced. He ordered Escrow and Pimento not to let anyone disturb him, and the two stood outside the door, snarling at each other.

It was late when Marlon knocked off. He had cut Escrow and Pimento loose hours ago. Marlon closed up the office, threw a jacket over his shoulder and waved at the guard as he walked across the echoing rotunda. He opened the front door of the Capitol. The scene outside was something between Mardi Gras and the day in the fall when all the students return to a university. Cars pouring down the Apalachee Parkway, people hanging out windows, honking horns. Signs at quick-lubes:
WELCOME BACK LEGISLATORS
!

The next morning, Marlon was in the office before dawn. Pimento had the coffee going, wearing a “Property of Miami Dolphins” training jersey. The phone was already ringing, and Pimento screened the calls and faxes.

“These just arrived,” said Pimento, handing Marlon a stack of morning papers from around the state.

“Good, good,” said Marlon, nodding, chewing a mouthful of bagel too fast. He skimmed the front pages,
chugging coffee, spilling some on the
Post
. Pimento ran back to a ringing phone.

Marlon opened the
Orlando Sentinel
and saw a full-page political advertisement for the Reform Party. There was a large photo of a paunchy, self-styled Archie Bunker-type—their candidate for governor, Albert Fresco. He was griping about incumbents and the whole stinking bunch in Washington and Tallahassee. Across the top of the ad, in a carefully selected font, was Albert Fresco’s motto:
I’M MADDER THAN A SUMBITCH
!”

“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….”