Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (70 page)

“Well, I wouldn’t really say
demon
.”

“He is caught in the fangs of dope! He wants to rid himself forever of its scourge!”

“Actually, I just want to cut down,” Lenny said, patting his stomach. “I’m starting to get a bit of a gut from the munchies.”

The preacher furrowed his brow at Lenny and then backed up on the stage to address the group as a whole.

“Do you believe in the power of the one true living God?”

“Yes!” the group said together.

“Do you reject Satan and all his works?”

“Yes!” the group said again.

“Yes!” said Serge. “Except for Led Zeppelin’s fourth album.”

The preacher glared at Serge.

Serge shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a classic.”

Large hands grabbed Serge and Lenny from behind and they were given the bum’s rush by security.

Zargoza made a break from the back of the auditorium for the parking lot, and he already had the car in the circular drive when the doors burst open and Serge and Lenny hit the pavement.

O
n the other side of town, at the studios of the Florida Cable News network, Blaine Crease was summoned by the news director for an emergency three-
A.M
. meeting.

Correspondent Blaine Crease was the undisputed journalistic star of the upstart news network. He was brilliant with delivery, big on flash, short of facts, reckless with accuracy and destined to go places. As the newest network on the block, FCN needed to grab attention, and Crease was their guy. A former stunt man, he reported every story as if danger were all around. He was the master of the “newsman as fearless participant” feature story. He went on SWAT team raids, got in the tank with killer whales, threatened to fistfight murderers during jailhouse interviews, rappelled from small buildings, and ate with a large fork from the latest lot of recalled food.

Crease often appeared on camera scuffed up, bruised and bleeding, usually because he had rolled himself on the ground just before going on the air. If the story lacked drama, he’d set up a wind machine just off camera. It could be a piece about geranium season, but Crease would be leaning into the wind,
fighting for balance to hold the pose that made his hair look dashing in a gale. He wore combat fatigues, flak jackets and helmets whenever it was unnecessary. But most of all, Crease liked to ride loud, fast things. Ambulances, fire engines, boats, planes.

Consequently, Crease was beside himself when the news director of FCN called him into the office in the middle of the night and gave Crease the assignment he’d been waiting for all his life.

“Good, glad to hear it,” said the news director. He left the room and returned shortly with a small metal cage.

“What’s that?” said Crease.

“You’re taking Toto along.”

“Like hell I am! It’s demeaning! I’m the star of this network!”

“Now you listen to me!” said the director. “You may be the highest-rated
human
on the network, but this dog butters our bread…. Catch!” The director threw a box of liver snaps hard into Blaine’s chest.

Z
argoza roared up in his BMW just as the bouncers tossed Serge and Lenny out of the all-night revival. They hopped in, and Zargoza sped out of the driveway.

“You’re right about Zeppelin’s fourth album,” Zargoza told Serge. “It rules.”

Serge launched into air guitar of the album’s first cut, “Black Dog.” Zargoza joined in playing drums on the steering wheel. Lenny growled with a Kmart Robert Plant, but it was serviceable.

“
Hey, hey, mama said the way you move—gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove!
”

Serge made guitar sounds with his mouth and Zargoza pounded on the wheel.

“…
been so long since I found out, what people mean by dinin’ out!
”

Serge resumed the scorching guitar part again, but Zargoza had a funny look on his face.

“Whoa! Whoa! Stop it! Hold the fuckin’ train!”

The others fell quiet.

“What was that?” Zargoza asked Lenny.

“What?”

“That lyric. Did you say ‘
what people mean by dinin’ out
’?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not how it goes.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t you boob. It’s
down and out
.”

“No it isn’t,” said Lenny.

“What kind of shithead are you?” said Zargoza. “Jimmy Page is choppin’ the most savage guitar licks ever laid down, and you think Plant is singing about not getting out to White Castle enough?”

“I didn’t give it much thought,” said Lenny. “I figured they were very busy in the recording studio and they ate a lot of takeout.”

“It’s
down and out!
” said Zargoza. “He’s talkin’ about the struggle of the common man!”

“Now I’m hungry,” said Lenny.

“Me too,” said Zargoza. “Let’s find a place.”

Lenny fired up a tubular joint—“so I can taste my dinner.” They turned onto U.S. 19, fast-food row, and pulled in the drive-through lane at the new fried-chicken-skin joint.

Lenny was quite high now. “This is the best place!” he said. “They get rid of all the damn meat so you just get the skin. That’s all we’ve ever wanted. That’s all we’ve ever asked for.”

He took another hit.

“Why do they say the drinks are
king
-size, like that’s the biggest possible comparison. Look at Prince Charles—no superlatives spring to mind there,” said Lenny. “You wanna get my money? Start
talking about a dictator or a conqueror. Like Attilasized, or Stalin-sized!…”

“What the fuck’s he talking about?” Zargoza asked Serge.

“Free-associating,” said Serge. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Verbal incontinence. Just vomiting words.”

“When does it stop?” asked Zargoza.

“It doesn’t,” said Serge. “Not without intervention.”

Zargoza glanced back at Lenny and then at Serge. “We’re up next at the ordering microphone. You need to suppress that shit with prejudice.”

Serge turned around and gave Lenny the mondo eye, which made Lenny extremely paranoid, and he became quiet.

“That should do it,” said Serge. “He’ll go on an introspective journey now. But be prepared. We may hear weeping.”

Zargoza rolled up to the menu board. The small metal speaker came on. “May I take your order?”

“Yes,” said Zargoza. “I’d like your mega-combo meal…number twelve. Do I get the Galactic Massacre playing pieces with that?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, and I’ll take the extra-crunchy fried chicken skin on a stick…”

Lenny leaned over the side of the car toward the speaker.

“Hitler-size my french fries!”

“What?” said the speaker.

“Saddam-size my apple pies!”

“Can you repeat that?” said the speaker.

“Shut that motherfucker up!” Zargoza yelled at Serge.

“Excuse me?” said the speaker.

“I wasn’t talking to you!”

Serge climbed in the backseat and grabbed Lenny in a full nelson.

“Where were we?” Zargoza asked the clerk.

“Number twelve, chicken skin on a stick.”

“Can I substitute cole slaw for the mashed potatoes?”

Lenny broke free from Serge and leaned out the car again. “Ho Chi Minh my chicken skin!”

“I’m getting the manager,” said the speaker.

Zargoza floored it through the drive-through, snapping off a sideview mirror.

“Goddammit!” he yelled as the car bottomed out onto U.S. 19. “I was hungry, too!”

They headed back across the Howard Frankland Bridge and took West Shore down to Gandy.

A red Audi with tinted windows pulled alongside at a stoplight.

Zargoza looked over. “Twats!”

“What is it?” said Serge.

“Those damn Diaz Boys!”

The light turned green and both cars patched out and drag-raced all the way to Bayshore. At the red light, the Audi’s tinted windows went down and shotguns appeared.

“What’s this about?” Zargoza shouted at Tommy Diaz.

“Safety inspection,” said Tommy. “You wouldn’t
mind if we checked your trunk, would you? We’ve been hearing rumors. Beemers sometimes have expensive loose objects back there that could create a hazard.”

“Sure,” said Serge. “But you’ll have to race us for the opportunity.”

“We don’t need to race. We have the guns.”

“You also have the tiniest balls this side of the squirrel family,” said Serge. “I was thinking of cutting ’em off and feeding ’em to my poodle as a new between-meals treat, since they’re not too filling.”

“Don’t ya just love this guy!” Zargoza called out the window.

Tommy Diaz was in a barely contained rage. “Okay, we’ll race! First one down to those psychedelic fish at the bridge to Davis Islands!”

“Hold on,” said Serge. He turned to Zargoza. “You got that opium pipe?”

“Sure,” said Zargoza. He handed the pipe to Serge and cranked up “Free Ride” on the stereo as he gunned the engine. Tommy Diaz gunned his engine, too.

Serge leaned out the window. “Peace pipe,” said Serge. “Anyone for some good opium?”

“Back here,” said Rafael Diaz, reaching out the passenger window behind the driver. He hung way out the door to take the pipe from Serge. Just as their hands met, Rafael noticed one end of a set of fur-lined handcuffs around Serge’s hand. Serge quickly clasped the other end around Rafael’s left wrist. He turned back to Zargoza. “Hit it!”

“Roger!” Zargoza floored the gas. Screaming came from the other car and Tommy gave it the gas, too.

The cars stayed tight as they wound along the waterfront route, Serge smiling, Rafael ashen and whimpering. Zargoza intentionally drifted the BMW to the left, and Tommy Diaz mirrored his moves. Zargoza popped the left wheels up on the grassy median. Then he had the whole car in the median, doing fifty, and kept drifting. Tommy Diaz was forced to drift with Zargoza unless he wanted to lose Rafael. Serge laughed like a lunatic, but the other car had gone silent.

Zargoza drifted left until he had forced the Diaz car onto the median as well. This was the same median where city leaders had decided to move a series of abstract modern sculptures, and the next one coming up was a jumble of sharp pieces of round metal, a giant serrated Slinky. Now the other car came alive again, pointing ahead and screaming, begging with Serge. Rafael was more than halfway out the window, and the others held him in the car by his legs.

Just a few seconds to go. Serge casually got out the key.

“Whoops,” he said, and jerked forward like he’d dropped it. He smiled and showed he still had the key. “Just kidding.” A second left. Serge turned the key and he and Rafael shot apart. The two cars parted high-speed around the sculpture, Zargoza ending up on the wrong side of the median in the oncoming lanes. He swerved around a taxi and jumped the next median, crossing back in front of the Diaz Boys as
both cars raced around a hard left curve, then a right, neck and neck. Tommy Diaz gunned it and took the inside as they went into the last turn. Zargoza opened it up and passed him as they went by the psychedelic fish.

They both hit the brakes, skidding into the parking lot at the boat launch, and everyone jumped out and drew guns. Zargoza aimed a shotgun across the hood of the BMW and tossed a pistol to Serge.

“You fucking sons of bitches!” yelled Tommy. “Cocksuckers of whores!”

“Easy now,” said Serge. “You’re mixing your metaphors.”

“We should kill all of you!” said Tommy.

“Hey, guys,” said Lenny. “It looks like I’m not needed here. I’m free to go, right?”

Everyone: “No!”

“Shit-eating dogs!” said Tommy.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Serge, he and Tommy pointing guns in each other’s faces a foot apart.

“Open the trunk!” said Tommy.

“You lost the race,” said Serge. “Bite me.”

“The race is under protest,” said Tommy.

“You think this is NASCAR?” said Serge.

“Interference with another driver.”

“No way,” said Serge. “These are Ben-Hur rules.”

Nobody spoke for a solid minute, guns still leveled.

“Next time!” snapped Tommy, and he started walking backward to the Audi. The other Diaz Boys followed his lead, and they slowly climbed inside, still aiming guns.

Tommy started the engine. He began pulling away and stuck his head out the window. “You’re dead! You’re all fucking dead!”

“No, you’re the ones who are fucking dead!” shouted Zargoza.

“No, you’re fucking dead!” yelled Tommy, pulling into traffic.

“No, you’re fucking dead!”

“You’re dead!”

“You’re dead!”

“You are!”

“You are!”

“Fiddlebottom!”

“Don’t call me that! It’s Zargoza!”

“Fiddlebottom!” yelled Tommy, his voice trailing off in the distance.

“Come back here—I’ll kill you!”

Some guns were fired in the air as the Audi disappeared around a bend.

Serge turned to Zargoza. “I take it there’s some history here.”

“Fuckin’ tradition,” said Zargoza. “We’ve been racing for years. Before that we were in a bowling league, but they won’t let us play anymore.”

“Go figure.”

S
hortly after Serge and Lenny had set up their bunker in room one, City and Country showed up at Hammerhead Ranch, unable to find the two guys they were supposed to meet from Daytona. They considered it a plus.

City and Country loved Hammerhead Ranch the second they drove up. Between the beach and the open-air bar and the pool and freezing air-conditioning in the room, they had everything they needed for a much-needed vacation.

They didn’t leave the motel grounds for the first two days except to walk across the street to the Rapid Response convenience store. Actually it was more of a run. They were barefoot, and the sun had turned the pavement to hot coals. It started out: Wow, this hurts a little, and then, How fast can I move and still be ladylike? By the time they hit the shaded sidewalk in front of the store, they were both in gangly, loping gallops, and when they got inside they made fun of each other.

It was a regulation Florida convenience store. A
man talked to invisible people at the newspaper boxes as a drug deal occurred by the car vacuum. There was a quiet aridness to the place, like a dusty tumbledown gas station with a squeaky metal sign swinging in the sagebrush outside Flagstaff, except with a row of bright beach rafts out front. No shortage of crap inside, either. Inflatable rings with horsey heads, umbrellas, sunscreen, novelty cans of Florida sunshine, suggestive postcards, beach towels with unicorns and Panama Jack and Jamaican flags, and a tall spinning rack of paperbacks next to the Great Wall of Beer. City opened the cooler and stuck her face in with eyes closed, and a cloud of frosty air fogged the glass. City grabbed a four-pack of passion fruit wine coolers. The clerk looked seventeen with fresh row crops of acne. A healthy self-image prompted him to shave his skull, grow a goatee and tattoo his neck with barbed wire. He installed what looked like tiny trailer hitches in his pierced eyebrows and smoked sub-generic cigarettes.

A police officer walked in and tipped his hat. City and Country tensed up and looked away. The cop bought a Wild West gunfighter magazine and caffeine tablets and tipped his hat again and left.

“How are you ladies today? Finding everything all right?” the clerk asked with a smile that revealed another trailer hitch in his tongue. The accent was Scottish.

City and Country put the wine coolers on the counter and grabbed two ice cream bars from the minicooler by the register. City smiled back at the clerk. His name tag said “Doom.”

“Hope you’re having a wonderful time on our island,” he continued. “We pride ourselves on the peacefulness out here.”

He took a horrific double drag on his cigarette and scratched his cheek rapidly like a mouse.

The pair left the store, and Doom watched through the glass as they bounded across the street. He looked down and kicked the ribs of the tied-up and gagged clerk stuffed under the counter.

“Where’s the goddamn safe?”

City and Country put the wine coolers on ice and took paperbacks out to the bar. They grabbed a table in the corner by the ocean. It was midafternoon, siesta time, and the bar was empty. Fine by them. Everywhere they ever went, men flocked. They ordered a fad Mexican beer because they wanted to play with the lime slices. They set the beers on the windowsill and leaned their chairs back and began reading. It was shift change on the beach—the last of the morning people packing it in, the afternoon people setting up.

When the wind was still, they heard the yells of high school kids throwing Frisbees in the surf, and when it wasn’t, they heard the bar’s license-plate wind chime. Then they heard this odd, sucking sound that they couldn’t quite place. It was near. They put the books down and looked around but couldn’t locate it. They stuck their heads out the open window and it grew louder. They looked straight down. Lenny Lippowicz sat on the ground with his back against the side of the bar, glancing around nervously
and rapid-fire toking on a roach he had curled up in his hand.

“What are you doing?” asked City.

“Aaaaauuuuuuuu!!!” Lenny yelled.

The roach joint went flying and Lenny spun and ended up on his back in the sand.

“Don’t
ever
sneak up like that!” he said. “Oh man, now my head’s in a bad place, and I have to get my heart rate down…. Can I have a sip of your beer?”

Country handed him her bottle and he killed it.

“Hey!” she yelled.

“Sorry, I’ll pay you back,” he said, sifting through the sand for his roach and coming up with cigarette butts and a diamond ring.

“Damn! It’s lost!” he said. “Now I have to go back to my room for another. You wanna join me?”

“To smoke marijuana?” asked Country.

“That’s the plan, and I’m the man.”

She looked at City and shook her head. “We can’t!”

“Definitely not!” said City.

“I’ve never done it, and I’m never going to,” said Country.

“Me neither!” said City.

Five minutes later they were cross-legged on the floor in Lenny’s room, smoking a fattie.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” said City.

“We’re so bad,” said Country.

“Don’t talk—hold the smoke,” said Lenny.

“What’s that music? It’s so great!” said City. “It’s the best music I’ve heard in my whole life.”

“I think it’s ABBA,” said Lenny.

Country tried to talk but each time she opened her mouth, she broke up laughing. “What I’m trying to say…”—helpless laughter—“…I don’t know why it’s so funny…”—more laughter—“but I’m starving!”

“Me too!” City giggled.

“I don’t have anything, just a moldy old box of Cheese Nips in my suitcase.”

“Give it to us!” Country shouted. They didn’t wait for an answer before tearing apart the luggage and attacking the orange box.

“Got anything else to eat?” City said with a dry mouthful of masticated crackers.

“You guys are
so
stoned!” said Lenny.

“No we’re not!” said City.

“You are too!”

“I don’t feel a thing,” said Country.

“First music, now food,” he said. “That’s two out of the Big Three.”

“What’s the third?” asked City.

Lenny was about to respond when Country slammed into him on the blind side like a crack-back block. She knocked him to the floor and ripped open his belt and zipper.

“City, quick! Help me hold him down!”

“I’m not resisting!” said Lenny.

City came up behind Lenny and knelt over his head, pinning his arms with her knees. Country pulled off his pants and then hers and mounted him. Fifteen minutes later, she and City switched places.

An hour later City and Country were back at their
regular table in the bar. Four fresh empties lined the sill, and they drank Bloody Marys, chewing the celery stalks as if they were smoking cigars. Their eyes were red and glazed. The bartender arrived with a platter of Hurricane Andrew Nachos—tortilla chips fanned out in the circular swirling pattern of a cyclone and smothered with picante and melted cheese. They devoured it without the aid of utensils. Halfway through the nachos, with mouths full, they waved the waiter over and ordered smoked mullet. When that arrived, they asked for the dinner menu.

Lenny walked like a zombie into the bar.

The bartender recognized him and pointed over at the women. “Hey, check those two in the corner—they’re eating me out of the place…. Lenny?…Lenny?”

Lenny didn’t answer. He staggered through the bar and walked out the back door, where he sat down in the sand with a dazed smile until the sun went down.

The next morning, Lenny opened the door to go out for a paper and City and Country were already standing there. They each held out a five-dollar bill. Country said loudly, “Can we buy ten dollars of pot?”

“Shhhhhh! Jesus!” Lenny replied. He looked around quickly and yanked them into the room, then closed and bolted the door.

An hour later, City and Country were down the street at the International House of Belgian Waffles. They sat at the semicircular corner booth with a fire-rated capacity of eight. Covering the table were blueberry flapjacks, silver-dollar pancakes, sunny-side-up
eggs with steak, French toast, scrambled eggs and hash browns, a side order of link sausages, a small bowl of whipped butter and pouring jars of maple and boysenberry syrup.

Back at the hotel, Lenny lay in his jockey shorts spread-eagle on the bed, unable to move. He was in love.