by Tim Dorsey
Chapter Sixteen
RIVIERA BEACH
The sun had gone down. Coleman stood at the edge of the surf, surrounded by a group of sunburned kids with salt-water-bleached hair.
“Shhhhh!” said one of the boys. “Coleman’s about to speak.”
“Here’s a foolproof way not to get arrested while blowing doobies.” Coleman turned his back against a sea breeze and cupped his hands to fire up a number. He exhaled the hit and began strolling as small waves rolled over his toes. The others followed. “You walk along the edge of the ocean after dark, making sure nobody else is within a comfort bubble of twenty yards, just in case there’s an undercover narc on the beach. And here’s the most critical part: Make sure your stash is stashed. Nothing on your person except the jay in your hand. Then just smoke it like a regular cigarette; no clutching or thumb-toking. The beach wind should take care of the smell, and if it doesn’t, or if some narc makes a move for other reasons, the twenty-yard buffer gives you plenty of cushion so he can’t snatch the evidence from your hand, and you just dive in the ocean and roll it apart in your fingers underwater.”
“Wow,” one of the kids said to another. “Coleman’s, like, got his act completely together, man. His mind is working on so many levels at the same time . . .”
“He didn’t just pull that shit out his ass,” said another. “It took some stone-serious planning, man . . .” His hands cut through the air like slow-motion karate. “ . . . Seeing all the angles before anyone else could even dream of them . . .”
“Thank you, Coleman . . .”
“Right on, Coleman. Don’t ever give up the fight, man! . . .”
Fists of solidarity went into the air as the group walked away.
Serge approached from the opposite direction. “Who are all these people?”
“I have no idea,” said Coleman. “You think something odd is going on?”
“You mean the part about lots of strangers coming up out of the blue and acting like you hold an endowed chair at Oxford? Gee, I wonder.” Serge headed back up the beach, past his sand fort.
Coleman followed and pointed down. “Are you going to finish repairing that?”
Serge shook his head and continued plodding through cool night sand. “It’s gotten way too dark. I’ll resume reconstruction in the morning.” He shifted the strap of the canvas bag on his shoulder. “Meanwhile, back to the beach activities list . . . Ding, ding, ding! . . . That’s the surprise beach-list Daily Double!”
“What’s that?”
“Read cheesy magazines you’d otherwise never touch, and they’re all in unusually heavy supply at beach convenience stores. I saw one over there on the strip.”
They finished trudging back through the sand and crossed the street. Someone over at the public beach showers threw a hand in the air. “Coleman! Power party!”
Coleman waved back. “Thank you very much.”
The pair reached the doors of the convenience store. Some babes came out. They covered their mouths and whispered. “It’s Coleman!” “Are you sure?” “I’m getting an autograph . . . Coleman, can you sign my breast? . . .”
Serge watched dumbstruck as Coleman capped a pen and belatedly came through the doors. “We’ve definitely fallen through some kind of flux port in the universe.” They wandered into the magazine aisle and began riffling issues.
“Here’s a motorcycle magazine with hot chicks on choppers,” said Coleman. “And a fishing magazine with a hot chick in one of those deep-sea rod holders right over her snatch, and a hunting magazine with a chick in a T-back straddling a moose head . . .”
“I love convenience-store periodical sections.” Serge picked up a magazine dedicated to bodybuilding and dirt bikes. “Completely different from the rest of the world.”
“Here’s one that must be for women. Check out their main feature article: ‘Call Him or Text Him?’ I say blow him.”
“Coleman, that’s offensive.”
“But it’s the right answer.”
“Of course it’s the right answer, but you can’t just put that on a magazine cover.”
“Because chicks will get upset?”
“I don’t know about them, but I’ll get upset.” Serge unfurled a centerfold of a swamp buggy. “Word like that getting out? Women apparently don’t know it yet, but if they all coordinated on the Internet, they could rule the world in forty-eight hours.”
“Holy shit!” said Coleman.
“Relax. I don’t think it’s going to happen anytime soon.”
“No,” said Coleman. “They got the new issue of High Tides!”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like the Florida version of High Times.” Coleman waved the magazine at the clerk behind the register. “When did these come out?”
“Just delivered this morning.”
Serge grabbed a wrestling magazine with blood-streaked faces. “I don’t see why you’re getting so excited. I’m sure you already know everything in there.”
“It’s not that,” said Coleman. “Look!”
“Holy shit!” said Serge.
“I’m on the cover,” said Coleman. “Lenny, too.”
They went silent and read the headline on its glossy front: “The Bong Brothers! Can their records ever be broken?”
Serge quickly flipped through pages. “But what—? . . . How—? . . . Why—? . . .”
“These magazines are always asking for reader photos,” said Coleman. “So Lenny and me sent in everything we had. Then someone called his mom’s house in Pompano while we were there. Lenny thought the request for an interview was a hoax, but played along anyway as a goof.”
“So that’s what all this nonsense with those kids on the beach has been about.”
Coleman carried ten copies to the register and plopped them on the counter. “It’s the happiest day of my life . . .”
They came out of the store. From across the parking lot: “Coleman! Rock steady!”
Coleman returned the power salute.
A two-stroke engine gunned.
“Great,” said Serge. “It’s my new friend again. The quarterback.”
“He’s on a motorcycle,” said Coleman.
“No shirt, no shoes, swim trunks. If there was a photo of flunking an IQ test . . .”
“A bunch of bikini babes are gathering around him.”
“Christ,” said Serge. “They’re just encouraging his ego . . . Now he’s offering a ride and they’re all raising their hands and hopping up and down.”
“He picked the blonde in the skimpiest suit,” said Coleman. “She’s climbing on the back of his bike.”
“This is sickening,” said Serge. “The most perfect specimens of each gender from the whole beach. It’s like the fucking master race on that bike. And absolutely everyone else is staring in envy . . . Come on, America. Don’t buy into surface flash.”
“I’d do her,” said Coleman.
“Thank you for your support.”
“He’s gunning the engine again. They’re about to take off . . .”
A final fuel injection of the V-twin.
The stud patched out to impress everyone. When he did, it was like a magician pulling the tablecloth from under his passenger, and she fell to the ground in a sitting position, skidding a few feet down the road on her bottom.
“Oooooo!” Coleman covered his eyes. “Ass rash. I can’t look . . . And she was so hot just a second ago.”
Serge looked. His eyes locked twenty yards up the road, where the stud had stopped his bike. “Unbelievable. He’s too embarrassed to come back and be a man, so he’s compensating by arrogantly making fun of the girl with his brain-dead buddy.”
Serge darted out into the road and offered a hand. “Let me help you up . . . are you okay?”
Tears. “It hurts.”
>
“That’s the worst part,” said Serge. “I think you’re fine, but it’s definitely going to tickle for a while.” He peeked behind her to gauge the injury and winced. “Here, put your weight on me. Let’s get you some first aid.”
“Look,” said Coleman.
“Oh, now he’s coming,” said Serge.
“What’s the deal?” said the stud. “You trying to make me look bad?”
“You already have your arms all the way around that job.”
“Let her go.”
“So you can help her?”
“No, you’re showing me up. If the bitch is too stupid to hang on, she deserves what she gets.”
“Coleman,” said Serge. “Take her arm.” Then back to the crew cut: “I was pussyfooting around before with the sand castle, but seriously, what is your malfunction?”
“You’re going to have a malfunction!”
“Listen, king of the comebacks, the girl’s too young for you to begin with, then you injure her and offer insults instead of assistance. So you need to step off of me right now or we’re going round and round.”
The stud instead took a step forward. “You’re telling me to step off?”
Serge took his own step forward, putting them chest to chest. “Not really. That was just another IQ test. And there’s the buzzer. Sorry, but we have some lovely consolation prizes backstage, like a new set of knuckle guards for when you drag them.”
“That’s it!”
A lifeguard, who was in pretty good shape himself, ran over with a medic bag and wedged himself between the two. “Break it up, guys, or I’m calling the beach patrol.”
The pair continued steaming and glaring like boxers being introduced by the ring announcer. Serge finally turned to more important matters. “Got a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in that bag?” he asked the lifeguard. “And some triple-antibiotic cream? . . .”
BROWARD COUNTY
An early evening on U.S. Highway 1. Modest traffic.
But along one block just below the county line, an untypical amount of honking horns, even for South Florida. All directed at one vehicle.
A gold Oldsmobile with curb feelers drove through the intersection at eleven miles an hour before finally turning into a parking lot, its undercarriage grinding the curb in excruciating slow motion. It was a ’91 Cutlass Supreme, and it had ten thousand miles on the odometer. The front seat was all the way forward so the driver could see out from under the steering wheel.
The parking lot ran in front of a strip mall anchored by a pain clinic. All the storefronts appeared more or less the same, except one. It had a row of reinforced cement pylons at the curb to prevent drivers from plowing into the place. Which usually meant a liquor store.
But not this time. On the glass behind the pylons, in an arc of elegant silver lettering: WOLFGANG’S DANCE STUDIO. And underneath: Classic ballroom instruction.
The Oldsmobile continued across the parking lot. Other cars that had started backing out quickly pulled back in. The Cutlass approached the studio, slowing to three miles an hour, then two. When the front bumper hit a pylon, it was the signal for the driver to turn off the engine.
The car door opened. Five minutes later, the front door of the studio opened. Bells jingled.
A dashing man in a tuxedo turned around at the sound. Sixty-three years old, conspicuously dyed hair and a gleaming smile of the whitest, most obvious dentures, like a game-show host on a cruise ship. He spread his arms. “Coco! Coco Farina!”
“Wolfgang!” said the shuffling old woman, eyeing the other women in the room. “Don’t be buttering up those tramps.”
Wolfgang rushed to her. “Always the character! Full of moxie!” He bent down to kiss her hand.
“Moxie, schmoxie. I’m completely serious,” said Coco. “They’re sluts. Especially Mabel over there, with her new permanent, thinking sunshine beams from her twat—”
Wolfgang intentionally interrupted with a hearty, nervous laugh—“Ha! Ha! Ha!”—then looked back at a cadaverous woman snoring in a chair. He reached deep for his best Clark Gable and gazed into Coco’s eyes. “Mabel’s a lovely woman, but not half as exquisite as you!”
Coco gazed back. “How come nobody’s ever snagged you? Hubba hubba!”
“Who wants to get married?” Another kiss on the hand. “When I can instead spend so much time with all you great gals at the studio.”
And it was a nice enough studio. Fake parquet floor, full mirrors on all the walls, waist-high wooden handrails. The sound system was a boom box from Walmart that sat in the corner on a bar stool. But the main attraction was Wolfgang.
Wolfgang Finch.
Suave as they come for the silver set. He clapped his hands loudly for attention, then placed a hand over his heart. “What a stunning vision of beauty. You’re even more radiant than last time . . . Now, if you will all take your places, we can begin today’s lesson.”
Eventually. The women began moving, or so it seemed. Slippers slid across the dance floor. There were a few canes, a couple of walkers with yellow tennis-ball feet and a wheelchair.
The studio had a total of five daily classes, each numbering twelve to fifteen students, depending on doctor’s appointments and memory. Several times a week, they migrated to the strip mall and mustered up in the usual three lines. Then most would slowly dance by themselves to the sounds of Glenn Miller—keeping eager eyes on Wolfgang as he moved one by one through the group for personal instruction. Which is why they came. And it was why, when they fell in line each session, there was the usual dust-up at the front of the first row. Because that’s where Wolfgang started, and if there was enough time, those were the gals most likely to squeeze in an extra dance.
“Bitch!”
“Coco,” said Wolfgang, waving a benevolent finger. “Play nice with others.”
“But I was here first.”
“Just slide over one space. I promise I’ll give you an extra dance.”
Coco snarled sideways at Mabel.
Wolfgang stood in the corner, his thumb on a boom-box button. “Ready?” He pressed it. The opening notes of “In the Mood” drifted through the room.
He took Mabel’s hand and began swaying, careful never to take his eyes off hers. “You look more exquisite every time. Are you getting younger? . . .” The compliments kept flowing for the entire personal session, which lasted the standard lap-dance three-minute limit. Finally, the all-important departing peck on the cheek. Then on to Coco, and Stella, and Gertrude, and the rest of the gals, endlessly repeating the same business model of a congressman: eye contact, bullshit, kiss.
The class took necessary fatigue breaks every ten minutes, and then, after an hour, the music stopped. The women began working their way toward the door with melancholy afterglow. Outside, waiting cabs and a line of Buicks pressed against concrete pylons.
The studio was empty again. Almost. Three of the women sat in a short row of chairs against the wall just outside Wolfgang’s office. This was the rest of the business model.
He came to the doorway. “Mrs. Goldstein, you wanted to see me? Come on in.”
“Oh, thank you.” She pushed herself up with a cane. “I know you’re very busy.”
“Nonsense, I’ll always have time for you.”
She went inside. Wolfgang smiled back at the other two women, then closed the door. They all liked the fact that he closed the door: makes the others wonder. He walked around and took a seat behind his desk, then opened a business ledger and made a precise notation. He looked up with a reassuring countenance. “What’s on your mind?”
“My podiatrist . . . I don’t know. I shouldn’t say anything.” She leaned forward and idly placed a hand on the desk. It’s what they all came for.
Wolfgang took his cue. He leaned forward and placed his own hand on top of hers. “I’m sure it’s important. Please,
tell me all about it.”
“Okay . . .” And she did.
A clock on the wall ticked.
“ . . . Then I got this bunion . . .”
Wolfgang continued holding her hand.
“ . . . And my son-in-law has this esophagus thing where he has to cut his food in really small bites. But what are you going to do? . . .”
He dialed in that smile and eye contact, thinking about the Jaguar he test-drove last weekend.
“ . . . My daughter hates me. I can’t complain . . .”
At the half-hour mark, he slowly began to stand, signaling the end of their time but easing the impact by taking her hand this time in both of his. After opening the door for Mrs. Goldstein, he stuck his head in the hall. “Mrs. Marconi?”
He went back behind his desk again, making another notation in his ledger.
“ . . . I brought you something to eat . . .” She unwrapped a casserole. Then looked at the framed photo prominently displayed on his desk. “I know you miss your wife since the volcano accident. But that was five years ago. You deserve to find somebody nice. You look too thin.”
Wolfgang stared at the photo with sorrow. He had never married. It was a picture he clipped from a magazine. He shook his head with glassy eyes. “Nobody can replace Beth.”
“You’re a keeper,” said Mrs. Marconi.
Wolfgang leaned and warmly placed a hand on top of hers. “Did you bring your bank statements? I just want to make sure nobody’s taking advantage of you.”
She pulled envelopes from her purse. “You’re so kind looking out for us.”
A half hour later, his head popped back into the hall. “Mrs. Farina? . . .”
She came in and took a seat. “They don’t want me to drive anymore.”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
Wolfgang checked his ledger. Two previous dates in his office, now three. Which meant it was time.
His smile dissolved to a tight mouth of concern.
“What’s the matter?” asked Coco. “Something I said?”
