by Tim Dorsey
Coleman pointed toward the Comet. “Banging from inside your trunk.”
Serge slapped himself on the forehead. “Damn, I completely forgot about him.”
TWO HUNDRED MILES SOUTH
An empty chair sat in the noon sun.
It was the standard folding metal variety found in school auditoriums. Everyone’s seen them a million times.
This one stood in the middle of the Florida Turnpike.
Cars swerved around it at the last second because paying attention out the windshield was considered madness. But the long-haul truckers knew better. They sat high up in semi cabs, keeping their eyes on the horizon for swerving cars, which indicated either debris in the road or someone preventing another driver from passing.
Highways in other states were mainly strewn with strips of shredded tires, but Florida had imagination, and the truckers had seen it all. Sofas, washing machines, outboard motors, giant stuffed bears from carnival midways, fondue equipment, and statues of underrated saints. So, next to a holy concrete sculpture of Ulrich of Augsburg, patron saint of fainting conditions and rodent control (true), a simple chair barely drew a second thought, except maybe how it had come to be upright.
The next truck was one of those double-decker automobile carriers that dealerships use. But the chair was still a ways off. Before the truck got there, a Datsun pulled over and the driver threw the piece of furniture in his trunk, then drove away slightly happier.
The car carrier continued south past the exit for Hobe Sound. Many such trailers are loaded with shiny, virgin vehicles fresh from the factory. Then there are flatbed trucks stacked with wrecked vehicles that have been crushed like beer cans. This particular carrier was somewhere in the middle. The paint on the cars did not sparkle anymore, and all the odometers were into six digits. These were the dubious trade-in vehicles that dealers immediately wanted off the property before they became eyesores. The somewhat-running cars were then dumped at bottom-feeding auctions to bidders who looked exactly like people at a dog track.
Each car had a story, some more fascinating than others. But at one time they were all the source of great joy, just driven off the lot with that new smell and a new owner buoyed by the notion that this was a move up.
Take the third car on the bottom deck of the southbound carrier: an ’02 Altima put together at the Nissan factory in Smyrna, Tennessee, where a woman named Noreen had spot-welded the muffler before attending a baby shower that received mixed reviews. From there, the car was shipped to a dealership in Jacksonville and sold to a bilingual call-center manager named Keagan, who held a correspondence degree and a lifelong fascination with the Gabor sisters. After replacing the manifold, the title was transferred to a lactose-intolerant data entry clerk, then to her nephew-in-law, who street-raced it in Titusville before entering the vehicle’s on-and-off period of being towed with a rope by another car before ending up on blocks in the front yard until code enforcement stepped in.
A private buyer who earned a modest income scouring the classified ads had offered to purchase the disabled car for the cost of removal, and with a little work on the piston rings, it was running again and auctioned to A-OK Auto Brokers, who leased space on the vehicle carrier that was just about to exit the turnpike in Opa-locka.
A few miles away stood one of those derelict used car lots with chain-link and a dancing sign spinner that made passing motorists think, There but for the grace of God. A man in Bermuda shorts followed the salesman down a row of Camaros and Jettas and Hyundais. “These are all cream puffs despite the high mileage.”
“The higher the better,” said the customer. “It’s for my son. He’s not going to take care of it.”
“Kids love the Coopers. We just got this baby—”
“Is that a coat hanger holding the trunk lid down?”
“For you, a special price.”
The customer removed his panama hat and looked around. “I don’t know. I’ve heard good things about Nissans.”
“Sold our last one Wednesday, but we have a Saturn right out of the body shop. Very minor accident. Not really even an accident. In fact that was another car entirely.”
“I was kind of hoping for a Nissan.”
A deep horn blared from the street.
“Excuse me a second,” said the salesman. “Don’t go anywhere.” He ran across the lot and swung open an especially wide gate for the transport truck. The driver handed a manifest to the salesman, who ran back to his customer. “This is your lucky day!”
An hour later, the just-sold Nissan pulled up the driveway of a ranch house in Hialeah overlooking the Miami Canal. The garage darkened as the door rolled down. A naked lightbulb came on. Three muscular men in wifebeater shirts were waiting. They opened the driver’s door and slashed the headrest with box cutters, removing two kilos of high-purity Bolivian chunk heroin. Without speaking, they tossed the driver a brown envelope of cash as if they were mad at him, then left quickly through the backyard.
A-OK Auto Brokers was the perfect front. Because nobody at the company knew what was going on. Not the buyers who attended the auctions, or bookkeepers or secretaries; not the drivers of the transport trucks, nor even the salesmen at the bargain car lots in Miami who received delivery. The only ones in the loop were a mechanic who performed repairs in his shop where the kilos got inserted, and the final customers, who were always coincidentally shopping at the car lots when the trucks arrived.
That way, if authorities ever intercepted a shipment, everything was insulated by a wall of clueless, innocent people. And the smuggling car itself had changed hands so many times that who could account for all those lives? Even if the guilty customer was stopped leaving the used car lot: “Hey, I just bought the thing ten minutes ago.”
Why not? With all the drugs and cash flowing through the state, some was always getting loose. Law enforcement constantly received calls from concerned citizens who’d discovered packs of white powder stuffed inside secondhand office equipment and bamboo patio furniture.
The brokerage’s owner rarely went near the business, preferring to enjoy his penthouse condo, where he now stood overlooking the ocean and reading a text message from a man in Bermuda shorts from Hialeah.
HOME.
The owner was an extremely tall man with extremely fine black hair. He had one of those nebulous foreign looks where his South American descent was often mistaken for European, even in Europe. Fingers pressed buttons again on his prepaid, untraceable phone, sending a text to a different number.
GREEN.
A mechanic drove another junk car to an isolated farm in Central Florida and, just after dark, Christmas lights came on in July. The lights were strewn across a flat pasture, marking the ad hoc runway for a low-flying Cessna that touched down, handed the goods out the window, and took off.
The mechanic pulled out his cell.
SAFE.
The resident of the Fort Lauderdale penthouse read the text, broke his phone apart and rejoined two women in his bedroom.
Chapter FIVE
THE GULF COAST
A muscle car raced through Pascagoula, Mississippi, home of Peavy guitar amplifiers.
“The sixties also brought us Space Food Sticks, which went perfect with Tang,” said Serge. “But kids today never get to experience the pageantry. Just like Shake-A Pudd’n.”
“I remember that.” Coleman packed a bong made from something discarded in a Dumpster. “You’d shake powder and water together in a special container until it thickened, and all the children got room-temperature dessert. Wonder why they don’t make it anymore.”
“And Jiffy pop!” said Serge. “I loved those TV ads: parents sliding a tiny disposable pan on an oven burner and suddenly the foil expands to the size of your head.”
“That used to rip my mind.” Coleman took a hit, filling
the car with a loud tone in C sharp.
“Another engineering feat?” asked Serge.
A pot cloud exhaled. “Someone threw out a broken clarinet.”
“Getting high and performing a concerto,” said Serge. “You’re an overachiever.”
Toot! Toot! . . .
“But here’s the moment in Jiffy pop history that I wish I could have seen,” said Serge. “The day at the factory when they installed the first microwave oven in the employee break room. ‘It does fucking what?’ ”
Thud, thud, thud.
Coleman pointed the wind instrument toward the trunk. “That dude’s awake again.” Toot!
“Could have sworn I conked him harder than that.”
“I still can’t believe the guy followed that mom all the way home.”
“Less amazing than you’d think,” said Serge. “Crime now has delivery service. Most people aren’t aware because they don’t read the tiny newspaper stories on page seventeen, but there’s a growing epidemic of people being attacked in their own driveways—unilateral road rage where the jerk won’t let it go until he’s at your mailbox. That’s why my radar was up for that jerk. It’s a sad commentary, but particularly true in Florida: If you’re coming home at night, start checking the rearview three turns away. If someone else makes the same turns behind you, keep driving past your home. It’s down to that.”
Thud, thud, thud.
“Luckily I have delivery service, too.”
The Comet continued into an industrial section of town and parked along a dark alley.
Coleman leaned out the window. “Medical supply?”
“Medical supply houses are the coyote’s new Acme company: all kinds of great stuff you can’t get elsewhere.” Serge slipped out of the car and quietly closed the door. “The best part is lax security. While it may be a candy store to me, nobody else wants this stuff or even knows it exists.”
“But I thought medical places had outrageous security,” said Coleman.
“You’re thinking of the ones with drugs.”
“I am.” Toot!
“No drugs, no security,” said Serge. “Like that transom window that’s ajar. We just need to get over this fence.”
Serge walked to the motel bed where their captive was tied down spread-eagle. “You’re finally awake! That’s great, because I’ve been meaning to talk to you. What was it you said to that mom with her children in the backseat? Something ending with bitch? By definition bullies are cowards, but that’s just embarrassing. Not to mention your external speakers. To be fair, I understand it’s your mating call, and you need to locate the big-boobied airheads. But could you be a touch more courteous to the rest of the gene pool and maybe instead wear a T-shirt that says ‘I’m with Stupid,’ except with the arrow pointing straight up?”
“Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm!”
“Where are my manners?” said Serge. “Here you are my guest, and I’m nitpicking your faults . . . The real reason I wanted you to wake up is that I got you a gift.” He opened a large molded case on the side of the bed. “Recently picked this up but realized it’s way too big for me to keep lugging around. Since you’re obviously into high-end audio equipment, I knew you’d appreciate it far more than anyone else I could think of. And audio doesn’t get any more high-end than this. Want to see how it works? I’ll show you!”
Two hours later, a muscle car thumped through the dark streets.
“Serge, you never play your music this loud,” said Coleman. “You always say it’s not polite.”
“Except this time manners require me to be a polite host.”
“ . . . Ooo-ooo, that smell! . . .”
Serge glanced in the backseat at a wide-eyed passenger who no longer needed to be restrained. “And every polite host needs to stay sharp and pick up on each of his guests’ special preferences. I doubt he’s into finger bowls and hot towels.”
The car eased into a parallel parking slot beside a self-service car wash. The music stopped. Serge turned all the way around in his seat and rested his arms casually atop the headrest. “I explained the bonus round earlier in detail, so you’re up to speed there. All you need now is directions to the nearest emergency room. And you’re in luck! It’s six blocks straight ahead.” He grinned.
Big eyes stared back.
“What are you waiting for?” said Serge. “Get going!”
“That’s it?”
“Unless you want to hang out and be buddies.”
The back door flew open; the pickup driver jumped onto the sidewalk. He took three running steps, then swayed and stuck his arms out for balance.
“The whole key is to find your comfort zone,” Serge called out the window. “Go on, now, get comfy!”
The released prisoner headed off.
“He fell down,” said Coleman.
“Practice makes perfect,” said Serge, cranking up the stereo again.
A quarter mile ahead, an ambulance driver strolled out of the emergency room for a non-emergency smoke break. He leaned against a light post after spending the last hour with another shower-fall victim. Why were the fat ones the most slippery? And why did so many people not use rubber mats or stickers? He subconsciously thought of those retro flower shapes from The Dating Game. Then his mind drifted to bathrooms in general: toothbrush holders, brass towel rings, joke books designed to be read a minute at a time, the last hotel he was in that had a single shower knob to control both water volume and temperature that he could never figure out. He realized he hadn’t used soap-on-a-rope in a long time.
He stopped. What was that sound?
Bump, ba-bump, bump, ba-bump . . .
His eyes strained down the street, but no vehicle in sight.
Bump, ba-bump, bump, ba-bump . . .
“Wait,” said the ambulance man. “I know that song.”
“ . . . The smell of death’s around you! . . .”
The night suddenly became quiet. Movement way down the dark street. The EMT rubbed his eyes until he was sure the silhouette was actually there.
It slowly came into focus. Definitely a man, a big one who could take care of himself. As the image grew closer, the ambulance guy thought he was looking at some drunk. The figure wasn’t weaving so much as shuffling extra slow, like he knew he was hammered and trying to deal with it.
Then he just tipped over like a gale-force wind had hit him. Except there wasn’t even a breeze. He got up and shuffled even slower, walking a tightrope. A quiet whimper: “Somebody help me.”
The man’s right knee buckled, and he went down again with a scream. He tried to pull himself up against a fence using his left leg. That knee gave way.
The paramedic took off running. “Stay down!”
The mystery man wasn’t a good listener. He tried pushing himself up with his hands. Wrists and elbows couldn’t hold the load. He nose-dived into the sidewalk just as the first responder responded. “Don’t move! You’re going to be okay!”
A second paramedic ran up with a cervical collar. “Roll him over so I can get this on his neck. Ready?”
Snap, snap.
“Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing.”
“A couple of his ribs just broke.”
“I heard it, too,” said the second EMT. “I barely applied any pressure.”
Other guys arrived with a stretcher.
“Be careful,” said the original paramedic. “Something weird’s going on.”
“Weird?”
The EMTs grabbed him under the legs. “He seems to be falling apart right in front of us. Be gentle getting him on that thing.”
The quartet of paramedics raised him as gingerly as possible. But still:
Snap, snap, snap.
“Aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”
The stretcher flew through the hospital’s automatic doors and straight into operating room three. An oxygen mask was already on the patient’s face. The surgeon arrived with his own paper mask, slipping sanitized hands into thin gloves. “Who was the first to find him?”
“Me,” said a paramedic. “Never seen anything like it.”
“I still don’t know what I’m seeing,” said the surgeon. “Why is he in here?”
“I don’t know,” said the paramedic.
The doctor turned and arched an eyebrow. “You’re now just wheeling perfectly healthy people into my operating room?”
The EMT shook his head. “There’s definitely something wrong. He’s so delicate that every time we touch him, something bad happens. It’s like a ninety-year-old guy walking through his kitchen, and out of the blue his hip breaks. You expect that because of advanced age, but this guy’s so young.”
The doctor walked around the patient. “Wounds?”
“Nothing.”
“Internal injuries?”
“No bruises or redness. Just a few scrapes from falling down, but not enough to cause anything. Otherwise, he looks perfectly fine.”
A nurse looked at a beeping machine. “Blood pressure dropping.”
“Get an IV going.” The physician spread the patient’s eyelids to inspect pupils. “What was the first thing you noticed?”
“I saw him walking down the street and then it was just broad-spectrum skeletal failure—”
A buzzing alarm went off. “Code!” yelled a nurse. A green line tracked straight across a screen.
They grabbed the electric paddles. “Clear!”
Boom . . .
“Nothing.”
Boom . . .
“Chest compression.”
Snap.
“What was that?”
“Sternum . . .”
An hour later, police detectives huddled with a surgeon in the lobby.
“So you think we have a homicide?” asked a suit with a notebook.
“Don’t know,” said the doctor.
