by Tim Dorsey
A lone pair of headlights rounded the corner and rolled slowly up Main Street. It parked against a curb at an expired meter. A “Closed” sign hung in a nearby window.
Knock, knock, knock.
The door to Lead Belly’s opened.
“Peter! Thanks for coming by!” Vernon changed his expression. “You look a little upset.”
“I’m beyond upset! And what’s with all the cloak and dagger, meeting here in the middle of the night?”
Another voice: “Peter, why don’t you come over and take a seat?”
Peter squinted toward the back of the empty restaurant and a dark silhouette. “Senator?”
Vernon led the way and pulled out a pair of chairs. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Black sat on the table. Pratchett poured a generous glass and slid it across the wood. “Have a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“It’s not about want. You need a drink,” said Pratchett. “You were practically hysterical when you called.”
“How would you expect me to react?”
“I don’t know,” said the senator. “I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“Because you cut me off and said we had to meet in person.”
“The conversation seemed to be drifting into terrain that we don’t discuss over the phone.”
“This is too shady for me.”
“Nothing’s shady,” said Pratchett. “It’s just that if you’re in politics long enough, you become a cautious person.” He glanced down at the table. “Now, your drink.”
Vernon raised his own glass. “Go ahead, it’ll do you good.”
Peter took a tentative sip and made a face.
The other men laughed and knocked back their own liquor in a single pull.
“Finish it,” said Pratchett. “All at once. It’ll go down easier that way.”
Peter paused with the glass in front of his mouth.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” Vernon patted him on the back. “We’re neighbors now. We take care of our own around here.”
“You’re among friends,” said Pratchett.
Peter took a deep breath and upended his glass, then began coughing his brains out.
“Much better,” said the senator. “Now, why don’t you back up and tell me what this is all about?”
Peter rubbed watering eyes. “I turned in my geology report as usual, and went back out to the construction site today because we left some equipment. And when I arrived, it was so odd. There were all these workers and flatbed trucks full of concrete blocks and roof trusses.”
“Right, we’re building homes,” said Pratchett. “It would be odd if they weren’t there.”
“But my report recommended against building.”
“What?” Pratchett said in surprise.
“The substrata is totally inappropriate.”
“That’s not what was in your report.”
“And that’s what I was trying to tell you on the phone,” said Peter. “That wasn’t my report.”
“But they faxed me a copy,” said the senator. “I have it right here. You signed the bottom.”
“I know that’s my signature. I got a copy, too. It’s a totally different report.”
“I’m confused,” said Vernon. “Are you trying to tell us that someone altered your findings?”
“Yes!”
The senator leaned back in his chair. “Now I understand why you’re so upset. This is extremely disturbing news. I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
“I’m outraged,” said Vernon. “And you did the right thing by coming to us with it.”
“You haven’t told anyone else, have you?” asked Pratchett.
Peter shook his head. “You’re the first. I was too rattled to call my company. I could lose my job.”
“Nobody’s losing any job,” the senator said calmly. “But you need to do exactly as I say. Don’t speak a word of this to anyone until my people can discreetly look into it.”
“But what about the subdivision?” asked Peter.
“What about it?”
“They have to stop building.”
“Now hold on,” said Vernon. “We still don’t know what we have here, and a stoppage would cost thousands a day. A lot of the investors are neighbors like you and me.”
“He’s right,” said the senator. “What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not wrong!” said Peter. “The limestone has a high-risk coefficient.”
“But the project’s already a go.”
“Based on a falsified report,” said Peter. “You saw what happened to the model home.”
“Let me phrase this a different way.” The senator held out his palms. “Can you guarantee there will be problems with the homes we’re building?”
“Nobody can guarantee that, but—”
“Well, there you go,” said Vernon. “Why worry about what might never happen?”
“But—”
“And if something does happen,” said Pratchett, “we’ll simply make good. I hear your company has special repair techniques: pumping stuff in the ground, compression, piers, but you know all that technical stuff much better than us.”
“You don’t build and plan on remediation,” said Peter. “You just don’t build.”
“Now we’re going backwards,” said Vernon. “Believe what we’re telling you and relax.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“They used that report to get the insurers to underwrite,” said Peter. “It could end my career. I’ve even heard of guys going to prison for fraud . . .”
Pratchett moved his foot and felt something strange. He glanced down and thought: Shit.
A HALF HOUR EARLIER
Knock, knock, knock.
The door to Lead Belly’s opened.
“Gus, come on in!”
“We’ve got serious problems,” said the insurance man. “Someone screwed us but good.”
“Wait, what are you talking about?”
“The geology report was switched,” said Gus. “I underwrote a piece of shit, but you’re in even worse shape, exposed to a bunch of lawsuits. Must be one of the investors who did it.”
“You’re hitting us with a lot at once,” said Pratchett. “Why don’t you have a seat and go over this slowly?”
“I prefer to stand,” said Gus. “I won’t be here long. I’m going to the authorities.”
“Then I hope you don’t mind if I sit.”
“Just wanted to come by and give you a heads-up,” said Gus. “Because this could hurt you politically. We’re talking fraud.”
“Are you sure?”
He pulled folded pages from his back pocket. “Got copies of both reports from a friend I have on the inside. We need to get out ahead of this. If we can prove who did it, we might be able to walk away unscathed.”
“You’re right,” said Pratchett. “This is bad. And it definitely would hurt me at the polls. You did the right thing coming to us.”
“Did you tell anyone else?” asked Vernon.
“Not yet,” said Gus, turning toward the door. “Like I mentioned, fair warning.”
“Wait!” said the senator. “Okay, I always hate to appear weak, but this could do more than a little political harm. I could lose my seat.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I need a big favor.”
“I’m not holding back on this,” said Gus. “I got a family.”
“All I’m asking is a few days until I can look into this and prepare a public relations defense.”
Gus shook his head. “Since I already know, that would add obstruction of justice to my pile of crap.”
“Then let’s balance the scales,” said Pratchett.
<
br /> “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A lot of money is in the lurch,” said Vernon.
“There’s plenty to go around,” said Pratchett.
Gus paused and looked at each of them. “Are you offering me a bribe?”
“Oh, no, no, no! A consulting fee.”
“I don’t think we should talk anymore without lawyers present.” He began leaving again.
“Gus!” shouted the senator. “Cards on the table. Two hundred thousand.”
The insurance man turned. “Two hundred?”
“I’m desperate,” said Pratchett. “Please?”
Gus just stared.
The senator searched his eyes. “Is that a yes or no?”
Gus slowly began backing up. He raised a shaking arm and pointed. “You!”
“Me?”
“How could I have been so naive?” said Gus. “Of course! It was you all along! And to think I came here worried about your career!”
“That’s absurd,” said Pratchett. “You need to calm down before you do something you’ll regret.”
“Hell with this town! I’m out of here!” He ran toward the door.
Vernon lunged and tackled the underwriter. They rolled across the floor. Gus soon got the upper hand, and Vernon felt his left arm twisted behind his back. “I could use a little assistance down here.”
Pratchett stared stupefied. “How on earth did this get so fucked up?”
“Any time now,” said Vernon.
Pratchett ran over and pulled Gus off the mayor, wrapping his arms around the insurance man from behind. Gus furiously pedaled backward and slammed the senator into the bar. “Ow, mother—”
Vernon raced forward to punch him in the stomach, but Gus kicked him in the crotch first. The mayor doubled over. Wrestling continued. The senator and underwriter ended up on top of the bar, then crashed behind it. “Vernon! He’s stronger than he looks! Get over here!”
“One second.” The mayor ran through the restaurant’s swinging doors to the kitchen. He urgently looked one way and the other—“Ah-ha!”—bolting over to a thick wooden table where the ribs were prepared.
“Vernon, where’d you go?”
“Be right there!”
He dashed out of the kitchen and dove behind the bar. “You son of a bitch!” Swinging down hard, again and again.
Pratchett squirmed out from under the insurance man. “Finally!”
“Here,” said Vernon. “I brought one for you, too.”
“That’s mighty neighborly.” Pratchett began swinging. “Take that, cocksucker!”
The swinging continued until both were exhausted.
“Think he’s dead?” asked Vernon.
“Most definitely.”
“Let’s make sure.”
“No harm, no foul.”
Chop, chop, chop, chop . . .
Knock, knock, knock.
The two men jumped up from behind the bar and froze with big eyes, holding bloody meat cleavers in silence.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Who can that be?”
“Damn,” said Pratchett. “I forgot we told Peter to meet us.”
“You got some blood on your shirt.”
“We’ll kill most of the lights and sit in the corner.”
Knock, knock, knock.
“Coming . . .”
BACK TO THE PRESENT
Pratchett looked up from the floor and the spreading pool of blood seeping beneath the bar. A countdown clock had begun to tick. “I’m sorry, Peter. You were saying?”
“That I could go to prison.” He crossed his hands over a queasy stomach. “Maybe I should just go to the authorities. Then it’s all on the record in real time, and they can’t come after me.”
Vernon and the senator exchanged glances. The blood crept closer to Peter’s chair.
The geologist leaned toward the senator. “What’s on your shirt?”
“Barbecue sauce. They ran out of lobster bibs.”
Vernon grabbed Peter’s arm.
“What are you doing? That hurts.”
Pratchett shook his head vigorously.
Vernon released his grip. “Sorry, just trying to be reassuring.”
The blood reached the near leg of Peter’s chair. The countdown clock entered James Bond warhead-disarming territory.
“Peter,” said Pratchett. “When we mentioned earlier that you were among friends, you’re among something even better now: powerful friends. There’s a whole world operating on a level you’ve never seen. We won’t ever let anything happen to you.”
“Trust us.” Vernon checked his watch. “And get some sleep.”
The liquor was now working. “Thanks. You’ve made me feel a lot better.” Peter stood and stretched. He began taking a step into the bloody slick.
Vernon yanked him from behind. “This way.”
“What?”
“It’s shorter.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I misjudged,” said Vernon. “But since you’re already going this direction . . .”
They escorted him out the door and closed it.
“Jesus!” said Vernon, fastening locks. “I thought he’d never leave.”
“Let’s get that body out of here.”
The pair walked behind the bar and stared down, gauging weight and volume.
“Your thoughts?” asked Pratchett.
Ten minutes later, the pair strolled down a quiet sidewalk under a row of silk flags. A traffic light blinked yellow as they crossed the street.
“I don’t know about Peter,” said Vernon. “Seems shaky.”
“Just keep tabs on him.”
They reached the other side of the road and headed down into the woods, each holding a handle of a large wheelbarrow.
“What a night.”
Chapter TWELVE
U.S. HIGHWAY 90
A gleaming chopper with a coconut gas tank rode loud and proud over the hills of North Florida.
“Radio check,” said Serge.
“Coleman here, over.”
“Another thing that pisses me off about the Internet,” said Serge. “I’ll see something a stupid criminal did in Fort Lauderdale, so I click to read the article, and instead I have to watch a video. And I can’t even watch the video because first I have to watch a commercial for cold cream.”
“I don’t even know what cold cream is.”
“Neither do I,” said Serge. “But it’s out there and people are doing it. And apparently it’s now even more refreshing, so I also have to investigate that, and then I finally get to the story.”
“What was it about?”
“This burglar broke into a house and thought he was disabling the alarm system, but instead he disabled the thermostat, so not only did he get arrested but he was sweaty.”
“Why are we stopping?”
“Another small town,” said Serge. “Small towns are the best! Barefoot kids bringing home a string of catfish, an old theater on Main Street that plays one movie on one big screen, Esso and Enco gas signs, water tower that wants you to know about the high school Fighting Argonauts, handwritten notes in store windows for free kittens, faith circles and fill dirt.”
“I’m still amazed you’re so into small towns.”
“This one’s called Monticello, twenty miles east of Tallahassee.” Serge grabbed his camera. “Its showpiece is the Perkins Opera House, built in 1890. Who would imagine that in this little speck of population surrounded by vast ruralness is one of the oldest, most famous—and still operating—opera houses in all the Southeast? Outside life is too fast; in order to notice such gems, you need to get in cadence with the beat of these little communities and slow way, way down.”
Serge
took a rapid burst of photos and screeched away.
“Radio check,” said Coleman. “I thought we were going inside that old building.”
“Negative,” said Serge. “I love opera houses, yet I hate opera. The key in my climb for the top is to keep everyone guessing.”
They continued eastbound over another hill on Highway 90 and the road opened up.
Serge’s helmet rotated left to right. “This is the part of the journey that really unwinds my head. The first few times you see Easy Rider, you’re watching it for the story. But after enough viewings you start to look at the movie, and you realize the cinematography is one long love letter to America. Sweeping panoramas of western mountains, mesas, prairies and old-style truss bridges over canyons.”
“Then it got better when they pulled over and smoked weed.”
“This is our panorama.” Serge’s eyes scanned back the other way. “There are lots of fantastic scenic drives along the ocean, but this is a part of the state where you have to stop and remember to dig it: Florida’s big-sky country, rolling hills and farms and sprawling beds of those lavender and harvest-yellow wildflowers in an intoxicating oil-painting palette like a Monet come to life. When I was a kid, bumblebees whizzed around those flowers, and one of my uncles said you could catch a bee in your cupped hands, and as long as you kept shaking them, the bee would rattle around and couldn’t sting you.”
“Did you try it?” asked Coleman.
“Stung me right away and hurt like a bastard,” said Serge. “The sixties were all about the lies.”
The pair rumbled on down the endless ribbon of tar. Coleman bent over in the sidecar with his lighter. They approached a county line.
Serge pushed his helmet microphone toward his mouth. “Better lower that joint. See what’s ahead on the side of the road?”
Coleman looked up at a big blue traffic sign with an illustration of handcuffs: ZERO DRUG TOLERANCE. He leaned back down. “What a joke.”
“Get serious,” said Serge. “A lot of the highway patrol cars in these parts are canine units. You think they’re just dog lovers?”
“I’m not disagreeing about that.” Coleman took a hard drag on a one-hitter. “It’s just that they’re unknowingly tipping off stoners that drugs are actually readily available.”
Serge glanced over at the sidecar. “What are you talking about?”
