by Tim Dorsey
“How are you and Coleman going to get there?”
“We’ve got some temporary wheels,” said Serge. “But you need to hurry because that motel fills up pretty fast.”
Matt stood and gathered his trash. “You’re not going to ditch me again like last time, are you?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no.”
The Princeton student took a deep breath. “Whatever you say.”
Serge watched as Matt pulled away on the chopper, then turned his head toward another table.
The sports car owner finished his cookie and left the crumbs and everything for someone else to clean up. He headed outside and was about to get in his restored ’84 Berlinetta.
“Yo!” yelled Serge. “Joe Ferrari.”
The driver looked back. “Don’t you ever give up?”
Serge grinned and held out a palm. “Give me a dollar and six cents.”
“So now you’re a beggar, too?” He stuck a key in the car door. “Fuck off and get a job!”
“I’m not begging and I’m asking nicely.” Serge closed the distance. “A cookie is ninety-nine cents, and sales tax brings it to a dollar-six.”
“What?”
“You’re such a player, yet you paid for your cookie out of that girl’s tip cup at the register.” Serge extended his hand again. “I’m sure it was a mistake, and since you’re so busy, you can just place the money in my hand and I’ll return it to her. While you’re at it, I’ll also take the handicapped parking tag.”
“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?”
“No,” said Serge. “Because you’re not special.”
“You’re about to find out!” He opened the driver’s door.
“I’m still being polite,” said Serge. “This is as good as it gets. From here it goes down rather steeply.”
The man stuck his head in the car and came back out. “This is who you’re screwing with!”
“Nice pistol,” said Serge. “Ruger nine-millimeter semi-auto. So now you’re contributing to the gun violence epidemic?”
“I feel threatened.”
“You’re just saying that to lay the legal pretext for brandishing a deadly weapon,” said Serge. “You don’t really feel threatened . . . Although you should.”
The man snickered and aimed the gun between Serge’s eyes. “How does it feel now, loser?”
Serge turned to Coleman. “Do I look like a loser?”
Burp.
“Well put.”
“Shut up!” yelled the man. “Now apologize and maybe I’ll let you leave.”
“Coleman, I’ve always wanted to drive a Ferrari.”
“I’ve always wanted to ride in one.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” The man stiffened his shooting arm. “I’m the one with the gun! And the bullets!”
“Is a bullet in the chamber?”
“What?”
“That’s an automatic pistol, and you can’t fire until you’ve chambered a round by racking the slide,” said Serge. “So have you?”
“I said shut up!”
“That means you haven’t,” said Serge. “Which is good. Most people who have a gun in their cars don’t chamber a round until ready to fire. Those are the safety rules. Thank you for complying.”
“What’s your point?”
“Unfortunately for you, I’m not safe.” Serge pulled his own pistol from under his tropical shirt. “I hear these cars drive like dreams, but the trunk space is terrible.”
THAT EVENING
A Buick Skylark pulled up the winding drive of a tastefully restored country farmhouse that was now a two-and-a-half-star bed-and-breakfast. The newest guests were sinkhole refugees.
Honk, honk.
Peter Pugliese opened the front door. “Be right there.”
Mary walked up behind her husband, carrying a brown paper bag that had been prepared with affection. “Don’t forget your lunch.” She rethought timeframe as she looked out at the night sky. “Or dinner.”
“Thanks.” Peter gave her a quick kiss and trotted down the steps. He jumped into the car. “All set.”
Vernon threw the vehicle in gear and took off. “Peter, I’m so glad you accepted our invitation to join us tonight. I feel absolutely sick about everything your family has gone through lately, and this will give you a chance to get your mind elsewhere. It also shows your commitment to becoming part of the fabric of this town.”
“How could I not accept?” Peter stared into his paper bag. “This kind of thing is very important to me and Mary.”
The drive was over before Peter knew it. Vernon pulled into the parking lot of a darkened corner gas station. Four other cars and a pickup were already waiting.
“May I have your attention?” the mayor called out. “I’d like you to meet the latest member of our neighborhood watch group . . .”
Peter already knew most of them by sight. He began shaking hands. “You know, I used to be on a neighborhood watch up north. It was a great way to meet other families and show appreciation for the role of local law enforcement.”
“That’s how we feel down here,” said Jabow.
Peter assessed the identical appearance of the others. “Was I supposed to dress all in black?”
“Next time,” said Vernon. “Everybody, let’s get moving . . . Peter, what are you doing?”
Peter stood holding the open passenger door of the Skylark. “Getting ready to go.”
Vernon shook his head. “The vehicles stay here.”
“We’re patrolling on foot?” asked Peter. “But I thought neighborhood watches observed in cars and phoned in tips to the police if anything seemed out of place.”
“Times have changed. And we’re the police.” Vernon walked around to his trunk; the rest of the gang gathered behind him. The lid popped open.
“Good God,” said Peter. “What’s with all the guns?”
“You’re in Florida now.” He began handing out revolvers and automatic pistols and shotguns. “Here’s your weapon.”
“I’m not taking that thing.”
The others stopped and turned with misgivings. Vernon raised a paternalistic eyebrow.
“I guess I could. Is this what they call an assault rifle?”
“And here’s your cap.”
Peter grabbed the black knitted piece of apparel. “Good thinking. It could get cold tonight.” He placed it on his head and rolled it down to his hairline. He realized there was a lot more to the cap and continued rolling until it completely covered his face. “A ski mask?”
“Probably won’t come to that,” said Jabow. “You can keep it rolled up for now.”
Vernon twirled an arm in the air. “Move out!”
The gang briskly strolled a few blocks. They reached the end of a sleepy residential street and, without communication, silently fanned out in rehearsed formation. People in the houses peeked out curtains and closed their blinds.
“Peter,” said Vernon. “Since this is your first time, stick with me.”
“I thought this town didn’t have much crime.”
“We don’t.”
“Then what’s all this about?”
Vernon pointed at the end of the road, where street lights caught a group of dark silhouettes scattering with precision.
“More of our guys?” asked Peter.
“No, the rival neighborhood watch.”
“A rival watch?”
“This is disputed border territory.”
“Like India and Pakistan?”
“Except hairier,” said Vernon. “Started when our town annexed this land, but we didn’t anticipate an insurgency movement.”
The rival groups advanced toward the middle of the block, where they began to enmesh and follow one another in ma
n-to-man coverage. Some proceeded in straight lines. Others paired off and pursued each other in circles.
“Why are you following me?”
“Why are you following me?”
Peter looked at Vernon in befuddlement. “This is about city limits?”
“Much more than that,” said the mayor. “In Florida, a lot of people need to be mad to be happy. They’re just looking for a reason, any reason. Luckily we have a new state law to help them.”
Peter paused again to take in the action. Here and there, pairs of competing watchmen had ceased moving and faced each other.
“I’m standing my ground.”
“I’m standing my ground.”
Peter continued observing in disbelief. “How long does this go on?”
Vernon checked his wristwatch. “Until now.” He pulled out a referee’s whistle, and a shrill warble filled the neighborhood. The groups dispersed in opposite directions.
Peter followed Vernon back to the cars. “That’s it?”
“Just dinner break.”
A bunch of the guys piled in the Skylark, and Vernon handed out beers from his cooler. “Peter?”
He waved off a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “We’re carrying guns.”
The men passed around a cardboard bucket of cold KFC. Peter unfolded a paper napkin on his lap and opened his brown bag. Each item individually wrapped. Dill pickle spear, hard-boiled egg, dietetic portion of potato chips in a clear baggie, an orange. He unwrapped wax paper around a sandwich and lifted the top piece of white bread. “Baloney, excellent.” Then he read the note Mary had inserted. “Have fun with your friends tonight. Love, Me.” The i’s were dotted with hearts. Peter smiled and stuck the note back in the bag. He realized the car was silent. He looked up. Everyone staring with open mouths.
“What?” said Peter.
The others fought to contain giggles.
“Hey,” snapped Vernon. “Peter’s got a loving wife. I know what some of you are going home to tonight.”
“He’s right,” said Jabow. “Peter’s a lucky man.”
“Mary’s a wonderful woman.”
“You’re a good husband.”
“Give me a drumstick. Crispy, not original.”
They resumed dinner and popped a second round of beers.
“I have a question,” said Peter. “What’s this Stand Your Ground law?”
“Levels the playing field,” Otis said with his mouth full. “They enacted it because there was too much burden on a crime victim to fully retreat. You had to be completely cornered before fighting back.”
“I totally agree with that,” said Peter. “If you’re busy retreating and end up with your back to the wall, you decrease your odds.”
“But the law also had some unintended benefits,” said Jabow.
“Such as?”
“Well, before, if you picked a fight on the street with a complete stranger and started to lose and had to shoot him, you couldn’t claim self-defense. What’s up with that?”
“Plus these new neighborhood watch groups are insanely dangerous,” said Otis.
“But you’re in a watch group,” said Peter.
“Not us,” answered Jabow. “That other watch group. They scare the shit out of me, running around at night with guns, confronting people. It’s just reckless.”
Vernon checked his watch again and closed the cooler. “Time’s a-wastin’.”
They piled out of the car and Jabow called Vernon aside. “Why’d you bring Peter along? I mean, with everything else that’s been going on and all.”
“That’s the whole point,” said Vernon. “I want to keep an eye on him. Who knows if he’ll crack up and start blabbing before Steve gets out of jail.”
They headed back toward the street where the other gang was already waiting with bellies full of Arby’s and Schlitz. But before the group could get there, one of them spotted something of greater concern and sounded the alarm.
“Hoodie!”
Vernon’s team sprinted up the road, pulling down ski masks before surrounding the unknown pedestrian and aiming guns in a circular firing squad.
“Freeze!” shouted Jabow. “What the hell are you doing in this neighborhood?”
The person reached up and pulled the hood off his head.
“Oh, Senator Pratchett,” said Otis. “We thought you were someone else.”
“What is wrong with you guys?”
“But you were wearing a hoodie,” said Jabow.
“Because it’s cold! It’s just a hoodie!”
“Sorry,” said Vernon. “But what are you doing here?”
“Telling you to knock off this idiocy.” He pointed over his shoulder at a woman peeking out a bedroom window. “I just got back from the committee hearing in Tallahassee and there’s too much heat right now, so stop these ridiculous patrols before someone gets hurt—”
Bang.
Jabow went down. “Ow, he shot me!”
The senator rolled his eyes at the sky.
Vernon snatched the gun away from Slow. “Why did you shoot him?”
“He looked scary to me.”
“But it’s Jabow!”
Slow shrugged. “He was wearing a ski mask.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Pratchett bent down next to Jabow. “Let me see that arm . . . Good, just a flesh wound.”
“Except hospitals are required by law to report all gunshot injuries no matter how minor, and Slow is on probation,” said Vernon. “We need someone who has a clean record . . . Okay, everyone listen up. This is the plan. Peter here was the shooter . . .”
“What!” said the geologist.
“You’ll be a hero. Just follow along.” Vernon faced the others. “Peter grazed Jabow while protecting us from an assailant who took the bullet and got away. Then we put out an alert for all area hospitals to be on the lookout for a bloody sleeper-cell foreigner in a hoodie.” Vernon handed Peter the gun he had confiscated from Slow. “Point that in the air and fire.”
“Why?”
“We need gunshot residue on your hand.”
“Peter,” the senator said calmly. “Give me the gun. I’m taking Jabow to a doctor I know who will discreetly give him antibiotics and stitches. Or is that too complex?”
They all decided to call it a night and began walking at a more leisurely pace back toward the cars.
“So, Peter,” said Vernon. “How have you been holding up?”
From behind:
Bang.
“Ow, shit!”
Peter started turning around. “What was that?”
“Probably nothing.”
Chapter THIRTY-ONE
A NEW DAY
Birds chirped. A rainbow. Young boys with baseball cards in their bicycle spokes pedaled past the First National Bank of Wobbly.
The front door opened. Otis rushed in lugging a stack of newspapers bundled with twine. “Had to drive halfway to Orlando!”
Jabow adjusted the sling on his wounded arm. “We really made the New York Times?”
“I know!” Otis said ecstatically as he sliced the string with a pocketknife. “Most of our names are in it. I bought extra copies that we could mail to relatives.”
They all got busy reading.
“It mentions Lead Belly’s . . .”
“And the neighborhood watch . . .”
“Our world-famous sinkhole . . .”
The door opened again.
The gang looked up. “Hey, Senator! Have you seen today’s New York Times?”
“Yes,” snapped Pratchett.
Otis quickly turned a page. “We’re like celebrities!”
Jabow held up his own paper. “Senator, your name’s in here, too. A lot more times than anyone else’s.”
<
br /> “You morons!”
“Why so crabby?” asked Otis. “The article makes you look great. Says the city of Wobbly cast more votes for you in the last election than there are people in the town.”
“Everyone, close your traps!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Vernon. “We loved what you said on TV, sticking up for us in the committee hearing.”
“Stop calling attention to yourselves!” said Pratchett. “It doesn’t take much digging around here.”
“So what do you want us to do?”
“Shut it all down!”
“What’s that mean?”
“The speed trap, the neighborhood watch, and I know you’re still overpumping at the water plant,” said the senator. “Most important of all, make sure nothing happens to Peter Pugliese. Not even a splinter.”
“What do you mean?” said Vernon.
“I got a pretty good idea what you’ve been doing on the side with your Miami friends,” said Ryan. “And normally that’s your business. But right now, if anything suspicious happens to him, it’ll bring in the FBI and put this whole place under martial law.”
“Would they still let us have Founders’ Day?”
“Shut up.”
CLEWISTON
A fit young man in a Ferrari shirt sat tied to an uncomfortable motel room chair. He looked toward the dresser, where his captor had his back to him, working on something unseen.
“I already gave the cookie money back! Please let me go!”
“Put a sock in it!” said Serge. “You think that just because you have tons of money, you can poop on everyone else?”
The man continued watching Serge with confused dread. “W-w-what are you going to do to me?”
“This is what!” Serge spun and ran toward the chair, seizing the hostage by the hair on the back of his head. “Eat the fucking Dorito taco!”
“No! Not that!”
“Eat it!”
“I won’t!” He clenched his lips tight.
A cell phone rang. Serge answered with his free hand.
“You ditched me again! I waited all night at the motel!”
“Matt, something unforeseeable came up—”
“I won’t eat the taco!”
Slap.
