by Tim Dorsey
The goons released Salenca and grabbed Greco.
“This is a huge mistake,” said the thrashing crew captain. “It’s the first I’ve heard of any of this. Please give me time to figure it out!”
The boss on the end looked at the goons and tilted his head. Time to take Greco for a ride.
Shoe heels struggled for traction on the floor as they dragged Greco from the room.
“Excuse me?”
The three bosses turned toward Salenca. “Yes?”
“May I?”
There was a brass lamp on the desk. Before they could answer, Salenca had ripped off the shade and gripped it around the neck. He charged Greco, bringing its base down hard on Greco’s nose, dropping him to the ground. Salenca pounced, ferociously swinging the lamp over and over, knocking him out, then killing him, then still going until the skull opened.
Other heads in the room recoiled. They all had pretty hard shells, but even for them, this was a bit much. And they definitely hadn’t seen it coming from such a milquetoast.
“I think you can stop now.”
“What?” said Salenca. “Oh.” He dropped the lamp and stood up with red flecks across his face. “I hear you’re looking for someone to take over his crew. I have some ideas . . .”
Chapter 13
1984
Swish. Crack!
The three-wood met the dimpled Titleist golf ball, and the tee shot sailed down the dogleg fairway. An electric cart followed it along a winding path. A cane sat in the back of the cart where a bag of clubs would normally go.
“I love golf,” said Darby.
“I didn’t know you played golf,” said Kenny, turning the steering wheel.
“I don’t, but I love golf courses,” said Darby. “Florida courses. Look around. What’s not to love?”
Kenny looked around. The sun, a shatteringly clear sky, red and yellow tropical flowers, scattered old-growth coconut palms bending along a fairway that was so manicured it looked like someone had used tweezers. Then clusters of sabal palms in the distance toward the twin towers of the landmark Breakers Hotel, originally built by railroad magnate Henry Flagler.
“Construction began in 1896,” added Darby. “Oldest eighteen-hole course in the entire state, and considering all the golf down here, that’s saying something.”
They came to a stop at a sugar-white sand trap. A tall young man addressed his ball with a six-iron and sent it over a water hazard, landing with a backspin on the sixth green. The cart started again.
Kenny held a clipboard against the steering wheel. “I don’t know anything about golf.”
“That’s what the coaches are for,” said Darby. “Did you call them?”
Kenny nodded. “I don’t know why I can’t just be a writer. What does watching people hit balls have to do with it?”
“Fundamentals.”
The day that Darby had first found his roommate typing in the kitchen, he’d laid down a firm rule: If you’re going to attempt something, give it your very best shot, nothing less. He picked up the phone. “I’ll call Lardner.”
“Who’s that?”
“One of the sports guys I know at the Post.”
A few minutes later, Darby hung up. “It’s all set. You’re now officially a stringer for a daily city paper.”
“You got me hired at the Post?”
“No, you don’t exactly have a job.” Darby eased himself back into a chair at the table. “You’ll go to high school sports events, write something up and phone it in to the desk. That’s a stringer. Pays ten bucks.”
“But I don’t know how to write.”
“Precisely,” said the Pope. “Trying to develop a new skill—writing, surfing, whatever—is a lot like learning a foreign language. You can take a bunch of courses in a classroom, or you can move to that foreign country. The latter demands survival.”
“But I don’t want to write about sports.”
“Even better.” Darby yanked the page out of the typewriter. “You need to do something where you’re forced to write on a regular basis whether you like it or not. A stringer.”
“But what if I suck?”
Darby finished reading the page Kenny had just written. “Oh, you’re definitely going to suck. That’s what the rewrite desk is for. You’ll see what you’ve written and learn from what they had to change.”
“What about my novel?”
“I’ll be your editor.”
“You know how to edit?”
“No, but I know how to read.” Darby gestured at his bookshelf. “I’ll be your test audience and point out what successful authors do that you should try . . .”
. . . And now they were riding down a golf-cart path on Kenny’s first assignment, a tournament where the Breakers had donated the course for a few hours. “I’m getting nervous,” said Kenny. “They’re already on the twelfth hole and I haven’t written anything yet. I don’t even know what’s going on.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Darby. “Just talk to the coaches at the end. They’ll give you all the results and pithy quotes. They know the routine.”
“Sounds like they’re doing all the work for me.”
“Except the writing . . .”
They reached a hole that ran along the Atlantic Ocean. A player tossed a few blades of grass in the air to gauge the onshore breeze.
“I really appreciate you getting me this stringer thing,” said Kenny. “But is it okay in the meantime if I write other stuff that I’d enjoy?”
“Sure, just as long as you keep up your job at the Post. What do you want to write?”
“A story, except I can’t think of one.”
“I can think of a million.”
“Because you know everybody,” said Kenny. “I don’t.”
“I’ll give you my stories,” said Darby. “And you write them up. How about Trapper?”
“Trapper Nelson? The hermit you took me out to meet that day?”
“Make it a mystery,” said Darby. “Historical fiction. It’s got all the elements. Remember the day back in 1968 when they found Trapper dead from a gunshot?”
“Every school kid in this county does.” The electric cart continued up the path to a putting green of Bermuda grass. “We were riveted. As if the Trapper myth wasn’t big enough already, now this spooky tale of unsolved murder on the Loxahatchee. Except the police officially ruled it a suicide, so I’m sure it was just imaginations running wild on the playground.”
“Not quite,” said Darby. “The adults had questions, too. I mean, who kills themselves with a shotgun blast to the stomach? Respectable people around here still debate to this day. That’s where you should start. Of course, it will be badly written.”
“Is that supposed to be encouraging?”
“All first drafts are bad. Then you keep polishing as you develop your craft from working at the Post.”
The cart rolled on as Kenny began jotting on his clipboard. “Tell me what you remember about him.”
“Where do I even begin?” said Darby. “Before he became a hermit, he was strong as an ox and dashingly handsome. Romanced numerous society women, entertained tourists, plus a legendary appetite. I once saw him eat eighteen eggs for breakfast. Then there was the secret treasure. Trapper intensely distrusted financial institutions . . .”
An hour later, the golf cart sat idle next to the eighteenth green. The last high school coach had walked away from Kenny as he finished taking quotes and scribbling his handwritten story. He gave it to Darby with hopeful eyes. “What do you think?”
The Pope read down the page. Yikes! I thought it might be a little bad . . . He concealed his thoughts and smiled. “This is your big break. Phone it in.”
Team America.
That’s the title of history’s most underrated political-satire musical comedy film starring puppets that have sex. And one of the film’s best stage production songs: “We Need a Montage!”
A tennis ball cleared a net in Riviera Beach. A player th
rew his racket in the air. Kenny wrote feverishly about the high school victory.
A baseball cleared the left field wall in Boynton. Kenny grilled the coach.
Fingers furiously hit the keys of a manual typewriter.
A diver jumped off a springboard in North Palm. Kenny barked to an editor.
“. . . We need a montage! . . .”
Lacrosse game, football game, soccer. A pen scrawled notes. Volleyball, track and field. Coaches peppered with questions.
A hand smacked the return carriage of a manual typewriter.
Cross-country, wrestling. Dimes jammed into pay phones.
“. . . We need a montage! . . .”
Chess club, math bowl. Spectators going wild. Kenny sprinted from the door on deadline.
Music fades out . . .
Kenny pulled a completed page from the typewriter. He set it on top of a stack of similar pages, then picked up the whole pile and tapped it into alignment on the kitchen table.
Darby was in his lounge chair finishing a bowl of chili when Kenny handed him the stack. “Finished the first few chapters.”
“Let me see that.” Darby put on glasses and began reading. He took the glasses off and looked up. “It’s kind of hard to read with you hovering over me staring like that.”
“Sorry.” Kenny took the seat next to him, straining to stare in the opposite direction as hard as he could.
“That’s even more distracting.”
“I’ll go in the bedroom.” He left.
Darby made notes on the pages with a ballpoint pen. An hour later. “Kenny!”
The younger man materialized in front of the Pope like a hyper puppy. “Well?”
“It’s bad.”
Kenny frowned.
“And that’s good,” said Darby. “You’re starting. Now just keep going. You’ll build up the muscles.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Relax,” said Darby.
“Okay.” Kenny sat down and slouched.
“No, I mean relax at the typewriter. You’re pushing too hard and overwriting.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I read this . . .” Darby held up the pages. “I feel like I’m reading writing. Just have a conversation with the reader.”
“You got it,” said Kenny. “Listen, I have a few more questions about Trapper. Did he really put up signs that land mines were buried on his property? . . .”
. . . One year later.
Clack, clack, clack.
Darby was amazed at his roommate’s newly discovered work ethic. The clattering of typing keys never seemed to stop, all hours, every second Kenny could cram in while not out covering sports. When Kenny had first expressed interest, the Pope thought there was a good chance it was just a phase—initial exuberance at discovering what reading was all about. Darby understood the right books could have that effect.
But Kenny’s focus and output never waned. He spent so much time at the kitchen table he was losing his surfer tan. He looked down in thought. The plastic tablecloth had starfish and seashells. Clack, clack, clack.
Darby sat in his lounge chair turning the last page of a first draft. He set his editing pen down. “It’s all here except the writing.” Handing the manuscript back. “Do it again.”
Another year passed. Clack, clack, clack. Pages ripped from the spool. Darby put on his glasses and grabbed his ballpoint pen to mark up the manuscript. Kenny went surfing.
A few days later, Kenny came in the front door with his surfboard and a sunburn. The Pope was staring at him. Kenny set the board against a wall. “What?”
“How many drafts is this?” asked Darby.
“Five.”
“I’m amazed.”
“You’re kidding.” Kenny took a seat. “It’s that good?”
“No, it’s still totally amateur hour.”
“I don’t get it. Then why are you amazed?”
“Because how far you’ve come. You didn’t just stick with it. You strangled it. You had a talent you didn’t realize, and you worked like a dog to get it out.” He patted the top of the manuscript on the table next to his chair. “Be very proud of this. It’s something nobody can ever take away from you.”
“What about getting published?”
“I have something to confess,” said Darby. “I knew all along that publishing was a one-in-a-million shot. I figured you’d lose interest or not have talent. I was just excited by your excitement and wanted to encourage you to see how far it went. I didn’t remotely anticipate you’d have this level of commitment, or that you’d sustain it for two solid years.”
“So you’re saying it’s not good enough to get published?”
“What I’m trying to say is I feel a little bad that I might have led you on in that area.” Darby held up the manuscript. “You shouldn’t let it detract the least bit from how great you should feel about this.”
“Give me that.” Kenny grabbed the stack of pages and went in the kitchen. Clack, clack, clack.
Another year passed.
The sun had just set. Kenny came in the door with his surfboard. The eleventh draft of his manuscript sat on the table beside Darby. Next to a bottle.
Kenny was puzzled as he propped his board against the bookcase. “What’s the champagne for?”
“I’m speechless.” A cork popped and ricocheted up in the roof beams. “You did it.”
“Did what?”
“Wrote a book. A good book,” said Darby, pouring a pair of glasses. “They’re fools if they don’t publish this.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I read a lot of books, and at times I forgot I was reading yours.” Darby offered one of the drinks. “The prose just flowed like anything I’d buy in a store or check out of the library. I never picked up my pen to make any edits, and I couldn’t stop turning pages. Cheers!”
They drank the cheap stuff.
“I’m making you co-author,” said Kenny.
“Not a chance.”
“But they’re your stories,” said Kenny. “You fed me all the material—I just wrote it up.”
“Everyone has stories,” said Darby. “But few follow their dream. This is all yours.”
“Okay, then I’m using your real name for the character based on you.”
“That’s your decision.”
They began drinking straight from the bottle.
“So what now?” asked Kenny.
“I know some people I can call.”
Chapter 14
The Present
Juno Beach.
A full moon rose over the Atlantic Ocean, sending shimmers of light across the waves. The moon was low on the horizon, large and yellow, then whiter and brighter as it climbed.
“For a boring literary tour, Trapper’s place was actually pretty cool,” said Coleman.
“Kicked out of a state park.” Serge shook his head. “Because I care too much.”
The pair sat alone on the quiet, dark beach, far up the sand against the sea oats.
“So where are the fantastic turtles I’m supposed to see?” asked Coleman.
“Keep your voice down,” Serge whispered. “There’s the first one.”
“Damn!” said Coleman. “That’s the biggest freaking turtle I’ve ever seen!”
“Loggerhead,” said Serge. “And there’s another. Now three. Stay still.”
The large sea creatures did what millions of years of genetic memory told them: Find this specific shore on specific nights. They were patient old animals, slowly ascending the beach and leaving unmistakable trails of uniform flipper tracks that looked like small army tanks were invading. Then the flippers went to work digging and flinging sand.
Coleman furtively toked a joint in his cupped palm. “When you first mentioned turtles, I was thinking about the little bitty ones I had for pets as a kid.”
“Turtles are the perfect first pets for children,” said Serge. “Because it’s hard to fuck up that program. Li
ttle plastic pond from the pet store, add water, and the turtles say, ‘We got it from here.’ Hamsters on the other hand, totally different story, like they’re having meetings to work at cross-purposes.”
“I remember my turtle pond.” Coleman took a double-clutch final hit off the roach and flicked it. “Had a plastic palm tree you snapped into the middle of the island. All day long, turtle goes up the island, back in the water, up the island, looks at the palm tree, back in water. I can dig it.”
“I used Legos to go condo with my turtle pond. I think I may have overstimulated them.” Serge pointed. “The sand flinging has stopped. Here come the eggs.”
“Check it out,” said Coleman. “We’re not alone. Other people are into the turtles.”
A hundred yards away, couples strolled the upper edge of the beach, giving the creatures a wide berth. Some sat down like Serge and Coleman and kept their voices low.
“This is a good sign,” said Serge. “Certain segments of society are now placing a premium on simply enjoying the wonders of our wild creatures without making them play bicycle horns. Notice the respect they’re showing, taking care not to disturb this miracle of life. Some volunteers even come out to place protective netting around completed nests so beachgoers the following days don’t accidentally crush the eggs. And possibly most important of all, they know to cut their headlights before pulling up. Likewise, all the homeowners around here kill their backyard lights during nesting season because turtles use the moon to navigate back to the sea.”
“It is pretty dark,” said Coleman, about to fire up a joint.
“Coleman! No light!”
“Sorry.” He stowed the doobage in his pocket. “Happy to take one for the turtles.”
“You are achieving nobleness, round-headed one.” Serge placed an approving hand on his pal’s shoulder. “After eons of nature’s harmonic rhythms, the sprawl of mankind has introduced artificial light to the beach. This strange new illumination discourages the females and results in a phenomenon called ‘false crawls,’ often prompting them to tragically dump their eggs at sea. Likewise, these lights also disorient the little hatchlings, causing them to head the wrong way and end up in parking lots and miniature-golf courses, which is less than ideal no matter how the lightbulb industry tries to spin it. Luckily, scientists sounded the alarm before the artificial-light deniers could gain footing. And look around! Everyone’s down with it! Everyone’s joining hands to follow the rules of tranquillity and respect for these majestic animals . . .”
