by Tim Dorsey
The couple glanced at each other. “Both of you are going out for a while?” asked Serge.
“Hell, yes!” Coleman hoisted a beer. “This town rocks!”
Chris stretched. “We’re a little tired from the day.”
“Yeah,” said Serge. “Probably watch TV and order something.”
“Suit yourself.” Kenny grabbed his wallet. “If you change your minds, we’ll be at the Brass Ring. Come on, Coleman!”
“Surf’s up!”
The door closed.
Five minutes later: “. . . Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! . . .”
“I take it you’re happy?”
“. . . Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! . . . Stop! Switch places! . . .”
“What?”
“. . . Switch! Now! Hurry! . . .”
The headboard banged.
“. . . On the floor! . . .”
“What?”
“. . . Yes! Yes! Yes! . . .” She hopped up and turned around. “. . . Against the dresser! . . .”
“What?”
“. . . Yes! Yes! . . . I hope I’m not throwing too much at you . . .”
“Consider me your golden-glove shortstop.”
“. . . Good.” She ran out of the room, her voice echoing back. “The kitchen table! . . .”
Dishes broke. A woman shrieked in rhythm and arched her back, then collapsed. She hugged him with wet matted hair. “That was unbelievable.”
“Oh, but we’re not done,” said Serge. “My turn to call the offense.”
“What?”
“Where’s your plaid shirt?”
“Right here.”
“Back to the bedroom! . . .”
“. . . Yes! Yes! Yes! . . .”
Serge leaped off her and ran into the living room. “Help me get down the surfboards . . .”
“. . . Yes! Yes! Yes! . . .”
Serge jumped up and ran to the bookshelf. “This is one of my favorite positions.” He got back on top of her and opened a novel next to her head.
“You’re going to read?”
“If you haven’t tried it, you have no idea what you’re missing! . . .”
“. . . Yes! Yes! Yes! . . .”
“‘The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain’ . . .”
A half hour later, the front door opened.
“We’re back!” yelled Kenny. “Hope you kids behaved yourselves.”
The pair were reclined in respective lounge chairs, eating popcorn and watching a black-and-white movie. “Just having a nice boring evening,” said Serge.
Kenny laughed. “We didn’t.”
“I’m really sorry,” said Coleman.
“I told you not to worry about it,” said Kenny.
“What happened this time?” asked Serge.
Kenny was still chuckling. “We hopped over to the Polo Lounge, and Coleman climbed up on the bar and started doing the tequila dance.”
“I’ve seen that in a bunch of bars,” said Serge. “The patrons love it.”
“Except it’s not that kind of bar, and they weren’t playing ‘Tequila,’” said Kenny. “In fact, everyone was staring in silence.”
“Until I broke some stuff,” said Coleman. “Sorry.”
“It’s all good,” said Kenny. “I greased the bartender and said he was a Kennedy. For some reason I’m not tired at all . . . Coleman, nightcap back at the Ring?”
“We rock tonight!”
They ran out the door.
Serge and Chris both looked at the plaid shirt sitting on the table between them, then raced each other down the hall . . .
And that’s how it went, the next day and the next. The bonding of the odd quartet.
Chapter 33
The Next Morning
Cars honked. Cops rode horses. Cabdrivers cursed. Corner vendors tonged hot dogs into buns. All in a New York minute.
Just below Central Park near the Carnegie Deli, a fifty-story office tower rose in midtown Manhattan. A double-decker sightseeing bus drove by. A statue of Marilyn Monroe with a blowing dress stood over a sidewalk grate. A delivery truck parked, and a large rolling bin took the elevator to the third floor.
The bin arrived in a spacious open room where everyone was on their feet and on the move. Someone upended the bin, dumping its contents onto a long steel table surrounded by employees efficiently sorting the pile of letters, large envelopes and boxes of all shapes. As they say, many successful people get their start in the mail room. Many more just become unpleasant.
A young man named Lupes had a cheap apartment across the river in Jersey and dreams of producing a one-man off-Broadway show on the Helsinki Accords. He wheeled a smaller bin out of the mail room and up to the forty-ninth floor, making the rounds down corridors of busy window offices. People on the phone, on the computer, holding meetings. They all briefly looked up from their tasks and smiled as the day’s mail arrived, and if they were asked a moment later if they had smiled at Lupes, they wouldn’t be able to tell you.
The bin arrived at a corner office and a regular stack landed on a desk. Neal Toth was a respected senior editor who specialized in nonfiction naval history and southern lit. It was a half hour before he got around to opening the mail.
Toth was as hard-nosed as they came, and he turned into a little kid. Running out into the hallway and calling to everyone in earshot, “You have to see this!”
A major publishing house is not known for hallway screaming, and a curious group collected in his doorway.
“What is it?”
Toth held a stack of pages over his head in triumph. “Kenny’s back!”
“Who?”
“Kenneth Reese.”
The older editors knew, and the younger ones were filled in.
“Oh, that Kenny,” said a celebrity-cookbook editor. “But I thought he was dead.”
Toth shrugged. “Who knew what happened to him?”
Indeed.
Toth had been a young editor when he began working on Kenny’s series of Florida books, and now he was one of the oldest. Back then, everything was fine until the fourth book came due. They had already started designing the dust jacket. Kenny wasn’t answering his phone. At first, nothing seemed off. When authors were writing, they were notoriously hard to reach, often checking into motels with typewriters to avoid disruption. Happened all the time. But then a few days of no contact became a month. They tried his agent, who reported the same difficulty. Time went on and the deadline was long past. Urgent phone calls and mail went into a black hole. They were just about to call the police when a certified letter arrived from an attorney informing them Kenny would not be writing anymore and that all further communication should be directed to his law office.
Writers were strange cats. Complaining about the color of their name on the cover, shouting about the size of their author photo on the back flap, or simply unexplained crying when an editor picked up the phone. But this was another league. Kenny had been at the height of his popularity, and never a disagreement. An editor’s dream. Who stops then?
The publisher and agent had tried everything to bring Kenny back into the fold, even flying down to meet with the attorney, but he was resolute. They didn’t lose hope, continuing the overtures every month or so for the next three years. Then the attempts became less and less frequent. Until they lost hope. Lives had to move on. Good-bye, Kenny, wherever you are.
The eighties became the nineties, then the new millennium. Rumors, myths, mystery. A ghost.
“He’s back!” Toth repeated.
“But how do you know it’s really him?” asked a book-tour scheduler. “It could be a hoax. Remember the Howard Hughes thing?”
“I was skeptical, too,” said Toth, looking down and flipping pages. “You can try to mimic a writer’s style, but this is spot-on. If anyone should be able to tell the difference, it’s me.”
“Any reason for the turn of events?”
“Just this odd cover letter.” Toth held it to his fac
e. “Says he’s sorry he hasn’t called except he was out of communication on an eastern journey to find himself, and he discovered the key to life: ‘You will never really find yourself, but never stop trying.’”
“Sound like Kenny?”
“No, but neither does pulling a Jimmy Hoffa.” The editor set the page down gently on his desk calendar. “He ends by saying he’s ready to jump back into the game, and gave me a phone number to use day or night.”
“You haven’t called it?”
“Not yet. I’m still dazed. What do you say after all these years? After— . . . whatever the hell happened to him?” Toth picked up the phone. “Could I have the room, please? And close the door.”
Everyone left, and the editor stood there so long just holding the un-dialed phone that it started that obnoxious beeping when you don’t dial in time. He hung up and grabbed it again. He began dialing . . .
A green Nova cruised along the beach on Highway A1A.
“And here’s another way to fight back against The Man,” said Serge. “Say you have a reservation at a motel, and something comes up that’s not your fault, like remembering there’s an eclipse in the Keys, or having to sanitize a crime scene, especially if it’s yours. You can’t just go through life leaving DNA material for the next person.”
“It’s not how we were raised.”
“And you have to cancel the room, but it’s past cancellation time and you’re going to lose your money.”
“But Serge,” said Coleman. “What can one person do?”
“This is why you always stay at national chains,” said Serge. “They won’t let you cancel, but they will let you reschedule. So you call the eight-hundred reservation number to say your business itinerary has changed because you landed the huge Mongolian zinc-mine account, and need to move your reservation from Monday to Thursday. They happily agree, which also moves your cancellation time, and you just call again the next day and ditch the room without penalty.”
“That’s pretty clever,” said Coleman. “Only one thing. You agreed to the cancellation rule when you first booked the room, so isn’t that dishonest?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Serge. “The whole reservation process is adversarial. They have all these rules that you’re forced to accept or sleep in the woods. Does that sound right? Yet they can break their own rules anytime they want with two simple words. I once tried to use a perfectly valid coupon. ‘Sorry, we don’t honor those. We’re independently owned.’ They wave the phrase around like a magic wand. Another time: ‘I’d like the late checkout that’s a benefit of my platinum status.’ ‘Sorry, independently owned.’ And there’s no mention about any of this on the website when you commit. How did that start? That’s why I always wait until the staff is watching to abuse ice-machine protocol. ‘Hey, the sign says not to fill coolers.’ ‘Sorry, I’m independently owned—’”
A cell phone rang, and Serge grabbed it.
“Hello?”
“Is this Kenny Reese?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Your old editor, Neal Toth.”
“Oh, hi, Neal. I’ve been expecting your call. How’s it shaking?”
“Good grief, you’re acting like we just talked the other day,” said the editor. “I’m still in shock that I received your package.”
“Better late than never.”
A pause. “Your voice sounds different.”
“What do you expect after all these years?” said Serge. “Your voice sounds different, too, Ned.”
“It’s Neal.”
“Right, Neal. So what did you think of the manuscript?”
“I was floored! Your best yet!” said Toth. “We going to rush this right out in time for the holidays.”
“Sounds great,” said Serge.
From the passenger seat. “Noooobody expects the dildo.”
“Shut up, you idiot!” Serge pointed importantly at the phone. “It’s New York.”
“What was that?” asked the editor. “Is everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Glad to hear,” said Toth. “Because I have something big to ask. Hope this isn’t too much all at once, but would you, uh, say, be up to doing a book tour?”
“A book tour?” said Serge. “Can’t think of anything I’d like more! Sign me up! My only request is that I reserve my own motels. I have special tricks.”
“No problem,” said the editor. “And forgive me if I’m still a little off here, but this is all so out of the blue.”
“Ain’t that life?”
“Okay, then, it’s set. I’ll have someone from promotions call to set up your schedule.” A huge smile practically came through the phone. “It’s so wonderful to finally be talking to you again!”
“Same here, Ned.”
“Neal.”
“Right. Later.” Serge hung up.
“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.
Serge floored the gas. “Is Kenny going to be surprised!”
Chapter 34
The Bungalow
“You did what!” screamed Kenny.
“For your own good,” said Serge.
Kenny seized him by the collar. “Which manuscript did you give them?”
“I think the first. Figured that would be the logical place to start your comeback.”
“You think? What did it say?” demanded Kenny. “What was the plot about?”
“You know, all the smuggling at the Port of Palm Beach, police corruption, your big escape,” said Serge. “Personally I was a little surprised that you included the death of Darby Pope. But that’s what makes you so great. You had the courage to explore your most intimate emotions.”
“Oh my God!” Kenny grabbed the sides of his head. “This is a disaster!”
“I did you a big favor.”
“Favor!” Kenny paced feverishly. “You just killed me!”
“I guess that’s the same as ‘thank you,’” said Serge.
Kenny clutched his collar again. “You have to stop them.”
“That train’s already left the station,” said Serge, fiddling with his cell phone. “They’re rushing it into print as we speak. And even if I could stop it, I wouldn’t. It’s a critical element of my biggest project ever!”
“What project?”
“To fix your life.”
“It doesn’t need fixing! And my judgment is far better than yours!”
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw yourself the other day when I tumbled through your kitchen window.” Serge raised his cell phone. “Hold still.”
“What for?”
“Your updated author photo.”
“Get that thing away from me!”
Click.
Serge checked the screen. “Kenny, I’m going to have to take another. Your hand was in front of your face.”
“No, you’re not!” The writer ran around the room, quickly checking out all the blinds before closing them.
“But your publisher said you needed a new photo for your book tour.”
“What book tour?”
“The one I agreed to. They’re scheduling it right now. The next critical step in my project to restore normalcy.”
“Aaaauuuuuuu!” Kenny ran down the hall to a closet and returned with an armload of towels, which he began hanging back on all the windows to darken the room. He switched on the stereo and cranked up the volume from the outdoor microphones. Bolted the dead bolts. Reset the bear trap. Ran back and jumped in his lounge chair, trembling with a rifle across his chest.
“Kenny, we’re going backward now.”
No answer.
Coleman stumbled into the room with a chilled can of Pabst. “Why is it so dark in here? Did I miss sunset again?”
“No.” Serge nodded toward the lounge chair.
Belch. “What’s up with him?”
“This is technically what they call a setback.” Serge approached the chair with his phone. “Kenny, think of what you said t
he other day about having been afraid of nothing all this time . . .” He snapped fingers in front of the writer’s face. “Kenny, you in there?” Snap, snap. “Shoot, he’s catatonic.” He raised the phone again. Click.
“Coleman.” Serge held out the screen. “What do you think about this author photo?”
“His eyes.” Coleman leaned closer. “He looks like a madman.”
“You’re right. I’ll just take another one later when he’s in an appreciation frenzy. We still have plenty of time before the book launch.” Serge was sticking the phone back in his pocket when it rang.
“Who is it?” asked Coleman.
Serge checked the display. “New York.” He put it to his ear. “Hello? . . . Yes, I’m still as thrilled as you are . . . Could you repeat that part again? . . . No, it’s good news . . . Of course I’ll be ready . . . I’ll get it to you as soon as possible. Peace out.”
“What did he say?” asked Coleman.
“Turns out we don’t have plenty of time. They moved up the release date.” He snatched keys off the kitchen table. “And they need the new publicity shot immediately to print the dust jackets.”
“What are you going to do?”
“To the Party Store.”
“I love the Party Store!”
The Nova arrived back at the bungalow after dark.
They ran inside and checked on Kenny, still in his chair, transfixed.
“Damn,” said Serge. “I was hoping he’d rebounded. I guess it’s plan B.”
He dumped a shopping bag out onto the kitchen table, then reclined in a chair. “Coleman, I’m going to need your help.”
“But I don’t know how this works.”
“I’ll walk you through it. Start with the glue . . .”
A half hour later:
Knock, knock, knock . . .
Serge got up and opened the door. “Chris!”
She startled and jumped backward off the steps, just like the first time. “Shit, you scared me again!”
“Why? It’s just little ol’ Serge.”
She climbed the steps and touched his face. “You going to a party or something?”
“No, what gives you that idea?”
