by Tim Dorsey
Serge got up and took another chair six seats down next to the stranger. He clenched the tube in the corner of his mouth. “You got a lower number.”
“What?” asked the stranger.
“You have a lower customer-service number on your ticket than I do. Good for you, fair and square. Mine’s forty-three. People automatically think that the numbers are non-transferable, but they’re blind to possibilities. Like sometimes I’ll just go to a motor-vehicles office or a supermarket deli when I have no plans of conducting any business. Then I grab fifty numbers and wait for a whole bunch of people to arrive. And I redistribute the numbers based upon apparent need and good behavior until I’ve shuffled the whole social structure of the crowd.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “It’s one of the few chances you get to play God. I know I shouldn’t play God, but the temptation is too great. You into Conrad? Heart of Darkness? Apocalypse Now?”
The stranger got up and moved another six seats away.
Serge stood and moved six seats with him. Suck, suck, suck. “Because the ticket system is a micro-example of everything that’s wrong with the country. We’re barreling full tilt into social Darwinism. Can’t thrive in the free market? Lie down in that unpatriotic ditch and die. Same thing in a supermarket deli. Low numbers often go to the pushiest people. Like I’ll see some young mother trying to manage three tots in a shopping cart, and then this buttoned-down young prick intentionally rushes past her to grab a number first. But he has no idea I’ve got my fifty numbers. So I hand the mom my lowest number and wish her blessings. Then more people arrive, and I give numbers to other moms, old people, the poor and the handicapped. Now the prick is ten more spots back. And he glares at me and opens his mouth, and I go, ‘Don’t say a word. I’ve got forty more numbers and can do this all afternoon.’ But he says something anyway—not polite to repeat it. And guess what? I did it all afternoon: Every time someone new arrived, I gave them a lower number, and the jerk could never get to the counter for his marinated mushrooms. I’m guessing about that part, but he looked the type . . . I sure would like your ticket, but I’d never ask. No, no, no, that would put you on the spot, and I’m all about not making people uncomfortable.”
The stranger tossed the stub in Serge’s lap—“take it”—and rushed out of the office.
Serge strolled back to Coleman, who was leaning with his head turned toward the door. “Man, that guy sure left in a hurry. Wonder what got into him.”
“Probably heading to the deli to play God.”
From flush-mount speakers in the ceiling: “Number forty-two . . . Number forty-two? . . . Is forty-two here? . . .”
“He went to the deli,” yelled Serge.
Coleman tugged his sleeve again. “The guy gave you his number before he split.”
“Oh, right!” Serge jumped up and waved his ticket in the air. “Me! Me! Me! I’m forty-two!”
They took a couple of seats at the counter.
“Now, how can I help you today?” asked a matronly civil servant.
“We want to vote!” said Serge.
“Good to hear. You want to register to vote.”
“Right, and then we want to vote.”
“When?”
Serge sucked the clenched tube. “Immediately.”
“But there’s no election going on.”
“What?” Serge removed the tube. “Listen, is this some kind of deal where you’re just trying to leave work early?”
“That’s not it—”
“Because I understand the hardship with government pay and all, but it’s nothing like the minimum-wage customer-care people. I won’t mention names, but you know the stores . . .” The tube went back in, slurp, slurp, slurp. “. . . Those lard-bricks have it down to a science with a one-size-fits-all answer: ‘No.’ And I’m trying to return a toaster, with a receipt no less, but it’s after the thirty days . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“. . . And the woman says I can only exchange it for the exact same model, and only if it’s defective, even though I’ve already told her that I want to upgrade to a better toaster and am willing to pay the difference—like she’s not listening to a single word I’m saying . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“So she plugs it in and says it’s not defective. And I say, ‘Oh, it’s defective all right. It doesn’t meet my toast requirements.’ ” Slurp, slurp. “I need ‘fast’ toast with my coffee for today’s balls-out lifestyle . . . Oh, if that last phrase was offensive, I meant like juggling a lot of balls in a hectic schedule, as opposed to, say, my balls. Darn, I’m just making it worse. Anyway, I love toast, especially with runny yolk, but toast is like the last food left that you can’t microwave, even though I’ve tried with special homemade reflectors that they ‘say’ you’re not supposed to put in the microwave, but I wasn’t believing it . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“. . . Now I have to return a defective microwave, and they asked, ‘What the heck did you put in here? and I said, ‘Just toast and hope.’ And they wouldn’t give me my money back because of so-called misuse. But here’s the remedy for that scenario: If you approach ten employees in these stores, you get ten different answers. So I waited until they went on break and found someone else at the counter who was busy texting and gave me my refund, which I wanted even less than to vote right now . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“So if you don’t mind, I’d like to try someone else in this office for a different answer. What about that fat lady over there eating a bag of Funyuns? Maybe I’ll ask her.”
“Sir, I’m quite sure of this.”
“What about early voting? Or absentee voting? Or one of impenetrable ten-paragraph constitutional amendments on homestead ad valorem reform. I’m ready to be counted!”
“Sir, there aren’t any elections for weeks.”
Serge pouted and pooched out his lower lip.
The woman smiled warmly. “Why don’t you just register to vote for now, and then it’s taken care of and you’ll be ready to vote when the election does come?”
Serge slowly sat up straight. “Alllllll right. I guess that will have to do.”
“Good,” said the clerk, getting out the forms. “Do you want to register with one of the political parties so you can vote in the primaries?”
“Definitely,” said Serge.
“Which one?”
“Both.”
The woman looked up. “You can’t join both.”
“Why not?” asked Serge.
“That’s just the way it works.”
“Are you sure you don’t have to leave work early?”
“I’m positive you can’t be in both parties.”
“Can I register to vote twice?”
“No.”
“I’m not getting this,” said Serge. “You can have dual citizenship. Surely loyalty to a political party isn’t more important than the country.”
“Actually it is.”
“Let’s fix that.” He opened a notepad and scribbled.
“Why do you want to join both parties anyway?”
“Because each has some great ideas, as well as some that are quite stinkaroo.” Serge stuck the tube in his mouth again. “Why not harness the best that both have to offer so it’s morning in America again? I already did the math.”
“You sound like you mean well, but the parties’ rules don’t permit it.”
Serge raised a fist over his head. “That’s the whole problem! I have no issue with fellow citizens pushing opposing viewpoints as long as it doesn’t involve drum circles or long-term magazine subscriptions. In fact, I’ve changed so much over the years that now I disagree with most of the people I used to be. And I liked those guys, who were me. Where is that tube? Oh, it’s in my mouth.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “My beef isn’t philosophical; it’s strateg
ic. The parties want half of America to hate the other half so we’re distracted from their real game. ‘Look! Over there! Two dudes are making out!’ ‘Where? I don’t see anything . . . Hey, I’m upside down on my mortgage, and my retirement account just lost three fucking decimal places!’ ”
“Sir, your language.”
“I’m on it.” Slurp, slurp. “You do that long enough to people and there’s open insurrection in the streets until we’re Northern Ireland, spending entire lives cutting through fields of shamrocks so we don’t pass any parked cars. I have enough on my plate already.”
The county clerk saw a way out of the quicksand. “You do realize there’s no rule against volunteering for both parties.”
Serge stopped for a moment with his mouth open. Then he grabbed Coleman by the arm and ran out the door.
Chapter Twelve
TROUBLES-VILLE
A rusty freighter sailed down the Miami River, destined for Jamaica and Hispaniola, where they delivered stolen electronics. Once empty, the freighter would buy stolen electronics and head back.
The small ship cruised under the Interstate 95 bridge. On one bank was a series of business endeavors that required barbed wire. Then a vacant lot with copulating dogs and a run-down two-store office building at 15 percent occupancy.
Five percent of that occupancy was sitting behind a second-floor window. A hat rack stood in the corner with a single rumpled fedora. On the desk was a black rotary phone, a bottle of rye and a dirty glass. The person behind the desk had his feet propped up, repeatedly shuffling a deck of cards without intention. His necktie had a pattern of dart boards. The playing cards had stag-party pictures of dames.
The phone rang.
And rang.
The feet eventually came off the desk. Cards scattered. He grabbed the receiver.
“Mahoney, mumble to me.”
Former state agent Mahoney, officially retired in the greater Miami-Dade community with a private office in the shadow of a drawbridge. The frosted glass on the original 1940s door had gold letters with his name and PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.
The person on the other end of the phone was a recent client, the victim of a fly-by-night mortgage-loan scam. Mahoney could barely understand because the client was talking so fast, expressing profuse thanks. Once again, he’d gotten someone’s money back, and word was getting around.
“Ice it, Goldilocks,” said Mahoney. “Just hoofin’ my beat. Two-bit shylock bent job.”
More thanks in closing.
Mahoney nodded. “Shama-lama-ding-dong.”
He hung up and gathered the playing cards. Before he could resume shuffling, the phone rang again. Mahoney eyed it. He never answered on the first ring. Because once he did, mundaneness set in. But until then, the possibilities were endless: a coded message from a wharf in Bangkok until the line went dead after a gunshot; someone with an eye patch wanting to arrange a border crossing in East Berlin; a dizzy broad with a mysteriously dead sister, but that turned into a case of split personality when she pulled out the meat cleaver. Or even, dare he hope . . . Hollywood.
The phone reached the tenth ring. He snatched the receiver.
“Mahoney, your dime.”
It was the credit-card company.
Mahoney winced. But not because he was behind on payments. It was the inevitable march of technology. Serge had persuaded him that no matter how loathsome this intrusion of the modern world, he needed to start taking credit cards to stay in business:
“It seemed like just yesterday,” Mahoney said to himself. “I was listening to a maudlin strain of jazz that mocked my run of bad luck, performed in the same schadenfreude riff as a dope-fiend trombone player who moonlights for his habit doing studio-session work that involves overdubbing Warner Brothers cartoons with a toilet-plunger wah-wah-waaahhh after an animated coyote suffers another setback . . .” He glared over his shoulder at the corner of his office, where Serge stood with a trombone: Wah-wah-waaahhh. Serge removed the toilet plunger from the end of his instrument. “What?”
“Mahoney just stared down into his empty glass of rye like a calico cat that gets its kicks watching water circle a drain.”
“Maybe this will cheer you up!” Serge ran over to the desk with Christmas-morning zeal. “I just got a cool thing that plugs into the earphone jack of my new smartphone. Smartphones rock! I can check the rainfall in Tulsa, play roulette online, ask it to give me voice street directions and quiche recipes, identify constellations, track airline flights in real time, scan bar codes to see if duct tape is cheaper nearby, and watch YouTube videos of hilarious injuries involving archery equipment and trampolines. I’ve heard rumors it also makes phone calls but haven’t had time to verify that yet.”
“El gizmo?” said Mahoney.
“Oh, right.” Serge twisted a tiny piece of plastic into the top of his phone. “This thing swipes credit cards! Isn’t that fucked up?” He waved his free hand, magically wiggling fingers. “Then it flies through the air and ends up in your bank account.”
“Skeeze rap the skag twist.”
“Of course I need it,” said Serge, fiddling with the top of the phone. “I have to run people’s credit cards every day.”
Mahoney stared.
“It’s the weirdest thing,” said Serge. “I don’t even ask; they just offer. It started right after I got the smartphone and was so excited I couldn’t help running up to people: ‘Have you seen these? They’re the shit! You have to get one! I’m going to show you every single app I’ve downloaded. Only takes a couple hours. I’ve almost figured out how to use it to blow things up from a distance, and this little accessory on top even swipes credit cards.’ Then someone just hands me a Diners Club . . .”
It took a week. But finally, Mahoney fought every fiber in his being and decided to accept Serge’s advice in the name of keeping his noir dream alive. He placed the dreaded call. Since he had a rotary phone, he couldn’t navigate the automated menu options.
“Yo, chief!” said Mahoney.
“You did not enter a valid selection. Please try again . . .”
“Gaffer!”
“For business hours and mailing address . . .”
“Brass, honcho, jefe!”
“To return to the previous menu, press pound . . .”
Mahoney began banging the phone on the side of his desk. “No-good bottom-deck-dealing riverboat guttersnipe . . .”
“I still cannot understand your request. I will now put you through to a representative . . .”
Mahoney stopped with a curious look and silently placed the phone to his ear.
“This is Calista with National City Group Banc Corp. How may I help you today? . . .”
And that’s how Mahoney got approval to take credit cards. Almost. Only one last step.
Applying for a card is one thing, but accepting them is an entirely different level of background vetting. Anyone can now set up shop with a phone and start churning pilfered plastic. So the companies hire outside firms who contact the applicant with a series of challenge questions that, in theory, should stump anyone who had stolen an identity. Always multiple choice, like: Have you attended any of the following schools? Which, if any, of these cars have you owned? In what state were you issued your Social Security card?
Mahoney was passing his challenges with flying colors. Until the last question. It came to a screeching halt.
“Hello?” asked the questioner. “Are you still there?”
“Yaza.”
“Would you like me to repeat the question?”
No, Mahoney remembered it all right. “In which of the following towns is Blue Heron Boulevard located?” Jesus, Mahoney thought, I haven’t lived there in thirty years. Who the hell knows all this about me?
“Sir,” said the phone. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to answer the last question or�
�”
“Riviera Beach.”
“Excellent,” said the phone. “You are now officially approved by the National City Group Banc—”
Mahoney hung up. It got him to thinking. Who was collecting all this information? Since he was a private eye, he found out. He picked up the phone again.
Another phone rang at Big Dipper Data Management.
“This is Wesley Chapel.”
“Chapel-de-dapple, Mahoney here. Low-down sling on the dry-gulch dust-’n-rust.”
“What?”
Mahoney worded it a different way. “. . . with the rhino spondulix.”
“What?”
Still another way. “. . . on a Dutch flogger.”
“I’m not understanding a word you’re saying.”
Mahoney sighed and took a deep breath. “I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to hire you to gather information on some people I’m tracking.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” said Wesley. “We do that all the time. You got a credit card?”
Chapter Thirteen
FORT LAUDERDALE
Two men burst into the room and slammed the door. Weapons came out.
“Cool,” said Coleman, grabbing an appliance handle. “This is one of those motels that has a microwave and a mini-fridge and you didn’t even expect it.”
“It’s always more excellent when you don’t expect it.” Serge unzipped his gear bag. “It’s a sign that God accepts you as one of His children. And I never take it for granted because I’m otherwise perfectly content making grilled cheese sandwiches on the ironing board and filling the sink with ice for a cooler and then having to wash my hands in the shower the entire stay. But the surprise micro-fridge is God’s way of saying, ‘I like the cut of your jib. This one’s on Me.’ ”
“But, Serge, why don’t you just use the regular cooler we have out in the car?”
