Hurricane Punch

by Tim Dorsey

  “Where are you from?” asked Serge.

  “Earth.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Now.”

  Serge rolled his eyes. “Nice talking with you.” He walked away and dumped his drink in the first bush.

  Coleman ran up from behind. “Why’d you pay all that money for a soda if you were just going to toss it out?”

  “Soda rots your teeth. I only needed the cup.” Serge’s internal tracking system picked up a small stone building. He made a beeline. Coleman caught up again, and they went inside.

  “Excellent,” said Serge. “Because of the storm, we have the place all to ourselves, just the way I like it.”

  Coleman spotted the building’s centerpiece on the other side of the room. “Now I know why you needed that cup. It’s the whole reason we drove up here. You’re going to drink from the fountain, aren’t you?”

  “Got a problem with that?”

  “Nope. I just don’t know why you keep denying you’re having a mid life—”

  “I am not!”

  “Sure you are. We’re both getting old. You especially.”

  “I’m only forty-four,” said Serge. “You know how old Ponce was when he discovered Florida?”

  Coleman shook his head.

  “Fifty-three.”

  “How old when he died?”

  “Fifty—Shut up.” Serge approached a grotto of coquina rock. “There she is, eternal vigor.”

  Coleman’s eyes shifted around the empty room; he torched a fattie. Serge looked down into the well. “Deeper than I thought. Coleman, grab my ankles.”

  “You’re not really going down there….”

  “Just grab ’em, okay?”

  Coleman clenched the joint in his teeth and began threading his pal down through the dark hole. “You’re heavier than you look.”

  “I’m almost there,” echoed Serge’s voice. “Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

  A voice from behind. “I smell pot!”

  Coleman let go.

  “Coleman!” Splash.

  Coleman spun around and hid the joint behind his back.

  “Are you smoking dope in here?”—the girl from the concession stand.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You just hid it behind your back.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell. I just wanted some.”

  “You smoke pot?”

  “Gimme that thing.”

  Coleman passed the number. “But you look so innocent.”

  “This is nature.” She pinched the end.

  Serge climbed out of the well and dripped on the stone walkway.

  The girl pointed with the joint. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing in our fountain?”

  Serge spread his arms. “Do I look any younger?”

  “Twenty minutes,” said Coleman. “How do you feel?”

  “Lied to.” Sneakers squished as he walked. “I didn’t want to say anything and jinx this, but natives putatively told Ponce to seek the well at ‘BeeMeeNee,’ which some scholars argue is Bimini in the Bahamas.”

  The girl tapped Coleman on the arm and handed him the stub of a burned-out roach.

  “You smoked the whole thing!”

  “Got another?”

  Coleman fished one from his wallet and grabbed his Bic.

  She snatched both. “I’ll blaze it.” Serge and Coleman watched in amazement. She finally passed the half-gone bone, holding her breath. “’Ere.”

  Serge looked down at her bare feet. “You’re a regular wild child.”

  “It’s society that’s wild. I actually have very strong beliefs about the planet.”

  “And I noticed you got a little tattoo like all the other kids,” said Serge. “So you’re a conformist.”

  A smiling green gecko poked out the neck of her shirt. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “That’s the outer bands,” said Serge.

  “They’re going to close the park,” said the girl. She grabbed the joint from Coleman and began walking. The guys followed.

  “So,” said Serge, “I never caught your name….”

  TAMPA BAY TODAY

  The maximum editor was running late. He rushed in and took his chair. “Let’s get started…. Wait.” He noticed a new person at the table: the guy in the crumpled fedora and a necktie with bongo drums. “Who the hell’s he?”

  The metro editor whispered and pointed at the visitor’s badge clipped to Agent Mahoney’s shirt pocket: CONFIDENTIAL SOURCE. “I see,” said Max. “New slant on the story?”

  “You could say that.” The metro editor angled his head toward the center of the table: a single sheet of paper in a clear evidence bag. “The serial killer wrote McSwirley a letter. Enclosed a crime-scene Polaroid for proof. Calls himself ‘The Eye of the Storm.’”

  “What’s the letter say?”

  “Serge’s usually ranting,” interjected Mahoney. “Living fury of the land Florida ecology mumbo jumbo.”

  “Serge?” said Max.

  “Been tracking him for years. That letter just might be our break.”

  “How so?”

  “The next stage of my plan to flush him into the open. You run the letter and let me plant certain quotes in the accompanying story. He’ll blow sky high. Then you’ll really have a story.”

  “I like your thinking,” said Max.

  “Sir,” said the metro editor. “There’s something we haven’t considered.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He specifically wrote McSwirley. This is a dangerous game you’re playing. We could be risking his life.”

  A tour group encircled the conference table. “That gentleman at the front is the maximum editor,” said the spunky guide. “Most of the others are department heads. The guy in the hat is a confidential source.”

  A camera flashed.

  THE NATION’S OLDEST ECONOMY MOTEL

  Rain whipped. Trees bent. Lightning streaked. Cristobal. The second landfall hurricane of the young season.

  A transformer blew with a shower of sparks, and all the signs went dark on St. Augustine’s budget-motel strip.

  Candles again in one of the anonymous rooms. “I’m hungry,” said Coleman.

  “Grab an MRE,” said Serge.

  “A what?”

  “Meal Ready to Eat. Those military rations from the National Guard. I got six cases.”

  Coleman ripped open a carton and rummaged through brown plastic bags. “They’re all lasagna.”

  “If you don’t like that, you can fill up on the side dishes. They got all kinds of cool stuff in there.”

  Coleman tore open bags and dumped camouflaged contents on the dresser: Wheat Snack Bread, Beverage Base Powder (Grape), Mixed Fruit, Cheese Spread, Cocoa Beverage Powder, Vegetable Cracker, Strawberry Jam and the accessory pack. “Hey, Serge, everything’s little. Tiny iodized salt, tiny nondairy creamer, tiny bottle of Tabasco. They even got a tiny pack with two Chiclets….”

  “War gives you bad breath.”

  “…Tiny Taster’s Choice, tiny packet of toilet paper…. Serge, what’s this thing?”

  “The heater pack,” said Serge. “That’s the neatest part. Just rip the top and add a little water.”

  “How can that make it hot enough to cook?”

  “I was skeptical, too, until I tried it. Amazing breakthrough. Water activates a chemical pack at the bottom of the pouch and generates a ferocious amount of heat you wouldn’t believe. Just lean your selected food packet against it, and in five minutes soup’s on!”

  “I’ll try the lasagna.”

  “Good choice.”

  Coleman went to the sink and filled a plastic cup with water. He came back to the dresser and poured it into the heating pouch. “Nothing’s happening.”

  “Give it a second.”

  “Wait, I think I see bubbles.” He stooped to eye level. “Yeah, something’s definitely starting.” The bubbles gave way to ful
l boil. A plume of hot vapor gushed from the top of the pouch.

  “Coleman! That’s hydrogen! Get it away from the candle!”

  Coleman grabbed the pouch. He snatched back his hand and shook it in the air. “Ow! It burned me!”

  “You used too much water.”

  “It didn’t seem like much.”

  Flash.

  “Coleman! How am I going to explain that scorch mark to the management?”

  “I think my eyebrows are singed. Can you check?”

  “Don’t you see I’m busy here?”

  “Sorry.”

  “And it’s not polite to stare.”

  “Oh, God, yes! Faster, faster. Don’t stop! Fuck me harder!…”

  Coleman faced the wall like he was in time-out. “So you like her?”

  “I don’t dislike her….” He thrust again. “Take that, Mahoney!”

  “…Harder, faster, harder, faster. Oh, God! Fuck the living shit out of me!…”

  Coleman ran a finger through the carbonized mark on the wall. “She seems fond of you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “…Oh, God, I’m coming. I’m commmmmm mmmmiiiiii nnnnnggggggg!…”

  “You going to start seeing her?”

  “Don’t think so,” said Serge. “Got her qualities, but she smokes too much pot. Why am I always attracted to the naughty types?”

  “They fuck.”

  “There’s that,” said Serge. “The clincher was when she told me her new spiritual name: ‘The Fountain of Youth.’ Figured it had to be a sign.”

  “…Oh, God, here’s another one…. Oooooohhh, yesssss!…”

  “How do you feel?” asked Coleman.

  “Truculent yet melancholy.”

  “…I’m there! Oh, God, I’m there…. I’m there again…. Don’t stop. Another one’s coming…. Here it is!…”

  “What’s she talking about?” asked Coleman.

  “Multiples.”

  “Multiples?”

  “Orgasms. The lucky can have a few, but this one’s a friggin’ Gatling gun. Meanwhile I have to keep my powder dry or it’s a lengthy retreat to reload the antique musket.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “…There goes another one! Oh, sweet God! That’s seventeen! Don’t stop!…”

  Serge kept thrusting. “Now she’s just rubbing it in.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-two. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  “I told you. I am not one of those guys!”

  “…Fuck me harder! Here comes a big one!…Eighteen!…”

  “What are you reading?” asked Coleman.

  Serge turned the page of a magazine on the pillow next to her head. “Speedboat Illustrated. I’m thinking of getting a Scarab.”

  “…Nineteen!…”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  M C SWIRLEY

  Journalism gets into your blood, like disease, addictions.

  Heroin is the closest comparison: stop seeing friends, keep strange hours, borrow money all the time, look like shit.

  Many cub reporters cut their teeth on the cop beat. And most soon move on to more coveted positions. Some get particularly good at it and want to stay. Others are bad at it and are forced to stay. Jeff McSwirley carved his own category somewhere in between.

  The “cop” beat is part misnomer. There’s the expected crime and law-enforcement reporting, but it’s also a bigger tent covering fires, accidents and miscellaneous brainlessness from the consequence-impaired fringe.

  People outside the business who heard what McSwirley did for a living always asked the same question: “Ever seen a dead body?”

  And they were always disappointed. McSwirley was the exception that way. Three years on the beat and not a single stiff. The closest he’d gotten were the lumpy white sheets. What McSwirley did see was far worse. The people who always asked about the bodies wouldn’t have been interested, which was fine, because McSwirley didn’t want to talk about it.

  The survivors.

  You were required to interview them—or at least make them turn you down. And in journalism, time is the coin of the realm, so you had to ask as soon after the tragedy as possible, a cheese grater to raw emotions. It required equal parts psychiatrist, spiritual adviser and instant friend, but there was no training for the Grief Patrol.

  Jeff fell into the deep end his first week on the job. Way out in the county. Young woman in labor. Family of six racing to the hospital. Logging truck. Took three coroner’s wagons. McSwirley arrived as they closed the last door. All gone just like that. The trembling logger was still on the scene. McSwirley’s legs became lead as he walked over.

  Following week: Nursing-home staff didn’t check bathwater before lowering an eighty-seven-year-old to her scalding fate. Two hours later McSwirley sat on a plastic-covered couch, surrounded by distraught relatives passing Kleenex. Then the hometown eighteen-year-old soldier who stepped on a land mine. The mother of five who timed her jump off the overpass with the Mack truck. The picked-on high-school student who immolated himself in the middle of the basketball court. Infants left in hot cars, pit-bull maulings, prom-night collisions, rave-club overdoses. And murders. Absolutely the worst. Especially children. After three years, they were too numerous to count, and McSwirley remembered every one. He thought of them each day and dreamed about them every night.

  Jeff got an expected number of doors slammed in his face, but others sincerely wanted to talk. They believed a newspaper article meant loved ones hadn’t lived and died without the world taking notice, even if the interest only resulted from a stray bullet, smelting accident or waterskiing in an unmarked channel at night on cocaine. They needed McSwirley as much as he needed them; it was an expensive emotional transaction on both sides of the ledger.

  The previous cop reporter, Justin Weeks, was a cocky piece of work who had perfected the technique of being run off property. He was yanked from the beat following enough screaming complaints to the newspaper’s switchboard. After that, McSwirley was unexpected fresh air. Not only were there no gripes, but the paper actually began receiving positive calls. Half thanked them for genuine concern. The rest wanted to know if Jeff was all right.

  The answer was no.

  “I’d like another beat, please.”

  “Sorry.”

  “But I don’t like this one.”

  “It’s your strength.”

  “I didn’t get into journalism for this.”

  “Who did?”

  Jeff ’s best ally was his immediate supervisor, the metro editor, Thomasino Guzmaniczheck. Or, as colleagues generally preferred, Metro Tom.

  Tom was old-school newspaper and old-school neighbor. He didn’t pull journalistic punches, but he also didn’t sell out friends. Which meant he didn’t fit in at Tampa Bay Today.

  Metro Tom came to Tampa via a stint on an east-coast paper as State Editor Tom, where he was fired for refusing to fire someone. True story. One of his hardest-working reporters married an editor at a competing paper, and management couldn’t have scoops leaking across the pillows. They told Tom to fudge the next performance report and send her packing. Tom refused. So they fudged Tom’s performance report.

  And that’s how he became Metro Tom, supervising a pod of greenhorns, including his favorite. Tom hid a personal affinity for Jeff, because he believed it would undermine the toughening up that the young reporter obviously needed. Behind the scenes, however, the editor was steadfastly protective of McSwirley. He felt the cop beat was something Jeff had needed at one time, just as Jeff now needed a change. Each week McSwirley dutifully filed his standing transfer request, which Tom promptly signed and personally delivered. “Anything for Jeff yet?” “Not yet.”

  They were now at 157 weeks and counting, so a transfer was the last thing on Jeff’s mind when they summoned him to the budget meeting.

>   “You wanted to see me?”

  “Jeff, have a seat,” said Max.

  McSwirley grabbed the empty chair. He looked around for his editor. “Where’s Tom?”

  “Doing something. Listen, how’d you like to get off the cop beat?”

  “Really? Yes! When?”

  “I’m speaking conceptually,” said Max. “But we have an idea that could go a long way in that direction.”

  “Anything,” said Jeff.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Max. “We’d like you to do an exclusive interview. Could be your biggest yet.”

  “Who?”

  Mahoney removed a toothpick from his mouth. “We’re inserting a coded message in the paper. Arrange contact.”

  Jeff turned back toward the head of the table. “I…don’t follow.”

  “Your pen pal,” said Max. “We might be talking Pulitzer.”

  “You want me to interview a serial killer?”

  “We’re hoping you can submit written questions,” said Max. “But he may insist on meeting face-to-face. What do you say?”

  ST. AUGUSTINE

  The current hurricane season seemed to have a thing for bays. Cristobal blew straight up the mouth of the Matanzas. He was a real mover. Five to ten miles an hour’s average; fifteen’s fast. This one briefly flirted with twenty-five. If you’re on the right side of the counterclockwise swirl, add it to sustained wind and you bump up a category. That’s where most of the town was.

  The coastline correspondents didn’t even go through the motions. After a few minutes in the strike zone, they got religion and booked. The storm raked Flagler College, pummeled Ripley’s and pounded the Alligator Farm. The Museum of American Tragedy had recently closed down, or it would have been tragic.

  The only remaining citadels of confidence were the light house and Castillo de San Marcos. The sixteenth-century masonry fort had been Serge’s original choice to ride out the hurricane, but the girl from the Fountain of Youth developed a sudden personal rule against catacomb sex.

  “But catacomb sex is the best!” said Serge.

  Lost cause. That was ten hours ago. The wind howled around the quiet, dark motel room. Coleman stared down at the motionless body on the bed. “Is she okay?”