by Tim Dorsey
“Yes we are!”
The trunk lid banged under Serge. He leaned down; “I hear you knocking, but you can’t come out!”
The trunk eventually became still. Vapor gone. Eye wall closing. Serge consoled Jeff on their way back to the Hummer. Jill was in the front seat reading Spin and rocking out to personal headphones. She took them off when the doors opened. “Jeff! What happened to you? You’re crying!”
“His mother died,” said Serge.
“That’s horrible,” said Jill. “I’m so sorry!”
“It’s okay,” said Serge, starting the engine. “Happened years ago, and he didn’t like her.”
The Hummer headed east on the Tamiami Trail. It shot under a flashing yellow light at Dade Corners, the agricultural crossroads where the Everglades dovetail into the first rural traces of inland Miami. A normally brisk truck stop was empty except for a single car parked behind the diesel pumps. A brown Plymouth Duster with stolen Indiana plates. Someone in the driver’s seat watched the Hummer go by. The Duster pulled out of the truck stop and headed east on the Tamiami Trail.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TAMPA BAY TODAY
I demand you stop the series!” said Metro Tom.
“Is there a broken record in here?” asked the maximum editor. “We’ve already been over this.”
“We got another letter.”
“What’s it say?”
“‘The Fiero was just a warning. It would have been so easy if I wanted you in it.’”
“Okay, we’ll buy him a replacement,” said the managing editor. “It’s the least we can do. Spread out the deductions from his paycheck.”
Six photographers with jumbo lenses sprinted past the conference table. The last slowed. “You might want to scramble some reporters.”
The metro editor drove McSwirley over in a Cutlass. They parked next to fire trucks. Nothing to do now but roll up the hoses. The lot was leveled. Jeff got out of the car and stared in shock at the smoldering embers. “My house!”
McSwirley’s landlord drove up. “My house!”
The metro editor spotted a fire inspector walking back to a white sedan with a rack of red lights on the roof.
“Excuse me,” said Tom. “I’m a friend of the person who lived there. Do you have a cause yet?”
“The explosion or the fire?”
“Explosion?”
The metro editor was livid on the phone to Gladstone Tower.
“Sorry,” said Max. “I’d love to help, but Part Five just went to bed.”
Soon another spinning paper hot off the presses:
SURFING THE EYE WITH SERGE: BEE GEES GOT BUM RAP.
PART FIVE
Ocean Drive. Esteban still blowing, but mostly epilogue. Scraping branches and rolling trash cans. Future site of another street cleanup. This one with busted neon tubes, twisted wrought iron and South Beach flair. Serge could have spit. The pastel façade of that postcard hotel row blown out like a special-effects movie finale.
The long run across the ’Glades had sapped the storm back down to a category one when it exited Miami and disappeared into the Atlantic. The Hummer’s tires rolled through chic debris, headlights piercing a gray mist. Otherwise quiet and empty. Nobody in sight except the vague form of a topless sunbather on ecstasy staggering toward the beach.
“Will you take me home now?” asked Jeff. “You promised.”
“Just one more stop,” said Serge. The Hummer passed a municipal garage on Collins. Two blocks back, a new set of headlights. Brown Plymouth Duster. Both vehicles swung around the Fontainebleau and continued north through Surfside and Bal Harbour.
“Where are we going?” asked Jeff.
“Criteria,” said Serge.
“Uh, okay,” said Jeff. “How about a place where there’s a lot of police and I’ll be safe?”
“No,” said Serge. “That’s the name of the place. Criteria Studios.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve never heard of Criteria Studios?” said Serge. “My God, this is your lucky day! Opened 1958, tiny underdog sound studio that hit the map when Jackie Gleason moved his show to Miami and the orchestra needed a place. Since then, everyone’s recorded there. The Stones, James Brown, Aretha, three hundred plus gold and platinum albums; you’ll see them covering the walls.”
Jill elbowed Jeff in the backseat. “Studio.”
The Hummer took a left onto Sunset Isles Boulevard and crossed a bridge over Biscayne Bay. “Shhhhhh! Listen!” said Serge. “You hear that? I heard it!”
“Hear what?”
“The bridge. That clackety-clack sound.”
“So?”
“You don’t recognize it?” said Serge. “Think of where we are! I’ll give you five clues. No, three. No, one. Fuck it: I can’t wait. I’ll just tell you. It’s the opening guitar riff!”
“From what?”
“Now you’re being deliberately dense.”
“Honest, Serge, I don’t—”
“The year: 1975! The place: Miami! The magic: Bee Gees!…Illustrious Brothers Gibb in town to let Florida soak into their Main Course LP being recorded up the road at Criteria. Barry had to take the Sunset Isles Bridge to work every day—the same one we’re on right now!—and he starts humming along with that clacking bridge sound. Genius strikes! Hit song! ‘Drive Talkin’,’ because he’s driving to work with his lunch sack and all, which was later changed to—you guessed it!—‘Jive Talkin’.’ Boom! Completely new sound for the band, which was slumping post ‘Lonely Days.’ The single’s shipped with a blank label to radio stations worldwide. Nobody knew what to make of it. Who are these fresh princes? Shoots to number one! Bee Gees back on top! Next stop Saturday Night Fever, music history! And it all started on this bridge with that sound you’re hearing! Can’t you dig it? Jeff, dig it with me! Everybody sing! J-j-j-jive…”
The Hummer made another left at Northeast 149th Street and pulled up behind a building on the 1700 block. Serge grabbed his guitar case and portable mini-amp with rechargeable battery. He led them down an alley. Soon another door was getting jimmied. Serge smiled at Jill and glanced toward his crowbar with a chuckle. “The place is so old and historic my keys always stick. But I won’t let them change a thing!”
The door finally popped. Jill followed Serge inside, leaving Jeff in her gloat cloud. Serge stopped in the middle of the studio and began setting up. Jill sat cross-legged at his feet. “That little thing’s your amp?”
“Left my big one in a motel room,” said Serge. “I’m going for the Professor Longhair, 125th Street dirty atmospheric sound…. Jeff, you ready to capture this first blistering track?”
“I don’t know how to run a sound board.”
“Use that microcassette you got for interviews.”
“But the sound quality will be terrible.”
“Even better. We can charge more, like Dylan’s basement tapes.” He turned to Jill. “Can you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“‘Layla.’ Clapton cut it here. Right where you’re standing. Clapton is God. Are you religious? I’ve decided to follow Clapton now. Those legendary chords are stuck in these walls.” Serge grabbed his Stratocaster by the neck and twisted a knob. “He’s been a major influence on me ever since.”
Jill’s eyes grew larger. “You know Clapton?”
“Of course,” said Serge. “Everyone does.”
“Maybe in your circles.”
“We do have a bit of an age gap.”
“Wow,” Jill said to herself. “Clapton…”
Serge strummed a stripped-down E chord. “Layyyyyyyyylaaaaaa…”
Crash.
Amp went over. Guitar strings scraped unmusically. Jill Ribinski dove on top of Serge, tearing open his shirt. “Fuck me right now! Right where Clapton played!”
“Only if you call me ‘Slowhand.’”
“Fuck me, Slowhand!”
Coleman strolled over and helped Jeff stare into a corner. “So you’re a
reporter?”
Out in the alley, a brown Plymouth Duster pulled up next to a Hummer.
Jill lay flat on the historic carpet. Completely wrecked. Perspiration beaded along her upper lip. “That was the best—…I must have come twenty times!”
“I had one,” said Serge.
Coleman and Jeff continued admiring framed albums in the corner. “Frampton. Righteous…”
Unnoticed, the front door creaked open. A shiny automatic pistol came through the crack.
“Clapton also chose Criteria to lay down the classic 461 Ocean Boulevard album.” A guitar plug went back into a small amp. Serge cranked up treble, gain, distortion and everything else that had a knob. “The album’s famous cover was photographed just up the street at…well, the address is on the cover. Took a certain luster off that scavenger hunt.”
Coleman stared at more gold records: “So, Jeff. Ever see any dead bodies?”
Serge ceremoniously perched himself atop the tiny amp and hunched over his venerable Strat. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the tenth and final cut from that 1974 tour de force, Clapton’s finest song ever: ‘Mainline Florida’!” Serge thrust his right arm high in the air, threatening to tear tendons. Defenseless guitar strings waited helplessly below. He let his hand remain at the peak an extra-long moment to give the crowd what it wanted and needed. “The big opening chord, coming right up….” A mandolin-style pick twitched in his fingertips, still up there. “…Almost time. The big chord. Get ready….” He reached with his free hand for another knob. “…Just a little more feedback…. Nearly there…and…Hold it, one more second….” Another knob twisted. “…Readyyyyy…Readyyyy…Okayyyyy…Now!”
Serge’s hand crashed into the strings.
An explosion of sound.
The guitar went silent.
“What the hell?” He grabbed the Strat by its solid-wood body and shook it in front of his face. “I just bought this fuckin’ thing…. Maybe it’s the amp.” He bent over and looked down between his legs. He stuck a finger through a bullet hole in the speaker fabric. He looked up. “Molly!”
A redhead aimed her pistol. “Who’s that tramp?”
“Who’s Molly?” asked Jill.
Serge pulled his own gun. “My wife.”
“Your wife!”
Molly shot again, the bullet whistling past their ears. Serge grabbed Jill’s hand. “Come on!” He returned fire as they took cover behind the mixing board.
Molly angrily turned the gun on Jeff and Coleman. “Were you in on this?”
Jeff put his arms in the air. “I’m the hostage.”
Coleman put his up. “Sorry about your guest towels.”
A tight pattern of bullets flew past Molly and lodged in acoustic tiling. Another slug shattered a million-selling Bob Segar disc. Serge was usually a better shot, but Jill kept hitting him. “Your wife?”
“We’re separated.”
“You lied to me!” Whack.
“Can’t it wait? We’re in a firefight.”
“No, I want to talk about this right now!”
Molly assumed a one-kneed shooter’s crouch and emptied her clip into the mixing board. She ejected the magazine and reloaded. “You two-timing son of a bitch!”
“Honey, I’m cutting an important album.” Serge dumped shells from his own gun. “Don’t be a Yoko.”
Jill whacked him again. “You’re too busy to talk to me, but you can find time to talk to her!”
The spouses emptied another set of clips at each other, hitting nothing.
Molly reloaded her magazine again. “You’re so vain!”
Jill jumped up and grabbed her purse.
“What are you doing?” said Serge. “Get back down here!”
“Don’t shoot!” Jill yelled across the room. “I’m leaving. He’s all yours.”
Molly ceased fire and headed for the mixing board. Jill cocked her chin and marched for the door with sashaying hips that spoke a language found only in Mafia wiretaps. The women snarled as they passed each other. Molly resumed fire, advancing on Serge’s defensive position. Bang! Bang! Bang! Serge covered his head. Platinum album pieces rained. He reached for another clip. Out of ammo.
“Hold it!” yelled Serge. “This is crazy. Remember all the good times?”
“Don’t try to sweet-talk me!” Bang! Bang! Bang!
“You must be getting your period.”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Serge recognized the distinct hollowness of the nine-millimeter boom. Sixteen in the clip, one in the chamber; counting under his breath…. Molly was almost on top of him with no sign of mercy. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Serge stood and smiled. “Baby!”
She pulled the trigger. Click, click, click. “You bastard!” She threw the gun at him. He ducked. Ted Nugent took one for the team.
Serge dashed around from behind the sound board. She began pounding him on the shoulders. He grabbed her wrists. She struggled, but Serge was too strong. “There, there. It’ll be all right.” Molly’s face fell into his chest. Serge stroked the back of her sobbing head. Their bodies began to entwine with raw animal desire….
Ten minutes later, postcoital recovery. They reclined in a pair of swiveling sound technicians’ chairs behind the mixing board. Molly fanned herself rapidly. “Whew! You’ve gotten better! I must have had twenty!”
Serge looked at his fingernails. “I had one.”
“Where did we go wrong?” asked Molly.
“People change,” said Serge. “Happens to a lot of marriages. And you tried to kill me with dynamite.”
“I needed your attention.” Molly twisted a strand of her flaming red hair. “You always put your career first.”
“I blame society,” said Serge. “How’d you find me anyway?”
“I know you,” said Molly. “We lived together, remember? After reading in the paper how you stole a car and rode through that other hurricane, I knew you couldn’t resist this one. Only a single route across the lower ’Glades. I just staked out Dade Corners. Child’s play.”
Serge smacked his forehead. “Duh!…Just glad none of the cops figured that out.”
On the Sunset Isles Bridge: “Son of a…!” Mahoney twisted a lug wrench on the bolts of a flat tire.
Molly swiveled idly in the sound tech’s chair. “I obviously know that idiot Coleman, but who’s the other guy?”
“Jeff?”
“Said he was your hostage.”
“He’s fixating.”
“He’s kind of cute.”
Serge stuck two fingers in his mouth and made a shrill whistle. “Jeff!”—a big circling motion with his arm—“Get over here! I want to introduce you to someone.”
Jeff ambled over with those goofy strides.
“Molly, this is Jeff McSwirley. Jeff, my wife, Molly.”
“Plea sure to meet you,” said Jeff. “He’s told me a lot about you.”
“Like what?” asked Molly.
“Nothing,” said Serge. “He’s just trying to be polite.”
“No, I want to hear.”
“Not you specifically,” said Jeff. “Marriage advice in general. You just happened to be in all the examples.”
Serge chuckled anxiously. “Like I said, nothing.”
“No,” demanded Molly, “I want to hear the rest.”
Serge gave McSwirley The Look.
“Well,” said Jeff. “He told me to always forfeit on purpose so I can watch TV. The Carly Simon song really is about the guy.”
“No it’s not,” said Molly.
“You’re totally right,” said Serge. “It isn’t about him. Jeff, guess what? Molly thinks you’re cute. Isn’t that right, Molly?”
Jeff ’s face turned red.
“Back up,” said Molly. “What’s this forfeit business he’s talking about?”
“I don’t remember,” said Serge.
“Domestic arguments,” said Jeff.
Molly spun on Serge. “You were just forfeiting all those times?”<
br />
“Me?”
“I thought you had come around to my point of view.”
“I had.”
“No you hadn’t. You just forfeited. Nothing was ever resolved.”
“Honey, a forfeit’s absolute. You win! Happy? Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
“Not if you’re just giving up without accepting my position.” Molly walked over to her purse. “That doesn’t count. You’re still harboring secret shit in your head.”
Serge glared at Jeff. He clenched his eyes shut and thought a moment. He opened them. “You’re right, dear. I was wrong. Forfeiting is bad.” He took a couple of steps and picked up his guitar.
“You’re just forfeiting again…” Her hand came out of the purse with a pistol.
Serge swung the guitar by its neck.
The Stratocaster’s sleek body clipped her forehead with a sickening melon thud, sending her shot through the watercooler. She went down like a sandbag. Serge leaned over. “You win again.”
“Jesus!” Jeff screamed. “What’s wrong with you? Why’d you do that?”
Serge pointed down at the .25-caliber, pearl-handled automatic curled in her left hand. He kicked it away.
Jeff became woozy and steadied himself against the wall. “Is she dead?”
“Just unconscious.” Serge unplugged his amp.
“This is too much for me,” said McSwirley. “I mean, first she tries to shoot you, then you have sex on top of a mixing board, then you club her in the head with a guitar?”
“See, Jeff, that’s the thing,” said Serge. “You’ve never been married.”
THE NEXT DAY
Lunch hour. Downtown. Starched shirts in crosswalks. Verizon people in manholes. A black Hummer drove along the river and eased into a fire lane in front of the Tampa Museum of Art.
“There she is,” said Serge.
Jeff peered out through the top, tinted edge of the windshield. Sparkling glass and metal. Gladstone Tower. Jeff looked at his driver with disbelief.
“What?” said Serge.
“You kept your promise.”
“Of course I kept it. Did you ever doubt I’d bring you back?”
“I…I’m not sure,” said Jeff. “I can’t believe everything I’ve seen in the last four days. Seems like four years.”
