by Tim Dorsey
“We’re friends for life. If you’re ever in trouble, just remember our contingency rendezvous site. I’ll be there in a flash.”
“I guess I should thank you.”
“Get the fuck out,” said Serge. “You’re holding me up.”
Jeff was taken aback.
Serge smiled. “Go on, Scoop. Your exclusive’s waiting. Just spell my name right…. Here, take this.”
“I’m not taking that!”
“You’ll need it.”
“What do I need a gun for?”
“Generally, because it’s Florida. Specifically, because someone’s trying to kill you.”
“I’m not taking it.”
“Take it or I don’t let you go.”
Jeff gingerly accepted the gun between his thumb and index finger like he was dangling a scorpion. He opened his door and stepped onto the curb. He turned around. “I…”
The Hummer sped away.
Jeff crossed the street and entered a sterile lobby. He took the elevator to the newsroom.
“Look!”
“It’s McSwirley!”
“He’s alive!”
HURRICANES #5 AND #6
GASTON AND ISAAC
CHAPTER FORTY
GULF COAST PSYCHIATRIC CENTER
Serge sat in the headlights of a woman’s withering stare.
“What?”
The doctor looked down at her notes. “You know….”
“Not a clue.”
“I don’t think I can treat you anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I have to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth.”
“Go for it.”
“After our last session, did you attack someone outside the clinic?”
“Me?”
“He’s in intensive care. Fractured skull, teeth knocked out.”
“Someone was attacked?”
“They heard the assailant yell, ‘Bad monkey!’ It’s the phrase you were using in here minutes before.”
“The weirdest thing. Since our last session, I’ve noticed a bunch of people on the street yelling that all the time. Usually just before they beat someone.”
“Look—and don’t say anything! Just shut up!—I think you did it. But confidentiality prevents me from breaching these sessions, and ‘bad monkey’ seems to be your sole connection to the assault. The only ethical way I can go to the authorities is if I believe you’re deliberately planning a future crime, which I don’t. I don’t believe you plan anything…”
“Ouch.”
“…My only other option is to Baker Act you under Florida law, which is a seventy-two-hour involuntary psychiatric confinement if I think you’re an imminent threat to yourself or others, which I don’t. You’re a long-term threat. So the final option is the one we have here. You’re not under commitment anymore; you’re coming to me of your own volition, which shows at least a minimal desire to deal with the problem. If I break off treatment, you’ll probably flee back into the woodwork, and who knows when you’ll strike next?”
“Remind me to send my kids where you went to school.”
“I’m serious. For us to proceed from here, you must give me a vow of sincerity.”
“Like Linus in the pumpkin patch.” Serge grinned. “Nothing but sincerity as far as the eye can see…. But you have to do the same for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need to be able to depend on your confidentiality. I got a little shook when I saw all those police officers out in your hall.”
“They’re for another patient.”
“What did he do?”
“Can’t say anything.” The doctor relaxed and opened her notebook. “I’m glad we had that talk.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“So what’s on your mind today?”
“Oh, it’s incredible!” Serge reached into his pocket and pulled out a tracking map. “Have you been following the weather?”
On the other side of the wall was a hallway. Two policemen stood in front of a door. Behind the door was another office. Its two chairs were empty.
Jeff stood in the middle of the room. “I don’t want to do this.”
“You have to learn to express your anger,” said the psychiatrist.
“But I don’t feel angry.”
“That’s the problem,” said the doctor. “You should.”
“This is stupid.” Jeff turned around. “I’m sitting back down.”
“No, stay right there! What kind of man are you?”
“Okay.”
“See what I mean?” said the doctor. “You let everyone walk all over you. There must be lots of pent-up anger. I can feel it.”
“I can’t.”
“Let it out.”
“I don’t want to go through with this.”
“Do it!”
“Can I just yell instead? I’m mad as hell! There.”
“That was faking. I want you to hit me.”
“I won’t.”
“Pretend I’m Justin. Hit me! As hard as you can!”
“How can you bring him up? He’s dead!”
“So what? He was an asshole. He treated you like crap.”
“He’s dead! Stop talking about him like that!”
“Why? Makes you angry?”
“No.”
“Loser! Worm!”
“Stop saying that!”
A third police officer arrived in the hallway. He had a cardboard take-out tray with three lattes-to-go.
“Thanks, Jim.” An officer removed a plastic lid and blew. “What lottery did we win to get this assignment?”
“No kidding,” said another. “This is a tit.”
“It’s not ease,” said the third officer with the tray. “It’s a question of dependability. I got a friend at the nuclear reactor: A simple three-dollar part that has a ninety-nine-percent success rate but cannot fail costs three hundred if it’s separately tooled and inspected for a ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine confidence rate. We got a high-profile murder witness who’s also a newspaper reporter.”
“Big deal.”
“It’s not a big deal right now, but it will be if we so much as let him stub his toe.”
The first cop looked toward the office. “Wonder what’s going on in there?”
“Let’s listen.”
“Okay.”
They put their ears to the door.
“Don’t say that!” said Jeff.
“Pussy!”
“Stop!”
“Hit me!”
The division commander reached the top of the stairs and entered the hallway. “What the hell are you doing?”
Three officers straightened. “Nothing.”
On the other side of the door: “Okay, I’ll hit you….” Jeff reached out and gave the doctor a playful tap on the shoulder. “How’s that?”
Wham! Jeff went tumbling across the floor. He sat up in shock and rubbed his jaw. “You punched me in the face!”
“You hit me. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“You told me to.” Jeff held a hand under his nose. “I’m bleeding.”
“See what happens when you don’t express your anger? It allows people to provoke you into unsafe responses.”
Jeff got to his feet. “I’d like to leave now.”
“Our hour’s not up.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay for the whole thing.”
“Sit down.”
“Okay.”
“You did it again!”
“Sorry.”
“What’s your problem?”
Jeff held the side of his face. “I think I need to see a dentist.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes!”
The doctor jotted on a pad. “Here’s something for the pain. I’ll stop the clock, and you fill it down the street right now. We split fifty-fifty.”
On the other side of the wall was a third office. It had a long couch. The couch was
empty.
Mahoney was in the middle of the room, hopping on the balls of his feet. “The next night was the big Dempsey rematch at Soldier Field—”
“I don’t want to do this,” said the doctor.
“Come on, stand right there,” said Mahoney. “One of my canaries was working the vig off some trouble boys with five large on the Manassa Mauler….”
“This is stupid.”
“Don’t move or you’ll get hurt…. It was a brutal combination in the third round.” Fists sliced the air with the sound of wind.
“You almost hit me!”
“You moved.” Mahoney danced backward. “Tunney counters with a jab. The crowd’s on its feet. The wiseguys smell something hinky. Big Jack gets him in the clinch—”
“Let go of me!”
“The referee breaks it up. Jack reacquaints himself with his legendary right cross.”
“Ow! Jesus! My nose!”
“You moved.”
“Damn it!” The psychiatrist sat down and tilted his head back. He pulled a hankie from a pocket and shook it open.
“You don’t want to spar anymore?”
“You’re insane!”
Mahoney walked over to the doctor. “Let’s just keep this between us.” He reached into his pocket and handed the doctor a Baggie of scored tablets.
“What’s this?”
“Something for the pain…. And there’s the bell!” Mahoney trotted back and sat on the edge of the couch, hooking his arms over imaginary ring ropes. “Cut me, Mick.”
“Smile!” said Serge.
The psychiatrist blocked her face. “What are you doing?”
“Taking your picture for my address book.” Serge fiddled some more with his BlackBerry. “These new phones do everything! I had no idea.”
“Can we get back to—”
“Hold on.” Serge navigated the touch screen.
“No! Put that away. It’s disrespectful.”
“Couldn’t agree more. I hate phones…” Tap, tap, tap. “…For years I made a commitment never to answer them, because ninety-nine percent of all phone calls are bullshit. Everyone wanting something from you, like to talk. But you never get those calls from people forcing you to accept lots of cash for no reason, unless you have one of those special magic phones. But the people at phone stores won’t sell you those. Oh, no, they’re keeping them for themselves. And I really hate cell phones. They should be treated like farts: Keep it short and take a few steps away from the herd to establish a courtesy zone.”
The doctor’s cell phone rang. “Sorry, thought I’d turned it off. One second.” She looked at the display. A text message: GUESS WHO?
“Serge!”
Serge tapped his screen. “How about we don’t talk and instead text-message the rest of the hour?…”
“No!”
“…I dreaded the thought of getting my own cell, but the cutthroat competition of the wireless industry has created all kinds of special offers you can’t refuse. Like mine. This guy set his phone on the counter in Starbucks, and before he knew it, I was halfway down the block.”
“Serge! I want you to get off the phone right now!”
“Alllllllll right. I’ll get off the phone.” Tap, tap, tap…
“You’re not doing it.”
“I’m not on the phone anymore.” Tap, tap. “I’m on the Internet now.” He held up the screen. “Color Doppler radar.” He turned it back around. Tap, tap. “I have to keep monitoring the weather. Something historic is about to happen. And I need to buy a new guitar amp.”
“Why?”
“My wife shot the shit out of my old one. Women never understand your hobbies.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THAT AFTERNOON
A sparse crowd filled a downtown bar at the corner of Franklin and Cass. At later hours it would be popular with newspaper reporters, office workers and students from the nearby University of Tampa occupying Moorish buildings and flop houses. But not now.
Coleman walked through the open front door and waved for the bartender. Serge grabbed a stool and unlatched a velvet-lined drafting set. The first beer arrived in a frosted mug, and Coleman didn’t let it hit the counter. “I love midday drinking.”
Serge studied map coordinates. “I thought it was the all-inclusive plan with you.”
“This is a bonus.” Coleman drained half the mug. “You know how when you’re in some downtown joint in the middle of the day, and the sun’s really bright, and you look out the window like right now and see all those people on the street who are still working? But you’re already in a bar? Makes me feel like I’ve gotten a lot accomplished.”
Serge shifted on his stool for the ever-elusive right position. He shifted another way. He shifted back and scratched his neck rapidly like a beagle. Coleman ordered a second beer, plus a backup in case the bartender became too busy with the other three customers. “What’s the matter?”
Serge shifted again. “What do you mean?”
“I know you. Something’s wrong.”
Serge looked over his shoulder at the bar’s interior. “It’s the Hub.”
“But you love the Hub.”
“I did back when it was on Zack Street. Since 1947. Sacred place, like if that corner restaurant in Seinfeld was a bar. But now it’s over here; it’s the new Hub.”
“So?”
“That’s like the new Dead Sea Scrolls.” Serge unfolded a tracking chart. “I’m losing all my touchstones at an exponential rate. The Chatterbox, the Moon Hut, the Pelican Diner, the Big Bamboo gutted by fire…”
“Then why’d you insist we come here?”
“I love the Hub.” Serge walked the needle points of an engineering compass across quadrants. He raised his tracking grid to the light. “Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“The biggest climax a hurricane season’s ever seen.” He set the grid back down and scribbled more calculations. “National Weather Ser vice is clearly keeping the public in the dark to avert pandemonium. But if my new figures hold up, we’ll be riding into the history books.”
“Serge, I think I know that guy over there.”
“Which one?”
Coleman pointed toward the poolroom. Three bikers waited their turns with cue sticks. A nonbiker leaned over the table and sank a striped ball, then took a step and lined up an intricate bank shot. The head of his costume sat on a shelf next to the bowl of chalk.
“It’s the Party Parrot!” said Serge. “I love the Party Parrot!”
“What’s he doing in here?”
“Let’s go find out.”
They picked up their drinks and headed toward the billiards.
“Nick!”
“Who are you?”
“Your biggest fan!” said Serge. “I didn’t know you were the Party Parrot.”
Nick stroked through the cue ball. A scratch. “Damn.” He reached for his bourbon and chugged the whole thing, almost taking a fall when he slammed the glass onto the counter.
Serge grabbed his drumstick. “Easy there, fella. Better slow down.”
Nick collapsed into a chair. Feathers floated to the floor. “I can’t take it anymore.”
“Take what?”
“All these hurricanes. I’m getting killed out there.” Nick raised a wing. “Try swimming in this fucking thing.”
“I saw them pumping your stomach on TV.”
“The storms are coming so close together they don’t even have time to fix my costume.” He held up the other wing. “Look at this shit. I’m baled together with chicken wire and duct tape.” Nick flapped for the bartender. “Refill!”
Serge grabbed the wing again and lowered it. “Get a grip. Just tell them you want off storm coverage.”
“I can’t. They’ll fire me. I’m out of options.”
“I have an option,” said Serge.
“You do?”
Serge lifted the parrot head from the shelf and walked around to the other side of the pool table. �
�Here.”
“What am I supposed to do with this?” asked Coleman.
THAT NIGHT
A door opened. Efficient people marched inside without small talk. The door had a number on the outside: 1037. More and more people entered the motel room, like it was a clown car. Politicians, detectives, lawyers, editors and, finally, McSwirley. The door closed.
The officer assigned to protect Jeff remained outside. Someone phoned room ser vice. McSwirley flopped down onto a cushy bed.
Detectives made the standard sweep of the room. A lieutenant peeked out the tenth-floor window. Delta landing lights in the night sky. He pulled the curtain tight. The hotel was one of the upscale high-rise jobs that circled Tampa International and catered to important business travelers. The oversized clock radio said 12:05.
“Jeff, outstanding work today!” The maximum editor grabbed the TV’s remote and began clicking through an on-screen menu of in-room movies. “We might be talking Pulitzer.”
Jeff closed his eyes. “I just want to sleep.”
A United flight from Hartford roared overhead.
“Good. Get your rest.” The maximum editor pressed the remote again, now into the gentlemen’s titles. “You have a big day tomorrow. Everyone is very pleased with your performance. That’s why we sprang for the classiest hotel in town. All the richest people stay here.”
Jeff was distracted by the TV menu. Twats on Fire. “…I’m sorry?…You were saying?”
“I was saying how far you’ve come.” The editor tossed the remote aside and walked over to the bed. “We’d like to reward you.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a small gift box. “It’s not much. We have a tight budget. Actually we don’t, but it’s not for reporters. Here. A token of our thanks.”
Jeff accepted the box without sitting up. He removed the lid. “Letter opener?”
The editor nodded with gravity. “Real silver plating.”
“Says ‘Gladstone Media’ on the handle.”
“You’re family.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” said Max. “We got police outside your door, and I’ll be staying in the next room.”
“You don’t have to do that,” said Jeff.
