Hurricane Punch
Page 30
Coleman looked around at the scores of autographed football helmets and jerseys. “Serge, we’re in Shula’s Steak House.”
“They want you to think it’s a steak house.” Serge popped a chunk in his mouth. “That’s because all new religions face persecution at the beginning. Like when the apostles had to sneak around the Roman Empire flashing secret gang signs or they’d be martyred.” Serge turned to a group of traveling telecommunications salesmen at a nearby table. He held a fist close to his chest and gave them a furtive thumbs-up. He winked and whispered, “Shula.”
Coleman grabbed the football off a tee in the middle of the table and read the menu on its side. “What’s this eating-contest business?”
“It’s not a contest. It’s a sacrament. Consume an entire mondo Shula steak, for a modest tithing of eighty-five dollars, and get your name written in the Book of Eternal Life. There are thirty thousand souls so far.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s on the Internet. A man named Taft Parker has eaten a hundred.” Serge stuck the fork in his mouth. “But one at a time.”
Coleman set the football back on the tee. “You seem to be in a great mood.”
“I’m on a roll: excellent hurricane season, got away from Mahoney—again—and I found the religion I was searching for.”
Coleman idly stared at a team photo of the undefeated ’72 Dolphins. “Funny, I can’t stop thinking about Jeff.”
Serge chewed and sawed at the same time. “That kid was fucked up. If I’d had any idea, I never would have let such a dangerous person in our car.”
“What do you think’s going to happen to him?”
“Nothing,” said Serge. “Mahoney and I took care of that.”
“You talked to Mahoney?”
Serge nodded and swallowed. “On the phone. You wouldn’t believe the freakish stuff he was able to piece together. Jeff didn’t even believe it.”
“Like what?”
“Mahoney took him back out to where his house burned down. Found all these crazy charred remains in a back room. Hundreds of photos and clips, or what was left of the ones the firefighters had been able to hit with the hoses before they burned up completely.”
“How’s that weird?”
Serge bit another chunk off his fork. “Jeff didn’t remember any of it. Said his landlord kept this one back room locked all the time.”
“Why would his landlord do that?”
“Coleman, catch up. It wasn’t his landlord; it was Jeff ’s alter ego. Mahoney said he’s studied a lot of split personalities, but never a case where one identity was stalking the other. Jeff really did hate the other Jeff—or at least what he had to do for a living. Writing all those creepy letters to himself. Pretending his cell phone was vibrating in the state park for a make-believe call, then phoning Justin from the newspaper’s break room to set up his murder. Although I have to give him credit for that Suwannee River code.”
“But you said nothing’s going to happen to him?”
“Felt sorry for the poor kid. So Mahoney’s agreed to leak a cover story that I confessed to all of Jeff ’s crimes. Nobody needs to be the wiser.”
“He’s just back on the street wandering around?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that to society. He’s a real sicko.” Serge stuck another bite in his mouth. “We’re getting him the help he needs. He used to see a psychiatrist, but apparently not a very good one. So I hooked him up with my shrink. At first she said her calendar was booked solid, but I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.” He set down the fork and picked up the menu football. “Coleman, go long…. On three!…”
Coleman went long. “I’m open! I’m open….”
Crash.
GULF COAST PSYCHIATRIC CENTER
A phone rang. “Excuse me,” said a female psychiatrist. “I keep forgetting to turn this thing off.” She looked at her cell phone’s display. GUESS WHO?
She looked up at the chair across the room.
“Smile!” Jeff snapped her picture with his own phone.
“Jeff, please. We have some serious issues to—”
McSwirley began fiddling with another device. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Serge said you were booked solid but that he made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
The normally unflappable doctor began stuttering. “I…I…There…uh…”
Jeff looked up and grinned. “I won’t tell anyone. You make a nice couple.”
She blushed brightly. “I…You have the wrong…”
“Said he must have lost his mind fooling around with those young chicks. You’re what? A couple years older than him? That fits. He told me one of his mottos: ‘Intelligence and maturity are always sexy in a woman.’…”
She blushed more, this time with an involuntary smile.
“…Said you could name vice presidents and everything.” Jeff hoisted a gym bag onto his lap and began rummaging. “Also told me he’d gotten over the aging thing, so he gave me all his midlife gadgets. Look at this great stuff! Plus a bunch of guidebooks…”
“Jeff?”
“…Old souvenirs—said he bought some doubles by accident—more gadgets…”
“Jeff!”
“What?”
“Slow down!”
“But I’m so excited about life.”
“I can see that.” The doctor checked her notes. “Your mood has greatly improved. You were really depressed the first time I saw you. In fact, there’s something completely different about you.” She stopped and watched Jeff unfold a portable keyboard for his BlackBerry. Tap, tap, tap. “Jeff, you’re…confident.”
“I guess so.” Tap, tap, tap.
The doctor quickly flipped back through her file. “When was the last time you cried?”
Tap, tap, tap. “It was back…I don’t remember.”
“Amazing. I’ve rarely seen such rapid progress.”
“Serge said you’d be able to help me.” Jeff stowed the PDA and resumed searching through his bag. “No disrespect, but it wasn’t working with that other doctor. What ever happened to him?”
“Went to prison. Jeff, do you have any plans?”
“Great big ones.” He pulled something out of the bag. “The newspaper gave me three weeks off, and I’ve decided to do a little traveling. Actually, a lot.”
“Very positive,” said the doctor. “Where are you going?”
Jeff held up a musty 1939 edition of the WPA guide to Florida. “Everywhere!”
“I’m very happy for you—but a little concerned about you being alone right now.”
“Oh, I won’t be going alone. Someone’s coming with me.”
“Who?”
“My girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend?” The doctor wrote something quickly. “Very positive, forming human bonds. That might account for the sudden self-confidence…. What can you tell me about her?”
A horn honked outside.
“She likes to honk the horn,” said Jeff.
“That’s her?”
McSwirley got up and walked toward the window. “We’re leaving for Key West right after this session.” He cranked open the glass and waved down at the flaming redhead parked at the curb in a brown Plymouth Duster. “Just a minute, dear.”
“How’d you meet?”
“Covering a story.” Jeff walked back to his chair. “Told me I was cute.”
“What’s her name?”
“Molly.”
“That’s a nice name. How’s it been going?”
“Great! We fight all the time!”
“How is that great?”
“Because Serge taught me how to deal with women.”
The doctor assumed a skeptical look. “How do you do that?”
“Forfeit. Tell ’em what ever they want to hear and move on with enjoying the miracle of life together.”
The horn honked again. Jeff bent over and tightened the Velcro stra
ps on his sneakers.
“But that’s deceptive,” said the doctor. “You’re not being honest and working through your true feelings.”
“You’re right. I won’t do it anymore.” Jeff stood and headed for the door. “Are you able to have multiples?”
“What?”
Honk.
Jeff pointed. “I better be going.”
THE EVERGLADES
Serge had finished his work; now it was time to play. He parked the Hummer and headed across a long, narrow field.
Someone met him in the middle, and Serge handed over a roll of hundred-dollar bills from a boosted ATM. “Will that be enough?”
The man moved his hand up and down, gauging the weight. “More than enough. You sure you want to do this?”
“Never been more sure of anything in my life. Until the next thing.”
“You’ve used one of these before?”
“Million times. We set?”
“Ready when you are.” The man walked back to his pickup truck, an empty trailer hitched behind it.
The field sat along the edge of the swamp, just north of the panther-crossing signs and toll booths at the western end of Alligator Alley, a rapidly developing section of Florida known as Golden Gate. But it wasn’t completely spoiled yet. A great blue heron stalked needlefish in a marsh along the perimeter of the clearing. Ibis, spoonbills, snowy egrets. Crickets buzzed, gators lounged. The sunset over Naples was all you could ask for. One of those wavering crimson balls.
Serge turned and gave Coleman the backslapping guy hug. He held him out by the shoulders. “Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”
“How long till you’re back?”
“Three days, three years, who knows?” Serge sat down and buckled crisscrossing straps over his chest. “I just set events in motion and let them go where they want.”
Coleman grabbed the edge of a long metal blade. “Now?”
“Now. But get those hands back or it’ll chop ’em right off.”
Coleman pulled down fast. An internal-combustion engine burped smoke and chugged to life. The blade circled herky-jerky for the first few rotations, then spun invisibly. Serge donned goggles and a long scarf.
Before all the encroaching construction—back when this was still a nearly impossible-to-reach outpost—the narrow field had been a grass landing strip for pot-bale Cessnas. Smugglers ran out at night with generators and strands of Christmas lights to mark the runway.
“Remember the key to life,” Serge shouted over the engine. “Always act like you deserve to be here.”
“What?” yelled Coleman. But his pal was already bounding across the field. Coleman shielded his eyes and watched the ultralight plane lift off. The pi lot’s right arm thrust into the air.
“Shula!”
The racket flushed a flock of endangered cranes from the brush. They took flight, forming a perfect V formation and following Serge into the setting sun.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe deep gratitude to Nat Sobel, Henry Ferris, Lisa Gallagher, and Eryn Wade for continuing to put up with me.
About the Author
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999 and is the author of eight previous novels: Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, Cadillac Beach, Torpedo Juice, and The Big Bamboo. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
www.timdorsey.com
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ALSO BY TIM DORSEY
Florida Roadkill
Hammerhead Ranch Motel
Orange Crush
Triggerfish Twist
The Stingray Shuffle
Cadillac Beach
Torpedo Juice
The Big Bamboo
Credits
Jacket design by Richard L. Aquan
Jacket illustration by Bill Mayer
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HURRICANE PUNCH. Copyright © 2007 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Microsoft Reader January 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-125992-0
Library of Congress Cata loging-in-Publication Data
Dorsey, Tim.
Hurricane punch: a novel / Tim Dorsey.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-06-082967-4
ISBN-10: 0-06-082967-2
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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