by Tim Dorsey
The head researcher was on the phone. She held up a finger. “Just a sec.” All the nearby history had gotten Serge aroused. He mentally took off her glasses and let down the silky black hair that was up in a professional bun. Then he put her in a skimpy streetwalker skirt and high heels. No, not right. Cheerleader? Naughty nurse? Nope, nope. One-piece beauty-contestant bathing suit with silk sash: 1966 ORANGE BLOSSOM QUEEN? Nope. Rodeo clown? Maybe. She got off the phone. Serge put her library clothes back on.
“How can I help you?”
Serge smiled his widest. “We’re here to see The Door!”
“I’m sorry. Door?”
“Yes! And I’ll bet you’re glad we’re here!” He looked around curiously. “Where is it?”
“What?”
“The Door! I read when they demolished Jim’s house, one of the doors was donated to the library for permanent exhibition.” He rubbed his palms together with high friction. “Can’t wait to touch it.”
“Oh, you’re a Doors fan. Yeah, we’ve gotten a few calls about that. Don’t have the exhibit up yet. It’s still in storage.”
“Where?”
“Not sure.”
Serge winked. “Of course you’re not sure. Good thinking. Lots of kooks just drooling to steal it. Not me, obviously, because heritage belongs to everyone. So you can tell me. Where’s The Door?”
“Really, I…” She stopped and caught herself in the gaze of Serge’s penetrating ice-blue eyes. And that smile of his. Not your typical hunk, which is why she hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was something intangible about this guy. She never went for men at first meet, and couldn’t understand the melting feeling inside.
He put out his hand. “Serge.”
She shook it. “Liz. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine. I’m Serge.”
“You just said that.”
“Thinking about The Door.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Coleman fidgeted through a scene that had unfolded so many times before: Serge leaning against the corner of a reference desk, making time with another library science grad.
Liz finally stood and called over to the circulation desk. “Rob, looks like it’s slowing down.” She picked up her purse. “Thought I’d take an early lunch.”
NINETEEN
DAVIS ISLANDS
The moving van choked traffic on another narrow residential street. Lobster Lane. The truck was almost empty. Two men came through the front door with a mattress and went upstairs. The piles of boxes in every room made it like a maze. A third mover entered the house, lifted a box high in his arms and dropped it.
“That’s the last. Sign here.”
Jim took the pen. “What am I signing?”
“That you got everything.”
“But I don’t know yet. We haven’t unpacked.”
“You didn’t want an inventory.”
“Then does it make any difference whether I sign or not?”
“No.”
“What if I don’t sign?”
“You have to.”
Jim signed. They handed him a yellow copy.
“Do I need to keep this?”
“Not really.”
They left.
It was quiet. Jim took the moment to finally relax and enjoy new home ownership.
Loud footsteps. Martha ran down the stairs. “My gold necklace is missing.”
“I’m sure it’s somewhere. We haven’t unpacked yet.”
“That’s the first box I opened! I set my little jewelry cabinet on the dresser. Then I left to get another box from the car.”
“You think they stole it?”
“I know they stole it! I’d put the necklace in the top left drawer, and when I went to get it out and hang it on the knob like I always do, it was gone.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“They were alone in the bedroom with the mattress just a minute ago.”
Jim hurried up the stairs. “Maybe you just got confused with all the packing. It’s probably in my jewelry box.” Jim opened it. “Where’s my watch?”
“Which one?”
“My favorite.”
Another charge down the stairs. The front door flew open, and Martha ran into the street. “Come back!”
But the van was already at the end of the block.
Jim walked out and joined her.
“I’m going to report them!”
“Baby, we’re starting a new chapter in our lives with this beautiful house. Let’s just move on.”
“No! We shouldn’t have to take it!” She grabbed the yellow receipt from Jim’s hand. “Here’s the phone number.”
“Honey, this is how it always starts on those Court TV shows when they find the couple axed to death in the basement.”
“You have an overactive imagination.”
“They’re out of our lives. Let’s not drag ’em back in.”
“Okay, but I’m only not going to complain because I have so much work to do with the new place. And because you’re going to your meeting tomorrow.”
“I thought I’d skip this meeting because of the move.”
“No, you’re definitely not going to miss the meeting after what you let those guys get away with.”
“But honey—”
“These meetings are important. I’m holding up my end with the anger-management sessions, even though I hardly need them.”
“You don’t understand. There’s someone else at the meetings I have to tell you about.”
“Stop!” said Martha. “Don’t say a word! That was part of our deal: We have to completely commit to the programs. And one of the first rules is confidentiality.”
“This is different,” said Jim. “I have to tell you. He’s—”
Heavy footsteps came toward them on the sidewalk. “Martha! Jim!”
“Gladys!” Martha looked at her husband. “It’s Gladys.”
Gladys stopped and bobbed in place. “How’d the move go?”
“They stole from us!”
“Who’d you use?”
Martha held up the yellow sheet. A logo of a cartoon truck with a toothy grin. “Moving Dudes.”
“Geez, you never use Moving Dudes. Should have checked with me first.”
“We didn’t know.”
“I’m still surprised they stole from you,” said Gladys. “If you absolutely have to use them, everyone knows to just pay the protection and it’ll be fine.”
“Protection?” said Martha.
“The extra guy who stands around doing nothing. What did they get from you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Jim turned toward the house. “Martha and I were just saying how great it is to be out here.”
“Jim,” said Martha. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“No, really. You were pretty sharp picking out this place. Have to admit I was against it at first because we’re extended on the mortgage. But now I’m so glad you convinced me. As long as we don’t have any major unforeseen expenses. What are the odds?”
A cell phone rang. Martha reached in her pocket. “Hello?…Oh, hi Debbie…” She lowered the phone. “It’s our daughter.”
“I remember.”
The cell went back to her head. “Where are you?…Great, you’ll have to come over…. What?…No, I can’t guess…. Yeah, I’m ready….”
Martha screamed.
Jim grabbed her arm. “What’s happened to Debbie?”
Martha waved him off. “That’s fantastic! I’m so happy for you!…I’ll tell him right now…. Love you too!” She hung up.
“What is it?”
“Our baby’s getting married! Isn’t that great news?”
CLEARWATER
“You sure you’re watching?” said Liz. “I could lose my job.”
“Don’t worry.” Serge glanced up and down the hall. “I do this all the time.”
She wiggled an old key into a brass kno
b. “You can’t tell anyone. You gave me your word.”
Serge put up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Liz opened the storage closet. “I should have my head examined.”
“Coleman, wait out here. If you see anyone coming, knock three times. You got it?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t fuck up.”
“I told you, I got it.”
Serge went inside the closet and closed the door.
“I can’t see,” said Liz.
“Here’s a switch.” A light came on. Serge froze. “Oh my God! It’s…The Door!”
Three knocks.
“Shit!” Serge killed the light. He crept to the door and opened it a crack. Coleman’s face was inches away.
“Pssst, Serge. What if someone comes?”
“Knock! Three times!”
“Ohhhh. That’s what that was about.”
“Yes!” The door slammed. The light came back on. The unhinged Morrison door leaned against the far wall. Serge could almost see a glowing aura.
“You know,” said Liz. “I used to be a huge Doors fan. I mean, to look at me now—”
“I never judge a book’s cover,” said Serge.
“The other girls were crazy about Jim because he was a Tiger Beat heartthrob.”
“But you got into him because of literary allusions. The Doors of Perception.”
“I love Aldous,” said Liz.
“Me too. Naked Lunch?”
“Without saying.”
“Kesey?”
“Oh my God, yes!…Wait. You can see all that in me? Most of my friends are so conservative. I feel like I have to hide—”
“That you did psychedelics?”
“I wasn’t going to say that. But, yeah.” She blushed. “How’d you guess?”
“I sense your inner freak flag.”
“But that was a long time ago. And you have to understand, back then it was about love and higher consciousness. These new drugs today turn people into armed robbers and strippers.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Liz looked around. “What’s that music?”
“The portable speaker for my iPod.”
“…Come on baby light my fire…”
“One of my favorites!”
“Mine too.”
“What are you doing?”
“Stroking your hair…”
“Please. Stop…”
Serge slowly slipped his other hand around her back. “That means ‘don’t stop.’”
Liz felt their mouths growing closer. “No…”
“That means ‘yes.’” He suddenly grabbed her by the back of the head for a deep, hard kiss. Their lips finally parted an inch. Liz’s eyes stayed closed. “Ohhhh, Serge!…”
Serge jumped back. “Okay. Help me lift the door.”
Her eyes sprang open. “What?”
“I can’t raise it by myself.”
“You’re stealing it?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Big surprise. But we don’t have much time. Come on, grab the other side.”
Everything in the last two decades screamed for Liz to get the hell out of that closet. But something about this guy made her feel like junior year at the university. Had she really become so stuffy? Next thing she knew, her hands had a grip on the left side of the door. “What do you want me to do?”
“Turn it horizontal and carry it to the middle of the room.”
They shuffled sideways in the tight space and lowered it to the floor.
“I’ll kill the light,” said Serge.
“What for?…”
The hallway outside was quiet. Too quiet. And no pot. Coleman picked his nails. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at his shoes. This sucked. He looked at the doorknob.
It was jet black inside the closet. Just heavy breathing, clipped conversation and creaking wood.
The knob turned. A sliver of light from the hallway entered the room. The sliver grew wider as Coleman opened it farther. The edge of the light finally reached Serge’s bobbing derriere.
“Oh, yes!” said Liz. “Fuck me on The Door!”
“That’s what I’m doing,” said Serge.
A sudden jump in volume as Liz neared her peak. “…The Door!”
“Wait…Where’s that light coming from?” Serge looked over his shoulder. “Coleman! What the hell are you doing?”
“Are you going to be much longer?”
“Fuck me on The Door!”
“I don’t know, Coleman. These things take time.”
Liz abruptly pushed Serge off, and flipped onto her stomach. “Quick. The other way.”
“What?”
“Hurry or I’ll lose it!”
“You’re the boss,” said Serge. “Man, when you let your hair down…”
Creak-creak, creak-creak, creak-creak…Liz’s right fist pounded on the wood in rhythm with Serge’s efforts…. Bang…“Yes!”…Bang…“Yes!”…Bang…“Yes!”…Bang…“The Door!”…Bang…“Don’t stop!”…Bang…“I’m almost there!…”
“Serge, can I wait out by the car?”
“No! Watch the door!”
Creak-creak, creak-creak…Bang…“Yes!”…Bang…“God!”…Bang…“This is it!….”
“Coleman, why are you still standing there?”
“I’m doing what you said.”
“Not this door, you idiot!”
“Oh.” He went back in the hall.
Ten minutes later, the closet opened. Serge stepped outside buttoning his shirt.
“Now can we go?” asked Coleman.
“Can you try to be more annoying?”
“But I’m standing around while you’re having all the fun.”
Serge pointed back at the closet. “What? In there? That wasn’t fun. That was research.” Serge slipped a hand into his hip pocket and produced a clear plastic tube containing small flakes. “Had to distract her while I took a paint sample.”
Liz stumbled into the hall. Serge spun around and whipped the tube behind his back. “There you are!”
She collapsed against the doorframe. “Wow! That was the best I ever…I mean, I never…How was I? Did you enjoy yourself? I thought you were because I heard your fingernails scraping the wood.”
Serge secretly slid the plastic tube into a back pocket. “You’re the greatest.” He looked at his watch. “Yikes, is it this late?” He pointed up the hall. “Listen, thanks for the tour, but we gotta be—”
“Oh my God!” She was staring down. “You were so good I peed myself!”
“I always feel if a job’s worth doing…”
Liz checked her own watch. “I have to rush home and change. I can’t go back to the reference desk like this!”
“Actually, you can,” said Serge. “But your idea’s better…. Well, see ya!” He and Coleman took off.
Liz yelled after them: “You’ll call like you promised?”
“Definitely.”
“Remember my number?”
“Of course.”
“What is it?”
“The one you gave me.” They disappeared into a stairwell.
TWENTY MILES EAST OF TAMPA
Flames licked high into the night sky.
It was one of those empty parts of inland Florida that would soon become a sprawling planned community sold to Michigan retirees before they became bitter at how incredibly far they were from the beaches pictured in the sales brochure.
But right now, it remained a remote piece of scrubland only accessed by dirt logging roads. The flames rose from a bonfire in the middle of a clearing. A chorus line of animated silhouettes danced with abandon in front of the fire, throwing arms in the air and howling at the moon, evoking some ancient ritual from Stonehenge or Easter Island. Except in ancient times, they wouldn’t have all been wearing matching T-shirts: 21st ANNUAL MCGRAW FAMILY JAMBOREE.
The bonfire was surrounded by a circle of pickup tr
ucks and honky-tonk domestic sports cars with racing detail. One had its trunk open to increase stereo volume on Molly Hatchet. Later and deeper into the George Dickel, Flirtin’ with Disaster would acquire a backbeat of lever-action rifles fired into the air.
This year’s family gathering was even bigger than usual, thanks to the recent prison release of the clan’s biggest member. They gathered around Tex, shaking hands, slapping his back, then got down to vittles. The reunions always featured a fish fry, and the McGraws did it right. A charred, fifty-five-gallon barrel sat atop a welded metal frame and its own robust fire. Inside the drum: boiling vegetable oil and succulent freshwater catfish fillets. The drum was presided over by a stubby, four-hundred-pound man in bib overalls and no T-shirt. “Ham-Bone” McGraw. His nose more closely resembled a hog snout. Because he had a novelty plastic hog snout strapped around his head with a rubber band. He was the wit of the family.
An extended chow line of kissin’ cousins stretched before him. Their paper plates already held beans and fried okra as Ham-Bone tonged sizzling seafood.
The roar of a bored-out engine came down one of the dark logging roads. A double-cab pickup bounded into the clearing. Tex’s three most trusted kin hopped out, Lyle, Cooter and Spanky McGraw. They had difficulty dragging the fourth person from the truck because his arms were wrapped around one of the headrests.
“No! Stop! Please!…”
A last, hard tug, and the reluctant guest was jerked from the truck and flung to the ground at Tex’s feet. He looked out of place at the jamboree in his shredded business suit.
Tex yanked him up. “You’re one useless defense attorney.”
“I did everything I could! I swear! But they had too much evidence, plus they found you at the scene covered in blood.”
“Well then it’s perfectly reasonable,” said Tex.
“It is?”
“Except I’m not a reasonable person. Remember? You argued that at trial. Insane.” Tex slid his hands inside thick protective rubber gloves that reached to the elbow.
“I’m begging! Whatever you’re thinking…”
“Okay, I’ll give you a chance.” He slapped the attorney lightly on the cheek. “We’ll let you go if you win a little game we play around here.”
“Sure, anything. What is it?”
Tex grabbed him by the back of the collar. “Bobbing for catfish.” He slammed the lawyer’s face down into the boiling oil. Arms flailed, the barrel filled with bubbles. Tex pulled him up. “Got a fish yet? Nope.” Back down into the barrel. Back up. “Fish? Nope.” Down. This time, the attorney’s arms fell limp. Tex casually released him, and he flipped backward into the dirt, face still fizzing. Even the most hardened McGraws had trouble keeping food down.
