by Tim Dorsey
“I—You can tell?” A bottle smashed against the brick wall next to his head. “How’d you know?”
“Just use the tickets.”
Jim took them and began reading. “What’s this special service about?”
“I can’t spell everything out for you….” Serge raised the megaphone. “Phil! No cement blocks!”
GULF OF MEXICO
The G-Unit used to stay on board when the ship reached port. Didn’t need the hassle of those insane Cozumel crowds. But then something changed, thanks to Steve and his footloose friends. A reawakened zest for life. They bought stylish sunglasses, purses and bright floral dresses from the ship’s galleria. Laughter filled their stateroom. Hurricane glasses clinked, quarters tumbled into slot machines. Edna became a regular at the waterslide.
Then the ship hit port, and the G-Unit was first in line, casing security procedures.
“I see a crack,” said Edna. “Everything goes through the X-ray for safety, but they only spot-check at the declarations table.”
“We’ll exploit it with our age.”
They raced slow-motion down the gangway, hitting Mexico like spring-breakers. Bustling outdoor markets, cafés, snorkeling lessons, nightclubs. Then they returned to the ship and smuggled duty-free Kahlúa past security without question.
The gals locked the door to their cabin, and the room filled with giddiness.
Knock-knock-knock.
“Hide the liquor!”
Another knock.
“…Just a minute.” Edith eventually opened the door a slit. “What do you want?”
A steward smiled and cradled a bottle in a towel.
“What’s that?”
“Champagne.”
“We didn’t order any.”
“It came with a card,” said the steward.
Edith grabbed the bottle and envelope.
The steward smiled with tip-ready hand. The door closed.
“What is it?” asked Eunice.
“I don’t know.” She set the bottle on a table and tore at the envelope.
“What’s it say?”
“Will you wait?” Edith opened the card: FROM YOUR SECRET ADMIRERS.
“Who do you think?”
“I have a strong suspicion.” Edith twisted the wire harness off the cap, stuck the bottle between her legs and grunted.
Pop.
“Ow!”
“Put ice on it.”
TAMPA
The headless body at the railroad tracks wouldn’t go away, thanks to the press.
Politics rolled downhill from the mayor to the police chief to the unfortunate agents in charge of the case. That would be Sadler and Mayfield. Both excellent homicide veterans, both overweight. In their spare time, Sadler liked to build scale model planes from scratch, and Mayfield didn’t. It never came up.
The detectives had started the investigation with two desks, a shared phone and the distracting noise of a busy police office.
“What kind of a sick place are we living?” said Sadler. “This mess with the train, plus those nine deaths the FBI still hasn’t solved.”
“We’re not supposed to talk about that,” said Mayfield. “The press can’t find out.”
“They’ve already reported it.”
“They reported the individual deaths. But they’re just not supposed to know they’re connected.”
“Think this is connected?”
“Who knows?”
The TV affiliates wouldn’t connect the nine deaths for some time, if ever, because it involved reading documents. The decapitation, on the other hand, was made to order for sweeps week. The mayor felt the heat, and otherwise austere resources flowed.
A task force was tasked. Fifteen top investigators reported to Sadler and Mayfield. They got a conference room and a water cooler. Phone company people installed new lines. Handcarts arrived with stacks of cardboard boxes: the victim’s court records and his mobile home contents. Agents began unloading. Others cleared bulletin boards of thumbtacked suspect photos from the last task force. A rookie dumped a handful of RICO mug shots in the trash.
Sadler walked seriously toward the front of the room. “Listen up everyone. We got a nightmare and no leads. Just a partial fingerprint from a pillow in the victim’s mobile home. The lab guys are working on it. Meanwhile, we’re starting from the beginning.” He waved a thick stack of pages. “This is Bodine Biffle’s record. We’re going to track every codefendant, known associate, girlfriend, relatives, neighbor, and anyone who worked with him at Moving Dudes. I want to know if his dry cleaner had a parking ticket….”
The room grumbled.
“Quiet down,” said Mayfield. “If the answer’s here, we’re going to find it.”
Into the afternoon: tedium, coffee, sandwiches, guys standing to stretch. Bulletin boards filled with fresh index cards. Investigators opened more boxes; others called out hundreds of potential cross-references to the rest of the room. No matches.
One agent peeled through recent receipts. “…Luck Pawn, Payday Check Advance, Caribbean Crown Line, Hubcap Emporium—”
“Back up,” called an agent on the other side of the room. “Did you say, ‘Caribbean Crown’?”
“Right.”
“What is it?” asked Sadler.
“Sir,” said the second agent. “We had someone go missing a few weeks back on a cruise out of here.”
“Thousands sail from Tampa every week,” said Sadler.
“This one had a rap sheet,” said the agent. “And his body parts washed up in the mangroves at Terra Ceia.”
“What ship?”
“Serendipity.”
The other agent looked up from his cruise receipt. “Serendipity.”
An hour later, everyone at the bulletin boards. The life history of the missing cruise passenger took shape: crime jacket, phone records, stolen Diner’s Club—each shard of his existence assigned to a separate index card.
Someone pulled a card off the board. “Think we might have something. The motel where he stayed before boarding the cruise.” The agent called a name across the room.
Another agent at another bulletin board: “It’s a match.”
“Excellent work,” said Sadler. “Still a long shot. Travel agencies often bundle the same motels with the same ships. But worth checking.”
Mayfield came up and grabbed one of the index cards. “More than worth checking.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Sadler.
“I know this place. It’s a shit hole.”
“So?”
“You won’t believe who owns it.”
“Who?”
Mayfield had just told him when a breathless detective with a computer printout ran into the room. “Sir, database got a hit on that partial fingerprint.”
THIRTY-ONE
DAVENPORT RESIDENCE
Jim buttoned a freshly pressed shirt. “Martha? You almost ready?”
“Give me a minute….”
“The reservations are for six.”
The bathroom: “You’ve told me eight times.”
“But for this we can’t be a minute late. You know how long you always take to get ready—”
The door opened. “How do I look?”
Her racy new scarlet evening dress hit Jim in the stomach. Especially the strapless part.
Martha began to frown. “What’s the matter?”
“Wow.”
Her smile rebounded. “Was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”
“You kidding?”
She leaned over the dresser. “Just let me make sure I have all my stuff.” Such a dress normally would have been accessorized with an elegant clutch purse. Instead, Martha rummaged through an oversized canvas Siesta Key beach bag, then hoisted it over her shoulder. “Think I got everything.”
The Davenports headed out of the house. Jim held the passenger door.
“You’re such a gentleman.”
They drove a short five minutes to the south e
nd of Davis Islands. The islands had a tail: this long, thick sand spit that curled in a crescent around a broad lagoon. A road ran atop the spit and ended at the exclusive Davis Islands Yacht Club. Along the way, the shore formed one of the hundred-odd Florida bathing areas nicknamed Beer Can Beach, where off-islanders created an economic pressure drop at the yacht club’s gates. The lagoon inside the crescent was a squatters’ community of houseboats and live-aboard schooners anchored in what was originally a 1920s seaplane basin. But the seaplanes were long gone. Today, wealthy locals landed their Cessnas and Piper Cubs just over the seawall on modest runways of the adjacent Peter O. Knight Airport.
Jim pulled into a parking slot at the airport’s cozy terminal with retro parasol overhangs. “This is so exciting,” said Martha. “I can’t believe you actually planned this.”
“Plus it’s free.”
“You remember the tickets?”
Jim flapped his hand. “Right here.”
They went inside and took seats in a space the size of a doctor’s waiting room. Martha practically bounced with anticipation. “I didn’t even realize a service like this existed.”
“Neither did I, but my friend knew all about it.”
“The one from your support group who gave you the tickets?”
A booming horn blasted.
“What the heck was that?” said Martha.
Jim pointed out the window behind them. “Cruise ship.”
Martha stared up at four tiny old ladies waving at the world from one of the towering top decks. “Holy cow! Looks like it’s going to crash into the island!”
“There’s a deep ship channel that runs along the east seawall,” said Jim
“But it’s so close.”
“It’s a narrow channel.”
Martha stood and followed the ship around to the other windows. She watched it grow small in the bay. She looked at the western sky and watched something else grow large.
A blue-and-white twin-engine Beechcraft made its final approach, coming in low across the water. It cleared the fence at the end of the runway for an expert three-point landing.
“Is that ours?” asked Martha.
“I think so.”
The eight-seater taxied past a row of private planes tethered to the side of the runway. The propellers spun to a stop. A glowing couple exited the plane, squeezing each other’s arms and laughing. Then the pilot. He opened the terminal’s back door and stuck his head inside. Red, sound-suppressing headphones hung around his neck. “Davenports?”
“Over here,” said Jim.
“This way.”
The trio walked across the tarmac.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” said Martha.
“Most people haven’t,” said the pilot. “Just relax and have fun…. Watch your step.”
Martha climbed aboard. Jim was right behind with the tickets: TAMPA BAY MILE-HIGH CLUB.
The interior reminded Martha of a John Denver song. Shag carpet, dim lights, love bed. She pointed back at the midsection. “What’s that?”
“Privacy partition,” said the pilot, standing on the runway at the passenger hatch. “Just like the one I have behind my seat.”
“Another couple’s back there?”
“They were on the last flight and wanted to go around again.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry,” said the pilot. “The engines are so loud it’ll be like you’re all alone.” He closed the hatch.
“Jim,” whispered Martha. “There’s another couple.”
“I’m sure they have better things than to worry about us.”
“I don’t know if I can go through with this now.”
“Martha,” said Jim. “I was happy the way things were. You’re the one who wanted to spice things up with weird stuff.”
“Not weird. Variety. There’s a difference.”
“You got variety here.”
“On the other hand, it might help.”
“What might?”
“Article in this women’s magazine. Some people get turned on by having others in earshot. The whole risk of discovery. I could be one of those people.”
“Could be?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried. We’ve never tried anything.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
The pilot started the engines. Left prop jerked first and began spinning, then the right, faster and faster. He turned around in his seat and shouted over the growing noise. “Before I close the partition, I need to mention a few things….”
“You have to give a safety talk on a flight like this?” asked Martha.
The pilot shook his head. “Been hassled by the police. They say I fall under the new adult-use ordinance. So when we reach international waters I’ll ring this.” He held up a small brass bell. “I’m supposed to tell you no fooling around until then, but that’s your business. Also, when we hit 5,280 feet…”
“That’s a mile,” Jim whispered.
“I’m not an idiot,” said Martha.
“…I’ll ring the bell again.”
“Why?”
“Customers have asked.”
“One question,” said Jim. “How’d you get into this business?”
“Back in the day, people joined the mile-high club with quickies in lavatories of major airlines. Usually half-empty red-eyes from the Coast. But heightened security after nine-eleven created all kinds of new jobs like this.” He closed the partition.
The Beechcraft raced down the runway. The sun had just set. A red beacon flashed on the plane’s roof as wheels lifted off.
Martha reached in her tote bag and pulled out a giant, gleaming, state-of-the-art vibrator.
“Martha!”
“I know it’s embarrassing. But it’s all embarrassing to me. The magazines said I have to work through it if I’m ever going to discover my needs.”
“You need that?”
“We’ll find out. The articles said these things make some women have orgasms like earthquakes.”
“I just can’t picture you going up to a register and buying that thing.”
“I wore sunglasses. And a hat and big coat.”
“No mustache?”
“All the women were dressed like me.”
“An adult store full of women?”
“It was the Todd, up at Fletcher and Nebraska. They market to women.”
“How?”
“Cute curtains.” She loaded four D batteries and screwed the back shut. Then she pulled a polishing rag from her bag and began buffing the sleek rocket.
“That thing looks expensive,” said Jim.
“Most expensive they had,” said Martha, rubbing extra hard on a particular spot. “If anything’s going in me, it’s got to be classy.” She finishing buffing and hit a button. It roared to life like a leaf blower.
“Holy cripes,” said Jim. “Did they have anything with more horsepower?”
“No.”
“Martha, I want you to be happy, but—”
A bell rang.
“Here…” She handed it over and hiked up her dress.
“What do I do?”
“Surprise me.” Martha lay back on the love bed and closed her eyes. “Just don’t drop it.”
Crash. The sound of batteries rolling across the cabin floor.
Martha opened her eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t break it.”
“No, the cap just popped off.” Jim reloaded the batteries and screwed the end shut again. He hit the switch. Quiet. “Martha?”
“What?”
“It’s broken.”
“I can’t have anything nice.”
“Honey, this is our special night. Let’s enjoy it.”
The Davenports sat on the bed and held hands as they looked out the window at the darkening Gulf of Mexico. They exchanged mischievous looks and began giggling.
The bell rang again.
Martha pushed Jim down ont
o the sheets. She knelt and pulled the dress off over her head, revealing recent purchases from Victoria’s Secret. Lace panties and pushups, both black.
“Good God!—”
She grabbed Jim’s shirt collar with both hands. Buttons flew.
“Martha! What’s gotten into you?”
“I don’t know. This plane thing’s a super turn-on. That’s why we have to try new stuff.” She opened his belt but hit a snag. “What the fuck’s wrong with your zipper?”
“Martha! Your mouth!”
“Goddamn this thing!”
“Let me get it. You’ll rip skin.”
“Just hurry!”
Jim pulled his pants down. “There.”
Bam. She shoved him back down, climbed aboard and rode like a rodeo star.
“Who are you?” panted Jim.
“I don’t know,” said Martha. “But whatever you do, don’t stop!”
BACK ON SHORE
A convoy of white government sedans raced north at the edge of the Gulf. All along the shore: towering new luxury condos that obliterated the strip’s personality and stacked assholes thirty stories high.
The old roadside funk was gone: breakfast diners, beach bars, neon. All, that is, except for a few defiant hangers-on. One joint postponing a date with the wrecking ball was the kind of run-down, off-brand motel seen along the side of the highway with a swimming pool full of brown leaves and a single car in front of room 17 that makes passing motorists wonder, What’s his problem?
A dozen sets of blackwall tires made the same screeching left turn and sped up the driveway under a crackling, half-burned-out sign: HAMMERHEAD RANCH.
The people in the motel office heard squealing brakes.
Rafael Diaz looked out the window. “It’s a raid! Run!” He and Benito hid in a closet.
Tommy Diaz casually arose from behind the registration desk. “Calm down. You look guilty.” He walked to the office door, opened it with a jingle of bells and got a badge in the face.
“Detective Mayfield. This is Detective Sadler.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“The two guys you murdered on my watch,” said Sadler.
“Murders?” said Tommy. “That’s terrible!”
“Cut the bullshit.”
“Why? Am I a suspect?” said Tommy. “Do I need to call my attorney?”
