by Tim Dorsey
“You’re not charged with anything,” said Mayfield. “Yet.”
“We’re legitimate businessmen. Why do you think we had anything to do with these tragedies?”
“Because both victims stayed here before taking cruises,” said Sadler.
“And we matched your fingerprint to a pillow in one of the victim’s homes,” said Mayfield. “How do you explain that?”
“You just said he stayed here.”
“So?”
“Must have stolen the pillow from his room,” said Tommy. “My fingerprints are all over my own motel. Is that now a crime?”
Sadler held up a signed court document. “Search warrant.” In the background, a battering ram came out of a trunk.
Tommy opened a desk drawer and handed Mayfield a large metal ring of brass room keys. “Use these. Wouldn’t want the department to have to pay for accidental damage.”
Mayfield tossed the ring to someone behind him. Then he stepped forward with an accusing finger. “You’re going down.”
“Is that kind of talk really necessary?” said Tommy. “I’m a big supporter of law enforcement.”
A closet door creaked open. Rafael and Benito peeked out, heads stacked vertically.
“You messed up this time,” said Mayfield. “We know what you’re into.”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“Cocaine got too risky and expensive….”
“Cocaine? You mean like on the TV?”
“…That’s where Bodine Biffle and Dale Crisp came in,” said Sadler.
“Who?”
“The guys you killed,” said Mayfield. “And we know why.”
Sadler slapped the warrant on the front desk. “They were smuggling antiquities for you.”
“Antiques?” said Tommy.
“Antiquities,” said Sadler. “Pre-Colombian. From the Yucatán. Tulum, Chichén Itzá.”
“Fascinating story,” said Tommy. “Quite an imagination. Are you writing a book?”
“We refreshed ourselves with your criminal record. Big-time smugglers. Just changed rackets.”
“Detectives…” Tommy shook his head with a dismissive smile. “Those other matters are part of the distant past. We’re respectable innkeepers now.”
“What happened?” asked Sadler. “Figured it would be more profitable to whack your mules instead of paying them?”
Tommy’s smile was unflappable. A diamond glistened in a gold front tooth.
“Just before coming over here, we reinterviewed witnesses,” said Mayfield.
“Educated Biffle’s girlfriend about accessory after the fact…” said Sadler.
“…And she spilled everything. The cruises, black-market artifact trade. Moving Dudes didn’t pay too good, so he did a little moonlighting for you bringing statues in.”
“What’s that word they use in court?” Tommy tapped his chin. “Oh, yes. Hearsay.”
The two detectives began walking out. Sadler turned at the door. “Your days are numbered!”
Tommy laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounds like police harassment.”
“It is.”
Tommy maintained the sparkling smile until they were out of sight, then dropped it. “Will you idiots get out here?”
His brothers crept from the closet. “Are they gone?”
“No, they’re tossing the place.”
“We’re going to jail!” said Benito.
“They don’t have squat or we’d already be wearing bracelets.” Tommy grabbed a pointy paper cup from a wall dispenser and stuck it under a water tap. “You’re reacting exactly how they want.”
“What are we going to do?”
Tommy glanced toward a wall calendar from the Mexican Board of Tourism.
THIRTY-TWO
EXACTLY ONE MILE HIGH OVER THE GULF OF MEXICO
It was the best sex they could remember since the kids were old enough to talk.
“Oh, Martha!”
“Oh, Jim!”
“Let’s buy a plane!”
“Okay!”
Other side of the privacy partition: “Jim? Jim Davenport? Is that you?” The partition unsnapped. Serge poked his head through, wearing a Batman mask. “Thought I recognized your voice.”
“Jesus!” Martha covered her breasts and rolled off her husband.
Jim stared in speechless horror.
Serge stared back. “This a bad time?”
“Jim!” said Martha, grabbing the dress to cover herself further. “Who the hell is that?”
“Martha,” Jim said in a trembling voice. “This is my friend from the support group who gave us the tickets. Remember how you said I couldn’t reveal his name?”
Martha made an angry motion with her eyes for Jim to get rid of him.
“Listen,” Jim told Serge. “Don’t you think you need to get back to whoever you’re with—”
“Her name’s Rachael.”
“…back to Rachael.”
“It’s okay,” said Serge. “I’m just getting a B.J. now. I can talk.”
“What?”
“In fact, it makes me want to talk. Hard to believe, but Peter O. Knight used to be Tampa’s main airport. I can see it all now, silver DC-3s, alligator suitcases…. Rachael, watch the teeth…the terminal decorated with the 1930s art deco murals of George Snow depicting the history of flight, Daedalus to the Wright Brothers and Tony Janus, restored and on display at Tampa International’s Airside E, for those keeping score at home…”
“Jim!” yelled Martha.
“Where are my manners?” said Serge. “Rachael, get up here. There are some people I want you to meet.”
Catwoman stuck her head through the partition. “Meowwww!”
“What a coincidence!” said Serge. “Can’t believe you used your tickets the same night! We’ll have to go out like this more often.”
Catwoman’s tongue went in Serge’s ear. “Well, that’s the old Bat Signal. Later…” The partition closed.
Martha reclined on the bed and folded her arms rigidly.
Jim went to touch her. “Honey…” She flinched away.
Jim fell back and stared at the plane’s ceiling. They lay in frosty silence.
Not totally silent. Despite the engines’ drone, conversation began filtering through the partition.
“…You remember the Davenports,” said Serge. “I’ve mentioned them a dozen times.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Rachael. “The dorky couple.”
“They are not dorky,” said Serge. “Just haven’t been around the block like you and me. That’s why I got them the tickets.”
“You wasted your money,” said Rachael. “They wouldn’t know what to do if they had diagrams.”
“They’re just having a difficult time sexually.”
“He told you about it?”
“Every detail. His wife’s trying to get him into all this kinky shit, but so far nobody’s come.”
Martha covered her face in mortification.
“Why do you have such lame friends?” said Rachael.
“They are not lame.”
“Yes they are!”
“I’m warning you!”
“What are you going to do, hurt me?”
“You’ll beg for mercy.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh yeah? How about this. Does that hurt?”
“Oh, God it hurts! It hurts, you fucker!”
“And this?”
“That hurts, too! Stop! Please! Owww!…”
“And this!”
“That does it!” snarled Rachael. “Your cock’s going to get it now!”
“Owww!” yelled Serge.
“And this!”
“Yowwwwwww!”
On the other side of the curtain: Jim felt his shoulder poked. He turned.
“Jim,” said Martha. “You’re absolutely not going to believe what I’m going to say next. I don’t even believe it.”
“What?”
> She glanced toward the partition. “They’re getting me incredibly aroused.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe it.”
She threw her dress aside and climbed on top of Jim. “Have you been listening to them?”
“Not trying to.”
“Think you remember most of it?”
“Martha, what are you asking?”
She found the right position, slid down onto him and gritted her teeth. Her voice changed to something Jim hadn’t heard before: “You wouldn’t dare hurt me!”
“What?”
“You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me!”
“I’m not doing anything! I swear!”
“Your cock’s going to get it now!”
“Martha, you’re scaring me!”
On the other side of the partition:
“I’ll fucking kill you!” shouted Rachael. “Take that, you no-good motherfucker!”
“Why you mangy cunt!” yelled Serge.
“Wait, stop.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Our sex life is in a rut,” said Rachael. “Fantasy role-playing.”
“What about it?” asked Serge.
“We should try it,” said Rachael. “We’re always just being ourselves.”
“Who do you want to play?”
She glanced toward the partition.
“You’re joking.”
“Who can explain sex? Their clumsiness is making me hot.”
Other side of the partition: Martha was bucking so wildly that Jim had to grab her hips to keep her from being thrown clear. Screaming her head off: “Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!” Just about to explode, when…
“Martha,” said Jim. “Why’d you stop?”
She looked toward the partition. “Listen…”
From the other side:
“Oh, Martha!”
“Oh, Jim!”
“I don’t know how to fuck!”
“Me neither!”
“How do we do it?”
“Give me that tiny needle-dick of yours.”
“Is this the right hole?”
“Oh, Martha!”
“Oh, Jim!”
Martha rolled onto her back again. “How can this possibly get any more embarrassing?”
The partition opened. Batman pointed at the floor next to their bed. “You using that?”
Silence.
“Thanks.” Serge grabbed the broken vibrator.
The partition closed.
THIRTY-THREE
918 LOBSTER LANE
First thing the next morning, a rusty Comet pulled up the driveway.
The home’s front door was already open. Gaylord Wainscotting wheeled a last piece of luggage down to the curb, where Mrs. Wainscotting and ten other suitcases were already assembled in descending order of height, including Mrs. Wainscotting.
A limo arrived. The driver loaded bags.
Gaylord shook Serge’s hand. “Thanks for doing this.”
“Enjoy Cape Cod.”
“Enjoy the club.”
The chauffeur placed the final item in the trunk and slammed the hood. Wainscotting climbed into the backseat. The window rolled down. “Treat the place like your own, unwind a little.”
“I’m slammed,” said Serge. “Work…”
“You can work anytime. Have some fun.”
Serge shook his head. “Way behind deadline. We’ll be quiet as mice. In fact the neighbors probably won’t even know anyone’s home.”
“Glad I hooked up with you,” said Gaylord. “All kinds of cautionary tales about hiring the wrong house-sitters. One guy from the club had his place burned to the ground.”
“She couldn’t be in better hands,” said Serge.
“Just don’t work too hard.”
“No other way.”
Gaylord laughed. The limo drove off.
Serge whistled a blissful tune and strolled toward the house. He opened the front door. Stereo blasting, Coleman filling shot glasses, Rachael…Where was Rachael? A drumroll of shattering glass from the kitchen. “Goddammit!”
Coleman cradled a phone receiver against his shoulder and knocked back bourbon. “…Sure you don’t need directions?…Yeah, it’s going kick out the motherfuckin’ jams. Later…” He hung up and dialed again. “Hey, Serge…”
“What are you doing?”
“Shots.”
“No, the phone.”
Coleman put up a finger for Serge to hold a sec. “Thumper? Coleman…No, I don’t have the money. Listen, what are you doing Saturday?…”
Coleman hung up and dialed again.
“I’m waiting,” said Serge.
“Calling people for my party…” Coleman placed his spherical black-and-white TV on the counter and slapped the side. “…Psycho Sal? Coleman…You still have to wear the ankle monitor?…”
“Party?”
“Going to be killer!”
“Have you lost your mind? We can’t throw a party!”
Coleman hung up again. “Serge, it’s the ultimate party pad.” He slapped the TV.
“We’ve been entrusted with the care of this house,” said Serge. “The guy’s only been gone a minute, and you’re already sowing the seeds of destruction.”
“Relax. Just a few of my closest friends.” He dialed the phone and slapped the TV. “Serge, you know how to fix this thing?”
“Just keep slapping.”
Rachael came into the room with a giant sterling service tray. She set it on the dining table, dumped a generous pile of white powder and began cutting rails with a razor blade.
Serge stood in amazement. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”
Rachael leaned with a straw. “What the fuck’s it look like?”
“You’re scratching their tray all to hell!”
“Eat me!” Diver down.
“…Slasher? Coleman…” Slap.
Rachael pinched her nose. “Coleman, crank the stereo!”
“It’s already up the whole way.”
“…We won’t get fooled again!…”
Coleman was about to make another call when he saw what Rachael was doing and dashed over to the table. “Can I have some?”
She shielded the tray like a protective mama bear. “Mine!”
“But you got plenty.”
“Get away!”
“Give me some!”
“Let go of me!”
“Just a little bump!…Ow!…Serge! She’s going for my balls!”
“They’re trained to do that. Directive Seven.”
The wrestling match was inelegant and vicious. They rolled across the floor and slammed into a table leg. A silver tray crashed to the ground.
They stood and stared down in mute horror. Rachael punched Coleman in the stomach. “Now look what you did!”
“Shit. Okay, we can salvage this,” said Coleman. “I’ve been here before. Stay perfectly still. Don’t create any air currents until the haze settles.”
Serge witnessed unprecedented discipline from his stationary companions.
Finally: “Now!” said Coleman. They dropped to their knees, herding dust with their hands and licking.
Serge headed up the stairs. “I wash my hands of this fiasco.”
The widow’s walks of Tampa’s waterfront mansions were perfect for telescopes and binoculars. People watching big ships or sunsets or stars at night.
Serge’s binoculars were aimed in a different direction, down the street. Jim Davenport’s head filled the twenty-magnification view field.
Coleman came up the stairs with a bottle of Rémy Martin by the neck. “What are you doing?”
Serge adjusted the focus as Jim walked across his lawn with a ladder. “Protecting our friend. So far, so good. No sign of McGraw.”
Coleman looked toward Serge’s feet. “What’s the rifle for?”
“In case McGraw slips under my perimeter and I can’t get down there fast enough.”
Coleman turned toward the b
ay. “There’s a bunch of people in kayaks and canoes behind that other house….”
“Hold it! Trouble! Oh my God!”
“What is it?”
“Jim’s replacing a floodlight, but he’s a step too high on the ladder. The one with the yellow warning label of a stick figure falling off a ladder.”
“Serge, who’s that over there walking toward him?”
“Where?…Oh, no!” Serge grabbed the rifle and chambered a round. Crosshairs tracked a stranger heading toward the house. He began pulling the trigger. He stopped.
Coleman took a swig. “Why aren’t you shooting?”
Serge set the rifle down. “Just the UPS guy.” He picked up the binoculars. “Sure wish Jim would get off the top step. Doesn’t he know that’s insane?”
“The kayaks and canoes are now behind our house.”
Serge swung the binoculars toward their backyard. “Rachael’s just sunning herself naked.” The binoculars panned back the other way. “Picked up a second bogie.”
“Bogie?”
“Martha. Heading for their car…Jim’s calling to her, but she’s ignoring him. Now he’s waving for her to stop backing out of the driveway and…He fell off the ladder! Jim’s down! Jim’s down!…He’s up! Martha patches out! Jim’s running down the street after her! She’s gone.”
“What was that about?”
“They had a monster fight. Poor Jim. I know I’m being tough on myself, but I can’t help think I’m almost responsible.”
“Why’s that?”
“Martha was crying inconsolably when our plane landed last night, even though I fixed the vibrator for free. I chased her out the passenger hatch, waving it in the air to give it back, but she just wailed louder and nearly went into one of the propellers.”
“That would have sucked.”
“I need to make it up to Jim.” Serge lowered the binoculars and started downstairs.
Jim Davenport had moved his ladder to the northeast corner of his home. Just a few more twists on the floodlight.
The bushes below: “Psssst! Jim! You’re one step too high!—”
Jim looked down.
“It’s me, Serge….”
Thud.
“Jim!” Serge leaped from the shrubs and bent over his fallen neighbor. “You okay?” He tapped his cheeks. “Wake up! Come on, big boy!…”
He slowly came around. “What happened?”
“Everything’s all right. You just took a spill from the ladder. Luckily…actually, there isn’t a lucky part—”
