by Tim Dorsey
Ethel extended the telescoping handle on her Samsonite. “Can’t believe we got everything done and still made it back in time.”
“Haven’t made it yet,” said Edith. “Need to see what kind of line at Customs.”
They pushed through double doors. Luggage wheels squeaked across a largely vacant terminal. “In luck. Only a few deep at each station.”
The woman joined a trickle of early-bird vacationers who wanted to avoid the last-second crush that always came with the Sunday evening departure for Cozumel. They placed suitcases on the table.
An inspector smiled at Edith. “Anything to declare?”
“You’re a hottie.”
While the terminal was quiet on the customer side, that couldn’t be said for the administrative offices on the other. Agents from conflicting jurisdictions stepped on each other’s toes. Overlapping cell phone conversations. Doors opened and slammed.
Edna started up the gangway. “Wonder what all that commotion’s about.”
“Someone must have gotten busted.”
“Welcome aboard!”
Back in the terminal, the flurry of official activity centered on one highly secured room. Inside, armed guards and a long steel table. Forensic cameras flashed. Small, L-shaped rulers lay on the table to provide scale. At one end were carefully arranged pieces of a shattered Mayan statue. At the other, small plastic packages of white powder sealed with wax.
“Vasconia,” said an agent sitting at a bank of surveillance monitors. “Check this out.”
“Got something?”
The seated agent replayed an eight-hour-old security tape. “Take a look in the bottom corner at Customs line D.” He slowed the video frame-by-frame. “See the statue in that person’s hand?”
“But it’s an old lady.”
“Probably an unwitting mule. Check the ship’s registry.”
Deeper into the pathology of the party. Wilder and louder. Stereo on Three Dog Night. Public groping, wall damage. A surly group of clowns and mimes pushed their way to the patio. All the bedroom doors were locked, and all the bathrooms had blood trails. The garbage disposal ground to a calamitous halt from a dropped corkscrew. Sangria stains, cigarette butts, mashed food. The throw rugs would have to be thrown out. A GHB overdose was iced down in a bathtub; others applied pressure to a diving-board head wound sustained moments after someone yelled, “Hey everybody, watch this!”
Good times.
“…Mama told me not to come!…”
And the weather! Couldn’t have dialed up a finer day. Not a cloud, the early-afternoon sun tanning the faithful on patio loungers, and filling the entire, open-layout house with warm energetic light.
Except one room.
Debbie and her fiancé followed Coleman up a futuristic set of free-floating Plexiglas stairs suspended from the ceiling by steel cables.
“What’s this about?” asked Trevor.
“Someone wants to meet you.”
“Who?”
“We’re almost there.”
They reached the top step. Coleman opened the door and gestured for them to enter.
The couple stepped inside the ultra-dark office. The door closed. Their eyes slowly adjusted, and they began making out a form sitting behind a large desk. The person turned on a dim, jade banker’s lamp and nodded toward a pair of chairs in the middle of the room.
“What’s this about?” Trevor asked as he slowly sat. “Who the hell are you?”
“A close personal friend of Jim.”
“Friend of Jim’s?” Trevor chuckled. “That figures.”
“Excuse me?” said Serge. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Never mind.” Trevor leaned back smugly. “What’s Jim’s friend want?”
Serge turned to the other chair. “Debbie, you are not to marry this man. I want you to come and live at home with the family. Tell him. He’ll understand.”
Debbie reached over and held Trevor’s hand. “We’re getting married.”
“Debbie, you disappoint me.”
“Honey,” said Trevor. “Your father must be behind this joker. I told you he doesn’t like me.”
“Debbie, I’ll ask you one more time. Please do not marry this man.”
“But Serge,” said Coleman. “He seems like a nice enough guy.”
Serge slapped the top of the desk. “Coleman! Never take sides against the family!”
Trevor stood. “Enough of this stupidness. Debbie, let’s go—”
“Sit back down.”
“Screw you. We’re out of here.”
“I said, sit.” Serge placed a shiny .45 automatic on top of the desk.
Debbie’s eyes bulged. “What’s the gun for?”
“It’s not a real gun,” said Trevor. “It’s a starter pistol or some toy.”
She gripped the arms of her chair. “How do you know?”
“Because any friend of your father is a wimp.”
Serge ejected the magazine from the pistol’s handle, adding unmistakably genuine bullets. He slammed the clip back home.
Trevor’s behavior improved.
“What an incredible sense of humor!” Serge stood and casually waved the pistol. “Kidding like that about a dear friend whom you so clearly respect.” He came out from behind the desk and placed a chummy arm around the young man’s shoulders. “I was completely wrong: You’re perfect for Debbie! Come with me, I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“A gift for your special day.” Serge led him to the back of the office. “It’s right in there.” He opened the door.
Trevor looked inside, then back at Serge. “It’s just a closet.”
Serge shoved him into a shoe rack. “Coleman, the stereo on that shelf. Crank it.”
Coleman twisted a knob all the way to the right.
“‘…Woke up this morning, got yourself a gun…’”
Serge went inside and shut the door.
A minute later, the door flew open. Trevor rushed past Debbie, hands clutching the center of his face. “He’s fucking crazy!”
“But baby—”
“Wedding’s off!” He ran down the stairs.
Debbie doubled over in her chair, crying louder than an ambulance.
“You’ll get over him,” said Serge. “Come look at my ants.”
FORTY-TWO
SS SERENDIPITY
They’re late,” said Edna.
“Your watch must be slow.” Edith flagged down a waiter.
“What time is it?”
“Eight-fifteen.”
“They’re late.”
Eunice looked out one of the portholes of the Jules Verne Dining Room. “That’s funny. The ship’s not going.”
“Might as well order.”
The women stretched it out as long as they could. Appetizers, salads, three courses and dessert. “Wonder what happened to them?”
“They stood us up is what happened,” said Edith.
“I’m sure there’s a good explanation,” said Ethel. “You’re not going to get mad at them after all they’ve done for us.”
“But something’s hinky. First, no-shows in the ballroom, then out of the blue they appear on our doorstep, now this.”
Eunice pushed back an empty plate. “Let’s not dwell.”
The women wound their way down through the ship. Ethel fished in her purse for the magnetic room card.
The next cabin: A man in headphones tuned a small, odd-looking TV monitor. Two others stood behind him. “Camera working?”
“Almost there.”
Diagonal interference lines cleared from the screen. Another adjustment, and a grainy black-and-white view of four old women came into focus.
Jim Davenport opened his mouth for a Triscuit with spinach dip.
Someone ran toward him.
“Debbie, you’re crying! What’s the matter?”
“Daddy! How could you?”
She ran out of the house, sobbing hysterically.
<
br /> “Debbie, come back…”
From another direction: “Jim, how could you?”
“Martha, what’s going on?”
“You know!”
“I don’t.”
“The wedding’s off.”
“Honey, come back…”
Martha stormed out the front door as Coleman and Lenny came in.
“Two-liter Pepsi bottle,” said Coleman.
“Got you beat,” said Lenny. “Gallon milk jug.”
They walked past Jim and reached the bar. “Hey, Serge.”
“Coleman. Lenny. But I thought you guys…I mean, you’re actually getting along?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Coleman. “At first I thought he was a real loser.”
“Me too,” said Lenny, making an L with a thumb and index finger.
“What changed your minds?”
“He’s really ambitious,” said Coleman.
“So is he,” said Lenny.
“We were just comparing the biggest things we ever made bongs out of.”
“And we’re going to top it!”
“Maybe set a world record!”
“Let’s go, Coleman!”
“Okay, Lenny!”
They disappeared into the crowd as Rachael emerged. Serge grabbed her as she went by.
“Let go of me!”
“Rachael, you can’t keep walking around topless.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t need the heat. Look at the commotion you’re creating.” He pointed out the back windows at an armada of canoes and kayaks beyond the seawall.
“They’re not here to watch me.”
“What are they there for?”
“Souvenir footballs.——’s been throwing them around, but he’s pretty fucked up.”
“The ex-Steeler? I thought he was in the hospital.”
“Just got out.”
Serge checked the patio again. “I don’t see him.”
“He’s inside now taking a free-basing break.”
“Jesus, where?”
“The den.”
Serge rushed over and jiggled a locked knob. He pounded the door. “Open up!”
Urgent whispers inside. He banged again. “Open this door!”
Pause. “Who is it?”
“Let me in right now!”
The door opened a slit. Fumes knocked Serge back. A single eyeball rotated in the one-inch gap. “You cool?”
“Open this door!”
Pause. “Who sent you?”
“Stop free-basing!”
The eyeball didn’t blink. “I’m not free-basing.”
“I’m practically passing out from ether!”
Pause. “I don’t smell anything.”
“Open the door or I’ll knock it in!”
The eyeball stared. “Want an autograph?”
Rachael walked up from behind with a tall glass. “Hey,——.”
“Rachael!” The door opened wide. “Come on in, baby!”
She handed——the glass. “Brought you something.”
“Thanks.” He guzzled.
“Rachael!” said Serge.
“Something the matter?”
“Look!”
Rachael peered through a thick haze of smoke. Spilled drinks, dumped pot, cigarette ashes, spent matches, bent spoons, stray lines of coke, broken vodka bottle, condoms, chewed squares of paper, eyedropper of hash oil, two-foot bong, six-stem hookah, glass pipes, scattered Oxy tabs, Edgar Winter at full volume, dozen people draped over furniture, more on the floor, moaning, hallucinating, spit stringing from lips, including two hot babes from a chicken-wing franchise kneeling in front of the hundred-gallon aquarium, where they’d been for the last hour, palms pressed to the glass, tripping their brains out on fish gills opening and closing.
Rachael looked back at Serge. “I don’t see a problem.”
“Your friend has to stop free-basing!…”
“…Come on and take a free ride!…”
“…And we need to get this room aired out before a spark blows the whole—” Serge snatched a lighter out of Rachael’s hand.
She pulled the Marlboro from her mouth. “Hey!”
Serge opened the sliding doors to the patio and began flapping a towel.
FORTY-THREE
PORT OF TAMPA
By sundown, the cruise terminal had calmed. Feds had hoped to find more coke-filled statues, but no luck. They currently finished mopping up a drug shipment so small it wasn’t worth the paper for a press release. The only remaining drama was the cruise-line official annoying everyone about when he could release the ship.
A phone rang. The agent in charge answered. “…Actually, just about done…. What?…Where’d you hear—Yes, sir. Immediately.” He began yelling before the phone was hung up: “Clear the building! Now!”
Someone sealing an evidence box: “But—”
“Drop everything! Code Orange!”
The cruise exec stood stupid. “What’s going on?” Agents grabbed him under the arms, feet barely skimming the ground as he was hustled outside.
A convoy of black sedans raced up to the cruise terminal. Doors flew open. Men and women in tourist attire fanned out with concealed submachine guns and circled the building. Then they casually sat on benches and read newspapers.
Next: three large vans, United Asbestos Removal. They hopped the curb and raced up a pedestrian walkway to the entrance. Back doors flew open. Hazmat teams rushed inside with airtight helmets and portable breathers.
Another speeding sedan arrived from the opposite direction. Two more feet hit the ground: the new case agent in charge, who’d just Lear-jetted down from Washington. She was on a satellite-encrypted phone to northern Virginia. “Affirmative. We have a hot zone…. Activate Foxtrot…”
Serge continued through the house on crisis-prevention patrol. He reached the den and inspected empty hinges. “Where the heck did the door go?” He moved on to the kitchen, sighed and hit a grease fire with an extinguisher. He opened a sliding glass door and stepped onto the patio.
Back in the living room, an unblinking ex-Steelers player slid plastered along one of the walls like he was at the edge of a cliff. His right arm was in a sling, a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. He felt behind him and found the doorknob to a closet. His eyes darted one last time, and he jumped inside. The closet door closed; the front door of the house opened. In walked someone missing his left hand.
Serge circled the pool out back—“No running!” But it looked like things were finally leveling off. He began to relax. Wait. What’s that noise? Loud, destructive and continuous. Not good. He followed the sound across the backyard. Where was it coming from? He opened a gate on the side of the house and approached the smaller, stand-alone building beside it. The racket grew louder as Serge reached down for a handle and pulled up the garage door.
“Coleman! Cut that thing off!”
Too loud.
“Coleman!”
Futile.
Serge yanked an electric plug from a socket. The room went silent. Coleman and Lenny looked around in puzzlement.
“Over here!” yelled Serge.
Coleman raised the safety visor on his helmet. “Hey, Serge. What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m still processing data.”
The den’s missing door lay flat across two lumber horses; Lenny at one end with a T-square, Coleman at the other with a power saw.
“Okay, I give up,” said Serge. “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like? Making a bong.”
“Why do you need to destroy a door to make a bong?”
Coleman and Lenny looked at each other and began giggling.
“What’s so funny?”
“Sorry,” said Lenny. “Didn’t mean to laugh. You don’t smoke pot, so there’s no possible way you could understand.”
Coleman flipped his visor down. “Lenny, plug that back in.”
“You got it.”
&nbs
p; The noise resumed beneath a spray of sawdust. Serge stepped outside and lowered the garage door.
PORT OF TAMPA
The agent dispatched from Washington had worked her way up through the ranks, earning every promotion twice over because of gender. Denise Wicks. She’d begun straight out of college as a field operative. Europe was the traditional first step, where she quickly distinguished herself. The other agents were busy along the prime minister’s motorcade route, while she made the best of girl-duty, patrolling surrounding blocks in a Fiat. That’s when she caught a brief glint out of the corner of her eye. She circled back and slowed as she passed a street vendor’s kiosk. There, among thick bundles of flowers: the gleaming tip of a rocket tube. She looked in the other direction across a typical European square, people tossing coins in a fountain. A hundred yards beyond, the motorcade’s lead vehicle appeared at the far end of the pigeon-filled plaza. She looked at her walkie-talkie. No time. All up to her. She made a quick U-turn, hitting the Fiat’s gas pedal for a short burst and diving out the driver’s door at twenty miles an hour. The car and kiosk went up in a fireball.
Bruised and bleeding, she fled the scene and was picked up by an unmarked TV-repair truck before local police arrived. Never officially happened. After that, the spy world’s hot spots were her oyster. Indonesia, Lebanon, Colombia. Wicks was so good they sent her back to Washington to be a supervisor. Didn’t like it, but that was an order.
Hours after arriving in Tampa, she had the scene wired tight, “tourists” guarding the perimeter. People in moon suits swept the terminal; plastic sheets up everywhere to block view. Word inevitably leaked out. The media swarmed and drooled, then sulked at the press release about another ho-hum government asbestos removal. Wicks made another walk-through, triple-checking that everything stayed on the rails. A cruise executive buzzed around her like a mosquito.
“When are you going to let us release the ship?”
“Be patient.”
“But we’re losing a fortune. The passengers are driving us nuts!”
“Have to make the terminal safe,” said Wicks.
“What’s that got to do with my ship?”
“We’re setting up a temporary Customs checkpoint under a tent on the dock. Shouldn’t take long.”
