Triggerfish Twist

by Tim Dorsey

  Serge and Coleman stopped and pressed their noses and hands against the window of The Sharper Image. “Gadgets,” Serge said in a monotone. “Must have gadgets.”

  A salesman inside silently shooed them away from the glass.

  “What’s that music?” asked Serge.

  “‘Right into the Danger Zone,’” said Coleman. “From Top Gun.”

  “God, I hate that song. Where’s it coming from?”

  They looked around the corner and saw a black Corvette.

  “Nobody’s in it,” said Coleman.

  “Look,” said Serge. “The latest graphite-and-titanium clubs. I’ve heard wonderful things about them.”

  Serge removed a two iron from the bag and swished it in the air. “These are supposed to have a huge sweet spot and incredible memory in the shaft.”

  He carefully wrapped his fingers around the leather grip.

  “Remember to keep your head down,” said Coleman.

  “Check,” said Serge. He pulled the club back over his shoulder.

  “…right in-to the dan-ger zone!…”

  Wham.

  The head of the iron buried itself deep into the stereo’s faceplate, and the car went silent. The outdoor tables at the café across the street stood and gave Serge an ovation. He slipped the two iron back in the bag on the passenger’s seat. Then he and Coleman went up the sidewalk and pressed their hands and noses against the window at Victoria’s Secret.

  20

  M AHONEY! GET IN HERE!”

  Mahoney arrived in Ingersol’s doorway with a tuna sandwich. “You wanted to see me?”

  “We’ve got work to do.” Ingersol held up a videocassette. “Agents just brought this in. Found it in the woods at the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings house near Gainesville.”

  Ingersol got up from his desk and walked to the television set and stuck the tape in the VCR. A picture appeared on the TV: a burly, bearded man tied to a tree.

  “What’s the plot here?” asked Mahoney.

  “Sound technicians were able to lift the muffled conversation in the background,” said Ingersol. “That poor bastard tied to the tree is a trucker accused of selling the McGraw Brothers some bad speed.”

  On the screen, the McGraws paced back and forth in front of the camera, talking fast, waving pistols and rifles.

  “Looks like good speed to me,” said Mahoney.

  “That’s one of the effects of good speed,” said Ingersol. “Makes you think it’s bad speed.”

  “Where’d they get the video camera?”

  “Trucker had it. Used it to make crushing videos to sell on the Internet.”

  “Crushing videos?”

  “Narrow sexual bandwidth of the foot-fetish strain. But even the regular foot people think they’re weird,” said Ingersol. “A few guys get woodrows watching women’s feet step on bugs and little frogs and stuff. We had a case on the east coast where one sap had it so bad he asked his wife to crush him. With a pickup truck no less. She was only supposed to crush him a little, and they made this plywood ramp, but something went wrong and they found him with a Dodge Ram four-by-four parked on his rib cage and his pants around his ankles.”

  “Why did the McGraws film an incriminating video, anyway?” asked Mahoney.

  “Good speed makes you think you can make movies.” Mahoney nodded. “Ishtar.”

  “They must have been so high, they forgot about the camera and left it.”

  “What’s happening now?” asked Mahoney, pointing at the screen.

  “This is where the trucker still thinks they’re just trying to scare him. And here comes the gut shot with the Marlin rifle.”

  The trucker doubled over, held up by the ropes tying him to the tree. A whoosh of air left his lungs.

  “Now they’re going to town on his legs and arms with the small-caliber stuff, and here’s where the leader sticks the muzzle of his pistol in the guy’s left eye and pulls the trigger.”

  Mahoney winced. “That was out of line.”

  Ingersol turned off the TV and walked back to his desk. “Their level of violence is escalating. We have to find them soon or there’s going to be a major incident.”

  “What about the guy who killed Skag McGraw? Shouldn’t we give him some sort of protection?”

  “You mean Jim Davenport? Can’t chance it. We still have the element of surprise. We send some baby-sitters, and the press is bound to find out. Then the McGraws will take off in another direction, and we’ll never catch them.”

  “What if I go to Tampa myself? Undercover?”

  “No way. I know you’re still hung up on Serge. I’m not about to let you take off on your private agenda.”

  Ingersol reached in his desk and pulled out a thick file marked MCGRAWS. “Just came from the FBI.” He flipped open the manila folder. “The whole family is a bunch of dangerous freaks. They’ve got cousins all over north Florida. Most are ex-cons or junkies or deranged from inbreeding. Five have died violently, three are back in prison, two have gone insane from untreated venereal disease, and one writes book reviews. But the McGraw Brothers are the worst of the clan. The oldest and meanest is Rufus McGraw. His rap sheet goes way back, long as your arm. A real piece of work. He started pulling a series of bank and credit-union holdups across the desert Southwest in the late seventies, never coming close to getting caught. He became known for inadequate attention to antiperspirants, and the press dubbed him ‘The B.O. Bandit,’ aka ‘The Rank Robber,’ and he was soon arrested and sent to prison.” Ingersol pulled out a mug shot. “This is Sly McGraw. His thing was gas-station jobs. Always got away clean. Then the press started writing about his politeness, calling him ‘The Gentleman Bandit,’ ‘The Courteous Crook’ and ‘The Mannered Malefactor,’ and he was immediately picked up and sent to Leavenworth. Then there’s Willie McGraw, a real scumbag, but once he got his hands on some money from a few home invasions, he started buying all these expensive suits. The press nicknamed him ‘The Dapper Bandit’ and ‘The Sartorial Swindler,’ and he was quickly apprehended.”

  “That’s only three,” said Mahoney.

  “The fourth was Ed. He took forever to catch.”

  Mahoney rubbed his chin. “The Dapper Bandit. I remember that case. The big trial in Kansas City.”

  “No, Kansas City was the Debonair Duo.”

  “That’s right,” said Mahoney. “I always get them mixed up with the Courteous Crew. The Dapper Bandit used the Twinkle Defense.”

  “You’re thinking of the Polite Posse,” said Ingersol. “The Dapper Bandit used the Nintendo Defense.”

  “No, the Nintendo Defense was the Couch Potato Murders.”

  “Couch Potato?” said Ingersol. “I thought that was the Boom Box Trial.”

  Mahoney shook his head. “The Boom Box Seven used the Prozac Defense.”

  “Then which one was the Evolution Defense?”

  “The Scopes Trial.”

  21

  T HE AFTERNOON WAS A SCORCHER. A hundred and five by one o’clock, 80 percent humidity. Not a single customer on the lot at Tampa Bay Motors.

  Six salesmen sat around the break table playing Trivial Pursuit. Rocco stormed back in the showroom.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Vic, shuffling trivia cards. “I thought you were having a good day.”

  “Fuck off!” said Rocco, throwing a bent golf club in a trash can and phoning a stereo-repair shop.

  The salesmen went back to their game.

  “Sorry, John. Time’s up,” said Vic. “Answer is Flipper. I can’t fuckin’ believe you missed that one.”

  “Hold it,” said John. “That’s a flawed question. Flipper was a dolphin.”

  “Same thing,” said Vic. “Stu. Your turn.”

  “It’s not the same thing. The question was ‘TV’s famous porpoise.’”

  “Right…Stu, your turn.”

  “Flipper wasn’t a porpoise. I get to go again.”

  “Of course Flipper was a porpoise. Your turn’s over…
. Stu?…”

  “Hold on! Flipper was not a porpoise. The question’s bad!”

  “Hey Rocco! John says Flipper wasn’t a porpoise!”

  Rocco turned a page in a GQ article. “John’s a fucking wimp.”

  “There. It’s unanimous,” said Vic. “Stu, go.”

  “Stu, don’t go,” said John. “Flipper was a dolphin.”

  “I see bars all over the place called The Purple Porpoise,” said Dutch, “and their signs have Flipper.”

  “Isn’t it like Flippers are both dolphins and porpoises?” asked Rod. “But we call them porpoises so we don’t confuse them with dolphins, the fish, which are now called mahimahi at restaurants so tourists won’t think they’re eating Flipper?”

  “No, no, no!” said John. “It’s finite biology. Dolphins the mammal are not porpoises the mammal and vice versa. They’re mutually exclusive. Dolphins the fish just muddy the water. Stay away from them.”

  “John, you’re the only person in the whole country who would have missed that question,” said Vic. “So what are you saying? It’s because you’re smarter than everyone?”

  “I just explained it,” said John. “I’m taking my turn again.”

  “We go by the cards,” said Vic. “Stu, pick a category.”

  John jumped up from the table and his chair fell over. He slammed down his playing pieces. “I knew Flipper was the obvious answer, but I didn’t say it because I also knew for a certainty that she’s not a porpoise. She was a dolphin! I don’t care what the fucking cards say!”

  “She?” said Rod.

  “The first Flipper was a female. And she was a dolphin, not a porpoise!”

  “John, you know we always go by the cards.”

  “Smooth conical teeth, not triangular and serrated!” said John. “Pronounced, cylindrical snout, not blunt!”

  “What are you talking about, John?”

  “I’m talking about basic ninth-grade marine biology! It’s not very hard to grasp. I’m talking simple cetaceans, not a time port to the fourth dimension!”

  “Cetaceans?”

  “I used to be a teacher! A good one!”

  “Easy, John.”

  “Don’t you ‘easy’ me!”

  “John, all I know is what the card says. Let’s not have any trouble.”

  “It’s that kind of attitude that gave us Hitler.”

  “John, what do the Nazis have to do with this?”

  “Sit down, John, you know we always go by the cards.”

  “Yeah, John, sit down!”

  “Who says the cards are right?”

  “We have to go by something, John. There has to be some kind of order.”

  “But what if the cards are wrong? Did you ever think of that? Huh? What if the cards are wrong? And if we don’t question the cards, we don’t question the government! And if we don’t question the government, some poor peasant in the Amazon ends up with a CIA bullet in his fucking skull!”

  “John, are you on some kind of medication we should know about?”

  “Calm down, John, this is just a friendly little—”

  “I will not calm down! Not for some fascist board game! Is this what we fought and died for?”

  “You didn’t fight for shit, John! Now sit down!”

  “I will not sit down!”

  “John, it’s only a game!”

  “No, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not only a game—it’s a point in time and space. It’s the exact point where an individual has to stop and take a stand and say. ‘I will not be boned up the ass anymore!’ It’s about our school system! It’s about the banks! It’s about exploitation! It’s about Nurse Ratchett at Kash ‘n’ Karry on register five with her coupon cop mentality! It’s—”

  “Relax, John!”

  “Don’t tell me to relax! Did I tell you to relax that time your wife threw you out after finding you in those panties?”

  “Jesus, John! Not in front of the guys!”

  “Look, John, I know you’ve been through a lot lately. We’ve all been a little tense—”

  “Don’t you dare condescend to me, you fuck!”

  “I’m a fuck? I’m a fuck! Why, you little cocksucker!”

  “Look! A customer!”

  Everyone turned. A man came through the glass doors. A sophisticated gentleman, mid-seventies, three-piece charcoal suit, briefcase. Fine jaw, firm, thin mouth, good eastern establishment bloodlines.

  Everyone turned again, this time to the far side of the showroom. They watched to see what Rocco would do.

  Rocco put down his magazine and got up slowly and headed for the man.

  The other salesmen sagged in disappointment and went back to Trivial Pursuit.

  Except John. He took off running for the front door. Rocco saw him and took off, too. But nobody had ever challenged Rocco before, and he was slow getting off the starting line. John arrived first, introducing himself and shaking hands.

  Rocco stood behind him and whispered over his shoulder: “You’re dead.”

  John smiled at the customer and jabbed his elbow into Rocco’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

  “Let’s take the golf cart,” said John, leading the customer out the door.

  JOHN’S HANDS BEGAN to shake as he drove the golf cart. The customer had asked to see the most expensive cars on the lot. This could be the mother lode.

  Once in a great while Tampa Bay Motors got in a Ferrari, an Aston Martin or maybe a Lotus, and they usually went fast. This was one of the rare times the dealership actually had a Rolls in stock, and it had remained on the lot a month, probably because of the color. A soft tangerine. It was the same color the Buccaneers football team used to wear. The Rolls had belonged to the middle linebacker, who decided to get rid of the car when the team changed to its more menacing crimson-and-pewter uniforms and he started to take a lot of grief from the interior linemen.

  John and the customer exchanged business cards as the golf cart cruised across the lot. John looked down and read the fine white-satin card stock: H. AMBROSE TARRINGTON III, TARRINGTON IMPORT. There were phone numbers for offices in Tampa, New York, Beverly Hills.

  “Watch out!” said the customer.

  John looked up and swerved to avoid a wandering homeless man wearing a hat full of pinwheels. The cart went up on two wheels, then slammed back down.

  “Thanks, Ambrose. That was close,” said John. “It’s okay if I call you Ambrose, isn’t it?”

  The man shook his head no.

  They arrived at the high-end cars, and Ambrose immediately pointed at the Rolls. “That one.” He got out and walked around the car and kicked the tires. John had always thought it was just a figure of speech.

  “I’ll buy it,” said Ambrose.

  John’s heart raced. He began to see little spots around his field of vision.

  “But I’ll need a test drive first.”

  “Sure thing,” said John. “I’ll just need to Xerox your driver’s license…”

  Ambrose stared at him. John played his own words back inside his head, and they made a clutch-grinding sound. John cringed. At the Rolls-Royce level, the licence Xerox was way too gauche.

  “Forget it,” said John. “Wait here. I’ll get the keys.”

  John zoomed back to the showroom in the golf cart.

  He stuck his head in the secretary’s office and handed her Tarrington’s business card. “Call those numbers. Quick!”

  “What’s this about?”

  “I need to verify a customer.”

  “What about his driver’s license?”

  “Do it!”

  “Yes, Mr. Milton.” Damn, she thought, this was a different John.

  John walked briskly across the showroom to the pegboard of keys. He passed the Trivial Pursuit table.

  “Dolphin!”

  “Let it die, John.”

  He snatched a set of keys off the board and went back to the secretary’s office.

  She put down the phone. �
�Yep, they all check out. Tarrington Import. Tampa, New York, Beverly Hills.”

  “Yesssss!” said John, signaling touchdown. He ran out the showroom door.

  “Did he just take the keys to the Rolls?” Vic asked the others. They looked over at the pegboard. The hook for the Rolls was empty.

  They all got up and went over to the window. “Lucky bastard!”

  Then they looked across the showroom at Rocco, steam coming off the top of his head.

  “SORRY TO KEEP you waiting. Mr. Tarrington.” John handed Ambrose the keys with a conspiratorial grin. “Shall we?”

  Tarrington knew his way around a Rolls. He handled it with obvious familiarity as they pulled onto the highway. John could smell the kill. Tarrington’s suit was clearly tailored, probably Manhattan, East Side. And the accent: Providence? Tarrington’s nostrils flared at the leather scent.

  “Was Flipper a dolphin or a porpoise?”

  “What?”

  “We had an argument back at the dealership,” said John. “Was Flipper a dolphin or a porpoise?”

  “I don’t know. A fish?”

  “Close enough. The argument really wasn’t about Flipper. It was a metaphor for individuality. When do you take the path less traveled? Know what I mean?”

  Tarrington looked at John a moment, then back at the road.

  “Of course you do,” said John. “I felt a kinship the moment I saw you. We’re a breed apart from the herd. You don’t just accept what the cards say, do you?”

  Tarrington opened his mouth. “I—”

  “Of course not!” John exclaimed. Ambrose jumped. “I used to be a teacher. Bet you didn’t know that. They don’t pay teachers. Then I was a bank teller. They don’t pay them either, even with all that money lying around, like they’re going to miss it. They say the economy’s overheating. You know what I say? Good! Let it boil over for all I care! People like you and me don’t need the economy. Never have. Twenty thousand years ago there was only one job. You went out in the morning with your shitty little spear and you chased the woolly mammoths and ran from the saber-toothed tigers. That was your fucking economy!…”