by Tim Dorsey
The phone went back in a jacket.
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Heavy foot traffic on the strip.
Everyone over thirty was ignored or insulted. There were always exceptions.
Young women’s heads universally turned as a suave Latin hulk strolled down the sidewalk. Tanned six-pack abs; long, sexy dark hair. Easily a movie double for Antonio Banderas.
Two blondes wore long, wet Indiana State T-shirts over bikinis, giggling at suggestive boys in passing pickups. Then they saw him.
“Rrrrrrrrrrrow!”-double-taking as he went by.
“But he’s old enough to be your father.”
“So fucking what?”
“Good point.”
Two pairs of bare feet made a U-turn on the sidewalk.
Johnny Vegas continued along the strip to more female rubbernecking. He’d just had his fortieth birthday, and he wasn’t playing around anymore.
The reaction of the opposite sex had been the same Johnny’s entire life. His trust fund didn’t hurt either. Almost as much attention from the same gender: “That son of a bitch must have more tail falling off his truck than we’ll ever see. It’s not fair.”
It wasn’t.
Despite appearances to the contrary, Johnny Vegas held a deep secret that would have shocked the populace. He’d never been able to close the deal. Not once.
Oh, sure, with the least flirtatious glance from those smoldering dark eyes, he could form a rock-concert line of willing partners. But it was always something. Always Florida. Some kind of typical Sunshine State strangeness invariably erupted at the worst possible moment. Hurricanes, brushfires, wayward alligators, overboard passengers, meth freaks, bodies under hotel beds, Cuban exile unrest. The odds were off the charts. Then again, there are a lot of guys in the world, and someone’s chips had to be resting on the unluckiest roulette square.
That would be Johnny Vegas, the Accidental Virgin.
His body clock ticked deafeningly between his ears. How long could he count on his drop-dead looks? Time to go fishing with dynamite.
Johnny had seen the Girls Gone Haywire spring break videos. What the hell was wrong with the world? Here he was, the ultimate bachelor. Then he pops in a DVD, and all these hometown-values girls are stripping for dorks with video cameras. What a colossal corruption of youth and moral decay. Johnny had to get there as fast as possible.
It wasn’t five minutes since he’d parked his Ferrari when the wolf whistles began.
“Hey, handsome.”
Johnny turned around on the sidewalk. Indiana State blondes. Good Lord, two, and he’d just gotten into town. No need for some dishonest ruse; Johnny would take the high road.
“I work for Girls Gone Haywire.”
“Let’s party.”
The roommates made the choice for him. “I think I’ll get some more sun on the beach. Behave yourself, Carrie.” Wink.
She took him by the arm.
“My name’s Johnny,” he said as they continued up the sidewalk.
“Johnny, where’s your hotel?”
Chapter Twelve
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Serge and Coleman wove up the sidewalk against the college tide. Standard mix of rolling luggage and coolers. Serge held his running camcorder at chest level. People handed out coupons for nightclub drink specials; the Coors girls waved; an airplane dragged a banner for faster Internet service; church youth flapped posters at traffic, offering free pancakes and a road map to salvation.
The pair stepped into a beachwear shack to adopt the proper spirit and came out in new T-shirts reflecting their respective outlooks.
COLEMAN’S: ALCOHOL, TOBACCO AND FIREARMS SHOULD BE A CONVENIENCE STORE, NOT A GOVERNMENT AGENCY.
Serge’s: THERE ARE IO TYPES OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD: THOSE WHO UNDERSTAND BINARY, AND THOSE WHO DON’T.
The documentary continued.
Coleman drew a steady stream of insults. Frat boys noticed something on Serge’s ear, snickered and made sideways wisecracks to their buddies. Until Serge returned the look. They noticed something unfamiliar in his eyes and wanted to keep it that way.
“Serge,” said Coleman, “what’s that funny thing on your ear?”
“A Bluetooth.”
“I never figured you for the Bluetooth type.”
“That’s why it’s not a real Bluetooth. I hate Bluetooth types, walking around all self-important like they have to be plugged in every second of the day. Can’t tell you how many times I’m in a public place having a pleasant conversation like a normal human being, and one of these fuck-heads walks right between us talking at the top of his lungs.”
“If it’s not a real Bluetooth, then what is it?”
“A piece of plastic garbage I found on the street that I rigged with paper clips. Got the idea from the smash-hit HBO series Flight of the Conchords. Except that guy had a real Bluetooth, just no receiver. I decided to take it the rest of the way and go completely anti-Bluetooth.”
“Don’t those paper clips hurt?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“Why wear it?”
“Because, like Bluetooth people, I’m also constantly walking around talking to myself, but just because I don’t have that stupid crap on my ear, people give me a wide berth and jump to the mistaken conclusion that I’m simply another jabbering street loon. Yet ever since I attached this thing to my head, completely new attitude, no matter what I’m saying: ‘I’ll destroy that motherfucker for ten generations!’”
“People dig that?”
“No, they still recoil-but in admiration. Now they think I’m a killer in the boardroom.” He nodded and smiled to himself. “Yes, sir, total respect.”
Beach babes passed the other way, pointing and laughing.
Coleman tugged Serge’s shirt as they reached a makeshift liquor stand. “Hold up-”
“No! Told you we can’t stop. The documentary is practically filming itself.” He stepped in front of a sloshed brunette from Rutgers. “Excuse me, miss…”-raising the viewfinder to his right eye- “… mind if I ask you a few questions?”
She began pulling up her shirt.
“No, not your tits.” Serge reached and yanked it back down. “I want your soul.”
“Fuck off, weirdo.”
“Is that like your generation’s catchphrase?” asked Serge. “Because I’ve been getting it a lot lately.”
She brushed past him. “Blow me.”
“That’s a close second.” Serge turned off the camera.
Another tug on his shirt.
“Coleman, we don’t have time to stop for liquor.”
“Not booze. Look!”
Serge followed his pal’s gaze up toward the sky. Two massive steel towers rose like a giant V. Between them, even higher, distant screams from a tiny flying ball. The sphere had open-air seating for two students, who were held in place by a triple-reinforced roller-coaster harness. A pair of super bungee cords ran from the tops of the towers to the sides of the ball.
Moments earlier, the ball had been sitting at street level. Underneath, a large metal latch held it to the base platform. The ride’s operator worked controls that turned gears on the tips of the towers, stretching the elastic cords to the max. Then he hit the button, releasing the latch and firing the catapult.
The kids went vertical, zero to 120 miles per hour in under three seconds. They pulled six Gs before the ball reached its apex high above the city and the cords stretched the other way, jerking them back down. The bungees stretched almost to the ground, launching them again, this time slightly less high. Then down again. Up again, tumbling randomly, students shrieking all the way. Down, up, down, each time dissipating energy, now slowly arcing over at the peaks.
In less than two minutes, it was over. The ball sagged motionless thirty feet from the ground, and the operator reversed his controls. The towers let out line, lowering the kids the rest of the way. They climbed from the ball, dizzy and sick. “That ruled!”
Th
e students left through a safety gate and past a sign-THE R OCKET L AUNCH-where Serge waited impatiently, waving cash. “Ooooooh! Me, me, me! I’m next!”
The operator led Serge and Coleman onto the platform and pointed at a pair of plastic bowls. “Empty your pockets and take off anything loose. Sunglasses, hats, that thing on your ear.”
Serge’s wallet, cell phone and keys went in one bowl. Coleman filled the other with a bottle cap, M &Ms and twigs.
The operator looked at Serge’s left hand. “You can’t take the camcorder.”
“It’s all right,” said Serge. “I’m filming the most shocking documentary ever made.”
“No, I mean there’s no way you’ll be able to hang on to it. You’re going to snap pretty hard the first way up.”
“But I’m recapturing state pride.”
The operator pointed at the restraint bar. “We got a tiny camera mounted toward the seats. You can buy a souvenir DVD afterward if you want.”
“What a deal!”
The pair climbed into the ball, and the operator strapped them in. Then he left the platform, positioning himself behind the control panel. Gears stretched cords again.
Serge grabbed handles on the front of the massive, padded harness pressed against his chest. “Coleman, what an excellent idea! I’ve seen these all over Florida-here, Kissimmee, Daytona Beach-but I was always in too much of a rush.”
“Knew you couldn’t resist.” Coleman wiggled against the restraint to reach a hip pocket. “Always talking about going into space.”
“This is like the Gemini missions. They were the best! Capsules held two astronauts, just like us.” Serge bobbed enthusiastically in his seat and stared at the heavens. “Also, Gemini was the fastest manned flights off the pad, using converted Titan intercontinental ballistic missiles. Until the ride’s over, call me Wally Schirra.” He turned his head sideways toward the unseen operator. “Can you give us a countdown?”
“You want a countdown?”
“And call me Wally.”
“Wally?”
“Thanks. Means the world.”
“Whatever…”
Elastic cords finished stretching.
“Ten… nine…”
Coleman finally achieved success with his hip pocket.
“Coleman!” said Serge. “You were supposed to put everything in the plastic bowl!”
“… six… five…”
“There’s no way he was getting my flask. Plus I wanted a swig for the ride.” He unscrewed the top.
Serge faced forward and gripped the handles harder. “Houston, we have a problem.”
“… two… one… liftoff!”
The latch released.
The pair went screaming into the sky.
In mere seconds they reached the top, hundreds of feet above the strip. Then a hard yank from the cords.
“My flask!” Coleman watched it quickly sail high into the blue yonder until it disappeared.
The guys bounced up and down for another ninety seconds, until the operator reeled them in.
The harnesses unlocked. Serge jumped from the ball and snatched his wallet from a plastic bowl. “I absolutely must have the DVD.”
NEW HAMPSHIRE
Agents rushed into the office of the student paper. A morgue. One lone kid in sweats, staying behind to wrap up a three-part series on the education budget.
A badge. “Seen Andy McKenna?”
The student shrugged.
“Know where he might be?”
“Try the dorm?”
Agents ran into the cafeteria. Only two students, both female. Then rounds of all the popular study areas and TV lounges, giving themselves a full self-guided tour of the evacuated campus.
“Let’s check the dorm again.”
They met the agent they’d left behind in the room in case the sophomore returned.
“I take it he hasn’t come back.”
“You mean you didn’t find him?”
“Great.”
“Sir…” The agent gestured at the trashed interior. Papers, CDs, candy wrappers everywhere. Underwear and pizza boxes on the floor. “Looks like someone ransacked.”
“It’s a college student’s room,” said Oswalt. “They all look like this. Mine was worse.”
“I got a weird feeling something’s not kosher.”
“How’s that?”
“Can’t quite put my finger on it. The room just seems light, like stuff’s missing.”
“Anything more specific?”
“Not really.”
Another agent: “Maybe ring his cell again?”
Oswalt flipped open his phone, hit buttons and placed it to his ear. A faint, muffled musical tone came from somewhere in the room.
The agents listened and walked silently, trying to home in on the source. Four of them ended up in a circle, staring at the floor. One reached down and lifted a pizza box. The tone got louder.
“At least we found his phone.”
“I’m not laughing,” said Oswalt. “Let’s go…”
They stepped into the hall. A solitary student walked by with a watering can and containers of fish and bird food.
“Excuse me.” The badge again. “What’s your name?”
“Jason Lavine.”
“You know Andy McKenna?”
He nodded.
“Know where he is?”
He shook his head.
“Any chance he left campus?”
“No… Definitely not.”
“How are you so positive?”
The student pointed into the room with a canister of pellets. “He’s got an aquarium.”
“So?”
“I make a fortune staying behind during spring break, feeding pets. And watering plants-but those are just the girls’ rooms.”
“How does that mean he couldn’t have left?”
The student looked through the open door at guppies. “He didn’t pay me.”
Oswalt sighed.
“Can I go now?”
The agent answered with an offhand wave.
The team trotted down the dorm’s front steps again.
Snowing harder.
Oswalt put his hands in his pockets and stared across the barren commons. “Where can he be?”
MEANWHILE…
Johnny Vegas accelerated his pace up the sidewalk toward his hotel.
“In some kind of a rush?” joked Carrie, clutching his arm harder. A couple of times she reached back and squeezed his ass. He attributed it to the fact she was already halfway in the bag. His kind of girl.
They reached the edge of a parking lot. “Here we are!”
Carrie got on her tiptoes and whispered something in his ear.
Johnny coughed and pounded his chest. “Holy God!” he thought. “She wants to do that” He closed his eyes and mentally pumped a fist in the air: “Yes! I’ve finally done it! Nothing can go wrong now!”
He opened his eyes and began leading her toward the lobby doors.
Suddenly, Johnny felt his arm released. He looked left.
No Carrie.
He looked down. There she was. Lying unconscious on the pavement with a nasty forehead gash. Next to a dented flask.
Chapter Thirteen
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Rood Lear reached a net worth of twenty million by his thirtieth birthday. Which was two years ago. Total now closer to forty. Mansion in the Hollywood Hills, Park Avenue penthouse, private jet on call.
Despite the staggering wealth, Rood still went to work every day.
Rood’s company, Bottom Shelf Productions, had booked the top floor of one of the strip’s finest hotels under his lawyer’s name.
Noon.
The floor’s largest suite was brightly lit, even with curtains closed. Wires and cables ran everywhere, held firmly to the carpet with black electrical tape. Large white umbrellas in the corners filled facial shadows from camera lights.
Rood looked at least seven years younger, because
he was so short and had to shave only every three days. He surveyed the suite’s bedroom and bit his lower lip. Something wasn’t up to Rood’s high standards. He found the answer. “Give ’em liquor.”
“I think they’ve already had more than enough,” said his executive assistant.
“I say they haven’t.”
“Sir”-the assistant held a pair of well-worn laminated cards- “I don’t think these drivers’ licenses are legit. See the edges? Someone slit them with razor blades and resealed ’em on an ironing board.”
“You work for CSI now?”
“I’ve seen this trick a hundred times. And we just paid a million in fines.”
“They gave us the IDs, and we accepted them in good faith,” said Rood. “If they’re fake, we’re the victims.”
The assistant turned toward the bed, where a pair of topless, tipsy seventeen-year-olds swatted each other with pillows.
“Harold!” said Rood. “Are you going to give them more liquor or look for another job?”
The assistant walked out the door and slammed it behind him.
“Stop filming!” Rood stomped across the room. “Guess I have to do everything!”
He went to work at the wet bar, ice clanging in a sterling cocktail shaker. Then he approached the bed with two tumblers of his personal recipe: Hawaiian Punch, 7 Up and grain alcohol. “You girls look thirsty.”
Giggles. A feather floated by.
“Bottoms up!”
The first took a big sip. “What’s in this? I don’t taste anything.”
“Exactly.” Rood walked back behind the cameras. “Jeremy, start filming.” Then louder: “Pillow fight!”
Swatting began again.
One of the girls’ knees slipped, and she spilled off the bed.
