by Dave Barry
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Epilogue
PRAISE FOR TRICKY BUSINESS
“FANS OF OUTLANDISH COMIC FICTION, AS WELL AS BARRY’S COLUMNS, WILL FIND MUCH TO ENJOY HERE.”
—Booklist
“Barry uses plots and characters in novels the way he does political issues in his columns—as platforms from which to launch his memorably nutty observations.”
—The Columbus Dispatch
“Barry demonstrates that he can draw some captivating characters and keep a reader’s attention in spite of—or perhaps because of—slapstick antics . . .”
—Publishers Weekly
BIG RAVES FOR BIG TROUBLE
“I LAUGHED SO HARD I FELL OUT OF A CHAIR. This is the funniest thing I’ve read in almost forty years. It’s his funniest, coolest book.”
—Stephen King
“The funniest book I’ve read in fifty years.”
—Elmore Leonard
“Dave Barry remains one of the funniest writers alive. This book will do for [Florida tourism] what Dennis Rodman did for bridal wear . . . outrageously warped, cheerfully depraved.”
—Carl Hiaasen
“Dave Barry succeeds wildly with Big Trouble. Far be it from me to demystify [it] in terms of plot. There are more important spiritual matters in this book to entertain readers, like . . . a highly agitated husband who believes the family dog is Elizabeth Dole coming to suck out his soul . . . There’s a Kurt Vonnegut-like cosmic integrity to Barry’s work that keeps his crazy characters credible.”
—Kinky Friedman, The New York Times
MORE BIG RAVES FOR BIG TROUBLE
“VERY FUNNY . . . SATIRICAL SOCIOLOGY WORTHY OF TOM WOLFE. ‘A.’ ”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A screwball thriller that reads like a fast-paced screen-play.”
—USA Today
“Following the age-old advice to ‘write what you know,’ the Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist has produced a novel involving nuclear bombs, Russian gangsters, giant pythons, tree-dwelling street people, and teenagers . . . Throw in a poison toad and a robber blinded by dark panty hose, and this is about as funny as a book can be.”
—The Christian Science Monitor
“Hilarious . . . Dave Barry is not just an amusing social observer; he’s a novelist of genuine skill . . . he could become the most important American humorist since Mark Twain.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“It’ll make you laugh. Out loud. Many, many times.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Let’s face it, Florida is almost as funny as New Jersey, and any novel in which the mean guy goes insane from the toxins of a giant toad fills a gentle reader with . . . warmth.”
—Los Angeles Times
“A satirical romp through Miami’s wacky, criminally infested mean streets . . . a madcap mockery of urban life.”
—Ridley Peterson
“Barry has found new life for his comic bag of tricks . . . a ridiculous and often hilarious farce. [Big Trouble] is an engaging thriller.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A very funny . . . poison-tipped valentine to Miami.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
EVEN MORE BIG RAVES FOR BIG TROUBLE
“HARD-CHARGING, FAST-FORWARD . . . WILD AND CRAZY . . . and it’s certainly funny.”
—The Seattle Times
“Dave Barry may be one of our best contemporary satirists . . . [a] breakneck style . . . pithy and hilarious.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“[Like] a Garry Trudeau send-up of hard-boiled crime novels . . . with more twists than the I-95 Miami airport interchange and more pratfalls than a Three Stooges comedy. The novel’s quirky players bounce off each other like popcorn in a microwave . . . Dave Barry is indisputably one of the funniest humorists writing today, and his fiction debut will not disappoint his legion of fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
“I read it in one sitting . . . It’s the kind of book that makes you want to read funny passages out loud to people you don’t even know.”
—San Antonio Express-News
“Dave Barry’s first novel offers all the major literary elements that are so dear to readers of his newspaper columns—dogs with small brains, teenagers with large pants, Miami residents with major ordnance—and much, much more.”
—The Indianapolis Star
“A whale of a good time . . . knockout, hook-to-the-jaw humor.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Ridiculous, comic in the extreme . . . wild, smart, and endearing.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Hilarious . . . as tasty as a bowl of fresh popcorn [and] laugh out loud funny.”
—Fort Worth Star-Telegram
TITLES BY DAVE BARRY
NONFICTION
The Taming of the Screw
Babies and Other Hazards of Sex
Stay Fit and Healthy Until You’re Dead
Claw Your Way to the Top
Bad Habits
Dave Barry’s Guide to Marriage and/or Sex
Homes and Other Black Holes
Dave Barry’s Greatest Hits
Dave Barry Slept Here
Dave Barry Turns 40
Dave Barry Talks Back
Dave Barry’s Only Travel Guide You’ll Ever Need
Dave Barry Does Japan
Dave Barry Is Not Making This Up
Dave Barry’s Gift Guide to End All Gift Guides
Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys
Dave Barry in Cyberspace
Dave Barry’s Book of Bad Songs
Dave Barry Is from Mars AND Venus
Dave Barry Turns 50
Dave Barry Hits Below the Beltway
Dave Barry Is Not Taking This Sitting Down
FICTION
Tricky Business
Big Trouble
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TRICKY BUSINESS
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2002 by Dave Barry.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
e
ISBN : 978-1-101-49559-9
BERKLEY®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY and the “B” design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE PEOPLE OF SOUTH FLORIDA,
FOR BEING SO CONSISTENTLY WEIRD.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND WARNING
I’m going to start with the same warning I put in my first novel, Big Trouble, only this time I’ll be more explicit and use a larger typeface:THIS BOOK CONTAINS SOME BAD WORDS.
I stress this because when Big Trouble was published, even though it had a warning at the beginning, I got mail from people who were upset about the language. I wrote them back and explained that, yes, it did have some unsavory language, but that was because the story involved some unsavory characters, and that is the way they talk. Characters like these don’t say: “I am going to blow your goshdarned head off, you rascal!” They just don’t.
So let me stress that:THIS BOOK CONTAINS SOME BAD WORDS.
Or, to put it another way:IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO SEE BAD WORDS,
PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS BOOK. THANK YOU.
Next, I’d like to thank some people. I’ll start with my editor at Putnam, Neil Nyren, who somehow remains eerily calm when the book deadline has long since passed, and the book cover has been printed, and the catalog copy for the book has been written, and yet Neil has not yet received what the publishing industry refers to, technically, as “the book.”
I also thank my suave and urbane agent, Al Hart, who regularly assures me that, not to worry, the book will get done, and, all evidence to the contrary, I believe him, because that is how suave and urbane he is.
I thank Judi Smith, my wonderful staff and research department, who is efficient to the point of being prescient, and who never runs from the room, screaming, which is certainly what I would do, if I worked for me.
I also thank the people who provided technical guidance when I was writing the book, particularly Jeff Berkowitz, Alan Greer, Patricia Seitz, Ben Stavis, and Rob Stavis. By “provided technical guidance,” I mean they listened thoughtfully to some of my earlier plot concepts, and then they politely explained to me that I was an idiot. I especially thank my friend Gene Weingarten, who is insane but who also gave me a huge shove in the right direction when I really needed it.
I thank Gene Singletary, who took the trouble to get me the phone numbers of a couple of people who I bet would have given me some really useful information if I had called them. Gene is also the finest caterer I have ever met.
I thank my writer friends, particularly Jeff Arch, Paul Levine, and Ridley Pearson, for their moral support.
I thank my two wonderful children, Rob and Sophie, although I forbid Sophie from reading this book, assuming that she learns to read.
Finally, and most of all, I thank my wife, Michelle, a sportswriter who works in the very same room where I work. When two people can be on deadline so many times in the same room and still want to eat dinner together at the end of the day, you know that’s love.
One
THE CAPTAIN PUNCHED IN A NUMBER AND HELD the phone to his ear. He looked out over Biscayne Bay, which was choppy, toward the sky over the Atlantic, which was dark.
“What,” said a voice in the phone.
“It’s me,” said the captain.
“Yeah?”
“Have you looked out the window?” said the captain.
“What about it?”
“It’s getting worse,” said the captain. “It’s a tropical storm now. Tropical Storm Hector. They’re forecasting . . .”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what they’re forecasting. I don’t care if it’s Hurricane Shaquille O’Neal, you understand? I told you that last night.”
“I know,” said the captain, “but I’m just wondering if we could do this another . . .”
“No. It’s set up for tonight. We do it on the night it’s set up for, like always.”
The captain took a deep breath. “The thing is,” he said, “these winds, it’s gonna be rough out there. Somebody could fall, a customer could get hurt.”
“That’s why we got insurance. Plus, weather like this, probably won’t be no customers.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said the captain. “If we go out, we got customers. These people, they’re crazy. They don’t care about weather, they don’t care about anything. They just want to get out there.”
“Then we’re giving them what they want.”
“I don’t like it,” said the captain. “I mean, it’s my ship; I’m responsible.”
“Number one, it ain’t your boat. Number two, you wanna keep working, you do what I tell you.”
The captain gripped the phone, but said nothing.
“Besides,” said the voice, “that’s a big boat.”
And the captain thought: So was the Titanic.
WALLY HARTLEY AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF HIS mother’s knock, followed by the sound of his mother’s voice through the bedroom door.
“Wally,” she said, “it’s your mother.”
She always told him this, as if somehow, during the night, he might have forgotten.
“Hi Mom,” he said, trying not to sound tired and annoyed, both of which he was. He looked at the clock radio. It was 8:15 A.M. Wally had gone to bed at 5 A.M.
The door opened. Wally squinted his eyes against the light, saw his mom in the doorway. She was dressed and had fixed her hair, as if she had somewhere to go, which she never did, unless you counted the supermarket. She’d gotten up, as always, at 5:30.
“Did you want some waffles?” she asked.
“No thanks, Mom,” he said, as he had every morning since he had, in shame and desperation, at age 29—29, for God’s sake—moved back in with his mother. Wally did not eat breakfast, but he had given up on trying to explain this to his mother. She’d gotten it into her head that she would make waffles for her son. She was not one to give up easily.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure, Mom,” he said. “Thanks.”
Wally waited for her to tell him that she had made some fresh.
“I made some fresh,” she said.
“Mom, thanks, but really, no.”
Now it was time for her to tell him that she hated to see them go to waste.
“I hate to see them go to waste,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” said Wally, because it would do no good to yell, IF YOU DON’T WANT TO WASTE THE DAMN WAFFLES, THEN DON’T MAKE THE DAMN WAFFLES.
“OK,” she said. “I’ll save them for later, in case.” And she would. She would wrap them in aluminum foil and put them in the refrigerator. Later today, when she was cleaning the kitchen for the fourth time, she would take them out of the refrigerator, throw them away, fold the aluminum foil (she had pieces of aluminum foil dating back to the first Bush administration), and save it in a drawer, for tomorrow’s waffles.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” said Wally, again.
She sniffed the air in his room. Wally hated that, his mom sniffing his room, his b.o.
“It smells musty in here,” she said. Everything always smelled musty to his mother; everything looked dirty. Show her Michelangelo’s David, and she’d want to get after it with some Spic and Span.
“It’s fine, Mom,” he said.
“I’m gonna vacuum in here,” she said. She vacuumed his room every day. Some days she vacuumed it twice. She also did his laundry and straightened up his belongings. She folded his underwear. Wally had to keep his pot in his car, or she’d find it.
“Mom, you don’t need to clean my room,” he said.
“It has a musty smell,” she said. “I’m gonna vacuum.”
Wally lay back on his bed and closed his eyes, hoping his mom would close the door, l
et him drift back to sleep. But no, she’d been up for more than two hours, and she’d had two cups of coffee, and there was nobody else for her to talk to, and Regis did not come on for another hour. It was time for the weather report.
“Bob Soper said there’s a storm coming,” she said. Bob Soper was a Miami TV weatherman, her favorite. She’d seen him at the Publix supermarket on Miami Beach once, at the deli counter, and she’d said hello, and—as she always said when recounting this historic event—he couldn’t have been nicer. This was one of the highlights of her life since her husband, Wally’s father, had died.
“Tropical Storm Hector,” she said. “Bob Soper said it could be fifty-five-mile-an-hour winds. Very rough seas, he said.”
“Huh,” said Wally, keeping his eyes closed.
“So the boat won’t go out, right?” she said. “You won’t go out in that?”
“I dunno, Mom,” Wally said. “Probably not. I have to call. But not now. I’m gonna sleep some more now, OK? I got in kind of late.” He turned his body away from the light, from his mother’s silhouette.
“Fifty-five miles an hour,” she said. “They won’t go out in that.”
Wally said nothing.
