by Tim Dorsey
Miami—Present
A N ENDLESS PROCESSION of black sedans moved south on the Florida Turnpike, evenly spaced, under the speed limit. Just before noon. Headlights on.
The cars stacked up on an exit ramp west of the airport. Red and blue lights flashed as motorcycle cops zipped by in the breakdown lane to clear the intersection. The convoy wound its way up 117th Avenue and turned in the entrance at Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery.
Mourners got out. Large men helped old women by the arms. People began making their way to an open-sided tent across the lawn.
A sleek black Cadillac Seville pulled through the gates and parked. A group of men assembled outside the car, looking around, hands clasped respectfully in front of them. One opened the back door. A broad-shouldered young man got out. Jet-black hair, rugged Italian features. The suit was Milan.
A Crown Vic with blackwalls sat under an oak tree across the street from the cemetery. Agent Miller crouched and aimed his camera at the Lincoln. Bixby’s binoculars peered over the dashboard. “So that’s Tony Marsicano. The heir apparent.”
“Just waiting for Carmine Palermo to keel over.” Miller squeezed the shutter as a ring of bodyguards escorted Tony over to another Cadillac. An old man slowly emerged from the backseat. Tony leaned and kissed his hand.
“How gay,” said Miller.
“You know, at the academy they taught us you’re not supposed to say things like that anymore.”
“What they teach at the academy will get you killed out here.”
“I’m just saying—”
“You’ll shut your mouth and you’ll like it.”
Bixby shrugged and raised his binoculars. “Why the big turnout? I thought this guy was a small fish.”
“Must have something to do with the stones,” said Miller. “Rico Spagliosi was the only fence still alive from the big job back in ’64. The last living link to the diamonds that never turned up. Now he’s taking the dirt nap.”
“Is it true Tony was the only one in Rico’s hospital room when he went?” asked Bixby.
“Wasn’t that convenient?”
“Tony said he had no last words.”
“I’m not buying that aluminum siding.”
A high-mileage Datsun with press passes dangling from the rearview pulled up and parked in front of the Crown Victoria. A photographer got out, set up a large tripod and began taking telephoto pictures.
Miller straightened up from his crouch. “I really wish they wouldn’t do that.”
A RUSTED-OUT YELLOW ’67 Mercury Cougar with Tampa plates and no air-conditioning sped south on Interstate 95.
Serge was driving with his knees, writing on the clipboard in his lap, taking photos out the windshield at half-mile intervals in his continuing lifelong project to photograph the entire highway system of Florida. Spiral notebooks poked out from the overhead visor. Post-it Notes covered the steering wheel, dashboard, and Serge’s legs. A voice-activated digital memo recorder was duct-taped to a shaved spot in the middle of his chest.
“How much farther to Miami?” asked Lenny.
Serge looked up at the AAA Florida road map glued to the ceiling. “Just passed the Lantana exit. Hour, give or take.”
“Lantana? Home of the National Enquirer?”
Serge nodded. “The British poop squad.”
“Did you see those horrible pictures of Bob Hope they ran a couple years back?”
“Tabloids are the great equalizer,” said Serge. “No matter how much you accomplish in life, right near the end they Photoshop your picture so you look a thousand years old.”
“How much farther?” said Lenny.
“You just asked that.”
Lenny glanced at the joint in his hand. “Must be the pot. Time changes.”
“What does it do, turn into shapes?”
“You’re thinking of acid.”
“My bad,” said Serge.
Lenny stubbed out his roach, then unfurled a Baggie in his lap and pulled out a pack of papers.
Serge rearranged the sticky notes on his legs, shook his head, changed them back. He began jotting on a clipboard.
“How much farther?” asked Lenny.
“I’m trying to write.”
Lenny flicked a seed out the window. “What are you writing?”
“Nothing with all this chatter.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. I’m having difficulty organizing my notes. I’m trying to come up with a system.”
“Looks like you already have quite a system.”
“That’s the whole problem. I have too many systems.” Serge peeled a yellow square off the dash and stuck it to his forehead.
Lenny twisted the end of a fresh joint in his mouth. “What kind of notes?”
“Grand concepts, minute details, ironic observations, nagging questions, hard truths, pipe dreams, celebrity tidbits, groundless accusations, notions of grandeur, worst-case scenarios, pointless trivia, pithy ad jingles, harebrained schemes that just might work!, scientific theories forever changing the way we look at the element cesium, economic theories proving all money is worthless and we should be hoarding pipe cleaners, visions for a new society where all people are finally equal and that’s where the fighting begins…”
“Watch out!” yelled Lenny.
Serge slammed on the brakes with both feet to avoid rear-ending an Oldsmobile containing four short, white-haired people going thirty-five in the left lane.
“Boca Raton,” said Serge. “Forty-five minutes to Miami.”
Lenny plucked a yellow square off the dashboard. “‘Cracker Jack toy decline—national metaphor’?”
“Remember how you used to find an actual prize in Cracker Jacks?”
“I got a compass once.”
“Me, too. And way, way back near the beginning, they actually had die-cast metal soldiers. Now, that was a prize.”
“I swallowed it.”
“Today all you get is a little piece of paper that just leaves you feeling hollow inside and wondering when it will all finally stop!”
“My parents found it in the toilet, pointing north.”
Lenny lit his joint. Serge spoke into his digital recorder. Time passed. Serge could feel it passing. It passed like the thief Serge knew it to be, except at other moments when it was the rude rent collector, or the relentless auditor, or Mrs. Cleatus Goolsby, two-time tri-county rhubarb bake-off queen. Serge smiled cynically and nodded. Yes, that’s how it was with time. You never knew. He turned to Lenny.
“You see, life’s all about possibilities. Opportunities are everywhere, except most people are locked into rigid routines and mortgages and clipping coupons and aren’t even looking. But I see possibilities in everything: tangible objects, memories, thin air. It’s at once a blessing and a curse. I started putting it all on this clipboard, but it wasn’t as convenient as the Post-it Notes, which are easily lost and need to be backed up with the digital recorder, which must be transcribed into the notebooks, and before I know it, I’m right back where I started.”
Lenny exhaled a big hit. “That’s how The Man keeps you down.”
Objects began flying by on both sides of their car—Jaguars, Isuzus, Escalades—weaving through traffic at eight-five. A vanity plate: 2RICH4U.
“Fort Lauderdale,” said Serge. “Thirty minutes to Miami.”
“Why do you like Miami so much? You didn’t grow up there.”
“That’s the point. I grew up in West Palm. Miami was the shining city on the hill, like Oz; I-95 was the Yellow Brick Road. I saw this thing on CNN where some tourists in Italy get faint and go into ‘art shock’ when they see all the statues and ceiling paintings. That’s what Miami does to me. Whenever I cross the Broward line, I get all jelly-like inside. And just forget about the Grove or the Gables. If I’m walking the Miracle Mile and come upon a building made of coquina rock, you could lose me for hours. I’ll just stare at one of the walls about three inches from my nose, slowly caressing the foss
ilized texture with my fingertips, reading the permanent biological history in the imprints of tiny sea organisms from long ago, imagining their thoughts and dreams.”
“That happens to me on orange blotter,” said Lenny. “What are you doing now?”
Serge was changing the order of the sticky notes on the steering wheel. “Prioritizing the Master List. The most important factor is window of opportunity.”
“What’s that?”
“Like when concert tickets go on sale.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“No, I hate concerts. They never let me take in my equipment.”
“I keep getting hit in the back of the head with Frisbees.”
“Yeah, fuck that noise.”
Lenny licked a finger and dabbed the side of his joint where it was burning too fast. “So what’s on this Master List of yours?”
“Let’s see….” Serge picked up the clipboard. “Okay, now, don’t hold me to this, because the Master List is subject to change without notice: Develop and test-market my new line of South Beach energy drinks, complete rehabilitation and release of endangered Loxahatchee marsh mouse, solve mystery of grandfather’s death, recover fortune in missing diamonds from America’s largest gem heist, cripple the Mob in South Florida, embarrass Castro on the global stage, help chamber of commerce with image crisis, restore respect for the brave men and women of the U.S. intelligence community, lure the Today show to Miami for local pride/economic boost, participate in my times like Robert Kennedy (depending on weather), and accomplish it all through the launch of my new-economy, clean-burning, earth-friendly venture-capital business that involves spiritual growth, historical appreciation and the Internet.”
“What kind of business?”
“That’s the only blank.”
“Pretty cool. How’d you come up with all that?”
“By diligently recording everything that pops into my head. Always remember: Your thoughts are God’s gift to you, divinely bestowed by the all-knowing life force of the cosmos that’s been running through everything since the first stars were born. Every one of your ideas is special. Every one is sacred.”
Serge began plucking sticky notes off his left leg and crumpled them into a ball.
“Why are you doing that?”
Serge tossed the ball over his shoulder into the backseat. “Those were stupid ideas.”
A Fiero began passing. Something down the side of the car caught Lenny’s attention. “Are those bullet holes?”
Serge glanced over. “Nope. Bullet-hole decals.”
“Decals?” Lenny leaned and strained his eyes for a better look, then sat back. “You’re right. They’re a bunch of stickers. But it doesn’t make any sense. What’s the point?”
“I know,” said Serge. “I couldn’t believe it myself when I first saw them. What a country! What an economy! Hopelessly fake bullet holes you stick all over your car to make sure everyone knows you’re not getting laid.”
A horn blared. Serge looked over. A low-riding Buick Regal whipped out from behind and shot by on the shoulder. Gold hubcaps. A South American flag swinging from the rearview. The passenger gave them the finger; the driver waved a Tech-9. They accelerated away.
“We’re in Miami.”
DARK SEDANS CONTINUED through the entrance at Our Lady of Mercy. Graveside chairs filled up. Some late flowers arrived.
The Crown Vic with blackwalls remained across the street. FBI Special Agent Miller trained his camera. Click, click, click.
Agent Bixby tapped him on the shoulder.
“Not now.” Click, click.
A yellow ’67 Cougar pulled up behind them.
Bixby tapped him again. “Someone just parked behind us.”
“I don’t care.” Miller twisted the zoom out to three hundred millimeters. Click, click, click.
Bixby stared at the Cougar through his binoculars. “Something’s not right about these guys.”
Miller ignored him. Click, click, click.
Serge and Lenny filled Bixby’s field of vision.
Lenny inserted the nub of a joint in locking hemostats. “I don’t understand what we’re doing here.”
“I told you: to witness history. Carmine Palermo is the last of his breed, larger than life.” Serge raised his own telephoto camera. Click, click, click. “All the others died years ago. You may never get a chance to see this again, especially with his failing health.” Click, click, click.
Bixby tapped Miller on the shoulder again.
“What!”
“Now they’re taking photos.”
“So?”
“And one of them is smoking dope.”
Miller shook his head with disdain. “Newspaper people.”
Lenny tapped Serge on the shoulder. He pointed with his surgical roach clip at the car parked ahead of them. “Those guys are taking pictures, too. And one of them is looking back here with binoculars.”
Serge glanced up and waved, then stowed his camera. “Probably FBI. You might want to hold the drugs lower.” He began sliding off his pants in the driver’s seat.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing for the funeral.”
“But we’re not invited.”
“Rule Number One: Everyone is always welcome to show respects.” Serge grabbed a paper bag from the backseat and handed it to Lenny. “Put these on.”
Soon they were standing next to the Cougar in black suits.
“I feel weird,” said Lenny, scratching at his collar.
“Tuck in your shirt.”
“Who’s this dead guy anyway?”
“Rico Spagliosi. The last surviving fence from the ’64 gem heist. Never indicted.”
“They have food at this thing?”
“Don’t embarrass me,” said Serge, working on Lenny’s tie.
Lenny pointed across the cemetery. “Who’s that guy?”
“Now you made me mess up. Hold still.” Serge glanced over his shoulder. “Tony Marsicano, godfather-in-waiting.” Serge finished the Windsor and stepped back. “That’ll have to do.”
Agent Bixby slowly scanned his binoculars across the cemetery grounds. He stopped and adjusted focus. “Hold on. What have we got here?”
“What is it?”
“Someone new at the party.”
“I see them,” said Miller, zooming in with his Nikon.
“Hey, those are the two guys from the car behind us,” said Bixby. “I told you something wasn’t right.”
Miller held down the shutter release for a rapid series of the two men, one furtively smoking something, the other genuflecting at the grave of Jackie Gleason.
“Look, now they’re going over to Tony.”
“This is very interesting,” said Miller. He pressed the shutter again, this time letting the whole roll unwind. Click-click-click-click-click…“Rico croaks with Tony in the hospital room, and suddenly we have these new players dropping by for a chat.”
Serge stepped in front of Tony. “Mr. Marsicano?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Just a concerned citizen. My deepest sympathies about Rico.”
Bixby refocused his binoculars. “Look at how the tall one is talking to Tony. They seem to know each other.”
“Of course they know each other,” said Miller. “Look at the anger in Tony’s face. That kind of bad blood has to go way back.”
Serge leaned down to kiss Tony’s hand.
Tony yanked it away. “Get the fuck off me!” He spun to his bodyguards. “Who let these guys in?”
A group of bent-nose men in black turtlenecks shrugged with overplayed not-guilty expressions.
“You idiots! Get them out of here!”
“Let go of me!” yelled Serge. “What are you doing?”
Miller quickly reloaded another roll of Kodak. “Whoa! Whoa! Look at this! They’re getting into it! The tall one just broke free from the goons.”
“I can’t believe he shoved Tony like that,”
said Bixby. “Doesn’t he know who he is?”
“Tony just shoved him back.” Click, click, click.
“And he just shoved Tony again. Incredible.”
“This new guy looks pretty important. Better run a check on him when we get back.”
“Now the goons have him restrained by the arms. Tony’s punching him in the stomach.”
“Wow! Did you see how he just kicked Tony in the nuts?”
“These guys are dead for sure.”
“Or maybe Tony’s dead, depending on what organization they’re with.”
“Oh, no! They going for their guns!”
Miller and Bixby jumped from the Crown Vic, reaching for shoulder holsters.
“Hold it,” said Miller, grabbing Bixby by the arm. “Calmer heads are prevailing. Tony’s making them put their pieces away. That kind of judgment is why he’s rising so fast in the Family.”
The agents climbed back in their car and took more pictures as five goons gave Serge the bum’s rush down the cemetery’s driveway. “Watch the threads! Watch the threads!”
They sent him sprawling in the street. Then Lenny tumbled by.
The pair pushed themselves to their feet and swept dirt off torn suits. Lenny picked little pieces of gravel out of his red palms. “They gave me road rash.”
Serge grabbed a sleeve where it had separated from the shoulder. “I loved this jacket.”
They got back in their car and pulled away from the curb.
“Wonder what that was all about,” said Bixby.
Miller wrote down the license plate as the Cougar drove by. “Bet anything it had something to do with the stones.”
5
T ONY MARSICANO WAS arguably the brightest member of the Palermo organization, which is how he found himself in charge of the Orlando operation at such an early age. Only thirty-five, but on his way.
Tony was the new generation, more corporate than Hollywood creation. No cartoon accent or idiom. He still had the big shoulders, which were handy in a pinch, but he muted them with subdued business suits, gabardine instead of sharkskin. Of course, his young–Paul Newman looks didn’t hurt either. Tony carried a briefcase and was fluid in conversation. What really set him apart: He smiled a lot.
The Orlando territory mainly meant prostitution on Orange Blossom Trail and some drugs. It had never been a lot of money, and even that was drying up, although nobody was ready to write it off just yet. There had been ecstasy and heroin surges in the late nineties, but the overdoses got a lot of press and police cracked down. Tony had been in town only a week when he thought up the counterfeit theme-park tickets, which he sold in bulk to the time-share booths in Kissimmee. The time-share people learned they’d been had, and they made a lot of noise, but a couple of condo fires made them strangely quiet. The Palermo bosses loved that one. Tony kicked a big tribute back to Miami. There was no limit how far he could go.
