by Tim Dorsey
“Charley! Do you know how to shut this goddamn thing off?”
It was the first time Charley had seen Mr. Davis anything but magnanimous.
“Don’t you have a code to punch in?” asked Charley, resnapping the holster.
“Yeah,” said Tony. “But it would help a little if they gave me the correct code. And I’m sure the alarm company is trying to call right now. But the computers are all wired through the phones, and we had to take the whole system down for the work.” The siren blared on. Tony grabbed his ears. “I’m getting a fuckin’ migraine. Now I’m going to be here till dawn!”
Charley hesitated a second, then trotted for the elevators. “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Davis.”
Tony walked to the office’s plate-glass windows overlooking the Orlando skyline and Space Mountain in the distance. He looked at the stopwatch. Four minutes. He stared down at the street; two police cruisers pulled up. Under his breath: “Come on, Charley. Get back down there!”
Cops ran into the building. Tony checked his watch again. Five minutes. He called across the office to Bob, watching the elevators. “The numbers changing?”
“Nope. Still on L.”
The siren abruptly cut out. Tony peered down out the window again; two tiny police officers got back in their car and drove away. Now it was even better than if they hadn’t tripped the alarm—the whole system was shut off. Tony ran from office to office until he found what he was looking for in one of the partners’ suites. A steel-reinforced, fireproof filing cabinet with combination lock. It was a tough filing cabinet, but it was still just a filing cabinet, child’s play for the crew’s safe man. The top drawer popped in thirty seconds. The safe man went to open it, but Tony blocked him with his hand.
“Everyone leave the room.”
They left.
“You, too,” he told Bob. “It’s for your own protection.”
Bob looked a little hurt, but he nodded and obeyed as he always had.
Tony pulled the drawer open, and there it was. He removed the prize and stuck it in his briefcase. Then he took a seemingly identical item from the attaché, replaced it in the drawer and locked it back up.
The elevator opened in the lobby. Tony walked over to the guard desk. He leaned on the counter as if he were in no rush at all, thanking Charley for the help and apologizing for his temper. Bob walked up behind the guard. He pulled a pistol with a silencer from his toolbox and placed the barrel an inch behind Charley’s head.
Tony looked up. “Noooooo!”
Charley spun around quickly. Bob whipped the gun behind his back.
“What?” said Charley, then turned back to Tony. “What’s the matter?”
“Just remembered we missed something. I’m going to have to come back tomorrow. I’ll miss the football game.”
Charley laughed. “That is serious.”
“Good night, Charley.”
“Good night, Mr. Davis.”
11
A ’67 MERCURY Cougar drove south on Collins Avenue.
Serge sat in the passenger seat with his clipboard. “Something tells me that couple back at the Eden Roc weren’t big Lucille Ball fans.”
“Can’t expect everyone to dig your history stuff…. What are you doing?”
“Writing my daily letters.”
“Letters?”
“Someone has to carry on the legacy of Lincoln. It’s a lost art form. Everything today is e-mail, bunch of cute abbreviations—‘BTW,’ ‘LOL.’ It’s killing the language. Not to mention handwriting.”
“Who do you write to?”
“Depends on my mood. Captains of industry, opinion makers, people in the spotlight. Today I’m writing the president.”
“You can just write the president?”
“Oh, sure. But George has lots of screeners, and only a tiny percentage of correspondence actually gets to him. That’s why this has to be a kick-ass letter. It’s absolutely imperative he hears my ideas, or some big mistakes are about to be made. But he seems real nice on TV, and I think I can reach him. If I’m lucky, it could lead to a permanent job.”
“What about me?”
“You can be my assistant,” said Serge, folding the piece of paper. “You’ll even get a credit card.”
“Really?”
Serge nodded and licked the envelope. “That’s how Washington works.” He got out a second sheet of watermarked stationery. “Next I’m writing another letter asking Katie Couric to bring the Today show back to Miami Beach. Then I’m going to pen my macroeconomic treatise for the Wall Street Journal. I’ve always wanted to be published in the Journal.”
“What about our business?”
“That’s still a problem.” Serge reached under the seat for an out-of-print copy of The Life and Times of Miami Beach and began flipping through the pictures. “We need to find people who are on the same page. If only there was a way to work history and cultural appreciation into my grandfather’s investigation…Wait! That’s it!”
“That’s what?”
“Our business. It just came to me.”
“What is it?”
“Brand-new. Doesn’t have a name yet because I just invented it. You’ll simply have to watch it unfold.”
“When does it start to unfold?”
“Right now. Make a left.”
Lenny turned and parked in front of a tiny but bustling Cuban storefront specializing in cigars, lottery tickets, espresso and Western Union. Two old men in straw hats emerged from the store knocking back shots of bitter coffee, throwing tiny paper cups into a wire trash basket. Others relaxed on a sidewalk bench, talking fast in Spanish.
Serge got out of the Cougar and stuck quarters in a metal box for a Sunday Herald. He flipped to the lottery results, then went inside and filled out a megajackpot card.
The clerk stopped and stared at Serge’s card. “You sure you want these numbers?”
“Positive.”
“It’s your dollar.” The clerk stuck the card in his machine; a ticket popped out.
Serge retrieved a large orange duffel bag from the Cougar’s trunk and headed down an alley toward the beach.
“What’s your angle?” asked Lenny, running up alongside.
“Human nature.” Serge turned the corner onto Ocean Drive. He handed Lenny the newspaper and lottery ticket. “Excitement and greed always overrule rational thought. Then we’ll have the money and equipment to crack the Star of India case and find out about Granddad. Did I ever tell you how the surfers pulled off the heist?”
“Yes.”
“It started in the fall. The trio visited the museum like tourists and cased the joint. Then they came back after dark. One of them kept circling the museum in the getaway car while the others scaled the side of the building like mountain climbers and got in through an unlocked window.”
Lenny’s eyes kept darting back and forth from the paper to the Lotto ticket. “All the numbers match…but…you just…how did…?”
“Like I said, human nature. The big thing everyone focuses on are the drawing numbers. Then they’re all pumped and just make a cursory check of the date on the ticket, which of course precisely matches the date of the newspaper….”
Lenny nodded enthusiastically.
“But today’s newspaper reports results from yesterday’s drawing; the ticket is one day too late. Easy mistake in the excitement of the moment…. Then the surfers sat in wait and timed the night watchman’s rounds and made their move with glass cutters and tape, wiping out the contents of the rare gem room, which had dead batteries in the alarms. They flew back to Miami in the morning.”
Lenny stared at the ticket. “So are we rich?”
“Gimme that.” Serge snatched it away. They entered an ultrachic sidewalk café. Tank tops, leather, egos. Sexy men and women in flavors not seen by the rest of the country.
Serge handed Lenny the duffel bag. “Now, here’s what I need you to do….”
A waiter met Serge with a menu.
“Table for one.”
The waiter began leading Serge but stopped when he realized the customer wasn’t with him anymore. He looked back.
Serge stood in the middle of the tables, mouth open, eyes bugged, lottery ticket in one hand, newspaper in the other. He began jumping up and down. “I won the lottery! I won the lottery! I can’t believe it! Twenty million dollars! All mine! I’m rich!”
Heads turned. Lenny walked up like he didn’t know Serge, who showed him the ticket and newspaper. “See? All the numbers match!”
Serge stomped his feet and ran in a circle. Conversation swept the crowd. He yanked a tall German blonde up from one of the tables and began manic ballroom dancing. “I won the lottery! I won the lottery! Yipeeeee!”
“He’s right!” yelled Lenny. “I can’t believe it! It’s the winning ticket! It matches the newspaper!” He showed the waiter, whose heart began to pound as his eyes went down the line, matching number after number. He came to the end and looked up, color gone from his face. “It’s the winning ticket.”
Serge was dancing with another woman now. “I won the lottery! I won the lottery! I—” Suddenly he stopped. He slowly turned around. Faces stared back at him. Half the men looked like Boris Becker. He held out an arm like a traffic cop. “No, I can’t take the money. It’ll change me. It’ll completely ruin my life.” He handed the ticket to the waiter. “Since all of you fine people were here to share this special moment, I want you to have it. Divide it up as you see fit.” Serge walked away with his newspaper.
The waiter stared in shock at the ticket. There was a pause. A couple slowly got up from a table, then another. They looked at the ticket in the waiter’s hand. “The numbers match!” The rest began getting up until a crushing circle surrounded the waiter, arms reaching, voices louder. Someone got pushed. Another shove. “Watch it!” The knot of people congealed around the ticket, shuffling left, then right. A shirt got ripped. A woman went down with a scream, feet on her back, and finally a full-scale people-pile like the winning team after the final out of the World Series.
Serge and Lenny moved quietly through the tables, filling the duffel bag with purses, cell phones and laptops.
12
December 31, 1963
C ROWDS LINED THE sidewalks and balconies of Biscayne Boulevard, ready to ring in the new year. Some wore glittery “1964” novelty sunglasses. A thumping, roaring sound came up the street. Floats, high-school bands, baton twirlers. Drums and tubas. The thirty-first King Orange Jamboree.
On the other side of the bay, strings of headlights trickled down Collins Avenue. Montereys, DeSotos, Comets, Corvairs. Whitewalls and hood ornaments. Stumbling rivers of people jammed the sidewalks.
The back door of a bookmaking parlor opened. Men glanced around the alley before hoisting a limp body into the truck of a pink Cadillac.
Chi-Chi slammed the lid. “Coltrane, you got rid of the tire jack, right?”
Coltrane nodded.
“Let’s get a drink.”
They zigzagged from the Bamboo Room at the Hotel Roney to the Pagoda in the Saxony. A flying cork hit Moondog in the side of the head behind Murray Franklin’s. The latest chart-toppers blared out open nightclub doors. “Wipe Out,” “If I Had a Hammer,” “Da Do Ron Ron.” By nine o’clock the gang was halfway in the bag. Tommy and Mort still had their party hats, but the rubber band had broken on Moondog’s. A Chevelle nearly hit Sergio crossing Nineteenth Street as he examined the night’s haul of matchbooks. Coltrane walked around with two lit sparklers sticking out the top of his straw hat until Mort noticed it catching fire.
Chi-Chi threw an exhausted toothpick in the gutter. “We better go check on you-know-who.”
They weaved back up the street to the bookmaking joint. Chi-Chi approached the Cadillac and stuck his key in the trunk. “Bet he’s ready to pay now.”
“Must be scared shitless,” said Greek Tommy.
Chi-Chi raised the lid.
A glint from a long piece of swinging metal.
Chi-Chi grabbed his shoulder and went to the ground. “Fuck!”
More metal flashes.
Moondog hit the pavement. “Owwww! Shit!”
Greek Tommy went reeling off, crumpling against the side of the building. “My arm! I think it’s broken!”
The others jumped back in shock. The piece of metal clanged to the ground. The man ran off into the night.
“Where’d he get that fucking tire iron?” said Tommy.
“Coltrane!” yelled Chi-Chi. “I thought you said you got rid of the jack!”
“I did. What? Is the iron part of it?”
Just before midnight, the gang decided to make a last stand in the Driftwood Lounge, bandages and all. They headed up the steps of the Nautilus Hotel. A woman staggered down toward them, swinging an almost empty bottle of champagne by the neck. She blew her noisemaker at Tommy, then fell off her high heels and took a frightful spill down the rest of the stairs. She stood up, put her boobs back in her clothes and stumbled away.
The gang moved single file past illuminated nautilus shells on the lobby walls, then into the lounge. Sergio ordered. Six champagnes and a matchbook.
The crowd on the bandstand counted down to zero. Balloons fell. Happy New Year.
Six men toasted.
Sergio set his glass down. “Man, am I glad to get the hell out of 1963. I mean, what a downer. I’m still numb from Dallas.”
“It’s a new year. Cleanses everything,” said Mort. “That’s what it’s all about.”
“I know it’s a new year, but it doesn’t feel any different,” said Tommy. “I still have that kicked-in-the-gut feeling. I can’t believe they killed the president.”
“Believe it,” said Chi-Chi. “Now nobody’s safe.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” said Sergio.
“Last day I remember like that was Pearl Harbor,” said Tommy.
Moondog drained his plastic champagne flute. “December seventh and November twenty-second. Sure hope we don’t get any more dates to remember in our lifetime.”
“I think Mort’s right,” said Sergio. “This is a cleansing. This year could be the beginning of a whole new era, major changes in society…. I gotta hit the can.”
They shot the breeze, complained about business, talked family. Sergio returned. He said his daughter and son-in-law in West Palm were going through tough financial times. She had to take a sales job at Burdines on the weekends. It looked like Sergio was going to be doing a little baby-sitting in 1964.
“That’s a very nice thing to do,” said Coltrane. “That’s real stand-up of you…. I gotta hit the can.”
Coltrane was washing his hands in the men’s room when he saw a plastic bottle in the trash. “Oooo, prescription medication!” He retrieved the bottle and shook it. “Almost full!” He read the name on the label.
They were debating Arnold Palmer’s chances at the Masters when Coltrane returned. He called Sergio aside.
“I found this in the wastebasket.”
“So?”
“It has your name on it.”
“I threw it away.”
“I’m no expert, but I’ve heard of this medicine. Major psychiatric stuff. If you’re taking it, it pretty much means you need it.”
“It’s a new year, and that’s my resolution. I want a fresh start.”
“How long have you been taking this?”
“I don’t know. Twenty years?”
“Twenty years! You can’t just stop!”
“I just did. I’ve been on it so long, who knows what I’m really like? I don’t even know.”
“Hope you realize what you’re doing.”
“I’m feeling better already,” said Sergio. “I think this is going to be a big, big year.”
13
Present
M OM! WE’RE HOME!”
“Where have you been?”
“Out.”
Serge and Lenny ran down the hall with their duffel bag.
They dumped the contents on the bottom bunk.
“Perfect,” said Serge. “Everything we need to start our cottage industry. Lenny, you skim the wallets for cash and segregate the cell phones. I’ll get our computer department up and running. Where’s your phone jack?”
“Behind the desk.”
Serge began tapping the keyboard of a stolen laptop. He clicked an annoying desktop icon to establish an Internet connection with a free trial offer.
“What are you doing?” asked Lenny.
“Building our website.”
Lenny turned a Gucci purse inside out. “Sounds like work.”
“Patience,” said Serge. “It’s not so easy since the dot-com collapse. The days are gone when you could just throw together a half-ass site, get showered with venture capital, buy time slots on Everybody Loves Raymond, and watch the stock go ape.”
“We can’t?”
“No, the New Economy turned out to be something a lot different than everyone expected.”
“What?”
“Pornography.”
“We can get pornography on that thing?” said Lenny. “My turn!”
“Not yet. I’m still working on our flash intro…. What just happened? I lost my connection.”
The phone rang in the living room. Mrs. Lippowicz answered.
Lenny dug in another purse and pulled out a vibrator. He turned it on and began rubbing his cheek. “Hey, look. One of those facial massagers.”
Serge began tapping again, reestablishing a connection. Lenny grabbed a chair and sat down next to him, rubbing his chin with the humming wand.
Serge was loading wallpaper when his keystrokes locked up. “We lost the connection again. What’s going on?”
The phone was ringing in the living room. Mrs. Lippowicz answered.
“Telemarketers,” said Lenny. “It’s dinnertime. They bug Mom like crazy ever since that one guy sold her all those plastic Japanese frog lanterns in the yard.”
Serge logged on again. He lost the connection again. “Son of a bitch!”
He got up and went down the hall.
Lenny ran after him. “What are you doing?”
