Cadillac Beach

by Tim Dorsey

  There was some arguing they couldn’t hear. Bridget stomped back into the room with tears.

  “Oh, all right,” Serge called after her. “Then will you leave me alone so I can get some work done?”

  Serge went in the bedroom. Bridget brightened and trotted after him. The rest of the gang ran to the doorway.

  Serge drew the blinds open wide, then stood in the middle of the room and looked around in thought. He pulled the king bed away from the wall, spun it ninety degrees and pushed it across the floor until the headboard was against the balcony window. “Okay, Bridget. That works for me.”

  He noticed the stack of heads in the doorway. “Would you mind?” Serge walked over and slammed the door. They put their ears against it.

  They didn’t hear anything at first, then Serge’s voice. But what was he saying? It was a monotone, rattling a long tangent in even cadence before suddenly breaking into quick drama like a Univision soccer play-by-play man. Then a sultry Irish female voice: “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!…” Finally piercing shrieks.

  A few minutes later, Serge opened the door and saw a bunch of ears. The guys wandered away and picked up magazines.

  Bridget came back in the main room, hair frazzled, beret crooked, staggering with a dazed, codeine grin. She passed the guys, opened the front door and left.

  The gang stared in awe at Serge, tucking in his shirt.

  “Man, the hoops these days to get a travel discount.” He headed for the TV set. “Everybody settle in and relax. Nobody can find us here.”

  A knock at the door. Serge spun and pulled a gun. “Who the fuck!” He crept across the room and checked out the peephole. He stuck the gun in his waistband and undid the chain. “Lenny, you might want to hide your dope.”

  “We’re carrying drugs on us, too!” said Rusty.

  “It’s all right. Lenny’s a bishop in the Coptic Church.” Serge opened the door. “You might as well come in.”

  Two more women. They stormed into the suite. Tall, exotic, even more striking than Bridget. One an athletic young Lena Horne, the other a statuesque Scandinavian blonde.

  Lenny grabbed his heart. “City and Country!”

  “How dare you ditch us on the side of the road like that!” yelled the blonde.

  “It was for your own good,” said Serge. “You were out of control! All you wanted to do was get high and fuck!”

  The guys glanced at each other again.

  “How’d you find us?” asked Serge.

  “Lenny’s mom told us.”

  “Lenny! You told your mom we’re at this hotel!”

  “I called her from the lobby. You know how she worries.”

  City and Country sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Lenny. “Got a joint?”

  “Sure.” He reached in his shirt pocket.

  “Just wonderful,” said Serge, throwing up his arms. “The All-Hemp, All-the-Time Channel is back on the air!” He began opening boxes and luggage, removing file folders, electronic components, the Miami Collection.

  Rusty slid up next to Serge and glanced at the women. “City and Country?”

  Serge grabbed the big hotel TV, turned it around in the cabinet and went to work with pliers. “Traveling companions from past misadventures. We had to dump them—they were irresponsible.” Soon, coax and RCA cables ran everywhere, his towering audio-visual Mission Control taking shape.

  “What are you doing?” asked Rusty.

  Serge handed him a file folder. “Check out the dossier.”

  “Dossier?”

  “For our tour. I’ve got all these archival photos, Xeroxes from library microfilm, ticket stubs, letters, highlighted maps—”

  “Serge! Jesus! Forget the tour!”

  “Forget the tour? Forget the tour?!”

  Lenny passed the joint to Country. “Uh-oh. You shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Forget the tour?” Serge pulled the gun from his waistband. Rusty and the others put their hands up and leaned back as the gun barrel swept past them. “We never forget the tour! The tour continues!”

  Lenny snagged some beers from one of the boat coolers. “Serge, you’re scaring them.”

  Serge looked down at the gun in his hand. “Yikes! How’d that get there?” He tossed the pistol on the couch and stuck a video in the VCR.

  “Dig this. It’s Alfred Hitchcock’s Notorious from 1946. There’s Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in that convertible riding along the moonlit Miami waterfront. Notice how peaceful and empty it is. Just palm trees and water, no development yet, if you can believe it—”

  Another knock at the door. Serge jumped and grabbed the gun again. He checked the peephole, opened the door and jerked someone into the room. “Glad you could make it. He’s in the bathroom.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Rusty.

  “The doctor for Brad’s gunshot.”

  The doctor came out of the bathroom with an extension cord and handed it to Serge. “Can you plug that in?”

  “I noticed the doctor was wearing a Corona T-shirt,” said Rusty. “I mean, he does have medical training, right?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” Serge stuck the plug in a socket. “Licensed and everything. At least used to be. Ten years a spotless record, then he amputates one wrong leg in a Tampa hospital and the papers blow it way out of proportion.”

  The sound of power tools came from the bathroom, barely drowning out the screams.

  Serge yelled over the noise. “Doc, want a beer?”

  The machinery stopped, but the screaming didn’t. “What did you say?” shouted the doctor.

  “Beer?”

  “No thanks. Just had one.” The machinery resumed.

  Lenny got up and changed the TV to a local station, a news crew broadcasting live from the airport.

  “Lenny, I’m doing a presentation.”

  “Sorry, thought you’d finished…. Hey look, we’re on TV!”

  A reporter teased to the big shoot-out at the airport that would be coming “right after these commercial messages.”

  Everyone crowded around the set. Commercials for the car show, the boat show, the computer show, a new restaurant with Old World charm. Then the news.

  An aerial shot of the Miami skyline at dusk with a busy highway interchange in the foreground. A computer-generated explosion detonated in the middle of the picture. Out of the smoke came a glowing numeral five. Urgent, fast-paced music.

  “Welcome to Action Five News! And the Action Five News Team, with your anchors Natalie Rojas and Blaine Crease, and featuring the Action Five investigative team—‘If you can’t find something out, we’ll try!’—plus Andy with sports, Bing with the weather and Captain Bob on traffic…. And now Natalie and Blaine!”

  “Good evening,” said Natalie. “Our top story tonight: An early-morning melee erupted at a South Beach drag show when patrons discovered one of the female impersonators was actually a female. The woman, who suffered minor abrasions and goes by Jerome Mendelson, told police that society wasn’t ready to accept a male transvestite trapped inside the body of a woman.”

  “Can I get a diagram of that story?” Blaine chuckled, then pivoted to another camera. “More bodies were unearthed today as authorities continued questioning neighbors about the man who lived alone in this modest frame house in Homestead with his two dogs and several thousand wind chimes and had no prior record except noise complaints…. Natalie?”

  “In other developments, one of the peripheral figures in the Elián González saga is back in the news tonight.” A picture of one of the fishermen appeared on the screen. “Blaine?”

  “Thanks Natalie, dozens were hospitalized today when fighting broke out downtown between large groups of Cubans and Italians over the rights to Latin Appreciation Day. And on the domestic front, is there a common substance in your home that could kill you in the next few hours? We’ll tell you at eleven!”

  Picture cut: “I’m Andy De Laporte at the sports desk. When we come back: What will last weekend’s arr
ests mean for the Dolphins’ playoff hopes?”

  Picture cut: “Don’t forget about this big mass of cold air at the top of the map that could ruin everything.”

  Picture cut, helicopter whapping sound: “And if you’re taking the Don Shula home tonight, don’t.”

  More commercials. An attorney specializing in bedsores: “Because it’s just wrong…”

  Lenny nudged Serge. “When are they going to get to our story?”

  “They always save the best for ratings…. Shhhh! They’re coming back!”

  Blaine shuffled papers and looked up. “The Baby Jennifer custody case took a turn for the complex today when a second Baby Jennifer case was discovered in South Florida, bringing the total number of parents to sixteen…. Natalie?”

  “Thanks. And at the airport, it was another day of chaos…”

  “This is us! This is us!” said Lenny.

  The station went live to the smoldering, charred husks of a Learjet, tanker truck and FBI sedan being hosed down by men in yellow hazmat suits. The gang listened to the voice-over with the latest details.

  Serge whistled with respect. “Wow, you killed a mob boss and a government witness!”

  Doug and Rusty stood in front of the TV, getting woozy as an FBI spokesman described the massive manhunt under way.

  “Serge, please bring us someplace and drop us off,” said Rusty.

  “Are you kidding? You’ll be picked clean!”

  “We’ll take our chances.”

  Doug gestured toward the entertainment center. “You’re obviously busy with your special videos and all—”

  “Don’t forget the gems,” said Serge.

  “That’s what I mean. We’ll just be in the way. We’re going to head down to the lobby now and get a cab.”

  “Not a chance,” said Serge. “I would never do that to you.”

  “Serge, I’m begging.”

  “Exactly. You’re desperate—your judgment’s clouded. But we’re used to this. Been here a million times. Notice how normal we’re acting.”

  Lenny unrolled a Baggie. “Serge, you got any old albums in one of your boxes? Preferably a two-record set.”

  “Just CDs.”

  “How do they expect us to de-seed dope?”

  Doug grabbed the arm of a chair. “I have to sit down.”

  Serge patted him on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands.”

  The doctor came out of the bathroom, wiping hands on a formerly white towel, now pink.

  “Well?” said Rusty.

  The doctor shook his head. “I lost him.”

  “What do you mean you lost him?” yelled Doug.

  “Did everything I could.”

  “It was just a flesh wound!” yelled Rusty. “What kind of doctor are you?”

  Serge stepped between them. “One who makes house calls on the weekend and deserves just a little more gratitude.” Serge looked at the doctor and shrugged. “Everyone expects miracles.”

  “Listen, Serge, you think I can get cash this time? My bank’s been a little funny lately about checks.”

  “No problem.”

  The television showed a family tree of the Palermos, then some grisly assassination photos from sidewalk restaurants.

  Doug grabbed his chest. “I can’t breathe. Having trouble breathing.”

  “Doc, I think he’s having a panic attack.”

  “Two beers,” said the doctor, tucking twenties in his billfold.

  Serge snapped his fingers. “EMT Lenny, get the trauma kit and stabilize the patient.”

  “Right.” Lenny gripped a joint in his mouth, opened the boat cooler again and fished a pair of Heinekens from the bath of melting cubes.

  “You guys are insane! You’re going to get us killed,” said Doug, opening his mouth wide like a sea bass to get oxygen. “I can’t take it anymore!”

  The doctor reached in the cooler for his own beer and headed out the door. Rusty ran in the bathroom to check on Brad.

  Doug began breathing in the plastic bag that came with the hotel wastebasket. He took it away from his face. “Serge, we can go to the police. If we tell them everything, maybe they’ll put us in a protection program.”

  “Right,” said Serge. “Tony Marsicano was in a program, and a lot of good it did him.”

  Doug began crying. “They’re going to kill us!”

  “Nobody’s going to kill anyone,” said Serge, sitting down next to Doug and putting his arm around his shoulders. “Remember, we still have the big advantage. The main thing going for us is that nobody knows who we are. Neither the FBI nor the mob. Now that we’re out of the limo and safely in this hotel, there’s no way they can connect us. We’re home free!”

  Serge’s cell phone rang.

  “Hello? Serge and Lenny’s…Yes, we were at the airport today…. Who wants to know?…Yes, I’ve heard of the Palermo Family…. How’d you get this number?…From the magnetic sign on the side of the limo? I guess that was money well spent…. Kidnapping? No, that was just a big misunderstanding…. Calm down, threats never solve anything….”

  Doug stared blankly at Serge, growing faint. Serge saw his expression and gave him a big smile and a thumbs-up.

  Rusty walked slowly out of the bathroom, eyes fixed, shallow breaths. “I can’t believe it. Brad’s really dead. The doctor was right.”

  Serge covered the phone. “I told you he was a good doctor.”

  Rusty collapsed on the floor. Doug ran in the bathroom and threw up.

  “…Calm down,” Serge said in the phone. “Stop shouting…. Lower your voice…. I’m not going to talk to you anymore if you don’t lower your voice…. You’re shouting again…. No, I wasn’t involved personally. I was just the driver…. That was my customers’ doing…. Yes, they’re right here….”

  Serge walked over to Rusty and held out the phone. “It’s for you.”

  Rusty wasn’t responding, just making himself into a fetus on the floor, so Serge held the phone to his head. Rusty listened and began sobbing. Doug staggered out of the bathroom with spit-up on his shirt.

  Serge took back the phone. “You finished? We were just about to watch a movie…. Where’s Tony now?…How should I know?…We let him out of the car as soon as we realized our mistake…. Believe whatever you want…. I already told you to lower your voice…. Lower your voice…. Fuck you, too.” Serge hung up.

  Rusty and Doug stared in shock.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll call back. That’s the only language they understand.”

  Doug put his hand to his mouth and ran in the bathroom again. Rusty passed out. Serge slapped him lightly on the cheeks until he came around.

  “Good news and bad news,” said Serge. “Which first?”

  No response.

  “Okay, bad news first. Remember that big tactical advantage of anonymity I mentioned earlier? Well, we can pretty much forget about that…. The good news? I have a plan!”

  Serge went over to the sofa and picked up his pistol. “First, we get back some leverage…. I can see by that thoughtful look in your eyes that you’re asking, ‘But, Serge, how on earth do we do that?’ I’ll tell you. By kidnapping one of them.”

  Doug ran for the door to escape, but Serge caught him from behind before he could unbolt it. He was wiggling and kicking pretty good as Serge lifted him up and carried him back into the room.

  “Look,” said Serge, “I’m not any happier about this than you are. We’re only still alive because they want Tony back, which is obviously out of the question. As soon as they realize Tony’s dead, our bargaining position is weakened considerably. We need a Palermo that’s still breathing to trade for our lives.”

  Serge got on the phone to a second limo-rental company. “…Here’s where I need it delivered….”

  THE NEW LIMO was even longer than the first. Lenny aimed it down Washington Avenue. Serge sat in the passenger seat writing on his clipboard. He looked over his shoulder. “Everybody okay back there?”

  City and
Country said they were getting hungry. Doug and Rusty stared without blinking.

  “Sorry about herding you into the car at gunpoint. You were dragging your heels a bit.”

  Lenny played with the radio. “If we’re going to kidnap someone, we should have ski masks.”

  “Right, Lenny. Why don’t we just pull over at one of Miami’s many ski shops?”

  “What about pantyhose?”

  “Miami has those.”

  The limo swung into a Walgreen’s.

  24

  1964

  L OU WAS IN the diamond business. Quite by accident.

  A canary yellow ’61 Cadillac convertible raced south on Washington Avenue, a postcard of every excess Miami Beach had come to represent. Behind the wheel, an immense man in charcoal pinstripes. A pinkie ring hung over the side of the car. All the maître ’d’s in the finest restaurants knew him on sight. Al Loren-zorelli, also known as “Big Al,” “Fat Al,” “Third-Helping Al,” “Let Me See the Dessert Wagon Al.”

  But nobody was looking at Al as the bright yellow car rolled through the intersection at Lincoln Road, past the club where Desi Arnaz was discovered moonlighting from his job cleaning parakeet cages. Nobody was looking at Al because they were all staring at his passenger. Al’s bowling trophy. A tall bottle-blonde with Nancy Sinatra hair wrapped in a leopard scarf. Dark cat’s-eye sunglasses in ruby frames. White go-go boots. A tight mustard Pucci-print top and equally snug avocado slacks that matched her dangling costume avocado earrings. Chewing gum and smoking filterless Lucky Strikes, watching her ice-cube-size engagement ring sparkle in the Florida sun. Louisiana Rhodes, the gun moll from Fort Lauderdale. Lou.

  The light turned red at Fifteenth Street, and the Caddy rolled to a stop. Big Al squeezed Lou’s knee with his right hand and leaned over for a kiss. Lou’s hand shot up to block him. “Watch the fuckin’ makeup!”

  Al’s hand came off her knee. He reached across his chest to deliver a cracking backhand across her smart mouth.

  Before he could, tires screeched. Three shiny black Cadillacs boxed in the yellow one. Men jumped out with tommy guns.

  “Tony Spumoni says hello.” They opened up with a deafening fusillade. Metal shell casings clanged to the ground. Blood spurted everywhere. Louisiana shrieked in horror.