by Tim Dorsey
“My clothes!”
Doors slammed. Cadillacs sped off.
Louisiana was still cursing as she snatched her zebra purse off the seat, slammed the passenger door and nearly broke a heel climbing to the curb. The car was such a bloody mess that the men on the sidewalk could barely keep their eyes on Lou, all curves and gams, stomping out her cigarette and marching angrily up the street toward a pawnshop.
Roy “The Pawn King” leaned over his glass countertop, reading Hollywood Confidential. Bad Boy Robert Mitchum was at it again. Roy had a street face like Karl Malden. A white, short-sleeved clerk shirt. Thin, oily hair combed back. Dandruff.
Bells jingled. Roy looked up. “Lou, good to see you.” He noticed the red splatter on her clothes and more on her cheeks. “Another engagement called off?”
“These fucking guys! They’re animals!” She strained to pull the ring off her left hand and tossed it. The ring bounced on the glass counter, and Roy used his stomach as a goalie before it could go off the edge. “How much?” asked Lou, popping a bubble with her gum.
Roy stuck a jeweler’s glass in his eye. Lou lit another Lucky Strike.
Roy removed the magnifier. “I’m a small operation. All I can give you is ten. But I have to tell you it’s worth a lot more.”
“I’ll take it,” said Lou, blowing smoke rings toward a shelf full of trombones.
“Lou, I’m worried about you. This is the fourth time in six months.”
“It’s not like I’m trying to do it. These guys have absolutely savage tempers.”
“You’re starting to get a reputation,” said Roy, sticking a key in the cash drawer. “Nobody wants to go out with you.”
“Al did.”
“Of course he did. He was the size of a piano.”
“That’s just like men,” said Lou, scratching an armpit. “They act like barbarians, and I get the bad rep.”
Roy handed her Kleenex and a mirror for the blood on her face.
“Thanks, Roy. You’re a sweetie.”
“It’s the type of guys you pick. I have this cousin, Ralph. Real quiet, prepares taxes—”
Lou shook her head. “I need a dangerous man. Otherwise I can’t get turned on.”
Roy chuckled. “That’s my Lou.” He counted out money. Another set of smoke rings went toward a stack of hi-fi record players. Long, hot-pink nails tapped on the counter.
Roy slid the cash in a brown envelope and handed it to Lou, who stuffed it in her purse and pulled out a flask. She twisted off the cap and took a pull.
“You’re making a pretty good living at this,” said Roy. “If I didn’t know you better…”
“Roy, for chrissake, I’m in fuckin’ mourning! I just became a widow or something.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Don’t know yet. He’s still out there in traffic.”
“How do your nerves handle it? I’d be shell-shocked.”
Lou took another pull and stuck the flask back in her purse. “I’m holding up.”
“I mean, you were with Rocky DiPesto when they stabbed him with ice picks, and Benny Sardines when they put that bomb in his lunch box, and Little Ricky ‘Don’t Call Me Ricardo’ when they tied him down in the quarry and ran over him really slow with a steamroller. Feetfirst.”
“That was a rough one,” said Lou, stubbing out her cigarette. “On the other hand, that’s also how I got to meet Vito ‘The Noodle’ Lombardini. Can’t tell you how sexy he looked up there working those steamroller controls.”
“And who would later be found decomposing in an underwater grate at the sewage plant.”
“Sexiness is all timing.” Lou got her flask back out and raised it for another shot. Just a couple drops left. “Damn.”
“The Deuce is open.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Thanks for everything, Roy.”
A pair of white go-go boots swaggered up the sidewalk. Pairs of men’s dress shoes stopped and turned as the boots went by. Wolf whistles. The boots made a left at Fourteenth and crossed the street toward a lounge on the corner with the alley.
Lou pushed open the door under a green-and-orange neon sign from 1926. CLUB DEUCE BAR.
It was bright as noon outside, barfly black inside around the double-horseshoe counter. The way Lou liked it. She leaned against the juke with her left arm, avocado ass cocked, Lucky Strike in her lips like Lauren Bacall. She dropped a dime in the slot. “Twist and Shout.”
A man’s voice: “Great selection.”
She turned around.
Broad shoulders. Perfect suit, million-dollar smile. “Name’s Vince.”
She offered her hand to shake. “Lou.” He bent down and kissed it instead. She saw the gun bulge under his jacket. Her heart fluttered. Rrrrrrrrrow!
Vince was the consummate gentleman. He bought her martinis, lit her cigarettes with a pearl lighter, held the door to the men’s room when they went inside for a quickie.
Two punching bags in suits stood outside the restroom door, standing guard for Vince. Lou sat atop the toilet tank in her black lace bra, legs hoisted. Vince proposed mid-orgasm.
They dressed and returned to the bar. Vince pulled the diamond ring off his pinkie and slipped it on Lou’s left hand as they left the Deuce arm in arm. Two men were waiting on the roof.
ROY “THE PAWN King” handed Lou another Kleenex. “You got some more blood by your nose.”
“This is getting ridiculous,” said Lou.
“I thought they just dropped safes on guys’ heads in cartoons.”
“Me, too,” said Lou. “Believe me, it’s not something you want to see twice.”
Roy checked the latest ring under his jeweler’s glass. “How does five sound?”
“Fine.” She struck a match and lit a Lucky.
Roy pointed at the ashtray on the counter. “You already have one going.”
Lou stubbed them both out. “Maybe it is getting to me.”
“I’m telling you, Lou, you need to meet someone who’s not in the outfit.”
“You might be right.”
Bells jingled. They looked toward the front door.
25
Present
T HE COLLEGE FOOTBALL teams were announced for the upcoming Orange Bowl. Big press conference. Buffet, open bar, crepe-paper streamers in team colors. The next day the Miami Chamber of Commerce blew a gasket. The reason lay in the middle of a conference table, the morning paper.
It was that snotty, know-it-all, thinks-he’s-so-cute sports columnist from New York, Mick Dafoe. Were they forgetting anything? Oh, yeah. Prima donna.
Every year, the same thing. The Orange Bowl rolled around, supposed to be the biggest national publicity windfall for the city. Every year, the chamber went all out to put on the best face, painstakingly covering up every local disgrace.
And every year, like clockwork, Dafoe penned his annual column mercilessly ridiculing the city in the name of morning-coffee entertainment. Then the column was picked up by the wires and reprinted across the country.
This year’s offering was the harshest yet:
“And now, with apologies to David Letterman, the Miami Chamber of Commerce’s Top Ten Rejected Tourism Slogans. Drumroll, please.
“10. Miami: It’s like a whole other country. Really.
“9. Return to paradise—your flight back home.
“8. English, Schmenglish.
“7. The kind of elections that make you forget about our riots.
“6. Home of the Fighting Miami Relatives.
“5. Gateway to Little Haiti.
“4. Cocaine: It’s not just for breakfast anymore.
“3. Come for our friendly people, stay for our penicillin.
“2. Fear Factor, 24/7.
“And the number-one rejected slogan by the Miami Chamber of Commerce:
“Krome Avenue Detention Center is for lovers.”
The chamber wasn’t laughing.
“I’m complaining to the publisher!”
&
nbsp; “I’m writing a letter to the editor!”
“I’ll strangle him with my bare hands!”
The media-savvy image consultant told them to take it easy. They were approaching it all wrong. “You never pick a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel.”
“So what do we do, then? Nothing?”
“No,” said the consultant. “Schmooze him. It works with most reporters, especially sportswriters. They usually roll over for a hot dog and commemorative tote bag.” He laid out the plan—spare no expense with an offer for a free “advance research” trip. Fly the writer down early on a private jet, put him up in the finest hotel, take him to the best restaurants, then a “souvenir” shopping spree, all ostensibly to show off the side of the city he’s apparently overlooking. It can’t miss.
The chamber staff got on the Internet, looking for a tour service that would give Dafoe the best possible take on the city. An assistant scrolled down the screen. Something called Serge & Lenny’s caught her attention. She thought a second, then kept going until she found someone a little more mainstream.
Mick Dafoe was sitting in his New York office throwing pencils into acoustical ceiling tiles when the gold-embossed invitation arrived. He began laughing. Sure he’d take the trip. Then he’d destroy them in another column. And they would be paying for it all. This was too good!
THE CHAMBER OF Commerce called out the troops. Hundreds of smartly dressed people waited on the edge of the runway at Miami Executive Airport. There was a high-school band, a red carpet, balloons, giant Stalinesque photos of Dafoe on sticks for the crowd to wave. A white courtesy van sat near the terminal: “Sunshine Tours.”
The Lear came into view. Everyone straightened up.
The jet landed and rolled to the red carpet. The crowd erupted in rabid ovation when Dafoe appeared in the door, smiling smugly, a Yankees baseball cap on his head backward. The giant signs waved furiously as Mick made his way down the stairs.
The chamber president’s chest was puffed out. “This’ll make him forget all about the crime rate.”
Dafoe reached the bottom of the steps and headed across the carpet. A limousine with a magnetic sign on the door pulled up. Serge and Lenny got out wearing pantyhose on their heads. The same pair. Dafoe heard the commotion and turned around. “What the…?” The conjoined twins threw a gunnysack over his head and hustled him into the limo. They sped away.
The volunteers’ cheering dribbled off, the signs with Dafoe’s giant face falling by their sides. The chamber president sagged. “Why do we even bother?”
26
F BI HEADQUARTERS, MIAMI.
Miller and Bixby were pushing into the third day on catnaps, caffeine and career fear. Fatigue took its toll. Mistakes made, details forgotten, simple tasks becoming needless imbroglios. The other guys were worried, not making fun anymore.
Miller snapped a pencil in frustration. Bixby jumped. The fax machine went off.
They ran for it. Miller tore the sheet off the spool and began reading.
Bixby looked over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Another letter from our boy.”
“What’s it say?”
“Shhhh! You’ll get your turn.”
Miller’s lips moved as he read through to the bottom. His eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “What the hell does that last part mean?”
“Let me see,” said Bixby, grabbing the page.
Katie Couric
NBC Studios, Peacock Central
New York, New York
Dear Ms. Couric,
I understand you are extremely busy with all your guests and everything. And an amazing lineup it is, at least at the top of the hour. But as you get further into the program, when we reach the segments on quack medicine and bizarre self-recovery books for the totally screwed-up, I can see that pained expression on your face—what a bunch of weirdos!
That’s why I’ve been patient. But I’ve sent you at least two dozen letters now without a single reply except the early form letters and that photograph of Al Roker with the forged signature. Did you really think I would fall for that? I took it to a handwriting expert, which was the bill I also submitted, but no response there either. So I have to ask myself, What the hell is going on?
First, let me apologize for the third letter. I’ll take the blame for that. You should see all the outgoing personal correspondence to muckety-mucks I have to contend with each morning. That white powder was from the doughnuts I was eating. Hoowee! I can just see the scene I created! I was thinking it might have gotten me on some kind of list, so I wanted to clear that up right away and let you know I’m a serious businessman. As I said before, I represent the Miami Beach Renaissance and History Task Force. It’s just a one-man operation right now. I don’t want to misrepresent our clout and count my friend Lenny just yet, because he still has some substance problems he needs to conquer before we get him on board your show.
My generous offer is essentially the same. You relocate your program from New York to Miami Beach, and I promise I’ll give you a hundred-and-ten-percent. It may not sound like much, but don’t underestimate me. Others have.
Besides, Miami Beach is a natural for Today. Dave Garroway broadcast from the Americana forty years ago, and I think we all have more than a little obligation to the past. Miami Beach helped make Today what it is; it’s only right to repay the favor. I’ve been in touch with the mayor’s office and have total commitment of his resources. What do you say?
Look, let’s not kid ourselves here. Good Morning America has been eating your breakfast lately, and I’m sure neither one of us is happy with that development. I mean, Diane Sawyer and Charley Gibson! You must be throwing up around the clock over that galactic miscarriage of justice. But it’s been building for some time now. Today has been plagued by four decades of missteps so monumental and mind-numbing that they can only be attributed to blanket incompetence or deliberate sabotage.
Just ask yourself the following questions:
Why was the genius of Hugh Downes squandered on Concentration?
Who leaked the Bryant Gumbel memo?
What, if anything, does Gene Shalit bring to the table?
Which writer came up with the feature you have every year, ‘Where in the fuck is Matt Lauer?’ or whatever it’s called—fire the guy.
Who told Willard Scott to go after the hundred-year-old viewers? You can’t find their ratings share with an electron microscope.
What happened to Jane Pauley? Was it something to do with Doonesbury’s editorial slant? You can tell me if it was, and I’ll take steps.
And then what the hell happened to Deborah Norville? People were changing chairs so fast, I thought my cable company had shuffled all the channels again.
Of course, that last departure was necessary to pave the way for the Katie era. I know you didn’t have anything “official” to do with it. But, between you and me, good move. You did what you had to. I’ve lived in the South and, believe me, her type is nothing but trouble.
In short, you need to start taking chances. A major shakeup is in order, and I’m your man. If you think Bryant’s memo scorched some britches, wait till you see mine.
You can make an appointment by calling me, or I can just come up to New York for a surprise visit. I saw you once up in the Rainbow Room atop the GE Building, but I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself before the misunderstanding with the staff that resulted in me being offered the option of leaving on my own or with help. Everyone’s so friendly up there!
Waiting by the phone,
Katie Fan Numero Uno
Serge A. Storms
P.S. We’ll soon be arriving in the Beatles’ room, so you can reach us there.
LENNY DROVE WITH a six-pack between his legs as they made their second getaway from Miami Executive Airport in as many days. Serge sat in back with the prisoner. He pulled the gunnysack off.
“Hey, this doesn’t look like Johnny Palermo,” said Serge, covering Mick Dafoe with a pi
stol. “Lenny, are you sure you got the right airport?”
“There’s more than one?”
“You idiot!”
“Sorry.”
“Wait. I know this guy from somewhere. But where?” Serge studied his face, then flickered with recognition. “Yeah, I remember now. He’s that smart-ass sports columnist…. Man, I love your stuff! The other guys crank out fish-wrap tripe, but you’re like a daily dose of literature!”
Dafoe’s eyes stayed on Serge’s pistol.
Serge noticed him looking at the gun. “Since I’m a fan, this won’t be necessary.”
Dafoe didn’t know what to think, whether to be scared or angry. He spoke tentatively: “Did the chamber put you up to this?”
“The chamber?”
“Chamber of Commerce. Is this a practical joke?”
“No, this is real.” Serge turned to Lenny. “Real stupid!”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Wanna hit?”
Dafoe turned around. A hand was offering him a lit joint. Dafoe was about to say no when he noticed the hand was attached to a drop-dead Scandinavian named Country, seated next to the equally stunning City.
Dafoe looked back at Serge. “What’s going on?”
“It was supposed to be a kidnapping,” said Serge. “But somebody can’t read a map!”
“You’re not kidding, are you?” said Dafoe.
“Don’t worry, you weren’t the target. Supposed to be a mobster.”
Country tapped Dafoe on the shoulder. “Want a hit or not?”
“I guess I could do a little hit.” Dafoe took a drag and handed it back to Country, who inverted the joint in her mouth and blew City a shotgun.
Dafoe didn’t mind seeing that. “Are you two lesbians?”
“No.”
“Darn.”
Lenny reached between his legs and popped a couple beers off the six-pack ring. He put one in the driver’s beverage holder and held the other over his shoulder. “Your friend want a beer?”
“Yes, that’s a great idea!” said Serge. “How about a beer for the greatest sports columnist in the world?” He popped the top and handed it to Dafoe. “Welcome to Miami!”
