by Tim Dorsey
“You okay?” asked Mick.
Lenny nodded. “So that’s what a boilermaker is.”
“The Irish just scored again.”
Serge slapped the TV screen. “Beatlephiles and the hotel staff concur they stayed on the eleventh floor, but I couldn’t nail the precise room. This balcony scene was the big clue. The breakwater you see indicated the room was on the east face. From there the investigation progressed rapidly. I did a frame-by-frame Zapruder analysis of the video, and here it is, the magic bullet.” Serge hit pause. “Right there! You can count two more balcony railings to the north. So it’s the third room from the end, number eleven-fourteen, our room, and Inspector Serge solves another one of History’s Mysteries!” He restarted the tape, McCartney on the balcony throwing crackers to seagulls. “Notice they haven’t changed the balcony.” Serge pointed out the glass doors, where Mick and Lenny were at the railing smoking cigars, raising drinks in the air and shouting.
“Wooooooooo! Miami!”
“Wooooooooo! Beatles room!”
Rusty finally snapped and jumped to his feet. “This is an insane asylum!”
“Exactly!” said Serge, pounding the TV cabinet with his fist. “That’s what I keep trying to tell everyone. Life makes no sense! The world is a madhouse! Once you accept that, you can start being happy. Expect logic and fairness, and it’s nothing but a heartbreak.”
“No!” Rusty screamed back. “Right here! You! These people! We’re going to be killed, and you’re just fucking around!”
“Have faith in the Master Plan. You’ll see.”
“There is no fucking plan! Look around this room! What does any of this have to do with…anything?”
“Everything has to do with everything else. It’s all interconnected. Didn’t you listen to ‘The White Album’?”
29
A GENTS MILLER AND Bixby walked down a bright hallway. Visitor badges clipped to their pockets. Nurses went by.
The agents stopped at a guard station under an Orwellian sign: MIAMI-DADE MENTAL HEALTH. A series of electric locks clicked. A thick metal door opened.
“Who is this guy again?” whispered Bixby.
“Agent Mahoney,” said Miller. “Found him in the case file. He almost caught Serge a few years back. Used to work for the state as a profiler. Tracked Serge to Tampa in ’97, then picked up his trail again when Serge infiltrated the governor’s campaign in ’02. But the stress was too much. He began to obsess, tried to get inside Serge’s mind. Now he’s a drool-farmer in the silly house.”
They approached a locked door. A doctor in a white jacket checked their laminated visitors’ passes, then punched a code into the keypad.
It was a windowless room. Fluorescent light. A thick Plexiglas partition cut the room in half. On the other side, a man was pacing. Tweed jacket, fedora, necktie with coconuts. Talking to himself: “Need to run down the Chinese angle on the shylock’s mazuma before the twist cops a roscoe and squirts metal at the brunos….”
“Excuse me,” said Miller. “Time for a word?”
“You a news-fink? My trap’s zipped.”
“From the Bureau.”
Mahoney nodded. “G-men.”
“It’s about Serge.”
“Regular wiseguy. Didn’t dance straight. Ran with a wrong-number dizzy for the juju.”
“Juju?” said Bixby.
“Muggles,” said Mahoney.
Miller turned to Bixby. “Marijuana.” He looked back to Mahoney. “What’s the last you heard?”
“He was mixing with some trouble boys on the flimflam, putting screws to a Peterman after the box job.”
“How’d you hear?”
“Jawed with him on the Ameche.”
“Ameche?” said Bixby.
“Blower,” said Mahoney.
Miller turned. “Phone.”
“The new skinny?” asked Mahoney.
“He’s back in town.” Miller pulled the Katie Couric letter from his jacket and slipped it through a slot in the safety glass. “Wanted to see what you made of this.”
Mahoney read the letter and began smiling. “Underwood jockey. Regular Spillane.”
“We haven’t been able to figure out that reference to the Beatles’ room,” said Miller. “I hope we’re not into some kind of Helter Skelter trip.”
Mahoney looked up. “Deauville Hotel, Room Eleven-fourteen.”
Miller and Bixby ran out the door.
COUNTRY WAS GETTING on Serge’s nerves. She kept rubbing his crotch while he was trying to load guns.
Serge pushed her away. “Will you stop!”
She wouldn’t.
Doug and Rusty gawked. Their lives were still in danger, but they were still guys. They couldn’t believe Serge. First Bridget and now this. Serge looked at them and shrugged. “You can’t reason with the stoned. It’s like trying to train a Pet Rock.”
Country kept rubbing.
“You got five minutes,” said Serge. “Then will you leave me alone?”
She grinned and nodded. They headed to the bedroom. Serge opened the curtains and pushed the bed over to the window. He walked back and slammed the door on the collection of faces.
Serge got on top. He started moving, then stopped.
Country looked down. “Is something wrong?”
Serge stared out the window. “I’ve got total visibility to the horizon, but cloud cover is casting shadows. I need full sunlight.”
They waited. Clouds began to part. Sunlight broke through and bathed the South Florida coast. Serge slipped on his polarized fishing-guide sunglasses for proper enhancement of cyans and magentas.
Country looked down again. “There we go.”
The bed began squeaking as Serge established a rhythm: “Cape Florida lighthouse…Freedom Tower…Crandon Park…”
“Fuck me harder, you lunatic!”
“The Flagler obelisk…Hibiscus Island…Southeast Financial Centre…”
Down on the beach, a small child pointed upward. “Mommy, look at the funny man doing push-ups in the window.” The mother whisked the tot away.
“…The gold Seaquarium dome…the converted Pan Am city-hall building on Dinner Key…the Aquatronics condo on Brickell with the cutout…Oh, my God! A seaplane!…It’s banking over the Orange Bowl to land in the bay!…”
Country shrieked at the pain-pleasure threshold. She became paralyzed, quivering helplessly like she’d touched a high-tension wire.
“…A twin-engine Grumman Mallard N1208 refitted with the new turboprops!…”
“Faster! No, stop! It hurts! No, don’t stop!…”
“…It’s splitting the Marriott and Bank of America for the belly landing! Here it comes!…”
“…Stop! No, fuck me! No, Stop! Don’t stop!…Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Serge finished, rolling off her onto his back. “And another safe landing.”
It was quiet for a bit. Serge opened the bedroom door; guys scattered.
“You people need to go out on a date or something.” Serge strapped on a shoulder holster. “Start folding up the tents. This feast is moving.”
He herded the gang into the elevator on the eleventh floor of the Deauville.
“But we just got to the room,” said Lenny.
“This one’s getting too hot,” said Serge. “Everyone who’s ever been caught always stayed just a little too long.”
The doors started closing, then bounced back open.
“One of the boat coolers won’t fit,” said Lenny. “Not enough room with all the people and luggage carts.”
“Everyone squeeze back,” said Serge. He got out, crouched down on his knees and pushed the cooler hard. People inside groaned. “Almost there.” The doors started closing again, and Serge jumped up on top of the cooler. The elevator shut all the way as the doors of the next car opened. Miller and Bixby got out.
Serge’s elevator headed down. He stood atop the cooler, faced the others and spread his arms. “The Year of Our Lord Nineteen Hundred and
Sixty-four. A watershed time—for the nation as a whole and Miami Beach in particular, but with very different implications. For the country, the birth of an epoch, America coming out of assassination funk, finally facing its own social skeletons in a decade of unprecedented upheaval before maturing to greatness. For Miami Beach, the last hurrah. The peak years of the fifties already far behind, Hotel Row on the skids. But Miami Beach still had one last year left in her, one that would be bigger than all the others combined. You wouldn’t believe the confluence of colossal names and seismic events that rocked the world in 1964—all from just a few blocks along the strip here. The Beatles were just the beginning, but you’ll be learning about the rest in coming days, thanks to your wise decision choosing Serge and Lenny’s Florida Experience for all your historic travel needs.”
The elevator opened. Serge jumped off the cooler.
“The basement?” said Lenny.
“Always leave by the basement,” said Serge. “Avoids a lot of unnecessary explaining. Plus, I’m meeting someone.”
“Who?” asked Lenny.
“A link to the old days. Maybe put us in touch with the right people. I made some calls from the limo trying to reach him at his business, but he’d been bought out by a national chain. They said he came here.”
The Deauville’s basement was a low-ceilinged concourse of modest retail shops under the lobby. All empty. Serge led the gang down the north corridor, then shepherded them to one of the storefronts.
“A barbershop?” said Mick.
“Doesn’t look like much today,” said Serge. “But check out the ancient customer photos in the window. There’s Mickey Rooney in that bib and Liberace getting a trim. This is Perry Como, and the one over there is Robert Goulet, who forgot the words to the national anthem.”
Serge went inside.
Three barber chairs. Two empty, the other holding a white-haired barber reading the newspaper. A broom leaned against the counter. The barber heard them and stood. He set his paper on the counter and walked around behind the chair he’d been sitting in. “Who’s first?”
“We’re not getting haircuts,” said Serge.
The barber’s brow crinkled. “Then how can I help you?”
“Roy, it’s me, Little Serge. Sergio’s grandson.”
Roy’s eyes opened wide. “Little Serge!” He ran out from behind the chair and gave Serge a big hug.
“Rusty and Doug, I’d like you to meet Roy. Roy ‘The Pawn King.’ He might have some information that could help get us out of this. He’s the reason we came to this hotel.”
“I thought it was because you were obsessed with the Beatles,” said Doug.
“Please! Give me a little more credit. It was part of the Master Plan.”
Roy held Serge by the shoulders. “Great to see you!…But how’d you find me?”
“Tracked you down through Pawn Nation. At first they kept hanging up. I talked to like ten employees until I found one who knew where you’d gone…. Roy, the old pawnshop, Jesus! How could you?”
“They offered me an obscene amount of money. Besides, I was getting too old for all the cokeheads bringing in stolen crutches and hearing aids…. So tell me, what are you doing here?”
“Conducting a travel tour, looking for gems, working on a mystery, layin’ low, lovin’ life, livin’ large—”
“Slow down! Slow down! Damn, you’re just like your granddad!”
“You know where I can find anyone from his old gang?”
“The whole place has gone to hell. Most of the old-timers couldn’t take it and moved out. The last one I heard still hanging around was Coltrane. He was working with some of the new boxers down at the Fifth Street Gym.”
“I didn’t know Coltrane knew anything about boxing.”
“Doesn’t. He just gets drunk and walks around the gym yelling. But they like him over there, kind of a mascot. Why do you want to find them anyway?”
“Set the record straight on my grandfather’s death. I’m absolutely sure he didn’t kill himself.”
Roy put a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but do yourself a favor: Let it go. You don’t want to be asking around about that.”
Serge shook his head. “Can’t do it.”
Roy looked Serge over again and took a resigned breath. “You’re just like him.”
“Thanks, Roy.”
“That’s a compliment.”
“I know.”
MILLER AND BIXBY wore latex gloves, combing Room 1114 of the Deauville Hotel. Others from the Bureau had been called in. The room was full of people in dark suits scribbling notes, filming with video cameras. Photo flashes went off every other second. Agents carted away boxes full of tagged evidence: roaches, beer empties, pizza boxes, loose bullets, condoms, sticky notes, bloody bath towels, empty box from a Beatles documentary.
“What the hell was going on in this room?” said Miller.
Brad’s body came out of the bathroom in a rubber bag.
Bixby removed more Post-it Notes from the wall and dropped them into a sterile Baggie. “There must be hundreds of these things.”
Miller plucked one of the yellow squares off the nightstand: “Analyze Raging Bull Florida scenes (freeze frame). Find address of LaMotta’s old Miami Beach nightclub.”
A junior agent came in the room with an urgent fax. “Just got this from city hall.” Miller grabbed it and put on his reading glasses.
Dear Mayor of Miami Beach,
As you might recall from my last correspondence, I’m president of the Miami Beach Renaissance and History Task Force, and I have good news! Are you sitting down? I’ve been in touch with the Today show, and they are right on the verge of relocating from New York to Miami Beach. So everybody needs to look snappy, and pronto!
I haven’t actually heard from Katie herself, but I did receive an autographed photo from Al Roker as a signal of his readiness to make the big jump south, which I am enclosing as an advance token of my appreciation.
Not having received a reply to all my other letters, I am taking your continued silence as tacit approval to proceed with my operation. I understand that plausible deniability is essential for your scandal-ridden administration, and you’ll need to distance yourself while I grease some outstretched NBC hands and take the network advance teams to the “right” clubs, if you know what I mean. But here’s the lowdown: My personal time is completely volunteered, although expenses are starting to add up. Ten thousand should get us through until the ink is dry. You know that third garbage can at the Metro Zoo by the cage with the little monkeys, where if you stand too close they hit you with poop? I know it, too (wink). Meanwhile, I’ll keep you regularly apprised through the usual back-door channels. See you on TV!
Your faithful citizen,
Serge A. Storms
P.S. I’ll also need some stationery with your official letterhead and a concealed-weapons permit. If anyone asks, I don’t know where I got them, okay?
Agent Miller took off his glasses. “Where the hell are they?”
30
W HERE THE HELL are we?” asked Lenny, leaning over the limo’s steering wheel.
“Still a ways to go,” said Serge, chugging a bottle of water in the passenger seat.
“How do you know this Coltrane will be there?”
“I don’t.” Serge set a briefcase on his lap and opened it. “But we have to start somewhere.” He pulled out a large brown envelope from a local print shop.
“What’s that?”
“My labels.” He showed Lenny a sheet of self-adhesive stickers.
“What for?”
Serge killed the water. “Watch this.” He wiped the plastic bottle dry on his shirt, then wrapped one of the stickers around it. “My own new brand of energy drink. The kids are buying this stuff like crazy in the clubs. Somebody out there is making a killing. I want it to be me.”
“A lot of big companies are in that market,” said Lenny. “It’ll be hard to break in.”
; “That’s what my secret formula is for.” Serge unfolded a wrinkled piece of paper from the briefcase and handed it to Lenny. “Do you think you can get me these drugs?”
“Sure, but they’re illegal,” said Lenny. “I thought you were against drugs.”
“I am. But this is a health drink.”
Rusty tapped Serge on the shoulder. “We’d like to get out of the car now.”
Serge shook his head. “You’re still obsessing on the negative. We need to break that worry cycle.” He tucked the briefcase under his arm and climbed over the seat into the back of the limo. “You’ve just entered the Muhammad Ali phase of the tour.”
Serge reached in the briefcase and pulled out an eight-by-ten black-and-white of a young Cassius Clay clowning around a boxing ring with John, Paul, George and Ringo.
“After they played the Sullivan show, the Beatles hung out a few days and visited Clay’s training camp. Clever segue, eh?”
Blank faces.
Serge stuck a tape in the limo’s VCR. “This is rare footage from the closed-circuit feed of the Clay-Liston fight. Very hard to find.” He extended a telescoping pointer and tapped a spot on the side of the TV screen. “See these guys? That’s trainer Angelo Dundee, sidekick Bundini Brown and the soon-to-be Muhammad Ali. A Catholic, a Jew and a Muslim. The way it should be in this country, tighter than brothers.”
“What about Protestants?” Lenny called back from the front seat.
“I hate fucking Protestants.”
“But, Serge…”
“Kidding, Lenny…. Now, watch the screen closely everyone…Mick, since you’re the expert, would you like to do guest commentary?”
“Wha…?” said Mick, passing the Lucite dragon bong back to Country.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were busy turning your brain to window caulk….”
