Tropic of Stupid

by Tim Dorsey

  Optimism resumed. Until the next news cycle.

  As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold. And Nathan Sparrow still had another plate to deliver.

  The night of the big fundraising dinner, something had happened that was unbeknownst to everyone, including Sparrow. The other security guards had grabbed the phone and given it to the attorney, who’d dropped it in his pocket. Sparrow didn’t remember it until all the screaming had stopped and guests had left and the caterers cleaned up.

  But when he’d finally pulled the phone from his pocket, out of irresistible curiosity, he’d checked to see what had actually been filmed, and discovered the phone was out of memory. Maybe the guard hadn’t captured anything after all. Nathan poked around the phone’s menus until he found the evening’s video file. He made another discovery. The file was almost an hour long until it abruptly cut off. Hmmm, so that’s what depleted the memory. He hit play.

  It started with the candidate’s remarks, then some yelling as the picture swirled all over the place in the scuffle with the other guards, and finally the screen went black when Sparrow slipped the phone into his pocket. But the sound continued. Well I’ll be, he thought. Nobody ever hit the button to stop recording. He listened on as Grayson cursed him out in the bedroom, right up to the most salient utterance of the night . . .

  And now, today, back at Grayson headquarters, right as the staff thought they were about to regain footing, it hit all the TVs at once: “Breaking News.”

  Every network had it. “We’ve just received another leaked tape from the infamous fundraiser in Palm Beach.”

  Another transcript began scrolling up the screen until the unsurmountable “How am I supposed to tell these assholes what they want to hear and still get elected?”

  In a private office, the campaign director hit the off button on the TV.

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Grayson.

  “Because I need to start revising my résumé.”

  “Why? You said we were turning this around.”

  “Sir, say what you want about the opposition. Heck, even some of our own voters. But when you shit on the donors . . .”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What aren’t you getting? It’s game over.”

  “You fuck!” Another swig of Johnnie Walker. “It’s not over until I say it is!”

  The director put on his jacket and headed for the door. “Now I’m glad this happened.”

  “You don’t walk away from me! Come back here!” Grayson chased him out into the main campaign office. A room full of campaign workers held up phones.

  Later that evening, Nathan Sparrow sat alone on a couch watching the massive TV that was used to premiere all those expensive commercials. But now the screen was filled with a drunk Senate candidate stomping through his headquarters, cursing and swinging a bottle of Scotch by the neck.

  A network announcer came on. “We have just received a brief press release. Jack Grayson has indefinitely suspended his Senate campaign for health reasons and will be out of the country until further notice.”

  Sparrow got out his phone and texted his daughter that she could go back to work.

  He smiled and went to bed.

  Chapter 22

  Fort Myers

  The 1970 Ford Cobra headed north and was back circling a motel again. Serge finally parked a discreet distance across the street at a gas station with burglar bars. His spider senses zeroed in where they had earlier, on a remote corner of the motel lot with an old Chevy that contained a driver who hadn’t moved in an hour.

  On the other side of the lot, a happy scene in front of one of the motel rooms. An old man in a red baseball cap sitting in a cheap lawn chair with those crappy plastic straps. A radio was on the game. Smoke rose from a small grill cooking hot dogs. Serge kept watching the Chevy driver, who kept watching the motel guest.

  The door of the Cobra opened, and Serge strolled across the street. He reached the motel and inhaled deeply near the barbecue. “Smells fabulous!”

  The old man remained in the chair, reaching with a long fork to turn the franks. “Nothing like hot dogs and baseball.”

  “Why aren’t you at the game?” asked Serge.

  “Staying down here three weeks, so there’s plenty of games.” The man reached in his shirt pocket and produced stubs. “Saving my money for the best ones. Got tickets here for the Yankees. I hate the Yankees!”

  “There’s a lot of that going around Sox Nation,” said Serge. “My condolences for the Bucky Dent dinger in seventy-eight.”

  “I’m almost over it. Watched them lose the seventh game of the series in sixty-seven, seventy-five and eighty-six, but they’ve been turning it around lately.”

  “My name’s Serge.” He extended a hand and they shook.

  “I’m Cornelius from Marblehead. Retired dockworker and lifelong Sox fanatic. I hate the Yankees!”

  “You already said that.”

  “I did?” He stood up and grabbed a plate. “My wife says I’m repeating myself more as I get older, but she’s not here. Want a dog?”

  “I’m good.”

  Cornelius squeezed mustard into a bun and sat back down. “This is the life! Florida, baseball on the radio, big game tomorrow and a grilled dog!” He took a large, juicy bite.

  “Yes, it is the life! Golden droplets!” Serge kept tabs on the Chevy with peripheral vision. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you familiar with this area?”

  “No, but it’s beautiful, palm trees and sun and all,” said the fan. “I can’t believe how little I’m paying for this place. I almost feel like I’m stealing.”

  “I know the area, and just to be safe, please follow the tips on the back of the door.”

  The New Englander laughed. “Are you like some kind of local ambassador?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I am. Enjoy your stay.” They shook hands again, and Serge returned to his car across the street. He tuned his own radio to the game . . .

  Two innings later, the old man stretched and went into his room. The door of a Chevy opened.

  “Shit,” Serge said to himself. “It’s going down.”

  The Chevy’s driver had a sinewy build, half-inch-long hair, and a ruddy, dark-red complexion. Some people have suntans that look healthy; this was not one of those. He headed straight for a door next to a lawn chair and grill. He knocked hard.

  An old man in a red cap answered. “Yes, what can I do—” Before he could finish, he was forced inside at gunpoint.

  “W-w-what’s going on?”

  And before the assailant could answer, the door crashed in behind him. The man spun to see Serge aiming a pistol at him.

  “Drop it! I won’t ask twice!”

  A revolver hit the floor.

  “Now lie on your stomach on the bed,” said Serge. “And put your hands behind your back.”

  A shaken Red Sox fan fell against a wall. “Jesus! Two robbers!”

  “Only one,” said Serge, fastening plastic restraints around the would-be thief’s wrists. Then he jerked the man to his feet and placed a light jacket over the man’s shoulders to conceal the bound hands. “Cornelius, I’m so sorry that you had to see Florida in this light. It’s really out of character, so please put it out of your mind and enjoy the rest of your vacation. Go Sox!”

  The tourist ran to the window and watched Serge march the robber across the street, arm around his shoulders like they were buddies . . .

  The blue-and-white Cobra pulled up to the curb of Fort Myers’s mini–Fenway Park just as the game let out. Coleman and Lee were making their way to the car but it was slow going. Fans surrounded the all-star pitcher, getting him to sign baseballs, programs, their hats, anything.

  They eventually reached the car, and Lee signed a couple last programs out the window before the Cobra pulled away.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “You should have seen it in there. He was mobbed all day, signing like a million autographs. I had no idea that many peo
ple read High Times.”

  “Coleman, that’s not why— Forget it. We’ve got some bitchin’ barbecue in our future!”

  The Cobra accelerated out of town.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  Lee turned around. “What’s that noise?”

  Serge glanced up in the mirror. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Bam, bam, bam.

  “There it is again,” said Lee. “It’s coming from the trunk.”

  “Spare tire must have come loose.” Serge eased the car onto the shoulder. “I’ll just secure it.” He reached under the seat.

  “You have a gun?” said the ballplayer.

  “This? It’s just a cigarette lighter. Be back in a flash.” Serge popped the trunk lid, and brought the butt of the pistol down hard. Wham, wham, wham. He climbed back into the driver’s seat. “There, all secure . . .”

  The Ford Cobra indeed stayed off the grid, taking remote Highway 80 across the open countryside. Through LaBelle and Clewiston.

  Coleman cracked a sweaty can of Pabst and reached toward the back seat. “Want another?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on,” said Coleman. “You’ve only had two. High Times! Don’t let me down.”

  “Why not? We’re going to Tom’s.” Lee accepted the can and chugged.

  “Coleman, you have no idea how jazzed I am!” Serge slapped the steering wheel. “I’ve gotten to meet one of my favorite baseball players growing up.”

  “Righteous.” Coleman slurped. “When did he stop playing?”

  “That’s the coolest thing,” said Serge. “He never stopped. He’s like the modern Satchel Paige, roaming the world with his glove looking for a game, from New Brunswick to Venezuela. One of his jerseys is in the Hall of Fame. But not his Red Sox shirt. The San Rafael Pacifics of the independent North American League. Why, you ask? Because at age sixty-five, he became the oldest player ever to start a professional game. And if that wasn’t enough, he pitched the complete game! And won it!”

  “I remember that,” said Bill. “Had my best junk still working.”

  Soon music filled the car, and the radio wasn’t on.

  “. . . Me and my Arrow . . .”

  All the occupants of the Cobra sang in disharmony. Serge glanced in the rearview. “Thanks for taking requests.”

  Coleman popped another can. “What song was that?”

  “Harry Nilsson,” said Lee. “He was the best.”

  “Why?” said Serge. “Because he also sang the song ‘Spaceman’?”

  “No, his sixth album was The Point!, a fable about Oblio, the only round-headed child in a land where everything must have a point, and he wears a pointed hat, but then he’s discovered and banished to the Pointless Forest with his dog Arrow, and, wait. What was my point? . . .” He stared at the headrest in front of him. “Coleman, your head’s round. Is your real name Oblio?”

  Serge glanced in the mirror again. “Everything okay back there?”

  “Not sure,” said Lee. “Feeling a little weird.” He stared at the can in his hand. “But I’m only halfway through my third beer, so that’s not it.” Then his gaze shifted out the window at a hardwood hammock on the edge of the scrubland. “There’s the Pointless Forest! We must rescue Oblio!”

  Serge’s head slowly pivoted toward the passenger seat.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Coleman.

  “You know.” He sighed and faced forward. “What have you gone and done?”

  “Okay, okay,” said Coleman. “But I only put the tiniest amount of hashish oil in his beer.”

  “What!”

  “It was for his own good,” said Coleman. “It’s the Spaceman. This could be his big comeback for High Times.”

  “The engine in this car is vibrating to the key of A minor,” said Lee. “The key of my skeleton, in tune with the Dadaist movement of 1920s Paris . . .”

  “Coleman,” said Serge, “do something before this goes off the rails. You know drugs.”

  “Got it covered. Where are those supplies for your ancestor corkboards?”

  “Under your seat.”

  Coleman pulled out a shopping bag and discarded a stack of notecards. Safety scissors snipped off a strip of yellow yarn, which Coleman attached to the roof of the back seat with a pushpin.

  Serge glanced. “What the hell . . . ?”

  “Give me a sec.” Coleman attached another piece of yarn to the roof in front of his own seat.

  Serge looked around the car as the other two occupants joyfully swatted their respective strings. “What in the name of God? Have you turned into fucking cats?”

  Coleman pawed at his yarn. “You don’t understand the drug culture. This will chill him out . . .”

  Ten minutes later. “I was wrong,” said Coleman. “The dose was too concentrated.”

  Lee was now crawling over Coleman’s shoulder, trying to climb out the window of the speeding car.

  “Damn it.” Serge pulled over. “I’ll deal with you later.” He ran around the Cobra and grabbed the ballplayer under the arms. “Let me help you the rest of the way out of the window. For future reference the door usually works better. And when the car’s stopped.”

  “Why do I feel so strange?” said the player.

  “Sorry about this,” said Serge. “Coleman kind of dosed you.”

  But Lee had already begun wandering into the field. “Even a baseball has a point. Know what I mean? It’s unlike any other sport, no clock, the defense controls the ball, Cartesian coordinates from the point at the bottom of home plate, sending ninety-degree foul lines stretching out into infinity across the universe.”

  “Let me get you back to the car,” said Serge, grabbing the player around the waist. “You’ll be fine.”

  Lee was unsteady on his legs but making progress. “And for the record, the Yankees suck.”

  “I remember that big bench-clearing brawl in seventy-six after Lou Piniella collided with Carlton Fisk at the plate, and Graig Nettles slammed you on your pitching shoulder.”

  Lee stopped and swayed off-balance as he reached in his back pocket. “Have to show you something.” He opened his wallet and pulled out a wrinkled piece of cardboard.

  “What’s that?” asked Serge.

  “Nettles’s baseball card . . . So he can smell my ass!”

  “Wow, after all these years,” said Serge. “You really do hate the Yankees.”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  Chapter 23

  West Palm Beach

  The cameras were waiting.

  Reinhold looked around the front of the courthouse. “Where’s Nathan?”

  Nash checked his Rolex. “He’s never this late.

  “Doesn’t he know we’re shooting the new commercial this morning?”

  “I left five voice messages on his cell phone and called his house and the office,” said Reinhold. “Nobody knows where he is.”

  The director grew impatient. “What’s it going to be, guys?”

  The pair looked at each other, then the director. “Guess we’ll get started without him . . .”

  Sixty miles south, knuckles hit wood.

  A priest came to the front door of the rectory. “Yes?”

  “You don’t know me, but my name is Nathan Sparrow. Father Al knew me as Bobby.”

  “Oh yes, Father Al,” said the priest. “He will be remembered well. He touched a lot of lives. Were you at the funeral?”

  Nathan nodded.

  “How may I help you?”

  “Father, I need to ask a favor. I don’t know if it’s appropriate,” said Nathan. “When I was young, I met him a few times here in the main living area, but I never saw his room. Is it . . . ?”

  “He only passed a few days ago, so there hasn’t been time,” said the priest. “It’s still just like he left it. I’m guessing you want to see it?”

  Nathan nodded again.

  “I assumed that, because you’re not the first. Follow me.”

 
; They arrived, and the priest waited with folded hands outside the open door as Nathan went inside the tiny dark-green room. He moved slowly, gently touching the bed, the bookcase, the modest desk. A Bible was still open to the book of Matthew. Nathan got out the letter and read it again. His lips began to tremble, and the priest politely looked away.

  An hour later, the attention of a serving staff swung toward the unexpected sight of a tailored suit that had just come in the door. Nathan removed his jacket as someone approached. “Can I help you?”

  “I used to come here as a boy with Father Al.”

  “Father Al? If you knew him, I’m sure he had an effect on your life.”

  Nathan answered by tossing his jacket in a corner without regard for wrinkles. He walked around behind a long table for the homeless dinner line. “May I?”

  The other person nodded, and Nathan picked up a serving spoon.

  Somewhere Else in West Palm Beach

  The budget motel on U.S. Highway 1 had a neon sign of a seahorse, and a vending machine with an impenetrable metal grate across the glass.

  A baseball player lay still on a bed, staring wide-eyed up at something on the ceiling. “There’s a big spider up there!”

  Serge sat at a desk in tunnel-vision concentration. “You’re still hallucinating.”

  “No,” said Coleman. “There is a spider. I’ll get it.” He climbed up on the bed with a shoe and smacked it. “Problem solved.”

  “This stuff is so much stronger now.” Lee had a fistful of bedspread gripped tight on each side of his hips. “How long till it wears off?”

  “I’m still ripped, so maybe an hour or two,” said Coleman. “Just kick back and dig it.”

  “For some reason I feel like I’m in Egypt,” said Lee. “And my legs are tentacles with suckers.”

  “That means it’s good shit,” said Coleman. “If you wouldn’t mind mentioning me to High Times—”

  “Can you guys pipe down?” said Serge. “I’m trying to get something done over here.”