Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (12 page)

J
OHN MILTON
didn’t take his second firing in as many months sitting still. He had a nervous breakdown.

It wasn’t one of those dramatic things where you end up crouched naked in the middle of the living room floor, shivering with the heat on full blast. It was a much slower spiral, like walking pneumonia, and John was able to maintain normal outward appearances until just before the big crash.

The following Monday, he got out the classifieds again. After a weeklong search, John took the only job available. He began working entirely on commission selling used cars at Tampa Bay Motors.

John quickly got to know the whole gang on the sales lot. Stu and Vic and Rod and Dutch and Frenchy and Rocco. Rocco Silvertone, the most aggressive used car salesman in Tampa since the untimely death of “Honest Al.”

The other salesmen had an understanding. As customers strayed onto the lot, they would rotate alphabetically and take turns ambushing them. Except for Rocco. His first day on the job he announced that he would go after anything he wanted. If they didn’t like it, they were free to fistfight him. Nobody objected. They let the big dog eat.

It took John Milton only a week to establish his own space at Tampa Bay Motors. At the bottom of the pecking order.

On the third Friday in June, Rocco Silvertone arrived early and hungry at the sales lot. This would be a big day—he could feel it. There was an extra bounce in his step as he headed for the sink to chase bootleg yellow jackets with a paper cone of water. Then he crumpled the cup and bounced it off John’s forehead.

“Hey!” said John. “Stop it!”

“Stop it!” mocked Rocco.

The others laughed, and it encouraged Rocco to get John in a headlock.

“Let go!” said John.

“Let go!” said Rocco. John wiggled and thrashed and finally farted, which triggered more mirth until Rocco spotted a well-dressed customer and released John and headed across the showroom.

Rocco didn’t know a damn thing about cars and sold them like nobody’s business. What he did know was people—which ones needed approval, which ones folded under intimidation, and who wanted to hear the latest ethnic jokes. It helped that Rocco was huge and dashing, with broad shoulders that filled out his tailored suits. It was a natural athlete’s build, no workout required. Rocco knew all the standard sales tricks and a few more. If he was dealing with a couple: “Please, don’t let me rush you. Here, I’ll leave. Take your time to discuss it privately in my office”—which he had bugged to learn the top price they would pay. Then he’d offer that price, which was bumped up four hundred dollars by the hidden “dealer prep” charge preprinted on the sales form.

Rocco could break any rule he wanted because he had the owner in his pocket. One of the first things Rocco did when he came to Tampa Bay Motors was look for the owner’s weakness. It was fishing.

Rocco didn’t know anything about fishing, either, but how hard could it be? He took the owner down to the Keys, and they went out on the flats. They saw a tarpon in the shallows, shiny dorsal slicing the water. The owner took out his fishing rod. Rocco took out his rifle.

The owner put down his rod as the silver fish floated by on its side with bullet holes. “Let me try that.”

“Be my guest.”

That afternoon, the owner pointed up at the sky.

“Look. A roseate spoonbill.”

Rocco raised his rifle and fired, and the spoonbill helicoptered out of the sky and splashed next to the boat. The two men looked over the port gunwales at the scarlet carcass.

“It’s beautiful,” said Rocco.

“Then why’d you do that?” asked the owner.

“Wanted to get a better look.”

The next Rocco fishing story had become legend. On their second trip to the Keys, the owner said he wanted to try deep-sea fishing in the Gulf Stream. Rocco rented a boat with a tuna tower, and they went out twenty miles. Soon, Rocco spotted five Cubans bobbing across the Florida Straits. He pulled alongside.

The refugees cheered the arrival of their rescuers and waved tiny, homemade American flags. The flag-waving became less enthusiastic as Rocco and the owner cast fishing lines under the raft. Rocco had heard that fish liked shadows. The pair drank beer and laughed and reeled in four fish apiece and left.

TWO WEEKS WENT
by, and John Milton still hadn’t sold his first car. He was living off credit cards.

An hour before lunch on a Friday, this customer comes in and asks John if he has any new Jaguars. He’s real nonchalant, says he’s just browsing. John gets in the golf cart and takes the guy out and shows him one in jade green, and just like that the guy pulls out his checkbook.

John rode back to the showroom on a cushion of air. This was the turning point, he told himself. No more grits for dinner.

John led the man into one of the sales offices and started on the paperwork. Rocco appeared in the doorway.

“Trevor?”

“Rocco?” said the customer.

“You two know each other?” asked John.

“Play racquetball at the club,” said Rocco. “Or rather, he plays. I take a beating.”

“You’re holding your own,” said Trevor.

“Compared to you? Are you kidding? You’re a killer out there!”

Rocco turned to John. “Would you mind if I had a word with Trevor?”

“Actually, I—”

Rocco pulled a chair up next to the customer. “You can wait out in the hall. This won’t take long.”

John stood in the hall muttering to himself, thinking of all the comebacks he wished he had thought of in the office.

The door opened and Rocco stuck his head out. “You talking to someone out here?”

“Me?”

“Try to keep it down, okay?”

“Listen—”

Rocco closed the door.

Five minutes later, the door opened again and Trevor came out, followed by Rocco, carrying paperwork for the Jag. He patted John on the shoulder. “Thanks for the help. I’ll take it from here.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you know? I told Trevor about this place at racquetball. Said he should come by sometime and check us out. That technically makes it my commission.”

John was speechless.

Rocco punched him in the shoulder. “I owe you one.”

Then Rocco and Trevor walked away chatting together, Rocco making a backhanded swing with an invisible racket.

WHEN ROCCO FINISHED
the Jaguar’s paperwork, it was lunchtime. Rocco sped through traffic on Dale Mabry Highway, tapping the steering wheel to the stereo. Nothing made Rocco feel better than closing a sale. Especially someone else’s.

Rocco’s car was a new black Corvette convertible. He’d added a hundred-watt amp, eight three-way speakers and subwoofer bazooka tube in the trunk. He was playing his theme song, “Right into the Danger Zone,” by Kenny Loggins. Whenever Rocco played his theme song, he wore his green-tinted aviator sunglasses and a leather bomber jacket. On the passenger side was a set of the latest graphite-and-titanium golf clubs. They looked great in his car. And since he already had the clubs, Rocco decided he might as well take up golf. The Corvette had a single bumper sticker:
NO FAT CHICKS
.

Rocco sang along with the song at a red light, occasionally giving the cymbals a rimshot with a phantom drumstick. He wanted everyone to know he could pick the
coolest songs. In a way, it was almost as if he were playing the music himself. Rocco felt great about Rocco. Yes, I am a Top Gun.

After every big sale, Rocco had a tradition of treating himself to a new toy at The Sharper Image. He drove over to Old Hyde Park Village, Tampa’s chic, high-end shopping district with sidewalk cafés. Rocco pulled into the no-parking zone in front of The Sharper Image and stuck his
CLERGY
sign on the dash. He would only be a minute, so he left the top down and the stereo on full, as a service to others. Then he went inside and asked a clerk about the global-positioning wine stopper.

SERGE AND COLEMAN
strolled up Howard Avenue. Serge told Coleman to stop drinking from the thirty-two-ounce bottle of Colt 45.

“But it’s in a bag.”

“This is a very nice place,” said Serge. “We have to remember that we’re guests.”

“What’s so great about this old village, anyway?”

“Old Hyde Park Village,” corrected Serge. “It’s the history. The whole area’s been tastefully preserved. Everything screams class. But best of all, they’ve really clamped down on crime.”

Serge and Coleman stopped and pressed their noses and hands against the window of The Sharper Image. “Gadgets,” Serge said in a monotone. “Must have gadgets.”

A salesman inside silently shooed them away from the glass.

“What’s that music?” asked Serge.

“ ‘Right into the Danger Zone,’ ” said Coleman. “From
Top Gun
.”

“God, I hate that song. Where’s it coming from?”

They looked around the corner and saw a black Corvette.

“Nobody’s in it,” said Coleman.

“Look,” said Serge. “The latest graphite-and-titanium clubs. I’ve heard wonderful things about them.”

Serge removed a two iron from the bag and swished it in the air. “These are supposed to have a huge sweet spot and incredible memory in the shaft.”

He carefully wrapped his fingers around the leather grip.

“Remember to keep your head down,” said Coleman.

“Check,” said Serge. He pulled the club back over his shoulder.

“…right in-to the dan-ger zone!…”

Wham.

The head of the iron buried itself deep into the stereo’s faceplate, and the car went silent. The outdoor tables at the café across the street stood and gave Serge an ovation. He slipped the two iron back in the bag on the passenger’s seat. Then he and Coleman went up the sidewalk and pressed their hands and noses against the window at Victoria’s Secret.

M
AHONEY
!
GET IN HERE
!"

Mahoney arrived in Ingersol’s doorway with a tuna sandwich. “You wanted to see me?”

“We’ve got work to do.” Ingersol held up a videocassette. “Agents just brought this in. Found it in the woods at the Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings house near Gainesville.”

Ingersol got up from his desk and walked to the television set and stuck the tape in the VCR. A picture appeared on the TV: a burly, bearded man tied to a tree.

“What’s the plot here?” asked Mahoney.

“Sound technicians were able to lift the muffled conversation in the background,” said Ingersol. “That poor bastard tied to the tree is a trucker accused of selling the McGraw Brothers some bad speed.”

On the screen, the McGraws paced back and forth in front of the camera, talking fast, waving pistols and rifles.

“Looks like good speed to me,” said Mahoney.

“That’s one of the effects of good speed,” said Ingersol. “Makes you think it’s bad speed.”

“Where’d they get the video camera?”

“Trucker had it. Used it to make crushing videos to sell on the Internet.”

“Crushing videos?”

“Narrow sexual bandwidth of the foot-fetish strain. But even the regular foot people think they’re weird,” said Ingersol. “A few guys get woodrows watching women’s feet step on bugs and little frogs and stuff. We had a case on the east coast where one sap had it so bad he asked his wife to crush
him.
With a pickup truck no less. She was only supposed to crush him a little, and they made this plywood ramp, but something went wrong and they found him with a Dodge Ram four-by-four parked on his rib cage and his pants around his ankles.”

“Why did the McGraws film an incriminating video, anyway?” asked Mahoney.

“Good speed makes you think you can make movies.”

Mahoney nodded.
“Ishtar.”

“They must have been so high, they forgot about the camera and left it.”

“What’s happening now?” asked Mahoney, pointing at the screen.

“This is where the trucker still thinks they’re just trying to scare him. And here comes the gut shot with the Marlin rifle.”

The trucker doubled over, held up by the ropes tying him to the tree. A whoosh of air left his lungs.

“Now they’re going to town on his legs and arms with the small-caliber stuff, and here’s where the leader sticks the muzzle of his pistol in the guy’s left eye and pulls the trigger.”

Mahoney winced. “That was out of line.”

Ingersol turned off the TV and walked back to his desk. “Their level of violence is escalating. We have to find them soon or there’s going to be a major incident.”

“What about the guy who killed Skag McGraw? Shouldn’t we give him some sort of protection?”

“You mean Jim Davenport? Can’t chance it. We still have the element of surprise. We send some baby-sitters, and the press is bound to find out. Then the McGraws will take off in another direction, and we’ll never catch them.”

“What if I go to Tampa myself? Undercover?”

“No way. I know you’re still hung up on Serge. I’m not about to let you take off on your private agenda.”

Ingersol reached in his desk and pulled out a thick file marked
MCGRAWS
. “Just came from the FBI.” He flipped open the manila folder. “The whole family is a bunch of dangerous freaks. They’ve got cousins all over north Florida. Most are ex-cons or junkies or deranged from inbreeding. Five have died violently, three are back in prison, two have gone insane from untreated venereal disease, and one writes book reviews. But the McGraw Brothers are the worst of the clan. The oldest and meanest is Rufus McGraw. His rap sheet goes way back, long as your arm. A real piece of work. He started pulling a series of bank and credit-union holdups across the desert Southwest in the late seventies, never coming close to getting caught. He became known for inadequate attention to antiperspirants, and the press dubbed him ‘The B.O. Bandit,’ aka ‘The Rank Robber,’ and he was soon arrested and sent to prison.” Ingersol pulled out a mug shot. “This is Sly McGraw. His thing was gas-station jobs. Always got away clean. Then the press started writing about his politeness, calling him ‘The Gentleman Bandit,’ ‘The Courteous Crook’ and ‘The Mannered Malefactor,’ and he was immediately picked up and sent to Leavenworth. Then there’s Willie McGraw, a real scumbag, but once he got his hands on some money from a few home invasions, he started buying all these expensive suits. The press nicknamed him ‘The Dapper Bandit’ and ‘The Sartorial Swindler,’ and he was quickly apprehended.”

“That’s only three,” said Mahoney.

“The fourth was Ed. He took forever to catch.”

Mahoney rubbed his chin. “The Dapper Bandit. I remember that case. The big trial in Kansas City.”

“No, Kansas City was the Debonair Duo.”

“That’s right,” said Mahoney. “I always get them mixed up with the Courteous Crew. The Dapper Bandit used the Twinkie Defense.”

“You’re thinking of the Polite Posse,” said Ingersol. “The Dapper Bandit used the Nintendo Defense.”

“No, the Nintendo Defense was the Couch Potato Murders.”

“Couch Potato?” said Ingersol. “I thought that was the Boom Box Trial.”

Mahoney shook his head. “The Boom Box Seven used the Prozac Defense.”

“Then which one was the Evolution Defense?”

“The Scopes Trial.”