Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (77 page)

J
ethro Maddox awoke in his parachute harness in the middle of a hurricane, twisting and swinging wildly from the tallest palm tree behind Hammerhead Ranch. Every third or fourth swing, he hit the tree trunk. “Owww!
Galanos!
” He heard a loud, ripping sound and looked up.

“
Oh, Mr. Temple, you’re hopelessly old-fashioned
,” said Bogart. “
Your ideas date back years. You still live in the time when America thought it could get along without the Johnny Roccos. Welcome back, Rocco, it was all a mistake
….”

The Diaz Boys listened intently to the movie, and Zargoza began thinking about the briefcase. It wasn’t safe in the storm—he had to move it. No, that was more risky. No, move it. Don’t. Move it. Don’t. It was driving him insane. He stood and grabbed the back of a chair for support until he calmed down. Then he started walking slowly around the bar in a state of utter paranoia.

“
Yeah, that’s me, sure! I was all those things—and more!
” said Edward G. “
When Rocco talked, people
shut up and listened. What Rocco said went. Nobody was as big as Rocco!
”

Serge picked up Zargoza’s vibe. Rope-a-dope was working. Serge’s gut told him it was time to make his move. Serge stuck his pistol inside his belt and covered it with his untucked tropical shirt. He turned the sound down on
Key Largo
and stuck the TV remote in his back pocket, and he began a wide circle around the bar, tracking Zargoza.

Zargoza picked up Serge in his peripheral vision.
So that’s it! He’s the Judas!
Zargoza patted his lower stomach, making sure his Colt was secure. He began counter-circling Serge.

Serge and Zargoza continued their pas de deux until each had circumnavigated the inside of the bar three times.

“All right!” shouted Zargoza. “Fuck this noise!”

He pulled the Colt and leveled it at Serge, who simultaneously went for his own piece. Except that Serge had become distracted by a historic photo of Tennessee Williams on the wall, and Zargoza beat him to the draw.

“Drop it! Now!” Zargoza shouted. Everyone flattened on the floor.

Serge froze in front of Tennessee’s picture. Just as he realized Zargoza had gotten the jump on him, other voices began yelling.

“You drop it, Fiddlebottom!” It was the Diaz Boys, aiming TEC-9 submachine guns.

Zargoza dropped his weapon. “I asked you not to call me that,” he said demurely.

“Where’s the five million?” shouted Tommy Diaz, standing with his back to the big-screen TV. “We know you’ve been holding out on us!”

“What five million?” said Zargoza.

“Don’t play simple!”

On the other side of the room, Serge furtively slid the TV remote out of his back pocket. He knew
Key Largo
by heart. At the right moment, he pressed the volume button.

“
Drop it or I’ll blast ya!
” yelled Edward G. Robinson.

The Diaz Boys bolted upright. They dropped their guns.

“
Now kick ’em away
,” said Robinson.

They did, and the guns skittered across the wooden floor.

Almost as soon as they did: “Freeze!”

Serge turned and saw Zargoza had gotten his gun back and was pointing it at him.

“But I just helped you!” said Serge.

“Helping yourself to my money is more like it!” said Zargoza.

“What are you talking about?” said Serge.

“You know damn well…” By the end of the sentence, Zargoza was talking to himself and pacing, waving the gun distractedly, and Serge and the Diaz Boys ducked each time he did.

Tommy Diaz heard more dialogue behind him and he turned his head and peeked. “Hey! That was just the TV set! Foul! We get our guns back!”

Zargoza squeezed off a shot into the roof and
mocked Tommy. “
Foul! We get our guns back!
Where’d you learn to be a hood? Everything’s inbounds!”

“
That big gun in your hand makes you look grown up—you think!
” said Barrymore. “
I’ll bet you spend hours posing in front of a mirror
.”

“Turn down that fucking TV,” Zargoza shouted over his shoulder, and Juan Diaz leaned and held down the volume button on the TV console until all the yellow bars marched to the left of the screen.

When Zargoza turned back around, he found Serge chatting socially with Art Tweed.

“Hey! This is a no-talking zone! Knock it off and move over there!” Zargoza motioned to Serge with the gun. “I thought we were pals, but you double-crossed me! You are
so
dead!”

“No, you’re dead!” said Serge, pointing a finger at Zargoza.

“No, you are!”

“You are!”

“No, you are!”

The other motel guests glanced at each other in terror, Serge and Zargoza still yelling in the background—“You are!” “No, you are!”—Here we go, a bloodbath.

“No, you are!” said Zargoza.

“Behind you!” said Serge.

“You already used that trick! It’s the oldest in the book!”

Serge reached behind his back and pressed the volume button on the remote.

“
Drop the gun now!
”

Zargoza turned around and saw Humphrey Bogart on TV. He yelled at Juan Diaz again. “Turn that fucking thing down!”

Juan marched the little yellow bars across the TV, and just as he was done, Serge pressed the remote and marched the yellow volume bars back the other way.

“
What do I care about Johnny Rocco, whether he lives or dies?
” said Bogart. “
I only care about me—me and mine. I fight nobody’s battles but my own
.”

“I said, turn that goddamn thing down!”

Juan turned it down, and Serge turned it back up again.

“
Please, God, make a big wave, send it crashing down on us. Destroy us all if need be, but punish him!
” said Barrymore.

“Jesus Christ!” yelled Zargoza. “I’m the one with the gun. That counts for something!”

“No it doesn’t,” said Serge.

“
WILL YOU SHUT UP!
”

“Uh…no.”

A new voice: “Drop it!”

Everyone turned.

It was Aristotle “Art” Tweed, trying to look mean. He had a gun and he wasn’t afraid to die.

Zargoza dropped his pistol. “Where’d you get the piece?” he asked Art.

“It’s the gun Serge tossed away. There, under that table”—Art pointed to a spot a few feet to his right. “Serge whispered for me to get ready. He was going to make you look at the TV, and when you did, I was to grab the pistol.”

Zargoza snapped his fingers and winced. “Fell for the oldest trick in the book.”

Jethro Maddox, swinging in his parachute harness, was half stupid from repeatedly slamming into the trunk of the palm tree. He heard a ripping sound again and looked up. “Uh-oh.”

“I finally decided what I wanted to do with my life before I committed suicide,” said Art Tweed. “I was trying to figure out who was the worst human being I could kill and make the world a better place. But that DJ got himself burnt up before I could get to him. Guess who that leaves?”

Art stretched out his arm and aimed the gun at Zargoza. “Get ready to meet your maker, shithead!”

“Ahem? Excuse me?” Another voice. Everyone turned.

It was the short, thin man in a charcoal suit and black fedora who had checked into the motel two days ago. He had a brown leather briefcase in one hand and a piece of paper and a fountain pen from the forties in the other. He took a few steps into the middle of the room.

“Mr. Tweed,” said Paul, the Passive-Aggressive Private Eye. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Paul looked down at Art’s gun and then at Zargoza. “I thought I’d better say something before it’s too late. I’m a private investigator representing Montgomery Memorial Hospital up in Alabama, and we seem to have had a little problem.” He forced a chuckle. “It’s really quite embarrassing. You see, the daughter of one of our employees, she sort of played a little prank. The bottom line, Mr. Tweed, is that you’re not
going to die. Pretty good news, wouldn’t you say? Now, if you’ll just sign this disclaimer releasing the hospital of all responsibility and liability…”

There was a terrible crashing sound as Jethro Maddox smashed through one of the Bahamian shutters, landing on top of Art Tweed. “
Galanos!
”

“That settles that,” said Zargoza. He quickly picked up his pistol off the floor and aimed it at Serge and the others. He ordered two goons to push one of the cabinets from the kitchen in front of the broken shutter. The generator failed for a second and the lights dimmed. Zargoza jumped. “What was that?”

“
You don’t like it, do you, Rocco? The storm?
” said Bogart. “
Show it your gun, why don’t you? If it doesn’t stop, shoot it
.”

“Will you turn that fucking movie off!” said Zargoza. “My nerves are shot as it is!”

Zargoza reached over and swiped the remote control from Serge. “Gimme that thing!”

As he did, he heard a new voice from behind.

“Drop it!”

Zargoza rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “
Now
what?!”

It was C. C. Flag, aiming a pistol. He grabbed a small boy from the group of innocent visitors clustered by the bar and used him for a human shield.

“I’m gonna walk outta here real slow, and nobody’s gonna move a muscle or the kid gets it,” said Flag. He turned to Zargoza. “I know you’ve been planning to use me as the fall guy. I can’t go to jail!”

“You’re talking crazy!” said Zargoza. “It’s the storm. It’s making you crack.”

“Fuck everyone!” said Flag as he backed out of the room, pressing the gun harder up under the boy’s chin.

“Coward!” shouted Zargoza.

“Dung-weasel!” shouted Serge.

“
You won’t get away with it, Rocco!
”

C. C. opened the door. The hurricane’s eye was just making landfall and the winds calmed. He backed out the door and across the beach behind Hammerhead Ranch and the neighboring Calusa Pointe condominiums.

Everyone put aside their differences and ran to the door, worried about the boy. C. C. walked backward, a hundred yards away, with the gun still to the boy’s head.

Suddenly, a desperate scream erupted from C. C., and he dropped the child. He stumbled in a circle, grabbing his neck and hollering, suffering the abrupt onset of a mystery affliction. The boy ran as fast as he could toward the bar. But C. C. still had the gun, and he fired in all directions as he spun.

Everyone hit the deck as slugs splintered through the walls and door; one pinged off the antique cash register and knocked a wahoo to the floor. The gunfire seemed to go on forever. The pistol had a hundred-cartridge rapid-feed jumbo banana clip heavily stocked in weapons boutiques across Florida in the NRA’s continuing crusade to level the playing field for duck hunters. The boy’s little legs were not making good time, and from the spray of suppression fire C. C. was laying down, it was clear the boy was riding blind luck.

Nobody knew what was happening to C. C.; everyone in the bar was just yelling for the boy to run.

Art Tweed broke from the back steps and sprinted and met the child halfway on the beach. He scooped him up and turned and shielded the boy with his body and ran back to The Florida Room. There was a big cheer when Art bounded up the steps. Lots of back-slapping, even Zargoza.

Everyone’s attention went back to the beach. C. C. was clicking an empty gun now, still twirling and grabbing his throat with his free hand. They could make out something stuck in his neck, and blood running down his shirt. The foreign object was big and colorful.

The wind picked up again all at once, gusting hard, like when the hurricane had begun.

“The eye’s passing,” said Serge. “We’re getting the backside now. Everyone take cover!”

In the midst of the gale, they noticed someone else was now out on the beach, moving from the condo toward C. C. Flag.

“You sonuvabitch!” the new person yelled as he approached Flag. “You stay the hell offa my property!”

Malcolm Kefauver, the incredible shrinking mayor of Beverly Shores, had just nailed Flag in the throat with his last lawn dart.

The dart had missed Flag’s major arteries, but he was getting light-headed from the sight of his own blood. He twirled out into the water and fell to his knees. Waves crashed over him, and he rolled in the shallow surf like a porcupine fish.

The mayor of Beverly Shores advanced toward the water, taunting him. Flag’s wound wasn’t mortal, but his buoyancy was now a problem. He was in danger of being carried off by the surf. Flag was on his back, losing the fight, and another wave crashed over him and dragged him farther off the beach. He was in only two feet of water, but he was tossed like a cork. With a last, great effort, Flag rolled onto his stomach and dug his fingertips into the sand. Thus anchored, Flag slowly clawed his way back toward safety.

Flag was most of the way out of the water when the incredible shrinking mayor ran right up to him at the edge of the surf and resumed shouting. He yelled in a measured cadence—one word to emphasize each time he stomped on Flag’s fingers—“
Let…go…of…my…beach!
”

Flag shouted and pulled his hands back to his chest in pain. A large wave knocked the mayor on his back and swallowed Flag.

Flag was quickly a hundred yards out, and his cries were sucked into the growling wind as he bobbed steadily toward Mexico. The mayor turned and headed back to the condo. The wind gusted harder, and the mayor had to lean at an acute angle. He made it to the stage set up on the beach for the Proposition 213 rally and grabbed one of the corner lighting poles for balance. He tried to rest a second. The wind kept picking up, eighty, ninety, a hundred miles an hour. The mayor had continued shrinking since his election and his suit was baggier than ever, catching an enormous amount of wind. Hundred and
ten. Hundred and twenty. The Proposition 213 banner over the stage tore loose and flew away.

The guests in The Florida Room had to shut the door again, but Serge and Zargoza took turns watching through the hole where Zargoza had shot through the lock.