Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (62 page)

“Get me out of here!”

“Ten-four,” said Serge.

Z
argoza stood and stretched in the morning air, sipping hot coffee just outside the office of Hammerhead Ranch. He thought: A good night’s sleep, that’s all I needed to calm my nerves. That’s when he heard the first siren.

An out-of-breath goon ran across the parking lot. “Boss, I think you better come see this.”

Zargoza walked around the motel to the drawbridge over the inlet, where authorities had just discovered what was left of Sidney Spittle.

“Jesus!” Zargoza yelled.

Sharks pooled under the bridge and rubberneckers pulled over to be sick en masse.

Zargoza walked back to the motel and another goon came running from the other direction.

“Boss, come quick. You better see this.”

Zargoza walked around behind Hammerhead Ranch toward the swimming pool.

He suddenly screamed and fell to his knees. Then he held a hand over his mouth reverently and whispered: “The Curse.”

He faced the row of ten hammerheads. In the hole where Zargoza had removed the broken shark, there was now a replacement, a gleaming new hammerhead with the primordial eye pods seamlessly epoxied to the sides of Patty Bodine’s head.

S
erge A. Storms was the native.

Born and raised.

Serge thought Florida in the sixties was a great place and time to grow up. He mythologized his childhood. All the objects in his memory had bright, shimmering outlines and they bloomed against backdrops of perfect cerulean sky or aquamarine sea. In his memories, there was no sound except a hot, melancholy wind. As a young boy, he wandered footloose around beaches and causeways, stomping through mangrove bogs, pretending they were the La Brea Tar Pits. He climbed the Jupiter Lighthouse on a field trip. He broke into JFK’s boarded-up bomb shelter on Peanut Island in the middle of Lake Worth Inlet. He dangled mullet heads off the Singer Island drawbridge with a cane pole, making sharks jump for dinner. Sometimes he fished from atop pier pilings on the Loxahatchee River. He always looked upriver, to the bend where it disappeared. All the kids knew better than to go up the Loxahatchee. That was Trapper Nelson territory. Nelson came to the area in the
1930s and built a primitive cabin on a remote bank of the river, where no road could reach. He made a living skinning furs and made a reputation as the Wildman of the Loxahatchee. To the adults, he was a crazy old hermit, but to Florida schoolchildren who repeated his story over and over, he was the Maximum Boogeyman.

One day when Serge was eight, he stole a rental canoe and paddled up the river. He entered a tree canopy, and the eyes of alligators bulged from the water like knots on cypress knees. He lifted his paddle and glided silently, listening. He came around another bend and the cabin appeared. Serge was still and quiet. No Trapper. He paddled with stealth, hugging the far bank, craning his neck for any sign of the wildman.

Serge heard movement behind him, and he turned to the near bank. There was Trapper, silent, with a slaughtered boar.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” Serge yelled, and paddled like a mad bastard back to the boat launch.

The undetected canoe theft was Serge’s first taste of the criminal life. Twelve years later he began a series of short jail terms for petty larceny and simple assault, and a year at Starke on a coke charge. He avoided anything longer by reason of insanity. It was an easy call. Even expert state witnesses hired to rebut defense psychiatrists would spend five minutes interviewing Serge, then go back to the prosecutor and say, “Are you kidding? I can’t testify this guy’s normal.”

Serge’s face was inviting and intense. It betrayed
his surplus of energy and told you he was completely alive every waking moment, fully engaged in life, gripping it with white-knuckled fists. He would invariably end up back at Chattahoochee, the high-security state mental hospital for the criminally insane.

There was nothing mean about Serge. In fact, there was an abundance of compassion. He had empathy for any living thing, felt its pain and joy as his own. It was just a problem of wiring. His overload of energy caused him to get a little too excited at times and he would fritz out. It short-circuited his conscience and he would perform horrific acts in a detached manner, as if he were watching it all on a TV set at the other end of the room. In the same five minutes, he could be exceedingly tender and frighteningly brutal.

The better psychiatrists in the Florida correctional system loved Serge. They recognized the pathology, just hadn’t seen it to this degree. A mixture of schizophrenia and attention-deficit, with a dash of dissociative. It was simply a matter of fine-tuning the chemicals in his brain, like the tracking on a VCR. It generally took a cocktail of four antidepressants and psychotropic drugs to even him out. When he was leveled, he was like an enthusiastic, sweet little kid.

The problem was that the medication dimmed his wattage. Serge would either hide the pills in his mouth or throw them up later. He didn’t want anything messing with his gray matter; he liked the hum inside his head too much—the free commerce of thoughts and images streaming back and forth, occasional bursts of genius flashing inside his skull like
heat lightning over Tampa Bay on a warm August evening.

Serge’s first admission to Chattahoochee came in the early eighties after he was picked up at Cypress Gardens. A night watchman discovered him practicing synchronized water ballet in the Florida Pool, the famous swimming pool built in the shape of the state just north of the water ski ramps.

The police called in a state psychiatric team when Serge refused to come out of the pool, claiming he was Esther Williams rehearsing for the hit 1953 MGM musical
Easy to Love
.

Soon a crowd of cops and park officials had gathered. Serge lay on his back in the pool and made “water angels.” The theme park wanted to avoid publicity at all costs. They conferred quietly and asked if anyone knew what the heck the intruder was talking about.

“He’s got his facts right,” the park publicist chimed in. “Part of that movie was shot in this pool. But that’s ancient trivia. Most of our own employees don’t even know that.”

A voice from the pool turned the group. “Cypress Gardens, two hundred botanical acres on the shore of beautiful Lake Eloise. Florida’s first theme park, established 1936…”

The publicist eventually coaxed Serge out of the pool on the pretext of an audition for
Skirts Ahoy!

T
rapper Nelson was found dead by his cabin in the late sixties, and all the children whispered it was
something sinister. He was shot, they said, maybe suicide, maybe murder.

In 1995, Martin County sheriff’s department and game officials began hearing strange rumors. Trapper Nelson wasn’t really dead. The body they found more than two decades ago was some unfortunate soul who had wandered into Nelson’s camp, and Trapper had since dug in deeper. Canoeists reported a shadowy figure darting about the banks or sometimes in the windows of Trapper’s old cabin. The hermit’s local status eclipsed legend.

A week later, deputies dragged Serge into the sheriff’s station, wearing furs and smeared with dried animal blood. He kicked and he screamed. “But I
am
Trapper Nelson! Lemme go!”

So began Serge’s most recent stay at Chattahoochee. After two months, prison psychiatrists got together to discuss Serge’s case. He was their favorite, most charming patient, and they couldn’t stand to watch what was happening.

They got a visiting specialist from Austria to put Serge under hypnosis.

Serge babbled and grunted as he lay on the couch. He began pitching violently and they had to hold him down. His mumbling increased to a high-speed torrent of incomprehensible sonic hash.

“Someone get a tape recorder!” yelled the shrink gripping Serge’s ankles.

Hours later, after Serge was back in his cell under sedation, the psychiatrists met with a police evidence tech. He tinkered with the tape recording on a special machine, adjusting the treble and reverb and turning
the speed way down. When the tape played at a fraction of its original rate, they began to detect human speech.

“Florida: literally, abounding in flowers, named by Ponce de León. Statehood granted in 1845, first governor William D. Moseley”—the voice became more excited and angry—“flowing from the waters of the Kissimmee River to Lake Okeechobee and through the Everglades into Florida Bay. Along the way, nurturing a low, flat petri dish of extreme people. The rugged, the hopeful and the damned. Ridiculed as the place with no roots, no native residents and no culture, the land of shuffleboard and the nonregional, TV weatherman accent. But they’re not laughing anymore. Cocaine, Castro and carpetbaggers castrated with grooved grapefruit spoons that say ‘Life’s a Beach’ on the handle. New residents are interned in hot, dusty trailer parks populated entirely by assholes from Illinois. We get hit with storm after storm and walk through the rubble, whistling ‘Dixie’ and applying sunscreen. How does that stack up against
your
commonwealth? We don’t have
great potatoes
, we’re not the
garden state
, we aren’t proud to wear furry hats with earflaps and ‘
Live free or die!
” We’re a twenty-four-hour, dead-bolted, hair-on-the-back-of-your-neck, free-continental breakfast, death-wish vacation of a lifetime, not from concentrate. State motto? ‘
Behind you!
’

“It’s an experiment in natural selectivity. We’re breeding a hardier genetic strain of American to build on the Forty-niners and Plains settlers in Conestoga wagons. The new Florida Sooners, Jimmy Buffett’s Grapes of Wrath Tour. Thousands come every year but
few make the cut. Most are on vacation, but others are on business. And some are simply running toward the light. Men with beaten-dog looks driving carloads of dirty-faced kids. None of this is new to the old-timers. The outsiders just started coming here in big enough numbers to get the word out. But it’s been going on for hundreds of years, ever since the Europeans hacked and diseased the Indians in the name of God and gold, searching for the Fountain of Youth, which was recently discovered in the middle of a roadside attraction in St. Augustine. From the conquistadors and the Seminole Wars to the Civil War Battle of Olustee. The two Henrys—Flagler and Plant—running train tracks down both coasts. The railway that went to sea figuratively in 1912 and literally in the hurricane of 1935. Hemingway stumbling, scribbling and brawling his way through the Keys. German U-boats off Fort Myers. Jackie Gleason with a pitching wedge, launching divots the size of toupees. Cape Canaveral became Cape Kennedy until we said, ‘What were we thinking?’ and changed it back…. The ’68 Republican Convention. The ’72 Miami Dolphins. Claude Kirk, Reubin Askew, Walkin’ Lawton. Sinkholes, phosphate, citrus canker, Anita Bryant…the horror…the horror…”

And Serge passed out.

The technician turned off the tape, and the Austrian psychiatrist was stunned. “We must help him!”

The next day the Austrian met Serge for a one-on-one. Serge sat on the edge of the couch, rocking back and forth, listening to his Walkman. The psychiatrist leaned down and took the earphones off Serge’s head and pressed the stop button.

“Can we begin?” the doctor asked with a smile.

The session was unproductive for the first hour. Serge wanted to talk about the fall TV lineup. He said he’d submitted a script to
Friends
where everyone gets killed, but he hadn’t heard back yet.

“I’m sure it’s a fine script. Now about your childhood…”

Shortly into the second hour, the doctor stopped talking and began looking around the room. He inspected his own hands, front and back, in minute detail. Serge knew it was time. He had scored some acid off a minimum-wage bedpan polisher and slipped the microdot of orange barrel LSD into the doctor’s coffee at the beginning of the session.

“I hope this has been helpful to you,” said Serge.

The psychiatrist looked up from his palms with a question on his face.

“This role reversal,” said Serge, getting up from the couch. He began taking off his patient’s uniform. “I think you’ll make a fine doctor someday. Now, if I can have my clothes back…”

The psychiatrist got up slowly. He took off his shirt and slacks and handed them to Serge and put on the patient’s clothes.

Serge got dressed and adjusted his bow tie and glasses in the mirror, looking spiffy. He slicked his hair with mousse. He looked back at the doctor and saw a quivering mass of Jell-O.

Serge had anticipated the possibility.

“Okay, I have to escape now. But I want to make sure you’re all right,” said Serge. The doctor was suf
focating with dread. Serge clipped the Walkman to the doctor’s elastic waistband and pressed play.

“This is the
Sergeant Pepper’s
album,” said Serge. “You’ve got the right guys in the control tower to talk you down—they’re pros. A lot of positive messages. Just keep playing the tape over and over.”

Serge placed the earphones on the doctor’s head and checked the clock. Shift change fifteen minutes ago. New staff. They hadn’t seen Serge and the doctor come in the room. Serge pressed the intercom, and two large guards arrived.

The guards were suspicious anyway. “Hey, you look familiar!”

Just then the Austrian started running around the room making British ambulance sounds before perching on top of a desk like a gibbon and chattering his teeth.

Serge shook his head sadly and made notations in a patient file.

The guards wrote off their doubts and grabbed the psychiatrist and dragged him back to Serge’s cell, where he listened to
Sergeant Pepper’s
twenty-two times.

Serge flushed his medicine down the toilet and walked out the front door of Chattahoochee, disappearing into the general population of the state of Florida.

A
t daybreak, Serge opened the door of room one at Hammerhead Ranch and took a deep, satisfied breath of salt air.

“Another day of life. Thank you, God.”

He went jogging up Gulf Boulevard, not for exercise but from impatience. He ran across the drawbridge, waving at the cars and the fishermen. The tide was just coming in and the shorebirds scurried on the shoals in the pass. A deep-sea fishing boat motored back from an overnight cruise, loaded down with mackerel, tuna and sharks. Serge waved from the bridge, and the captain sounded his air horn. The more Serge saw, the more he wanted to see, and he ran faster.

He was in a full sprint when he came off the bridge, and he ran up to the row of news boxes in front of a breakfast diner shaped like an Airstream. A fat man wearing a baseball cap that said “Old Fart” came out of the restaurant, working a toothpick in his mouth like he was picking a lock. Serge smiled and pulled a quarter from his pocket as he bent down to a green newspaper box.

Serge suddenly jumped back and made a startled yip. There it was again, his face on the front page, third day in a row. “Manhunt Widens for Keys Killer.” Can’t they give it a rest? You go and do a little spree killing and they never let you forget about it.

Serge ran back to Hammerhead Ranch double-time, looking over his shoulder. He locked the door, watched Florida fishing programs all day on TV and took a nap.