Tim Dorsey Collection #1 (73 page)

The goons saw someone violate their no-fly zone, and they went for rods inside their jackets. Zargoza turned when he heard the commotion. “It’s okay. Let him through.”

Serge pulled up a stray beach chair and sat alongside Zargoza. He stuck his camera bag under the chair and set the three-ring binder in his lap.

“What do you have there?” asked Zargoza.

“My sunset album.”

“Hmmmmmm.”

“The pictures are arranged geographically,” said Serge. “That’s up in sawgrass at Yankeetown, and these are the flats off Homosassa. Here, the sunset reflects in the bayou at Tarpon Springs, and here it is from the Hurricane bar just down the road. This is over Lido Key, and here’s Siesta Key and Boca Grande through the sea oats….”

Zargoza was looking, not listening. He felt spiked walls closing in.

Serge began pulling all the photos from their slots and rearranging them chronologically and then alphabetically, then by hue. He took them out again and shuffled them and stuck them back in the book under some other criteria. He looked at it, shook his head, and started pulling the photos out again.

Zargoza reached over and slammed his palm down on the book. “Stop it! Just stop it! I’m nervous enough as it is!”

“No problem,” said Serge. He put the book under his chair and pulled out his camera bag. Five minutes to sunset, the beach foot traffic slowed and then stopped. They produced binoculars and camcorders.

Serge aimed his camera at the sea and focused. He didn’t like the lens. He changed it, then changed it back and refocused. He adjusted the aperture. He tried the camera body vertical and horizontal. Then tried it both ways again with the other lens.

Zargoza didn’t even turn to face Serge. He hissed through his teeth: “Just take the picture or so help me I’m gonna hammer-throw that fucking camera in the ocean!”

Serge pressed the shutter button. Click. Again. Click. Advancing the film. Click, click, click, click, click. Zargoza closed his eyes and strangled the armrests of his beach chair.

T
he next day, Boris the Hateful Piece of Shit was wrapping up his morning shift in the heavily air-conditioned broadcast studios of radio station Blitz-99. “Remember, don’t let your parents give you any crap, because they don’t know squat! This is Boris the Hateful Piece of Sh—AHH-OOOO-GAH!”

As he stepped into the station’s parking lot, he pressed a button on his keychain and his new Corvette beeped that it was unlocked. Boris planned to head over to the beach and the Proposition 213 rally, where he was scheduled as the main speaker that evening. Boris was not political, but he latched on to the Proposition 213 spearhead when he found it was a great way to score with bigot babes, who tended to be easier.

Because of his bulk, Boris could only get into his Corvette through a deliberate, time-consuming insertion like Wally Schirra. It was at least a fifteen-minute effort, and that was with the custom detachable steering wheel that snapped back on the column once he was in place. Boris didn’t mind. The
Corvette’s sleek lines and sharp, bullet exterior concealed the gelatinous lines of Boris’s decidedly parabolic fuselage. He had the driver’s seat rigged extra low, with as little of him visible above window level as possible. Once inside, Boris the Hateful Piece of Shit became Boris the Disembodied Head in a Sexy Sports Car. He pulled out of the parking lot. His bumper sticker read: “It sucks to be you.”

A crowd gathered immediately when Boris’s Corvette cruised into the parking lot at the Calusa Pointe condominiums. Boris got out of the car wearing dark sunglasses and a size XXXXXL metallic silver jogging suit that was designed to deflect heat and sometimes caused Boris to show up on radar. There were two Cuban cigars in the shirt pocket of the jogging suit, and he removed one and lit it. He signed dozens of autographs with a simple circle as he headed straight for the bar next door behind the Hammerhead Ranch Motel.

The Proposition 213 rally wasn’t for another four hours, and the bar was as good as place as any to get chicks. He walked inside and didn’t take off his sunglasses. He took a seat against the wall, leaned back, crossed his arms and thought: Come to Papa.

Boris had a few nibbles in the first hour. The teenage girls had been star-struck, but not quite enough to overcome the gag reflex to Boris’s appearance and hygiene. After the last gaggle walked away, Boris looked out the window to check the progress of the workers preparing the outdoor stage for the rally behind Calusa Pointe. He looked closer up the beach
and saw smaller, separate preparations under way for another function—a VIP waterfront luau for the visiting Olympic delegation. There were a few rows of beach chairs, a small podium and a giant work-shaped dish that was a replica of the Olympic stadium torch and doubled as the barbecue.

Boris heard some laughing in the bar and turned his attention to City and Country. He liked what he saw. He realized they weren’t going to come to him, so he chugged another beer and began working his way to his feet.

“What’s shakin’?” Boris asked when he arrived at their table.

Country turned around and let out a startled yell upon first seeing Boris, which he did not take as a good sign. They tried to ignore him, but Boris couldn’t take a hint, and he hovered over their table like a weather balloon.

Art walked into the bar and sat down three tables away from City and Country. He placed a zippered leather pouch on the table and stared at Boris.

Serge sipped a mineral water at the end of the bar and heard a rumpus over in the corner. Boris was trying to grope Country and had her by the arm. It looked like he was leaning in to administer a hickie.

“Let go!” Country yelled, and pulled her arm away.

“Lesbians!” Boris shouted, and stormed out of the bar.

Boris went out on the beach, where a crowd again formed. A guy on a beach lounger was made to get
up and offer his seat to Boris, who took off his jogging outfit to reveal an inadequate bathing suit, and he reclined in the glow of adulation.

Art picked up his zippered leather pouch and walked out of the bar down onto the beach. He got inside a portable toilet set up for the Proposition 213 rally.

Boris was having the time of his life. Teenage girls in bikinis surrounded him. Boris snapped his fingers and someone materialized with a cell phone. Boris chewed someone out for a minute, then tossed the cell phone over his shoulder. His Man Friday caught it on the fly, and a young girl handed Boris a fresh drink and her phone number.

Art Tweed peered out a small, screened vent in the side of the portable toilet. He ripped the screen out of the way. He unzipped his leather bag, took out the Colt Python and rested the barrel in the vent hole. An easy shot at that distance. Art began squeezing the trigger.

A high-pitched Latin twang came from the direction of Hammerhead Ranch. Boris and his retinue turned around to see where it was coming from. Art let off the trigger and withdrew the gun. He pressed his eyeball to the vent hole to get a wider view of what was going on.

“Lotion boy! Lotion boy!” said Serge as he hopped light-footed down the beach wearing a small, incredibly fake mustache. He stopped next to Boris’s lounger and set down a canvas beach bag. He pulled out towels and tubes of lotion.

“I didn’t know this place had a lotion boy,” said Boris, glancing back at Hammerhead Ranch.

“
Sí! Sí!
Lotion boy!” said Serge, rubbing lotion vigorously over his palms and smacking them together.

Boris laid his head back on the lounger and closed his eyes. “In that case, it’s about fucking time!” he said. “Give me the full treatment and make sure you get the pecs. But no faggot stuff or I’ll snap your neck.”

For the next five minutes, Serge lathered up Boris good, not missing a spot.

“Say, that doesn’t smell too bad,” said Boris. “Like bananas and coconut.”

“
Sí! Sí!
”

When Serge was done, he just stood there, and Boris finally opened his eyes.

“Oh, you must be waiting for a tip,” said Boris.

Serge nodded fast and smiled. “
Sí! Sí!
”

“Okay, here’s your tip: Speak the fuckin’ language!” Boris laughed at his own joke and looked around, and everyone else started laughing, too.

Serge smiled and nodded some more. “
Sí! Sí!
”

“What are you smiling about?” said Boris. “I just insulted you!”

“
Sí! Sí!
”

“Stop that!” yelled Boris. He leaned and shoved Serge in the chest. “Get the hell away from me! You give me the creeps.”

“
Sí! Sí!
” Serge said and hopped away.

With Serge gone, Art had a clean shot, and he
lined up the Colt’s barrel again in the vent hole. One of the girls moved farther out of the way, giving Art an even better shot. He couldn’t miss. He closed one eye, carefully aligning the sight.

Boris pulled the last cigar from his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He looked around with a smirk at his fan club and nodded in the direction Serge had departed. “Man, those spics are stupid.”

The kids laughed again. Art began squeezing the trigger. Boris raised a gold Zippo to his cigar. The Colt’s hammer was all the way back. Boris flicked the Zippo.

Everyone was momentarily blinded as if a giant flash bulb had gone off. When they could see again, Boris was on fire from head to toe as if he was covered in napalm. Serge’s new bananas and coconut island-scent napalm to be exact.

“Farts!” said Tweed, and he put his unfired gun away in disappointment.

Boris ran screaming for the nearest body of water—the pool only yards away behind Calusa Pointe. The incredible shrinking mayor of Beverly Shores saw Boris coming, and just as Boris reached the pool fence, the mayor slammed the gate shut. “Residents only!”

“Auuuuugh!” screamed the flaming Boris, and turned for the Gulf of Mexico. He reeled frantically toward the water, but he was beginning to succumb, stumbling on fire through the sand.

The president of the chamber of commerce was at the beach podium reading a proclamation welcoming the Olympic delegation when Boris staggered up
and belly-flopped into the Olympic torch/hibachi, igniting a magnificent blue-orange flame. There were several oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s and then a polite round of clapping.

The delegates lined up and grabbed paper plates. The Viennese delegate spooned out potato salad and whispered to the representative from the Maldives: “Saw better special effects at Universal Studios.”

S
hhhhhhh! Everybody shut up!” yelled Zargoza, pulling a chair up in front of the television in the boiler room. He clicked the set over to Florida Cable News. The goons gathered around.

Zargoza had sent C. C. Flag out to Vista Isles that afternoon to calm things down. The place was getting a lot of bad attention from all the missing Alzheimer’s patients. State officials everywhere, going through files, interviewing people. The investigative TV crew showed up unexpectedly. That was because Zargoza had tipped them off personally—told them the famous Daddy-O of Rock ’n’ Roll, C. C. Flag, would show up to answer questions.

It was Zargoza’s attempt to staunch the bleeding. There had been a damning, week-long series of TV reports about the nursing home. Zargoza was sick and tired of seeing some stupid factotum at Vista Isles acting defensive on television, stuttering, vacillating, giving wrong answers or, worst of all, running and hiding in a closet. This was the real problem, thought Zargoza. It couldn’t possibly be that he was kidnapping patients. He was convinced that investi
gators had descended on the home for one reason and one reason only—the staff wasn’t telegenic.

He was right.

Zargoza wondered how deep into the newscast Flag would be. Maybe fourth or fifth item. Third if they were lucky. He couldn’t wait to see Flag confidently lying on the air. That ought to call off the state agencies. What’s fair is fair.

To Zargoza’s surprise and delight, Flag led off the news. There he was, filling out the screen in his safari jacket and pith helmet. Zargoza heard cheering and clapping in the background.

“All right, Flag!” Zargoza said. “Way to go!”

On TV, Flag stepped to the microphone again and held up his hands for everyone to be quiet. “…And another thing,” he barked, “I say cut off their benefits. And what are their kids doing taking up valuable space in our classrooms when they should be out in the fields picking tomatoes? And if they don’t like subminimum wage, they should have chosen another country to sneak into, and learn what real oppression is…like Canada!”

The applause was overwhelming.

“What? What the hell’s
this
?” said Zargoza.

The television camera pulled back to show C. C. Flag on a large stage.

This isn’t Vista Isles, thought Zargoza. This is the condominium next door. Standing onstage next to Flag, applauding his every word, was Malcolm Kefauver, the incredible shrinking mayor of Beverly Shores. Behind them hung an American flag and a giant banner: “Proposition 213.”

“Holy shit,” Zargoza yelled. “This is that stupid anti-immigration thing. This can’t be happening!”

The TV panned over the large crowd in front of the stage. Several people waved signs: “
They don’t look right!” “Different is evil!
” and “
If you can’t understand something, kill it!
”

Zargoza leaped to his feet in front of the TV. “You bastard! You stupid, stupid bastard! What are you doing to me! Somebody give me a gun so I can kill myself.”

One of the goons handed him a gun.

“No, you fool!” He slapped the gun away. “Go get Flag, now!”

Three goons ran out the door.

Zargoza squatted like Yogi Berra in front of the TV set, punching a fist into an open hand. On TV, there was a commotion up onstage. Flag struggled with three men, then disappeared off the back of the scaffolding.

Moments later the door to Zargoza’s boiler room slammed open, and the goons hustled C. C. Flag inside and pushed him to the ground.

“You wanted to see me?” Flag asked, standing up and brushing off his pants.

“Have you lost your mind! What do you think you’re doing!”

“I met the mayor. Real nice guy. His main speaker for the rally didn’t show, so he asked me to fill in.”

“Shut up! I know what you were doing. But why? We’ve got state and federal investigators all over us, the Diaz Boys are running around like the James Gang, there’s probably a hit man after me, and I send
you to fix a little problem and you turn up on TV coming off like Son of Sam!”

“That might be a little strong.”

“I want you to stop it! Now!”

“I can’t.”

“What did I just hear?!”

“I can’t stop it. It’s grown too big. My charisma has become a force to be reckoned with.”

Zargoza knocked Flag to the carpet and began kicking him in the rear. “Reckon with this foot in your ass, you ultra-nationalist prick! Now get over to the nursing home!”