Cadillac Beach by Tim Dorsey

Author:Tim Dorsey
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Waiting by the phone,

Katie Fan Numero Uno

Serge A. Storms

P.S. We’ll soon be arriving in the Beatles’ room, so you can reach us there.

LENNY DROVE WITH a six-pack between his legs as they made their second getaway from Miami Executive Airport in as many days. Serge sat in back with the prisoner. He pulled the gunnysack off.

“Hey, this doesn’t look like Johnny Palermo,” said Serge, covering Mick Dafoe with a pistol. “Lenny, are you sure you got the right airport?”

“There’s more than one?”

“You idiot!”

“Sorry.”

“Wait. I know this guy from somewhere. But where?” Serge studied his face, then flickered with recognition. “Yeah, I remember now. He’s that smart-ass sports columnist…. Man, I love your stuff! The other guys crank out fish-wrap tripe, but you’re like a daily dose of literature!”

Dafoe’s eyes stayed on Serge’s pistol.

Serge noticed him looking at the gun. “Since I’m a fan, this won’t be necessary.”

Dafoe didn’t know what to think, whether to be scared or angry. He spoke tentatively: “Did the chamber put you up to this?”

“The chamber?”

“Chamber of Commerce. Is this a practical joke?”

“No, this is real.” Serge turned to Lenny. “Real stupid!”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Wanna hit?”

Dafoe turned around. A hand was offering him a lit joint. Dafoe was about to say no when he noticed the hand was attached to a drop-dead Scandinavian named Country, seated next to the equally stunning City.

Dafoe looked back at Serge. “What’s going on?”

“It was supposed to be a kidnapping,” said Serge. “But somebody can’t read a map!”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” said Dafoe.

“Don’t worry, you weren’t the target. Supposed to be a mobster.”

Country tapped Dafoe on the shoulder. “Want a hit or not?”

“I guess I could do a little hit.” Dafoe took a drag and handed it back to Country, who inverted the joint in her mouth and blew City a shotgun.

Dafoe didn’t mind seeing that. “Are you two lesbians?”

“No.”

“Darn.”

Lenny reached between his legs and popped a couple beers off the six-pack ring. He put one in the driver’s beverage holder and held the other over his shoulder. “Your friend want a beer?”

“Yes, that’s a great idea!” said Serge. “How about a beer for the greatest sports columnist in the world?” He popped the top and handed it to Dafoe. “Welcome to Miami!”

Serge got out a polishing rag and went to work on his chrome.45. “Yes, sir. I don’t think most people can grasp the level of your brilliance. They don’t know how to read anymore, completely missing the allegorical references and subtle symbolism, like that hilarious time you called Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig a syphilitic pimp for allowing the world-champion Marlins to be cannibalized for spare parts.”

“Thank you.”

“So Whitmanesque!” Serge noticed Rusty and Doug, catatonic. He slapped each of them on the knees. “Hey! Don’t you know who this is? It’s Mick Dafoe, the famous sports scribe! Isn’t that exciting? This makes my whole day!…Lenny! Tunes!”

“Roger.” Lenny grabbed a Soup Dragons CD, the first of several excellent selections.

“…I’m free to do what I want, any old time…”

Country passed Dafoe the joint again, down to a nub.

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