The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey

Author:Tim Dorsey
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: tinku
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-02-01T04:30:00+00:00

BROWARD COUNTY

An early evening on U.S. Highway 1. Modest traffic.

But along one block just below the county line, an untypical amount of honking horns, even for South Florida. All directed at one vehicle.

A gold Oldsmobile with curb feelers drove through the intersection at eleven miles an hour before finally turning into a parking lot, its undercarriage grinding the curb in excruciating slow motion. It was a ’91 Cutlass Supreme, and it had ten thousand miles on the odometer. The front seat was all the way forward so the driver could see out from under the steering wheel.

The parking lot ran in front of a strip mall anchored by a pain clinic. All the storefronts appeared more or less the same, except one. It had a row of reinforced cement pylons at the curb to prevent drivers from plowing into the place. Which usually meant a liquor store.

But not this time. On the glass behind the pylons, in an arc of elegant silver lettering: WOLFGANG’S DANCE STUDIO. And underneath: Classic ballroom instruction.

The Oldsmobile continued across the parking lot. Other cars that had started backing out quickly pulled back in. The Cutlass approached the studio, slowing to three miles an hour, then two. When the front bumper hit a pylon, it was the signal for the driver to turn off the engine.

The car door opened. Five minutes later, the front door of the studio opened. Bells jingled.

A dashing man in a tuxedo turned around at the sound. Sixty-three years old, conspicuously dyed hair and a gleaming smile of the whitest, most obvious dentures, like a game-show host on a cruise ship. He spread his arms. “Coco! Coco Farina!”

“Wolfgang!” said the shuffling old woman, eyeing the other women in the room. “Don’t be buttering up those tramps.”

Wolfgang rushed to her. “Always the character! Full of moxie!” He bent down to kiss her hand.

“Moxie, schmoxie. I’m completely serious,” said Coco. “They’re sluts. Especially Mabel over there, with her new permanent, thinking sunshine beams from her twat—”

Wolfgang intentionally interrupted with a hearty, nervous laugh—“Ha! Ha! Ha!”—then looked back at a cadaverous woman snoring in a chair. He reached deep for his best Clark Gable and gazed into Coco’s eyes. “Mabel’s a lovely woman, but not half as exquisite as you!”

Coco gazed back. “How come nobody’s ever snagged you? Hubba hubba!”

“Who wants to get married?” Another kiss on the hand. “When I can instead spend so much time with all you great gals at the studio.”

And it was a nice enough studio. Fake parquet floor, full mirrors on all the walls, waist-high wooden handrails. The sound system was a boom box from Walmart that sat in the corner on a bar stool. But the main attraction was Wolfgang.

Wolfgang Finch.

Suave as they come for the silver set. He clapped his hands loudly for attention, then placed a hand over his heart. “What a stunning vision of beauty. You’re even more radiant than last time . . . Now, if you will all take your places, we can begin today’s lesson.

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