Tampa Bay Noir Page 7

  “There she is.”

  Martha’s eyes popped with elation, and she spontaneously hugged Jim.

  The moving truck was already unloading in the driveway when they pulled up in front of 888 Triggerfish. A grinning realtor stepped down from the porch and walked to the van carrying a jumbo welcome basket of citrus jams, butters, marmalades, and chewies, wrapped up in green cellophane.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” The realtor pumped Jim’s hand, then Martha’s. “Gonna love it here in Florida. Couldn’t live anywhere else!”

  Jim went out on the lawn and triumphantly pulled up the For Sale / Sold! sign.

  A boy on a skateboard stopped at the end of the driveway. “You bought a house on this street?”

  The realtor grabbed Jim by the arm. “Let’s go inside.”

  “What did that kid mean?”

  “Guess what!” said the realtor. “The cable’s already hooked up!”

  * * *

  Despite the serene surface appearance of the street, there was an unexpected amount of drama on Triggerfish Lane. Much came from the juxtaposition of family homes with mortgages and rental houses with itinerants.

  For instance, across the street from the Davenports, a rental sign had recently been pulled up from the lawn by a tall, wiry man accompanied by a shorter, plump companion. Serge and Coleman, the ultimate odd couple. And fugitives.

  Coleman wasn’t the brightest bulb but was otherwise normal, except for his unabated substance intake that left him uniformly blunt and inert at all hours. Conversely, Serge was highly intelligent. And criminally insane. Part of his mental illness was the contradiction of possessing a rigid moral code, and some of his most heinous acts were the result of the noblest of intentions. Complicating matters was his consuming curiosity and savant penchant for improvised mechanics dating back to childhood. More than once, his elementary school science projects prompted responses from the local fire department. Psychiatrists believed Serge could lead a virtually normal existence with daily cocktails of mind-numbing medication, which he refused to take because it made him too foggy to seize every day for maximum value.

  And there lay the pair’s combustible dynamic: Coleman wouldn’t stop taking drugs, and Serge wouldn’t start.

  Weeks passed after they moved in, much of their time spent relaxing on the front porch, respectively consuming sparkling water and whiskey. And watching their neighbors across the street.

  * * *

  One evening the Davenports stepped onto their front porch and Jim cheerfully waved across the street.

  “What are you doing?” asked Martha.

  “Waving.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he waved at me,” said Jim. “It’s only neighborly.”

  “Jim! There’s something seriously wrong with them!” said Martha. “The fat one is always wasted, and the other one is just weird!”

  “You’re imagining things,” said her husband.

  Across the street, Serge was showing Coleman a National Geographic article about a tribe in Africa. “Check out how they make their necks really long with metal neck coils.”

  Coleman popped another beer. “We should get some neck coils.”

  “I have an idea.”

  They walked over to the hedge and Serge pulled out a long garden hose, the collapsible flat kind full of pinholes that inflates with water to irrigate flower beds. Serge started wrapping it around his neck. “Okay. When I give the signal, turn on the water, and I’ll have neck coils.”

  “Right,” said Coleman, pushing his way through the hedge to the faucet.

  “You’re overreacting,” Jim told Martha.

  “Those men are deranged!”

  “Maybe they’re just simple,” said Jim. “Wouldn’t you feel bad if you found out that was the case and you’d been talking like this?”

  “They’re not retarded! They’re dangerous!”

  Jim and Martha heard something across the street. Serge was flopping around the front yard, turning blue and fighting a garden hose wrapped around his throat like an anaconda. Coleman thrashed drunkenly in the bushes, trying to turn off the water.

  Coleman finally cut the pressure, and the hose deflated. Serge unwrapped his neck and sat up, panting.

  Jim turned to Martha. “I don’t think you’re supposed to use the word retarded anymore. It’s offensive or something.”

  Coleman pointed across the street. “Are the Davenports looking at us?”

  “Yeah, they are.” Serge smiled and waved again.

  Jim waved back again.

  “Will you stop that!” said Martha.

  Serge rubbed his neck. “Another close call. I think God is trying to tell me something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I think I’m going to try going straight.”

  “You?” Coleman laughed. “That’s a hoot!”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What brought this on?”

  “We’ve been staying here a few weeks now, and I’ve been watching Jim over there. I’ve decided to pattern my life after him.”

  “You mean that wimp who never does anything?”

  “Don’t you dare call him a wimp!” said Serge. “His gig may look mild from our perspective, but talk about living on the edge. Guys like him never get any glory. They’ve just quietly put away childish things to face the relentless adult responsibility of taking care of their children. We’ve been in a lot of close scrapes over the years. Car chases, knives, gunfire. But I think I’d crack under the kind of pressure Jim deals with every day. He’s kind of become my hero.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  * * *

  A week later, a ’76 Laguna with chrome hubs screeched up in front of the Davenport residence. A young Debbie Davenport and the shirtless driver got out and kissed.

  “Hey,” Jim yelled at the driver, “I want to talk to you!”

  Jim ran down from the porch as fast as he could, but the Laguna took off again. Jim stood in the middle of the street, in the middle of swirling worry.

  Suddenly, a voice from behind: “You’re Jim, right?”

  Jim spun around. “Uh, yeah.”

  “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Serge.” He extended a hand to shake. “You’re like my hero.”

  “What?”

  Serge nodded hard. “The brutal stress you constantly face. And I think I just witnessed some of it. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  Serge wrapped a consoling arm around Jim’s shoulder. “Come on, you can tell me. We’re neighbors after all. It’s about the fabric of the community! So my new hero buddy, what’s burdening your soul?”

  “It’s just my daughter Debbie.”

  “Yeah, I saw her get out of the car and go in the house,” said Serge. “How old is she now? Sixteen?”

  “Next month,” said Jim.

  “Then that guy in the car is way too old for her.”

  “I know. I’ve forbidden her to see him, but she’s rebelling. I need to strike the right balance of discipline or risk damaging our relationship.”

  “Then attack the problem from the other end,” said Serge. “Just leave that guy to me. I have these friends and some baseball bats—”

  “No. I have to handle it myself. I’m her father. I heard her talking on the phone with one of her friends. I think his name’s Scorpion. He’s twenty-two. And what was the deal with his underwear hanging out like that? Didn’t he realize it was showing?”

  “I think that’s on purpose,” said Serge.

  “Really? That’s what they’re doing these days?” Jim pointed toward Serge’s front yard, where Coleman was bending over to drink from the garden hose. “So your roommate does it on purpose too?”

  Serge shook his head. “That’s not fashion. That’s congenital.”

  * * *

  Tires screeched in the distance. Serge and Coleman looked up the street. A ’76 Chevy Laguna tore around the corner and down Triggerfish Lane.


  Serge stood up on the porch and yelled: “Hey! Slow down! Kids play around here!”

  “He didn’t hear you,” said Coleman.

  The driver pulled up in front of the Davenport residence and honked the horn.

  Serge yelled again: “Go up to the door and knock like a human being!”

  “Why are you so upset?” asked Coleman.

  “That guy’s pushing my buttons. And he’s much too old to be going out with Debbie.”

  “It’s Jim’s business.”

  “I know,” Serge said with resignation. “I promised I wouldn’t interfere.”

  Debbie never came out of the house, and the Laguna took off up the street.

  “What I’d like to do to him!” said Serge.

  “Remember, you’re going straight.”

  “I know, I know. What would Jim do in a situation like this?”

  “Look,” said Coleman. “He’s turning around.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him. I think his name’s Scorpion.” Serge jumped off the porch and ran down to the corner. He waited at the stop sign.

  The Laguna screeched to a halt.

  “Hi,” said Serge. “Would you mind driving just a tad slower around here? We have a lot of children who play—”

  The driver raised his middle finger. “Fuck off, pops!” He peeled out.

  Serge walked back to his porch.

  “Did you talk to him?” asked Coleman.

  “Yep.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s a start. You have to begin the healing somewhere.”

  Coleman pointed. “He’s coming back.”

  Serge ran down to the corner again. “Excuse me, Mr. Scorpion,” he said, “I was trying to point out that we have a lot of little kids—”

  The driver flicked a cigarette at Serge and sped off.

  Serge returned to the porch.

  “How’s it coming?” asked Coleman.

  Serge was looking down at his chest. “He threw a cigarette at me.”

  “It made a burn mark.”

  Serge scratched the spot with his finger. “This was one of my favorite shirts.”

  There were more tire sounds up the street. The two men turned and looked.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Serge. “He’s coming back.”

  “And look. There’s Jim’s car right behind him.”

  “Maybe I can stop them both, and we can all sit down and have a civilized talk.”

  * * *

  Jim Davenport was heading home from the grocery store in the Aerostar when he pulled up at a stop sign behind a ’76 Chevy Laguna. The Laguna turned left onto Triggerfish, and Jim turned left behind him. In his stress, he accidentally honked the horn.

  Jim saw brake lights on the Chevy. The driver got out and ran back to the SUV. “Don’t you ever blow your fucking horn at me!”

  “I wasn’t—”

  Before Jim could finish, the Laguna’s driver had opened the door and pulled Jim into the street.

  Serge and Coleman jumped to their feet: “Road rage!” They sprinted for the corner.

  The driver was sitting on Jim’s chest, delivering a flurry of punches.

  “Hey! Get off him!”

  Scorpion looked up and saw Serge and Coleman running down the street; he jumped in the Laguna and took off.

  They got to Jim and sat him up. “Are you okay?”

  He was far from okay. His shirt was torn. Gravel filled his hair, and blood and mucus ran down his neck. His lower lip was split and both eyes were starting to swell.

  “Let’s get you back to your house,” said Serge.

  They helped Jim up the porch and into the living room. Serge and Coleman ran around frantically for ice cubes, peroxide, and Band-Aids.

  Jim stared at the floor. Serge returned with a washcloth full of ice.

  “Look up,” said Serge.

  Jim didn’t look up.

  “You’ll have to look up.”

  Jim was breathing hard. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

  “Nobody’s going to see you like anything,” said Serge. “I’m going to fix you up like new.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Coleman. “With shiners like that?”

  “Shut up, Coleman!” Serge turned back to Jim. “I have to see where to put the ice.”

  Jim slowly raised his face. He looked worse than Serge had expected. He bundled up the ice and showed Jim how to hold it against his eyes.

  Jim’s lower lip started to vibrate.

  “No!” said Serge. “Don’t! You better not!”

  The vibrations increased.

  “Stop it! Stop it right now! Don’t you dare!”

  Jim couldn’t stop.

  “I’m warning you! Stop it this second!”

  Jim leaned forward and put his forehead down on Serge’s shoulder and began shaking with quiet sobs.

  Serge took a deep breath and put his arms around Jim’s back and began patting him lightly. “There, there. It’s going to be all right.”

  The front door opened and Martha walked in. She screamed when she saw Jim’s face. She ran up to Serge and began pounding him on the chest with her fists. Serge let her.

  “What have you done to my husband? Get out of our house! Get out! Get out!”

  Serge opened his mouth to say something, but he changed his mind and left.

  * * *

  Two a.m.

  Floor buffers hummed inside the local twenty-four-hour home-improvement store. Serge pushed his shopping cart down an empty aisle in the electrical department. He grabbed a box of security lights off the shelf.

  A stock clerk came up. “Finding everything all right?”

  “Got a question,” said Serge.

  “Shoot.”

  Serge held out the box. “Is this right? Only $19.95 for a motion-detector floodlight?”

  “The bulbs are extra,” said the clerk.

  Serge put two boxes in his shopping cart. “Where are the bulbs?”

  “Aisle three.”

  “Glass cutters?”

  “Two kinds. What kind of glass are you looking to cut?”

  “Floodlight bulbs.”

  The clerk looked at Serge.

  “Just tell me where both kinds are,” said Serge.

  “Aisles seven and eight.”

  “Gas cans?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Orange vests for highway construction sites? Reflective signs?”

  “Thirteen and fifteen.”

  * * *

  Three a.m.

  The driver of a Chevy Laguna flicked another cigarette out the window and bobbed his head to the stereo. A baffled expression appeared on his face. Something shiny in the road up ahead. He turned off the stereo and leaned over the steering wheel.

  “What the hell?”

  The driver hit his high beams. He thought he was seeing things. Someone was sitting in the middle of the road in a lawn chair. He wore an orange vest and held up a crossing-guard stop sign.

  The Chevy rolled up slowly, and the man in the vest came around to the driver’s window.

  “What are you, some kind of lunatic?” said Scorpion.

  “Yes,” said Serge, sticking a .44 Magnum in his face. “Now tuck in your fucking underwear.”

  * * *

  Four a.m.

  Scorpion was standing in the middle of an aluminum shed in a darkened backyard. It was the shed behind a college rental, used to store tools to take care of the yard. Nobody had been in it for months.

  Scorpion’s wrists were bound tightly, and another rope stretched his arms up over his head and tied his wrists to an eyebolt in the shed’s ceiling. His mouth was duct-taped.

  Serge sat cross-legged at the man’s feet, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, wiring the motion detectors. He had one detector on each side of the man’s feet, eighteen inches away, facing outward.

  Serge looked up at Scorpion and smiled. “These new low-watt bulbs are incr
edible. The filaments will burn almost forever in the inert gases inside . . .”

  Serge continued scratching away with the glass cutter until he had made a complete circle. Then he held the bulb upside down over his head and tapped the circle lightly with the butt of the cutter. The round disk broke free.

  “Of course, if the bulb’s filament is exposed to the oxygen in the atmosphere, it’ll sizzle and burn out in seconds.” He screwed the bulbs into the motion detectors. Then he unwound the security lights’ power cords and plugged them into the shed’s utility socket.

  Serge reached behind some plywood and pulled out a Hula-Hoop. “You know who invented summer?”

  Scorpion didn’t move a muscle.

  “The Wham-O Corporation.” Serge held the Hula-Hoop in one hand and the gun in the other. “Step into this.”

  Scorpion lifted one leg, then the other. Serge raised the hoop up to the man’s waist. He pressed the Magnum to his nose.

  “If I give this thing a spin, do you think you can shoop-shoop Hula-Hoop?”

  Scorpion nodded.

  “Marvelous. You seem a lot more cooperative than when I talked to you before. I knew I had caught you on a bad night. That’s my motto: Don’t be quick to judge others.”

  Serge gave the Hula-Hoop a healthy spin, and the man began moving his hips.

  “Hey, you’re a natural! You should see some of the kids around here with these things. You’d think they had them in the womb . . . Oh, but I already told you about all the kids we have playing around here. Remember? When I was saying how cars really should go slow? And while we’re on the topic, Debbie’s way too young for you. What’s the matter with women your own age?”

  The hoop continued rotating, and Serge continued pointing the gun.

  “Let’s see how long you can keep that thing going. I remember when I was a kid, the neighborhood record was like two hours.”

  Serge grabbed a metal five-gallon gas can and slowly poured the contents across the shed’s concrete floor.

  “If the Hula-Hoop falls, the motion detector will pick it up and turn on the floodlights. But they’ll only be on a moment. That’s how long it’ll take for the filaments to ignite the gasoline vapor. It’s the vapor you gotta watch out for, you know. The stuff explodes like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Serge sniffed the air.