TROPICAL WARNING

An Original Serge Storms Story and Other Debris

TIM DORSEY

CONTENTS

Just Another Day in Paradise

London Calling

An Excerpt from Tiger Shrimp Tango

Prologue

Chapter One

About the Author

Also by Tim Dorsey

Copyright

About the Publisher

JUST ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

An Original Serge Storms Story

Oak trees ran the town; the people just lived there.

They grew everywhere, forming shade canopies over roads and obscuring buildings. Anyplace you walked, massive lengths of Spanish moss draped from overhead branches like an endless cavern of ZZ Top beards.

The moss hung in front of the barbershop, the wood-shingled railroad warehouse, a trading post, the Garage Café, and a short row of early brick buildings that formed main street, which was called Cholokka Boulevard. Four elegant white Corinthian columns held up the two-story southern veranda of a plantation-style mansion.

Except for the late-model SUVs and coupes parked in front of the antique shops, it could have been 1898. The mansion is now a bed-and-breakfast.

An arm extended from the driver’s window, snapping photos as the ’76 Ford Cobra headed north. The arm came back inside. “I can never get enough of Micanopy! It’s the oldest inland town in Florida, and also the oldest overall that was settled by Americans, as opposed to the Spanish in Saint Augustine.”

“What’s it named after?”

“The Indian chief who had to move to Oklahoma.”

The Ford continued north toward Gainesville on U.S. 441. Serge toyed with his ammo magazines as he drove. “And for those playing at home, we have a new number one for the oxymoron files: death benefits.”

Coleman took a big hit. “That’s messed up . . . Can I have that extra ammo clip? I’ve got a cool idea.”

“But I need it.”

“You already have one.”

“What if I’m up against more than thirty people?”

“I just thought it would be a cool place to hide my dope.”

Serge lit up in thought. He quickly passed the clip across the front seat with a sly grin.

Coleman glanced warily, then began packing it. “What changed your mind?”

“You know what a fan of irony I am,” said Serge, turning off the highway. “I’ll give it to you under one condition. If you’re arrested for possession you have to plea bargain, and during your allocution, you must say this to the judge: ‘I admit I was the guy who removed all the bullets from the assault rifle’s extended magazine and then filled it with pot. But now I realize that was wrong because marijuana is dangerous.’ ”

“Righteous.”

“Make no mistake: I’m all about guns! I just love the legal incongruities our national discourse has spawned, like I can buy a shotgun any time of day without the slightest background check, but if I need something for my sniffles, it’s six forms of ID and complete school transcripts. The government has essentially created a system where if I want to clear a head cold, the easiest cure is to blow my brains out.”

Coleman looked around the thickening woods. “Where are we?”

“Paynes Prairie.” Serge parked the car near a trailhead. “To the observation tower!”

Serge ran ahead and bounded up the steps. “I’m all about observation towers! I climb them even when they’re not technically for observation, like billboards, cellular relays and lighting structures at high school fields. Because the key to achievement in life is not letting others define your towers.” He looked down from an upper landing. “Coleman, what’s taking you so long?”

Coleman was bent over a railing, wondering if he was going to retch, and wondering if that would be a better thing.

“Coleman!”

He stood and grabbed his stomach. “How much farther?”

“Look up!” Serge yelled down through the middle of the pressure-treated staircases. “To the top!”

“Crap.” He resumed slogging a step at a time.

Serge reached the observation deck, and stood paralyzed in a balloon of his own intoxication. A whisper: “It’s beautiful . . .”

Coleman clomped up the last few steps and collapsed on the planks.

Serge looked toward his feet. “What are you doing down there?”

“You know how I need to take regular breaks from the vertical world.”

“Stand up and check this out!” Serge extended an arm like he was posing for a painting of an explorer. “Most people would never expect this in Florida. It’ll blow your mind!”

Coleman struggled to his feet and joined his buddy at the railing. He slowly turned his head toward Serge.

“What?”

“It’s a field.”

“Right,” said Serge. “But this one is a great field. Look at that panorama to the horizon, a lush savanna like you’d expect to find in the Mauritanian plains of West Africa.”

“It’s just bushes and a bunch of grass sitting still.”

“No it’s not,” said Serge. “There’s a serious amount of shit going on down there. Miocene epoch remnants of limestone basins collapsing in sinkholes to the Floridan Aquifer, creating an insane irrigation and drainage system for a thriving balance of ecological synergy between swamp and arid scrub. How can you not get a boner?”

“Serge, you already know how I feel about fields, so a super big one isn’t better. It’s like I don’t enjoy being pushed down into a pile of dog crap, so I won’t love being pushed into ten.”

“Don’t you call Paynes Prairie ten piles of dog crap!”

“It’s worse,” said Coleman. “You can put dog crap in a paper bag and set it on fire on someone’s doorstep. That I’d stay to see.”

“Where are you going?” said Serge.

“Back down. This sucks.”

“Wait, I’ve spotted a longleaf pine sandhill!”

“Meet you back at the car.”

Serge ran across the deck. “You’re not leaving until you dig the prairie.”

“Watch me,” said Coleman. “Hey, let go of my hair!”

“Are you going to stay? . . . Ow, my ear! I’ll put you in a headlock!”

“I’ll grab your nuts!”

“Ow, the headlock!”

“Yowch! My nuts!”

They crashed to the deck and rolled violently. Pinching, pulling, bending fingers back and screaming . . .

Serge suddenly froze and poked his head up in alertness.

“Why’d you stop?” said Coleman. “We were having fun.”

“Listen. Do you hear that?”

“Sounds like some chick talking at the bottom of the tower. Except she’s using the extra-loud cell phone voice.”

Serge pushed himself up. “How inconsiderate! She’s shattering our tranquility.”

“Where are you going?” asked Coleman.

“Down.”

“To confront her?”

“No, my work here is finished. It’s back to the Master Plan . . .”

Fifteen minutes later, and a few hundred yards down a walking trail, Coleman looked around as they entered a short concrete tunnel. “What’s this thing?”

“The remains of an ancient railroad trestle,” said Serge. “They abandoned it in place to preserve history. Nothing left on either side but the strangling roots of nature reclaiming her turf.”

The trail opened into a wide raised causeway of grass. On one side, a drop into thick vegetation; the other, a marsh. Serge grabbed Coleman’s shoulder. “Don’t get too close.”

“Holy God, there’s a bunch of huge alligators on the banks of this trail!”

“There used to be alligators on this trail,” said Serge. “They key feature of Paynes Prairie is its sinkholes. Usually rainwater is absorbed into the ground and filters through a strata of porous rock until it reaches the aquifer. But if you see a body of water out here, like the famous Alachua Sink coming up on your left, it has a number of holes broken through the rock, which is what keeps this prairie from becoming a lake. But over centuries, the holes have become clogged from time to time with rotted plants and rocks, creating a massive lake like the one Hernando de Soto found in 1539. The last time it happened was in the late 1800s, when a clog again put the whole prairie under water, and for a couple decades, steamboats were sailing back and forth right where we’re walking.”

“What happened?”

“Here’s where history has a sense of humor.” Serge pointed toward a rock formation in the water. “Somehow the clog collapsed and a giant sinkhole reopened with such ferocity it was like putting a foot-wide drain in a bathtub. The water disappeared so fast that some of the steamboats were left out in the mud.”

“What’s the problem with that guy walking up ahead of us?” asked Coleman. “Keeps looking around all nervous like he’s not having a good time.”

“He’s missing the whole concept of hiking. You have to get into it for its own sake.” Serge gestured back and forth at himself and Coleman. “Take us for example. We’re becoming one with nature, unlike that uptight city guy who looks as if he’s on a forced march though Florida’s magnificence at gunpoint.” Serge walked up and pressed a gun barrel into his spine. “What are you slowing down for?”

PART 2

“Please don’t shoot me! I swear I’ll never do it again.” He sped up until he was ten yards ahead.

Coleman sucked on a tube from a hiking hydration vest of vodka. “What are you trying to fix with that guy?”

“The scumbags of Florida keep lowering my bar of expectations.” Serge sucked his own hydration vest of coffee. “First came the housing bubble and its burst, which pulled back the curtain on a whole viper pit of predators: sub-prime lenders, appraisers, speculators, politicians, brokers . . . Then, when all is done, and hardworking Americans are about to be forced into the street wearing pickle barrels, in comes the lowest of the low.”

“Dope dealers who short you on weight?”

“Dishonest mortgage modification companies,” said Serge. “It’s an evil so beneath everything that it staggers the conscience: These new suckerfish target old people and families with kids who are desperately trying to keep a roof over their heads. Their house is already upside-down and they’re six months behind on the loan. So these companies promise they can restructure the mortgage to make the payments affordable. Then they take all kinds of upfront fees and advance closing costs, and don’t lift a finger. So not only do the families get foreclosed upon anyway, but their savings are now depleted.”

“And they need a fixer?”

“This guy ahead of us took a friend of Mahoney’s for almost eight grand. So I’m working the numbers and intend to make him a restructuring offer he can’t refuse.” Serge advanced and poked the gun barrel in his back again. “The new breed of fixer must be prepared to do complex algorithms on hiking trails.”

The man in front of them stopped and wiped his face with his shirt. “I need to rest. Just a minute.”

“Why?” asked Serge. “You’ve reached the finish line.”

The man turned around with skepticism. “What do you mean?”

“You’re free to go.”

He stood quiet a second, then raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t a trick?”

“Absolutely not.” Serge tucked the gun away under his tropical shirt. “I think you’ve learned your lesson. My clients will be expecting a refund check this afternoon, unless you’ve taken a likin’ to hikin’. The Florida Trail runs the length of the entire state. I could always use a nature buddy because Coleman would never make it.”

“No, I cut that check the moment I get to the office.” He began walking around the pair to head back the way they’d come.

Serge stepped sideways and blocked his path. “Not that direction. It’s the one we’ll be taking, and I’ve been known to change my mind.”

“But then how do I get out of here?”

Serge pointed into the distance. “Just keep following the path. It’s much longer and you’ll cover most of the prairie, but it will eventually circle back around. I think you’ll like it better . . . Oh, almost forgot: one more thing before you go . . .” He handed the gun to Coleman. “Keep him covered.”

Then Serge removed his coffee-hydration backpack and unzipped a pair of utility pockets. He approached the man with an electric razor. “Hold still.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just a little trim on the sides of your head. A small price to pay for your freedom.” When Serge finished creating a pair of small bald spots, he grabbed a pair of scissors and two strips of leather. “If you’re a dog lover, you recognize these. But you don’t need these ends . . .” Snip, snip, snip . . .

“Wh-wh-what are you doing?”

“Hold still again if you want to get away.” Serge liberally applied super glue to the shortened pieces of leather and held them against the sides of the man’s head. “There, that should stick. When you get back to civilization, they have solvents at the hardware store, but I’d wear a hat because you look kind of funny. Now skeeee-daddle!”

Coleman sucked another swig of vodka. “Wow, he really took off running. I think he likes hiking now.”

“What’s not to like.” Serge reached in his backpack again and removed two short plastic spikes with small cylinders on the end. “It’s all about taking the time to notice the little things.” He hammered the spikes into the ground on each side of the trail. “That about does it. Time to go back.”

Coleman turned around, still sucking.

Serge yanked him by the arm. “Watch where you’re stepping!”

“Whoa, thanks.” Coleman took the hydration tube out of his mouth and aimed it at the ground. “You just stopped me from stepping in the hugest pile of dog crap I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s because it’s not from a dog. Something much bigger.” Serge bent down to take a picture. “And it’s not baked dry so it hasn’t been here a long time.”

Coleman scooted to hide behind his friend, and peeked over his shoulder. “What the hell’s out here?”

“Relax, it’s just free-range horses. They live all over the prairie.” Serge walked a few more yards and pulled out his camera again.

“That’s even a bigger pile,” said Coleman. “How large do these horses grow?”

“This one didn’t come from a horse.” Click, click, click. “Which is another bonus about Paynes Prairie. It’s the perfect place for the neophyte to learn animal tracking. In other areas, you need at least a rudimentary background to differentiate the scat of cougars, bobcats, foxes, panthers. But out here, the beginner need only to gauge the scale. Smaller piles are horses.”

“And this bigger one?”

“Buffalo.”

“Get out of here,” said Coleman. “There aren’t any buffalo in Florida.”

“Au contraire,” said Serge. “Buffalo in great numbers roamed the grasslands of central Florida until they were wiped out in the nineteenth century. But conservationists reintroduced them forty years ago to establish the original natural balance.”

Coleman slid behind Serge again. “Are they dangerous?”

“Sure, if you’re an idiot.” Serge took several long sucks on his coffee tube. “But play it smart and don’t approach them or make wacky faces—and remain perfectly still—they’re willing to live and let live.”

“What about running away?”

Serge continued sucking and put up his arms. “Definitely not that! Especially out here in such an open expanse. If you’re ever going to run, do it where you can get into some trees, like way over there. I’ll let you in on a secret about buffalo, which reminds me of what I really hate about action movies. How many times have you seen some film where the killer is in a car chasing some woman on foot through a multi-deck parking garage? And you’re leaping out of your seat, yelling at the screen: ‘Veer off and dive between the parked cars! Dive between the parked cars!’ But no, they keep running straight down the middle of the concrete ramp, turning the corner and scampering down the middle of the next level—”

“Serge, what does that have to do with buffalo?”

“Wait! Wait! So then the car is gaining and about to run over the woman, and she turns down the next level, and that’s when she always falls and loses a high heel, but now the car is suddenly farther away in order to give her time to get up and start running down the middle again. What is that bullshit? That’s what I say! But sometimes I say it too loud and have to leave the theater—”

“Buffalo . . .”

“What?” Serge looked up. “Hey, our friend is coming back. I didn’t get the sense he could run that fast.”

“There’s a whole herd behind him.”

“And yet he’s staying in the middle of the path.”

“There are no parked cars,” said Coleman. “Only that pond with the alligators and the sinkhole . . . He just fell and lost a shoe. Now he’s back up again . . .”

“But still running down the middle.”

“By the way,” said Coleman. “What were those things you glued to his head?”

“You’ve heard of invisible fences?”

“No.”

“If you don’t want to build a real fence but need to keep your dog in the yard, you buy a special collar for Fido. Then you hammer stakes in the ground at the edge of the property. The stakes have tiny transmitters on the ends, and if the dog goes too far, it makes the collar give him an electric shock. It’s not a huge shock, but the dog gets the idea pretty fast. It should be an even faster learning curve for our friend up there, because I glued the shock units to his temples, and the shocks will seriously screw up the tiny electric signals that all our brains operate on.”

“I think he just hit your invisible fence,” said Coleman. “He’s making wacky faces.”

“Now he’s looking back up the trail, and in the marsh and at my transmitters,” said Serge. “Interesting call: buffalo, gators or electric shock. Only in Florida are you faced with such daily decisions.”

“I think he’s going to try to get through your fence again,” said Coleman. “Oooo, he’s not giving up and really spazzing out this time. Now he’s flopping on the ground trying to tear those things off.”

Serge held an arm out across Coleman’s chest. “Step back slowly to the side of the trail. Here they come . . .”

“Man, that first one got him right in the face,” said Coleman. “And all the rest are hitting him, too, like it’s on purpose.”

“They just stampede in tight formations from safety instinct.”

“He’s starting to come apart.”

The herd thundered by as Serge snapped photos.

“What now?” asked Coleman.

“Those real vultures circling above will clean up the human vulture.” Serge stowed his camera and began walking. “There’s always a balance in nature.”

LONDON CALLING

Those two words above were the subject line of an e-mail I received out of the blue about a year ago. Apparently Serge’s reputation had spread across the pond, and The Guardian newspaper asked me to write a travel article instructing its British readers how to visit offbeat Florida like a native.

America Uncovered

Roadtrip USA: Florida, welcome to the weird and the wonderful

“Florida, no appointments and a full tank of gas.” That’s writer Tim Dorsey’s motto for a road trip as he leads us on a weird and wonderful tour of roadhouses, gator nuggets and airboat rides into the swamps.

FLORIDA LIKE A NATIVE

by Tim Dorsey

Florida’s reputation is literally all over the map. First there’s the whole tropical intrigue angle: intoxicating postcard views with a splash of romantic danger, like the modern Casablanca immortalized in Miami Vice. Second, there are the headlines: Giant mystery eyeball washes ashore on the beach, three men seen carrying a dead shark on a monorail, police shoot “zombie.” We’re the state that makes sea mammals wear hula skirts and changes the results of a presidential election with a so-called butterfly ballot.

Cultural academics have long tried to put their finger on the sun-drenched pulse with complex theses. But the truth is rather simple. We’re just a really weird people. That’s essentially the theme of my novels, featuring a road-tripping fugitive whose definition of happiness is “Florida, no appointments and a full tank of gas.”

That’s my motto, too. So, coming to Florida? Here’s the deal: Fly to Miami International, rent a fiery-red convertible, buy a tropical shirt (the more god-awful the pattern, the more you’ll look like a local), then crank up the soundtrack to Vice in the CD player and strap yourself in.

When you first step out of the airport, the two parking garages are named Dolphin and Flamingo, letting you know where you are. Nearby, they were shooting an episode of Burn Notice next to the expressway and set off a massive five-story fireball, and everyone just kept driving like everything was normal: “Hey, this morning on the beach I stepped over an eyeball the size of a cantaloupe.” Welcome!

Your first stops are two joints that anchor the ends of our lifestyle. The Delano Hotel on Collins Avenue encompasses all that is chic South Beach and then some. This landmark Art Deco lodging underwent a post-modern renovation several years ago, and the nightly contingent of club-hoppers have embraced it with both arms. Go at midnight on a weekend for the full effect, which is like partying in a Calvin Klein ad while on sacred Indian mushrooms. Long, gossamer curtains flutter out the front entrance. To the right, a ten-foot-tall Alice in Wonderland chair holds two young models sharing a brown cigarette. Out back, people sit in chairs on opposite sides of a life-size chess set. Behind them, glimmering under the moon, is a swimming pool that becomes shallower and shallower until it is only six inches deep and full of cocktail tables and chairs. A barefoot waiter splashes out into the water to deliver a tray of drinks. Ah, tradition.

Now, immediately race back to the mainland and the oldest bar in Miami. (Floridian’s tip: Miami has the worst drivers in America. And the rest of us are perpetually jumpy. It’s not what’s up ahead that’s the problem; it’s the idiots coming up from behind. Drive with your rearview mirror.) Soon you’ll be pulling up near the Miami River at a venerable ramshackle roadhouse called Tobacco Road, established 1912 and frequented by Al Capone. Inside, red lights and some of finest live blues in the country. Now back in the car!

The business I mentioned earlier about a full tank of gas was no joke. It is a big, long state with fabulous scenic drives. Time to head out of Miami. Take Calle Ocho through Little Havana and stop at Maximo Gomez Park to watch the daily ritual of dozens of Cuban gentlemen gathering to play dominos, drink espresso and talk politics. Find a nearby sidewalk lunch window and order a Cuban sandwich. It’s mandatory.

Heading west, Calle Ocho turns into the secluded two-lane Tamiami Trail and enters the Everglades. Don’t worry about finding alligators; they’ll find you. Stop at one of the roadside concessions run by the Micosukee Indians and take an airboat ride into the swamp. It seems touristy, but you’ll see the real Florida and experience the full awe of the Glades’ teeming vibrance. Pushing farther west you’ll find occasional jewels among the vast swamp savannahs. The legendary Clyde Butcher photo gallery, the smallest post office in the USA and Joannie’s Blue Crab Café (try the fried gator nuggets and listen to vernacular folk music by artists such as Raiford Starke, named for Florida’s two death-row prisons). The nearby Skunk Ape Research Center is actually a funky little roadside attraction with lots of massive snakes and unusual lizards. The best $3 value in the state . . . Time to turn around and bring that fugitive tour down to the Keys!

The Keys are everything Florida—squared. No visit is complete without taking the greatest scenic road in the world. The Overseas Highway is just what it sounds like: a hundred-mile island-hopping drive out to sea. Here, there’s an overflow of worthy stops, including a tram that takes you out to Pigeon Key on the old span of the Seven-Mile Bridge. But before the road ends in Key West, there’s one essential stop. On Big Pine Key, ask the locals how to find the No Name Pub, because one of the bar’s bragging points is you can’t find it. The No Name started before the road, when customers would paddle up to the combination trading post and brothel. Today, it’s a time capsule of an overgrown shack almost hidden in the banana trees. The counter of the bar itself is so grizzled that if it were a person, it would be Keith Richards. You’ll find bikers in leather next to grandparents in sweaters, and the walls are completely covered with scribbled-on dollar bills. Don’t be surprised if you’re heading for the entrance and a deer that only comes up to your waist crosses your path. This is the land of the endangered miniature Key deer, and they only exist on this island.

The stop at end of the road is obviously Key West. Its most famous resident (and his house is the most popular attraction) was Ernest Hemingway. I normally avoid the major tourist stops, but this is beyond worth it. After walking the grounds and dodging all the descendants of his six-toed cats, head back to Duval Street and join the rest of the visitors in the nightly grunion run known as the Duval Crawl, which is what they do after hitting enough bars all playing Jimmy Buffett and serving frosty umbrella drinks. Some of my favorite haunts are Captain Tony’s, The Green Parrot and The Bull, where if you leave for the restroom, you return to find that the bartender has left a note on your drink for nobody to touch it because you’ve gone to pee. The next day around noon, wake up and look out the window to remember what city you’re in. Get back in that red convertible and let your tropical shirt flap in the wind as you take in the return crossing of the Overseas Highway.

Now you’re officially an honorary Floridian. So drive back to the airport, ignore the fireball, and have a safe flight home.

Next up, an exclusive excerpt from

TIGER SHRIMP TANGO

On sale January 2014

Wherever books are sold . . .

PROLOGUE

MIDNIGHT

The naked couple ran screaming out of the hotel, covered with fire-extinguisher foam.

Which didn’t attract much attention in Fort Lauderdale.

A window on the top floor shattered. Broken glass rained down from the high-rise, followed by a toilet-tank lid that exploded in the street.

It became quiet.

The nude pair wiped chemical-retardant foam from their eyes and stared down at the broken shards scattered at their feet.

The quiet didn’t last.

Another window shattered. Then another, and another. Toilet-tank lids flying everywhere and crashing in the street like a drumroll. More naked, foamy people dashed outside.

People began to notice. Police and fire trucks arrived. TV vans.

Two men nonchalantly strolled up the noisy sidewalk through ceramic chunks and suds.

“The key to my new life as a private detective is ultra-sensitive powers of observation,” Serge told Coleman. “You must be able to detect the tiniest out-of-place detail . . .”

A hysterical mob ran by, scratching slippery breasts and buttocks.

“Most people walk through life without ever noticing the little clues all around that something’s not right.”

Another toilet lid crashed in front of them and Serge pulled a porcelain splinter from his arm. “In Florida, you just have to filter out the background weirdness.”

MIAMI

The name’s Mahoney. I get lied to for a living. The sign on the door says I’m a private eye, but I mainly keep bartenders and bookies in business.

My best friends—a rumpled fedora and bottle of rye—sat silently on my desk, waiting anxiously for the next case like a weasel-beater in a peep-show booth with incorrect change.

The day began like any other, except it was a Tuesday, not the other six. One of those pleasant days, real nice, right up until it kicks you in the Adam’s apple like a transvestite in stilettos. The air coming through my window was heavy with heat, humidity and double crosses.

Down on the street, people’s lives bounce off one another like eight balls in Frankie’s billiard joint, until one of them lands in the corner pocket of my office. They pay two hundred clams up front to spill their guts about frame jobs, missing identical twins and alimony. Most of them just stink up my oxygen with alibis that are as shaky as an analogy that doesn’t fit.

But this next one was a broad. She knocked on my door like knuckles hitting wood. I told her to have a seat and gave her a hankie. She blew her nose like a British ambulance, and her sob story had more twists than a dragon parade in Chinatown. But I have a soft spot for the farmer’s-daughter types who take a wrong turn out of the dairy barn and end up in Palooka-ville. This dame didn’t know from vice cops on the take for back-alley knobbers, which meant not having that uncomfortable conversation again, and that was jake by me.

My gut said this bird was on the level. She had no priors, skeletons or known associates. A regular Betty Crocker life in the burbs. It all started simple enough with an out-of-the-blue phone call from some mug she’d never heard of. An odd kind of threat. Clearly a wrong number. And some easy green for me. I planned on dishing it for the usual kickback to an off-duty cop named McClusky who put the arm on such jokers to knock off the funny stuff, and I’d still have time to make the eighth race at Gulfstream.

The joker had other ideas . . .

Brook Campanella strolled out the front steps of an office building on the Miami River. A ton of weight lifted from her shoulders. Brook had debated hiring a private eye, but she felt so much better now after her conversation with Mahoney.

Brook wasn’t concerned about herself. It was her father. The ominous phone call had been for him, and he couldn’t make sense of it either. Brook was a loving daughter with straight A’s in community college. She chose to stay at home after her mother died and take care of her dad in his retirement. They couldn’t have led more boring lives. Then this brief, electronic intrusion into their world changed everything. Her dad was too old for the stress, so Brook took the reins and flipped yellow pages.

Yes, it had to be some kind of mistake just like Mahoney said. And he promised to take care of it.

She smiled for the first time in an eternity and climbed into her VW Beetle.

Within days, her father would be dead, their house ransacked, and a cop involved in the case—as Mahoney phrased it—would “have caught a case of lead poisoning courtesy of Smith & Wesson.”

Brook’s life shattered again. Who was doing all this, and why?

She was still thinking those thoughts right up until she vanished off the face of the earth.

Not voluntarily, according to police. They found signs of a struggle and her abandoned VW.

She was in the wind.

CHAPTER ONE

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Police stood in a solemn circle. If they’d forgotten how much blood a human body holds, they were reminded.

State Road 60 is one of those great old Florida drives. From Tampa on the west coast to Vero Beach on the east, rolling through Mulberry and Bartow and Yeehaw Junction. Phosphate mines and orange groves and cows loitering near water holes in vast open flats dotted with sabal palms, stretching for miles, making the sky big. Here and there were the kind of occasional, isolated farmhouses that made people subconsciously think: Do they get Internet? In the middle of one overgrown field stood a single concrete wall, several stories high, covered with grime and mildew, the ancient ruins of a drive-in theater. The top of the wall was the last thing to catch a warm glow from the setting sun.

Standing in another field were the cops, taking notes in the waning light. Forensic cameras flashed. Two detectives glanced at each other and simultaneously raised knowing eyebrows. The extremely deceased victim lay on his back. He had been sliced wide, abdomen to throat, and none too carefully. All internal organs missing. Well, not missing, just not where they were supposed to be. Gloved crime-scene techs reached into the surrounding grass, collecting strewn kidneys and liver and something that would be labeled “unidentified.”

“If I wasn’t standing here, I’d swear this was staged with fake props.” The detective bent down for closer inspection. “Like a horror movie.”

“One thing’s for sure,” said the second detective. “We’ve got ourselves a case of severe overkill, which means it was a crime of passion.”

The first detective stood up again. “I can’t even begin to think what kind of weapon did this.”

“Weapon? Singular?” replied his partner. “I’d say we’ve got everything from a machete to spiked clubs and concrete saws.”

They both looked back across several hundred yards of grazing land, toward where they had pulled off State Road 60 near the drive-in. Sparse traffic began turning on headlights. “What kind of sick—”

An out-of-breath corporal ran over. “Sir, I think we have an ID on the victim.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Found his wallet behind that palm.” A shaking hand held out the driver’s license.

The first detective grabbed it and squinted. Then his eyes widened. “Roscoe Nash? Not from the newspaper articles.”

“The same,” said the corporal.

The detective made a two-fingered whistle to get everyone’s attention. “Listen up. I just learned who our special guest is here. Roscoe Nash. And I’ve changed my assessment of the attack. The killer didn’t go far enough.”

They all formed a circle and looked down again, laughing heartily.

THE PREVIOUS MORNING

A jet-black 1978 Firebird Trans Am drove past the state fairgrounds east of Tampa. The original Phoenix bird design that covered the hood had been painted over with a winged skull. The wings were in the shape of Florida.

Coleman pulled deeply from a bong he’d fashioned out of colorful hamster tubes.

Serge glanced over from the driver’s seat. “You realize there’s a hamster out there not getting his exercise.”

Coleman raised his head and exhaled. “No, he’s still in there.”

Serge’s neck jerked back. “You left the hamster in your bong? Why on earth would you do something so disturbing?”

“So the little fella can get righteously baked!” Coleman twisted apart the tubing and tapped his furry little friend out into his lap. “Ow! He bit me!”

“Serves you right.”

“Naw, he’s just got a mondo case of the munchies.” Coleman reached in a bag of Doritos and held out a chip. “See how fast he snatched it from my hand?”

“What next for the poor animal? LSD?”

“I considered it,” said Coleman. “But he’d need to be around others of his kind who are more experienced for a soothing environment to avoid a bad trip. And of course I’d have to take the running wheel out of his cage because no good can ever come from that on acid.”

“I got a crazy thought,” said Serge. “How about not giving drugs to rodents in the first place?”

“Then what’s the point?”

“What do you mean, what— Just forget it.” Serge looked this way and that. “Where’d he go?”

“Under my seat. I set him free to explore.” Coleman packed the bowl again. “If I was that small, that’s where I’d like to be.”

Serge momentarily closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

“Serge?”

“What!”

“Explain to me again about our new job.”

“Okay, listen carefully for the fifth time.” Serge took his hands off the wheel and rubbed his palms together. “I’ve decided to totally rededicate my entire life to being a private eye. Your life, too.”

“Is this like all your other rededications?”

“No!” Serge pounded his fist on the dash. “Those were all spur-of-the-moment impulsive flights of silliness. Like my last idiotic idea of becoming a house hunter. Where’s the challenge?”

“You don’t even need a very accurate gun.”

“But this is completely different. This time it’s bone-deep, the whole reason I was placed on earth. I’ve been putting a tremendous amount of contemplation into it.”

“For how long?”

“About a half hour since we finished watching that detective movie back at the motel.”

“Which movie?”

“Coleman, it was the highest-grossing detective movie ever filmed in Florida.”

“You mean Ace Ventura: Pet Detective?”

Serge winced and hit the dash again. “That’s why we must become private eyes. Maybe they’ll make a movie about our dashing exploits and fix that blasphemy.”

“Where are we going to get our cases?”

“I’m thinking Mahoney.” Serge ran a red light and waved “sorry” to honking drivers. “Now that he’s opened his own detective agency in Miami, our timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

Coleman took the bong from his mouth. “Mahoney talks funny.”

“I can’t get enough of his Spillane-Mitchum-Hammett patter,” said Serge. “And he’s carved out a nice little niche for himself: helping the victims of scam artists. There are thousands of dupes out there who are either too embarrassed to go to the police, or if they do report the cons, they find out no laws were broken because they did something stupid and gullible.”

“Gullible?”

“Coleman, did you know the word gullible is not in the dictionary?”

“Really?”

“Jesus, Coleman. It is in the dictionary, right next to your picture.”

“Really?”

Serge shook his head to clear the dumbness in the car. “Anyway, word’s starting to get out about Mahoney. When there’s no place else for victims to go, they go to Mahoney. He’s been able to make a number of impressive asset recoveries for his clients, but I’m sure I can amp that success rate by persuading the less cooperative miscreants who won’t listen to reason. Because I’m a people person.”

“You said thousands of victims?”

Serge nodded hard. “Florida is the scam capital of the nation, a perpetual daisy chain of old and fresh schemes that boggle the imagination. Ponzis, odometer fraud, counterfeit paintings, foreign lotteries, priceless costume jewelry, bodies stacked in single graves that are resold, repair your credit, learn to dance better, stuff envelopes at home for three hundred dollars an hour, get that new-look cosmetic surgery by a doctor who blows town when the job is only half done, leaving your face with that new ‘Picasso’ look. One dude mass-mailed fake dry-cleaning bills to restaurants for soup that was never spilled. But the amounts were so small, a bunch of them just paid, and the guy made a killing. Other brazen crooks waltz into low-end mortgage offices with fake ID and documents to take out equity loans on homes they don’t own. Someone else sold hole-in-one insurance.”

“What’s that?”

“Charities are always holding fund-raisers with fantastic contests like sinking a basketball from half court for fifty thousand dollars. Of course they can’t pay because they’re charities and it would dampen the fund-raiser. So it’s very common in the insurance industry to offer single-day policies against potential long-shot winners. In Florida, with all the golf courses, it’s holes-in-one. So this grifter exclusively sold such insurance, undercutting all the legit companies, and whenever someone hit a hole-in-one, he’d dissolve the company and move on. The scams never end in this state, and that’s why there’s gold in them thar streets for us and Mahoney.”

Coleman inspected a fingertip for something that had come out of his nose. “Does this mean you’re not going to have any more Secret Master Plans?”

“Au contraire,” said Serge. “This detective business is part of the biggest Secret Master Plan yet. That’s why we’ve driven back to Tampa. We have to attend the Republican National Convention.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Except it’s anything but,” said Serge. “Especially with Tropical Storm Isaac bearing down with gale-force situation comedy. And if I’m really lucky, I might run into Sarah Palin so I can help her out.”

“Why?”

“Because the woman of my dreams has fallen on hard times,” said Serge. “Last time I saw her, it was at a distance on TV in a department store, and she apparently has been reduced to working behind the counter at a Chick-fil-A.”

“But how does the convention fit in with your private-detective Master Plan?”

“If you’re going to do something, do it big! Be the best in your field!” said Serge. “And some of the highest-paid private eyes are political investigators. They come in two types: campaign detectives that dig up dirt on candidates, and stock-market detectives who try to figure out how an upcoming congressional vote is going to swing before it’s cast.”

“So you’re just in it for the money?”

“That’s gravy,” said Serge, sticking a CD in the stereo. “People in this country are at one another’s throats like no time since the Vietnam War. Which brings up the main objective of my new Master Plan: to reunite the country.”

The radio: “ . . . O beautiful for spacious skies . . .”

“I don’t know about that.” Coleman exhaled another hit. “People are getting pretty crazy out there.”

“Only because they haven’t heard my solutions.” Serge waved his left hand around like he was writing on an invisible blackboard. “The current political climate has become psychotically polarized and nobody can figure it out . . .”

“ . . . God shed his grace on thee . . .”

“. . . But it’s as simple as choosing up teams in a school yard. You want to be on the side with your friends. It’s the most basic human emotion, to be accepted and loved. I just have to convince the country we’re all on the same side, then we all hug and begin spreading brotherhood . . .”

“And sisterhood,” said Coleman.

“Right. I need to watch more Glee,” said Serge. “And spread sisterhood . . .”

“ . . . From sea to shining sea! . . .”

“But how do you plan to convince everyone we’re on the same side?”

“Instead of being slaves to our toxic emotional times, we harness that outrage,” said Serge. “So we just change the national slogan from ‘Land of the Free’ to ‘Fuck Canada.’ ”

Coleman nodded. “I think everyone can get behind that.”

“Because it’s the American way.”

Coleman cracked a beer, then inserted an eyedropper and drew ale up into the bulb. “What gave you this whole idea?”

“TV.” The Trans Am turned sharply onto Orient Road. “I was watching the Tea Party and the Occupiers on the news and I said to myself, ‘Serge, you can bring these people together, no problem.’ ”

Coleman held the eyedropper down toward the floor. “They hate each other’s guts.”

“That’s just frustration talking.” Serge pulled the Firebird up to a compound of buildings with vertical slit windows and spooled razor wire. “Take the Tea Party. I get it. They’re a playground team with staunch work ethics and sincere values, and they’re sick of watching all these lazy, political clowns throw away their hard-earned tax dollars. On the other hand are the Occupiers, the other playground team who’s furious that the top one percent hire a bunch of lobbyists to bribe those same clowns and tilt the chessboard.”

Coleman squeezed drops into the hamster’s mouth. “Please continue.”

“The two groups should be ultimate allies.” Serge raised binoculars toward a back gate where an electric signal snapped a sequence of locks open. “It just gets lost in the slight nuance between how the two groups deliver their respective messages.”

“How’s that?”

“The Tea Party draws Hitler mustaches on pictures of the president.”

“And the Occupiers?”

“They shit in public parks,” said Serge. “It’s such a fine line.”

“I could join that last group,” said Coleman.

“You’re already an honorary member.”

Serge continued his surveillance. A just-released prisoner signed some paperwork at the gates and began walking away from the Hillsborough Correctional Center.

Coleman leaned out the window. “Is this the county jail?”

“Yes, next question.”

“Can we leave?” Coleman placed the hamster on his shoulder and glanced around. “I’m getting paranoid parked outside this place.”

“Then lower the bong.” Serge kept his eyes trained out the driver’s side.

The former prisoner reached the end of the jail’s driveway. They’d given him back his street clothes, but he still had the red plastic band around his wrist. Misdemeanors wore blue. He turned up the street, heading for the nearest bus stop, which wasn’t near.

Serge rolled down his window. “Roscoe! Roscoe Nash!”

The man on the edge of the road turned around. “Who the fuck are you?”

“The person that just bailed you out. Hop in.”

Roscoe was tall and lean, much like Serge, but a few years senior. Running down both arms were tattoos of defunct Roller Derby franchises. He approached the driver’s side and rested folded arms on the window ledge. “Why’d you bail me out?”

“Because I have a business proposition. We run a profitable little cottage industry, except we’re currently heavy on the muscle end and light on white-collar know-how.”

Roscoe grinned contemptuously. “And that’s where I come in?”

Serge opened his door and leaned his seat forward. “Climb in.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s hot and a long walk. I’ll flesh it out as we drive. You don’t like the sound of it, we shake hands and split. Worst case is you get a free ride home.”

Roscoe climbed in the backseat with a condescending smirk.

Serge closed the door and patched out.

Roscoe’s eye caught something. “What’s with the hamster?”

“His name’s Skippy,” said Coleman.

“He’s sliding off your shoulder.”

Coleman gently boosted Skippy back onto his perch. “He’s a little fucked up.”

“What?” said Roscoe.

Serge snapped his fingers in the air. “Eyes over here. Pay no attention to Coleman, or we’ll be talking in circles for days . . .” Serge drained a travel mug of coffee in one long guzzle and floored the gas. “Here’s my proposition . . .” He popped a Neil Diamond CD in the stereo.

“ . . . They’re coming to America! . . .”

Serge turned around and smiled huge at Roscoe. “You like this country? Good! I love this country! And the two sides are so close: scribbling on the president’s photo, wiping your ass with leaves, what’s the difference? That’s what I say. Get my drift? What’s Canada’s fuckin’ deal? . . .”

Roscoe’s eyes grew big as he grabbed his seat belt with white knuckles. “Jesus, you almost sideswiped that oncoming dump truck.”

“I did?”

“Turn around!” yelled Roscoe. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Absolutely not,” said Serge. “I drive like this all the time.”

Coleman exhaled a bong hit and petted the hamster. “He does.”

“That’s right,” said Serge. “I stay in my lane by watching out the back window to gauge my deviation from the center line. And Coleman lets me know when the intersections come up.”

“But—”

“Smile!” Serge snapped some photos of Roscoe, who blinked from the camera flashes.

“Intersection,” said Coleman.

Serge turned around and slammed on the brakes, skidding through another red light.

“Coleman, you were late again.”

“I was busy.”

“Busy packing a bong.” Serge shook his head. “Driving is an important responsibility. I’m becoming concerned about your recklessness.”

A hand was raised in the backseat. “I’d like to get out of the car now, please.”

“But you’re not home yet,” said Serge.

“Would you like to hold Skippy?” asked Coleman.

Roscoe bent forward. “This isn’t the way to my house.”

“Because I wanted to stop and show you something that will explain my proposition.” Serge pulled over on the side of a remote, wooded road. “What’s fair is fair: I’m giving you a lift, so you owe me a shot at my best sales pitch.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Serge opened his door. “Just follow me around to the back bumper.”

“Uh, this wouldn’t be some kind of trick, would it?”

“Trick? No, no, no, no, no!” Serge inserted the key. “It’s just the trunk of a car. What could possibly go wrong?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999 and is the author of sixteen novels: The Riptide Ultra-Glide, When Elves Attack, Pineapple Grenade, Electric Barracuda, Gator A-Go-Go, Nuclear Jellyfish, Atomic Lobster, Hurricane Punch, The Big Bamboo, Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, Cadillac Beach, and Torpedo Juice. He lives in Tampa, Florida.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

ALSO BY TIM DORSEY

The Riptide Ultra-Glide

Pineapple Grenade

When Elves Attack

Electric Barracuda

Gator A-Go-Go

Nuclear Jellyfish

Atomic Lobster

Hurricane Punch

The Big Bamboo

Torpedo Juice

Cadillac Beach

The Stingray Shuffle

Triggerfish Twist

Orange Crush

Hammerhead Ranch Motel

Florida Roadkill

COMING IN 2014

Tiger Shrimp Tango

COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A version of “London Calling” originally appeared in the UK newspaper The Guardian on April 26, 2013, under the title “Florida Road Trip: Welcome to the Weird and the Wonderful.”

TROPICAL WARNING. Copyright © 2013 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062331489

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