Triggerfish Twist Read online

  Ambrose pulled over to the side of the road.

  “What are you doing?” asked John.

  “Would you mind if I drove alone?”

  “You want me to get out?”

  “No offense.”

  John stood waving on the shoulder of the road as the Rolls pulled away. “Happy trails.”

  WHILE JOHN WAS gone, Rocco did what any tough guy would do. He went to the owner and tattled. Not Xeroxing a license was a major infraction.

  They were waiting at the front door when John walked back on the lot.

  Oh, this was too good to be true, thought Rocco. No Xerox and now no Rolls.

  The owner let John have it at a range of thirty yards. “Where’s the car!”

  “Everything’s cool,” said John. “Ambrose is just finishing up the test drive.”

  “Ambrose?”

  “Yeah, great guy,” said John.

  “First you don’t copy his driver’s license, then you just let him drive off with a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car!”

  “He said he’s going to buy it.”

  “You’re fired!”

  “Fine,” said John. “And one word from me, Ambrose walks. We’re like this…” John held up two fingers together. “…We’ve made a connection.”

  The owner stewed as he remembered the massive markup on the Rolls. “He better buy it, or you’re outta here!”

  “Don’t worry. It’s a done deal,” said John. “Just gotta dot the i’s.”

  22

  I T TOOK THEM LONG ENOUGH, but Consolidated Bank’s board of directors finally wised up. They had to do something about Pierre before he caused any more damage. They couldn’t fire or demote him, because of all the glowing evaluations he’d received and the potential for an age-discrimination suit. So they promoted him.

  Pierre was bumped up to senior vice president, the one in charge of taking top clients to lunch. Pierre boxed up his belongings, stacked them on an intraoffice trundle cart, and moved one office down.

  Pierre hung the inspirational rowing poster on the new wall and took a seat behind his new desk. He stared off into space, unconsciously picking at the corner of the desk blotter. He let out a heavy breath. The previous VP had been killed in a freak spelunking accident, and nobody had cleaned out his office. Pierre started playing with a set of swinging, clacking metal balls. On the corner of the desk was one of those birds that bobs its head in a glass of water. Pierre got it bobbing, but for some reason it made him depressed, and he grabbed the bird by the neck to stop it. He noticed the twin pen holder with an engraved plate: BERT WELCH, 1989 INTERBAY BLOOD DRIVE, 3RD PLACE. He took both pens out of the holder, scribbled on a notepad, replaced them. He grabbed the sterling business-card holder and dumped Bert’s cards in the wastebasket, replacing them with his own and tapping them into alignment. He leaned back in the padded leather chair and began to swivel with a rhythmic squeaking. Paranoia started its creep. Pierre got up and went over to the window and closed the blinds. He sat back down and began to swivel and squeak again in the dark.

  H. AMBROSE TARRINGTON III had Sinatra on the radio. He swayed with the music as he drove down Bayshore Boulevard and pulled up the circular brick driveway of the largest mansion in town. He grabbed a Polaroid camera from his briefcase and got out of the car. He set the camera on automatic and placed it atop a stone ledge. Then he ran back and posed with the Rolls in front of the estate. He got back in the car.

  THERE WAS A knock on Pierre’s office door. He jumped. He ran to the blinds in terror and peeked out and felt an immediate wave of relief. He opened the door.

  “Ambrose!”

  “Pierre!”

  Vigorous handshake.

  “You free for lunch?” asked Ambrose.

  “Only if I get to pay.”

  “If you insist.”

  Pierre grabbed his coat.

  “Whose car?”

  “Let’s take the Rolls.”

  “What happened to the Bentley?”

  “Getting up in miles.”

  Pierre nodded. He couldn’t believe his luck. Ambrose was one of the richest men in Tampa, rumored to be worth twenty, maybe thirty million, one of the bank’s top clients. Or rather, top potential clients. Nobody had ever quite been able to persuade Ambrose to put any of his millions in Consolidated’s hands, and Pierre was now determined to change that. This might be his only shot at redemption.

  Pierre knew that when dealing with a man at Ambrose’s level, the trick to talking money was not to mention money. Too crude. Instead, you ate and drank and played golf and got prostitutes. Then the next day you had your people call their people.

  Ambrose unlocked the Rolls, and Pierre sank into the passenger seat. “How about the club?”

  “The club it is,” said Ambrose.

  The valet at the Palma Ceia Country Club parked the Rolls while Ambrose and Pierre cut through the men’s shower room, past the polished-wood lockers, and into the men’s grill with a painting of the Royal Troon golf course.

  As the pair crossed the lounge, heads turned. They all knew Ambrose, and Pierre felt his stock rise. He scanned the room for his rivals. There was Nelson from Florida Fidelity, Walter from Tampa Savings, and Jacob from Chemical Bank. Pierre patted Ambrose on the shoulder and smiled back at them. He had a right to feel possessive. How many times had he been in the grill and endured their smugness as Ambrose tucked in his napkin at their tables?

  The waiter topped off their ice water as Ambrose and Pierre flipped through burgundy menus. “I’ll have the swordfish on English muffin,” said Ambrose.

  “The chef’s salad.” said Pierre “Hold the croutons. I’m on the Atkins Diet.”

  “Who isn’t?” said the waiter, collecting the menus but thinking about the screenplay he was writing that would show everyone.

  Nelson, Walter and Jacob were on their cell phones, directing secretaries to get a meeting with Ambrose.

  An hour later the check came and Ambrose took out his wallet.

  “Remember? On me,” said Pierre, intercepting the bill.

  They returned to the Rolls, and Ambrose headed across town to drop Pierre off at the bank. He took a shortcut down Triggerfish Lane. He waved out the window to Gladys Plant. Gladys waved back with pruning shears. Then he waved at Jim and Martha Davenport, sitting on their porch.

  They returned unsure waves. “Do we know him?” asked Martha.

  Pierre was let off at the bank and waved from the curb. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Ambrose checked his watch and headed over a small bridge to Davis Islands, the exclusive enclave in the bay. He pulled up the drive of a waterfront home. The real estate agent was already waiting at the front door. Fifty years old, a touch on the plump side, her natural blond hair in a seventy-dollar cut that hung down to a three-hundred-dollar mauve scarf covered with parakeets.

  Ambrose came up the walkway with his briefcase. “Pleasure to meet you, Jessica.”

  “Call me Jessie.” She opened the door.

  Jessica Hollingsworth, Junior League, Tampa General charity fund-raising chairwoman and Real-Tron Ten-Million-Dollar Club member. Move this home and it was a whole new ball game. Ambrose had called her directly, which meant she wouldn’t have to split the 7 percent commission with a buyer’s agent. And he wanted to close immediately with cash, so she didn’t have to worry about the usual tantrums during escrow. The rich were the worst! She was staring down the barrel of a $420,000 payday. She had already done the math ten ways.

  Ambrose walked in, stared up at the cathedral ceiling and ruffled his eyebrows.

  “Don’t like the color?” said Jessica. “You can always paint. Shoot, I’ll paint.” She chuckled, then kicked herself. Too eager!

  Ambrose set his briefcase on the marble coffee table. “You like martinis in the afternoon?”

  “Do I like what?”

  “Martinis in the afternoon,” said Ambrose, walking over to the stocked wet bar and deftly shakering extra-dry cocktails. House s
hoppers generally weren’t supposed to help themselves to the owners’ liquor cabinet, but Jessica had learned long ago that all bets were off with the wealthy.

  “How many olives?”

  “Two,” she said.

  She sipped Beefeater and saw Ambrose open his briefcase and take out swim trunks. She glanced out the sliding glass doors at the pool.

  “Where’s the nearest bathroom?” asked Ambrose.

  She pointed.

  As Ambrose changed, Jessica decided she should probably say something. Ambrose reemerged from the bathroom in a Speedo.

  “Uh, I’m not sure you should—”

  “If I buy this place, I’ll have to dump the house on Bayshore,” interrupted Ambrose. He showed her the Polaroid. “I’d like you to handle it for me, if that’s not an imposition.”

  Jessie looked at the photo: Ambrose and the Rolls in the mansion’s driveway. “I know that house. Everyone knows that house. That’s yours?”

  Ambrose nodded. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you. You were saying something?”

  “Don’t forget sunscreen.”

  Ambrose floated in the deep end on a Styrofoam lounger, eyes closed, a tranquil grin on his face. Jessica sat inside reading magazines for two hours.

  Ambrose finally climbed out of the pool and dried off. Jessie heard rummaging from the next room. She peeked around the corner. He was in the refrigerator. Ambrose closed the door, and Jessie jumped back before he could catch her. She heard the microwave start.

  Five minutes later, Ambrose came back in the living room, barefoot, wearing a bathrobe with the owner’s monograms. He sat down on the couch with a tray of snacks and propped his feet on an ottoman. He picked up the remote and clicked on the seventy-inch home theater.

  “Cool. It’s a Wonderful Life,” said Ambrose. “And it’s just starting.”

  It was getting dark outside when the movie ended. Ambrose dressed as the credits rolled. “Love the place,” he said, snapping his briefcase shut and heading for the front door. “I’ll sleep on it.”

  THE OWNER OF Tampa Bay Motors was about to call the police, but he put down the phone when the Rolls pulled onto the lot. Everyone rushed out of the showroom as Ambrose parked and got out.

  John smiled with expectant eyes.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” said Ambrose. “Don’t like the color.”

  “What?” said John.

  “Clashes with the house.” Ambrose produced the Polaroid.

  “I know that house,” said the owner of the dealership. “It’s the biggest one on Bayshore. That’s yours?”

  Ambrose nodded and walked away.

  The owner looked at John and pointed. “Hit the road!”

  GLADYS PLANT CLIMBED up the steps of the Davenports’ porch with a tray of key lime tarts.

  “You can tell real key limes because they’re yellow,” said Gladys. “Anyone tries to sell you green key limes, they’re running some kind of racket.”

  “Did I mention I had to call the police to tow away another stolen car?” said Martha.

  “What did I tell you about the grid streets?”

  “But that’s two and we just moved here.”

  “I’ve had four.”

  A public bus stopped at the corner of Triggerfish Lane. Ambrose Tarrington III got out.

  Gladys looked around the porch. “You know what this place needs? A flag.” She pointed at the various pennants hanging from the neighbor’s porches. College emblems, unicorns, sports teams, smiling frogs, manatees, Persian cats, bowling balls. “If you don’t put something up, it looks like you don’t stand for anything.”

  Ambrose walked by on the sidewalk and waved. He continued up three more houses, opened a picket gate and went inside the tiniest home on the street.

  “I think that’s the same guy who waved to us earlier,” said Jim. “But he was in a Rolls-Royce.”

  “That’s H. Ambrose Tarrington the Third,” said Gladys.

  “What is he, a chauffeur or something?”

  “No, he’s slightly insane.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. Gentle as they come. One of the best neighbors on the block.”

  “That’s what you said about Old Man Ortega before they linked him to those skeletal remains.”

  “He’s harmless—just thinks he’s a millionaire,” said Gladys. “He lives in this imaginary world.”

  “But that was a real Rolls-Royce.”

  “No kidding,” said Gladys. “He’s so thoroughly convinced he’s a millionaire that he convinces others. He spends all his time test-driving luxury cars, getting free meals from banks and lounging around mansions that have just gone on the market. He has this ability. He knows exactly how millionaires walk and talk. All it takes is one nice suit and a good haircut. Their greed does the rest. He showed me his business cards. He’s got phone numbers in New York and Beverly Hills.”

  “He has offices there?” said Jim.

  “No, just phone numbers,” said Gladys. “It’s a free Internet service.”

  “They don’t catch on?” asked Jim.

  “Not only do they not catch on, they fight over him. I brought him tea one day at his house and the phone didn’t stop ringing.”

  “So he’s a con man.”

  “Yes and no. He never takes anything except free food and drink. Mainly he just cons them out of quality time.”

  “Where’d he learn how to pretend to be a millionaire?”

  “He really used to be one.”

  Jim pointed down the street at Ambrose’s modest house.

  “It’s a heart-wrenching story,” said Gladys. “Ambrose was born dirt poor on the edge of the Everglades. I mean no-indoor-plumbing poor. He clawed his way up and made his millions in the import business. A bunch of import outlets. Early on he married his wife, Sylvia, and they were together forty years. He never strayed. You should have known her—a real doll. About fifteen years ago, Sylvia is diagnosed with a rare lymphoma, and Ambrose’s insurance company pulls some kind of crap and refuses to pay for treatment. Ambrose tried absolutely everything. Took her to specialists in Paris, Geneva, the Mayo. He started with about seven million, but what he didn’t spend flying her all over the world for experimental treatment went to home health care and his team of lawyers fighting the insurance company. She went into remission twice, lasted ten years. By the time she died, they were living here. He developed a heart problem and couldn’t return to work. Barely gets by on Social Security.”

  “So he became unstable?” asked Martha.

  “He’s lonely,” said Gladys. “He misses his wife. He wants people to like him the way they used to when he had money, even if it’s for the wrong reasons. He just wants someone to talk to. When he’s out pretending, it’s the high point of his day, God bless ’im.”

  23

  T HE CORPS OF SALESMEN AT Tampa Bay Motors stared sadly out the showroom window. Rocco was the only one who relished the firing of John Milton. Despite their heated differences at Trivial Pursuit, the rest of the staff watched with sorrow as John silently trudged away from the dealership for the last time, head down.

  John went right past his own car in the row of employee parking slots and kept going. He reached the highway and crossed it. He began walking in earnest. Soon he had gone a mile, then two. His shirt was soaked through and pasted to his back and stomach. People drove by, stereos jackhammering. John cut behind a gyro shop and a liquor store with a bar in back. A man and woman yelled across the hood of a bumperless De Ville, then started wrestling and fell down in a silt puddle. John kept walking. He thought about his credit card balances—now twelve thousand dollars—and his car payments and rent. He had the sensation of rapid descent. He was falling off the food chain, and he looked down and saw no net. He pictured himself behind a 7-Eleven, using newspapers for blankets, fighting a bum for a mattress, then sticking up a store with a finger inside a windbreaker and getting mowed down by the G-men like Dillinger at the Biograph. He began seeing peop
le from his life. The school principal, the bank vice president, Rocco Silvertone. Their faces showed up in an arcade at the county fair; John shot a water pistol into their mouths until their heads exploded in a rain of rubber shreds.

  John cursed them all in his mind. Somewhere along the line, John stopped thinking these thoughts and began yelling them. He raised his arms to shoot the make-believe squirt guns. He kept on walking. There was a bend up ahead in the road. He went around it. John now had a new address. He was living on Crazy Street.

  Being crazy was hard work. John became tired. He curled up in an alley behind a tire store.

  The next morning the tire guys laughed and kicked John awake. Another big day. John began walking again. And talking, and waving his arms. He saw someone coming toward him on the sidewalk. A homeless man with a gray beard and pinwheel hat. The man was talking and waving his own arms. As they passed on the sidewalk, they nodded to each other out of professional courtesy.

  John would soon get to know most of the homeless, that shadow army living out on the tattered hem of society, washing windshields, recycling aluminum and shoring up the malt liquor industry. The guy who just passed John, for instance. Ernie. Late-stage alcoholic and über schizophrenic. Ernie was the exception that proved the rule. He had survived since 1985 on the streets of Tampa, where life expectancy was measured in dog years.

  Ernie didn’t consider himself homeless. He instead liked to think of himself as the ultimate bachelor, which, in many ways, he was. Ernie had a Jesus complex. He wore sandals and a white smock and made crowns of thorns out of pipe cleaners and plastic six-pack rings. Most of the time, Ernie gently ministered to his flock. He blessed people in intersections, forgave shoppers in parking lots, and anointed the sick at the train station. Except when he was on a bender—then he was usually throwing up in the middle of a busy highway. By all rights, Ernie should have been struck and killed long ago, but drivers tend to be superstitious people, and they made an extra effort to avoid the bad luck that comes with running over a guy who looks like Christ.