The Pope of Palm Beach Read online

  Serge sat with his jaw hanging. “What just happened?”

  “Sixty-nine.” Coleman giggled.

  “He was just making that shit up!” yelled Serge. “It’s not his compressor!” Slap. “No motel unit costs three thousand!” Slap. “And even if it did, he wouldn’t have to pay!” Slap. He tossed the dildo on the bed, activating the lights and chirping. “I respect everybody, and I don’t judge. There’s pride in being a maintenance man. We all have our roles to play. But when you’re a maintenance man, you do maintenance. That guy was setting policy. You saw him: He looked like he’d just dropped his cardboard sign at the intersection and thrown on that maintenance shirt. And I’ll bet the motel chain doesn’t even know that he’s on this power trip. He’s probably another one of those bitterness-farmers because life didn’t automatically send a special delivery truck with wealth and fame. ‘I’m always at the bottom of the food chain. Something unfair must have happened while I wasn’t charting my life’s course. I’ve got to figure out a way to boss others around. I know! I’ll set all the air conditioners to seventy-two, and then when they get the night sweats, who do they have to come begging to? Me!’” Serge stood and placed his hand on his hips. “This aggression will not stand.”

  Coleman looked at the bed and an artificial penis making birdcalls. “But what can you do?”

  “Wage a battle of wits.” Serge tapped the side of his head and pulled the cover off the unit. “He was doing something he wouldn’t let me see. I just have to crack the code . . . Okay, here’s a secret maintenance button you can only access by removing the lid. And here’s a tiny schematic label. Jesus, the lettering is about a third the size of newspaper font. A child with new eyes couldn’t read something this small.” He grabbed his cell phone, took a picture and enlarged it. “There we go.”

  Coleman looked over his shoulder. “Instructions?”

  “No, hieroglyphics. But it’s the key to unlocking the code.” Serge ran his finger down the screen. “There are two columns with various symbols and at first blush it looks like roughly a hundred and forty-four permutations. I’ll just have to use trial and error until I gain control of the unit.” He began slowly pressing buttons, each time glancing at his phone’s display. Negative result after negative result. He kept going . . .

  Coleman watched TV. Birds began gathering outside the window, chirping back at the dildo. After three episodes of Gilligan’s Island, Serge snapped his fingers. “Dude, come take a look.”

  Coleman waddled over and checked the temperature gauge. “Holy cow, you did it! And you were even able to set it lower than the A/C at those other places.”

  Serge stood triumphantly and gazed out the window. “Yeah, Mr. Maintenance Man, how about a nice big cup of sixty degrees, motherfucker!”

  He grabbed a roll of tape and ran outside to the end of the motel. He knocked on the first door.

  A woman in curlers answered. “Yes?”

  “We’re here to fix your air conditioner.”

  “It’s not broken.”

  “The temperature was inadvertently restricted to seventy-two degrees through inadequate psychological screening.”

  “Are you with the motel?”

  “Of course,” said Serge. “We’re wearing uniforms.”

  “You just taped your room’s magnetic key with the name of the motel to your shirts.” The woman pointed down. “The roll of tape is still in your hand.”

  “We’re behind on laundry,” said Serge. “Thermal emancipation is only seconds away.”

  “I guess . . .”

  Moments later, Serge snapped the cover back on and it was off to the next room, and the next, then around the corner and down the next row, until he came to a room on the far side and replaced the cover. He smiled at the occupant. “If this ever happens again, and I’m not around—as well as for those playing along at home—here’s a cheat sheet to Fight the Power: Turn the unit off, remove the cover, locate and press the hidden aux set button, press the mode button several times until the numeral five is the first symbol in the display, press the down-temperature arrow until zero is the second character in the display, press aux set again, replace the cover, press the power button, and you’ve just successfully raged against the machine, passive-aggressively, that is.”

  “Thank you, I guess.”

  “Say no more! Your liberty is my reward!” He slapped Coleman on the back. “Come on, buddy. Enough good deeds for now. We’ll reset the rest of the rooms after I watch some Science Channel about how if a magnetic burst from a neutron star is aimed precisely at Earth, it can pull the iron in our blood right though our skin.”

  Coleman looked at his arm. “Do I have time for a pizza?”

  “Great idea! We’ll pay with a credit card, and if the magnetic burst hits, our payment is wiped out and the pizza is free.” He led Coleman back into their room and clutched himself. “It’s fucking freezing in here.”

  Chapter 26

  1989

  It was a mystery.

  Driving Kenny nuts.

  Police cruisers had filled the driveway. Officers all over the yard.

  Kenny went from window to window, circling the inside of the house. They were everywhere, in the backyard, the bushes, checking his mailbox. They took photos and made dogs sniff stuff. More uniforms were next door and across the street, knocking.

  They did everything but knock on his door. Then they all backed out of the driveway and just left. It made no sense.

  Kenny sat back in his chair, convinced it was only a temporary stay of execution. He gripped the rifle and tried to stay awake. Adrenaline worked for a while.

  Kenny dozed off. He awoke with a start.

  The house was silent. What time was it? The slits in the blinds were dim and ambiguous. He peeked out the curtains at a gray sky. Was it dawn or dusk? His wristwatch was no help: 6:30. He turned on the TV. What? He was so exhausted that he’d slept clear through to the next morning. How could I have been so careless? Anything might have happened!

  But then: Hey, nothing did happen. He went back to his chair. Up all day and night. Sensation finally returned in his stomach, and it was on empty. He went to the kitchen. Cupboards opened, the refrigerator door. It was a bachelor’s pad. And it had been the end of the shopping week. Just condiments, cocktail onions and a jar of peanut butter.

  The sun rose, and another countdown to fate. But nothing happened again except he ran out of peanut butter. The sun went down and it was miniature onions for dinner.

  Then a few days of an involuntary hunger strike. But it was balanced out by budding hope that he just might get out of this.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  Kenny sprang out of his chair like it was an ejection seat. He ran to the window with the rifle and peeked outside.

  A mail carrier. Whew, thank God.

  Knock, knock, knock!

  But why was she knocking? Why didn’t she just leave the stuff in the mailbox like always? He snuck another glimpse. What was she doing? It looked like taping something to the door. What could it be?

  Now his imagination took him down dark alleys. This can’t be good. Nothing has ever been taped to the door until now. That’s no coincidence. He was dying to know. But it was still light out, so he chose to speculate in panic until it got dark and the neighbors went to bed.

  Near midnight, Kenny checked out the blinds a final time. He opened the front door only wide enough to slip his arm through, quickly snatching the notice, and closing up again.

  Certified mail?

  His mind juggled balls of bad outcomes. Who? What? The notice said he hadn’t been home when the carrier came by, but he was welcome to sign the back of the form and leave it on the door. He grabbed a pen and scribbled. His plan was to avoid suspicion. Neighbors watched suspiciously as a disembodied arm swiftly shot out of the house again, slapped the notice on the door and slammed it shut. Great plan.

  He counted the minutes until the mail truck arrived the next afternoon. Then
more minutes until cover of darkness. Arm out, arm in. Door slammed.

  The envelope was from an attorney’s office. Kenny tore it open and read the letter from the lawyer. Darby’s will had left him the house and a couple of modest bank accounts. Hmm, lawyer. He got to thinking.

  The next morning at precisely nine o’clock, he dialed the phone number on the letterhead. A secretary put him through. “Hanley Dunn, how can I help?”

  “I received your letter about the estate of Darby Pope.”

  “Oh, Darby was a dear friend. It’s a tragedy,” said the attorney. “I’m sorry for your loss, but if it’s any consolation, he always spoke very highly of you.”

  “You’re an attorney, right?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “So anything I tell you will remain confidential?”

  “That’s how it works.”

  “I’d like to retain you,” said Kenny. “I have some urgent matters.”

  “What kind of matters?”

  “I’m really desperate,” said Kenny. “I don’t know where to turn.”

  “That’s usually when you need a lawyer the most,” Dunn said in a reassuring voice he had rehearsed for just such phone calls. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I need food.”

  The Present

  A young man rushed into the office of a Miami warehouse. “Sir, we’ve got a hit.”

  Salenca looked up from a balance sheet. “A hit? What are you talking about?”

  “On Diego’s credit card. I’ve been monitoring it like you told me.”

  “You’re actually serious?” Salenca removed his reading glasses. “Please tell me it’s some kind of off-brand convenience store where we can bribe the clerk for the security tape.”

  “Even better,” said the messenger. “A motel.”

  “They can’t be that ignorant. It makes them sitting ducks.” Salenca stood and grabbed a pistol from a desk drawer. “Tell everyone to drop what they’re doing. We’re leaving as of five minutes ago . . .”

  A half hour later, a Mercedes led a squadron of pickup trucks north on U.S. 1. They pulled into the parking lot of a discount motel.

  Salenca and company entered the office. “Excuse me, can you tell me which room Diego Carbone is staying in?”

  Another monotone as the clerk read a celebrity magazine. “We . . . are . . . not . . . allowed . . . to . . . disclose . . . the . . . room . . . numbers . . . of . . . guests.”

  “But we’re supposed to be staying with him,” said Salenca. “I can even give you the credit-card number he used because it’s a company card and I’m his boss.”

  Still looking at the magazine. “We . . . are . . . not . . . allowed . . . to . . . disclose . . . the . . . room . . . numbers . . . of . . . guests.” The clerk thinking: I didn’t know Taylor Swift had moved on with her life.

  “Listen,” said Salenca. “This is a matter of life and death. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “I can call his room for you.”

  Salenca leaned over the counter and looked at her push-button phone. “Great. I’d really appreciate it.”

  She pressed three buttons, and handed the receiver over the counter.

  “Hello? . . .”

  “On second thought, hang up.” He gave the phone back. “I’ll just call him on his cell.”

  “Is someone there? . . .”

  Click.

  Salenca regrouped with his men outside the office. “They’re in room one-oh-eight. I saw her dial it.”

  “How do you want us to handle this?”

  A Datsun with a lighted yellow sign on the roof pulled up the driveway. A teenager in a baseball cap got out with a rectangular cardboard box in an insulated sleeve. Apparently silver was the best color inside a sleeve to deliver warmth.

  “What room is the pizza for?”

  “Three-twelve.”

  “That’s us,” said Salenca.

  “Uh, I don’t know why, but people are now intercepting other people’s pizzas. Maybe they don’t want to wait,” said the pimply youth. “I’ve been instructed only to deliver to the room.”

  “You’ll be delivering it to an empty room,” said Salenca. “Then driving back with that pizza and no tip. Here’s two twenties. Keep the change.”

  The young man flipped up the receipt stapled to the box. “But the pizza only costs— . . . Here you go.”

  Someone on a third-floor balcony recognized the lighted sign for Jack Rabbit Pizza on the departing delivery vehicle.

  “Hey, that’s our pie.”

  Six men stared upward with silent menace.

  “Enjoy . . .” A door slammed.

  The gang strolled along the front of the motel, 102, 104, 106 . . . “Hang back until they open up,” said Salenca.

  He was approaching the room to knock when the door surprised him.

  Serge stepped out and bumped into Salenca. “Whoa. You scared me! . . . Ooo! Pizza! Somebody’s lucky tonight!”

  Salenca reached under the box for his pistol. “You staying in that room?”

  “No, just fixing the air conditioner,” said Serge. “Wish I was. I can smell the pepperoni!”

  Salenca’s entire face twisted into a violent countenance that said, Get out of here! We have business!

  “Well, we’ll just get out of here,” said Serge. “We have business. Come on, Coleman!”

  Salenca watched intently until they were around the corner and couldn’t be witnesses. He knocked.

  Footsteps came toward the door from the other side.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Salenca felt the presence of someone looking through the peephole.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Pizza.”

  “We didn’t order pizza.”

  “Room one-oh-eight, right?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s the number on the pizza box.”

  “Look . . .” The dead bolt unlatched and the door started to open. “We didn’t order any—”

  The door violently crashed open the rest of the way, pizza flying one direction into a mirror, the box sailing another way onto a bed. Guns in faces, men pouring into the room.

  Slam, lock.

  Two construction workers raised their hands and crapped their pants. “W-w-w-what do you want?”

  “To know who you’re working for!”

  “M-M-M-Maloney Contractors.”

  “I mean who are you really working for.”

  “N-n-n-no, seriously, that’s it. We’ve been troweling cinder blocks all day.”

  One of the lieutenants whispered, “His hands and fingernails. I worked masonry.”

  “Shut up.” Salenca marched in a circle. “So you deny killing Diego Carbone out in the Everglades and setting his truck on fire?”

  “Who’s that?”

  Something caught Salenca’s eye in the trash basket. He pulled out the small piece of paper and uncrumpled it. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

  “What is it?” asked one of the workers with hands still aloft.

  “Just a receipt for this room with the last four digits of a credit card I recognize, in the name of one Diego Carbone . . . What a coincidence! . . .”

  . . . Serge and Coleman returned to their room, and Serge slapped his cheeks to increase circulation. “It’s like the damn North Pole in here!”

  “You said that last time.” Coleman grabbed a beer he’d been cooling by the A/C vent. “Why don’t you turn the temperature up?”

  “No way!” Serge put on five T-shirts. His breath was visible as he blew into his hands. “I’m savoring this victory!”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Me, too.” Serge got out his wallet. “We got distracted and forgot to order that pizza.”

  “No avocados or cranberries like last time,” said Coleman.

  “I never would have gone in that kind of pizza place had I known. What’s wrong with California?” Serge explored various fabric compartments. “I’m still
pissed they tried to horn in on our citrus.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  Serge held the wallet by his side and stared at the ceiling. “Where did I put that credit card? . . . Okay, let me walk it back. I came in the room . . .” He turned to a piece of furniture. “. . . And I could have sworn I put it on the dresser next to the room keys like I always do. Coleman, your thoughts?”

  “You’re asking me? I don’t know where my beer is . . . Oh, my hand.”

  Serge smacked himself. “I’m a stooge! It’s in the first room we checked into! I must have left it on the dresser . . .” He closed his eyes for the photographic memory technique he always used to find lost stuff. “. . . I unlocked the door, then I crumpled the receipt and threw it in the wastebasket, then . . .”—he turned around in the new room to aid the mnemonic process—“. . . checked the A/C and discovered the heartbreak of seventy-two . . . Hmm, no visuals of putting the credit card on the dresser. But it has to be there.” He opened his eyes. “We need to go back to room one-oh-eight, even though they’ll be cranky because we’re interrupting a hot pizza that just arrived.”

  They headed out the door and rounded the corner, reading descending room numbers: 124, 122, 120 . . .

  “I feel terrible about this,” said Serge. “It flies in the face of my personal ethics, but it’s an emergency.”

  Coleman chugged Coors. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Pizza Principle.” Room 116, 114, 112. “It’s a guy thing. Forget not boning each other’s wives: If there’s one code all men respect, it’s don’t fuck with a just-arrived, steaming-hot pizza . . .”

  . . . A steaming-hot pizza was pressed into a screaming face and the victim flung upside down into a full-length mirror. “Don’t lie to me again! Where did you get Diego’s credit card!”

  “I never saw that receipt before you picked it out of the trash can!” Wiping blood from eyes. “I swear!”

  The others picked him up and flung him again, into a shattering headboard.

  “I will only ask you one last time.” Salenca bent over with a nickel-plated Colt .45. “Who is trying to muscle in on my business?”