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  “And he’s got to be a long way from his house because there are just stores around.”

  “Probably his only mode of transportation to get food and medicine,” said Serge. “He’s in a serious jam, stranded out here in the sweltering concrete badlands with a bum wheelchair, no better than if he was floating alone in the ocean.”

  “Why’d you hit your blinker?” asked Coleman.

  “Because we’re coming to his rescue,” said Serge. “Remember in the sixties when there used to be ‘shut-­ins’? You never hear about them anymore. I guess they’re now shut-­outs. Is that progress?”

  “Serge, look at those two thugs,” said Coleman. “They’re going after the guy!”

  “Just when I thought we’d scraped bottom.” Serge reached under his seat for an automatic pistol. “What’s next? Hospice invasions?”

  “Both of them are reaching down behind his chair,” said Coleman. “They’re going to dump him in the gutter!”

  “No doubt to pawn the scooter.” The traffic light turned green. Serge put on his hazard lights. “And I was hoping to cut back on my office hours . . .”

  “Hold on,” said Coleman. “They’re not dumping him.”

  “No, they’re twisting wires together.” Serge stowed his gun. “They’re doing repairs like good citizens. I love small towns!”

  “They got it fixed,” said Coleman. “The old man is rolling away and waving at them.”

  “I’m overcome with emotion.” Serge wiped away tears. “My work in this state might finally be coming to an end—­”

  Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

  “What the heck is that sound?” said Coleman.

  “I don’t know,” said Serge, “but it’s getting closer.”

  Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

  Coleman bent around in his seat. “I still can’t locate it.”

  “Because it’s so loud it’s echoing off buildings from all directions,” said Serge. “And it just knocked my rearview mirror out of my favorite position.”

  Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

  The growing reverberations splashed Coleman’s drink in his lap. “What on earth can it be?”

  “Oh no, not again,” said Serge.

  “What is it?”

  “Take a gander.” Serge pointed at the pickup truck in the next lane. “Another hip-­hop redneck with a tricked-­out audio system. How many have I had to deal with now? Five, six? And I was hanging my hopes on self-­extinction.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you heard the joke: ‘What were the redneck’s last words?’ ”

  “No.”

  “Hold my beer and watch this.”

  “Serge, I think he made some kind of mistake,” said Coleman. “His stereo speakers are pointing the wrong way.”

  “I’m afraid that’s no mistake. I think I’ve spotted the biggest voluntary dunce cap in my life,” said Serge. “He flush-­mounted gigantic speakers on the exterior of the pickup’s cab, so they’re pointed out at other motorists. I never would have believed it if I wasn’t staring at it right now.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “To him it does,” said Serge. “First we had jerks who played music too loud. But that wasn’t sufficiently broadcasting their superior taste in tunes, so they started keeping their windows down. And now we have this visionary who thought: Wait, I’ve got a way to let the maximum amount of ­people know my IQ.”

  “My eyeballs are starting to hurt.”

  “Roll your window down,” said Serge. “Hey! Buddy!”

  “He can’t hear you,” said Coleman. “The music’s too loud.”

  Serge leaned on his horn.

  “Still can’t hear you,” said Coleman. “His windows are up.”

  “Probably doesn’t like to be bothered by loud music in traffic . . . Throw some of your M&M’s.”

  “But I’m eating them.”

  “Take one for the team.”

  Coleman began pinging them off the pickup’s glass. The driver finally looked around and noticed Serge leaning across Coleman, giving him the signal to roll down his window.

  “Yeah?” snapped the driver.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” asked Serge.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your speakers are facing the wrong way.”

  “That’s how I want them.”

  “I hate to be presumptuous,” said Serge, “but I believe I’m on solid ground when I say that’s how everyone else in the community doesn’t want them.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” The driver rolled up his window and increased the volume.

  The light turned green. The vehicles rolled side by side a few more blocks and stopped at another light. Serge stared down in his lap.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Coleman.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m stunned.” Another beer cracked. “You’ve never let somebody like that slide. Remember what you did to the last guy with a pounding car stereo? It ruled!”

  “And ate up an entire day of my preciously short life,” said Serge. “I must accept that jerks will always be around unless we can get them to live together in special colonies in the salt caverns.”

  Coleman shrugged and drank beer. The light turned green. Up ahead, an SUV pulled out of a shopping center with plenty of time and eased to a stop at the next red light.

  The pickup was right on its bumper, horn blaring.

  Bump, ba-­bump, bump, ba-­bump . . .

  “Just ignore him,” Serge said under his breath.

  “He jumped out of the truck,” said Coleman. “He’s running up to that other car.”

  “And it’s got a mother with her small children in the backseat.”

  The man stuck his face in the SUV’s open window. “Get out of the car, bitch!”

  Chapter TWO

  CENTRAL FLORIDA

  Two cartoon felines were carrying a grand piano. The scene was painted on the side of a truck. The van for MOVING CATS drove away.

  Peter and Mary Pugliese unpacked china and picture frames.

  “I’m so glad we found this place.” Peter set a family portrait on the mantel.

  Mary scattered packing peanuts removing a Tiffany lamp. “She was right about the breezes.”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “What’s that?”

  Peter began walking. “Someone’s at the door.”

  “But who?”

  “I know a way to find out.”

  Peter opened the door to find an old man in bib overalls. “Can I help you?”

  The man removed a baseball cap with a faded slogan: YOU SAY POTATO, I SAY TATER TOT. He wiped his brow and distractedly glanced at his watch. “I’m here about the water bill.”

  “But we just moved in,” said Peter.

  “You did?” The visitor looked left and right. “Then payment’s due up front.”

  “It is?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Peter always liked to please when he was the new guy somewhere. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Well?” said Peter.

  “What?”

  “Where’s the water bill?”

  “We don’t use those,” said the visitor. “It’s a small town.”

  Peter took a deep breath. “How much?”

  “Two hundred.”

  His eyed widened. “Water’s that much around here?”

  “How does a hundred sound?”

  Peter stared again. “Who are you?”

  “The mayor.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” said Peter. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but could I see some identif
ication?”

  “I’m Vernon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Everyone knows me.”

  “We just moved in.”

  Vernon shrugged and opened a billfold.

  “That’s a badge.”

  “I’m also the police chief.”

  “Let me get my checkbook.”

  “We kind of like cash around here.”

  “Can I get a receipt?”

  “No.”

  “But I have a home office, and my tax returns—­”

  “How about this: I can go fifty for a campaign contribution, and get you for water at the end of the month?”

  Peter was off balance. “Is this for real?”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “We just moved in.”

  “We got a nice little town,” said Vernon. “We don’t like trouble.”

  “No, I didn’t mean . . .” Peter got out his own wallet. “Here’s fifty.”

  Vernon pocketed it and started walking away. “Probably be seeing you around Lead Belly’s.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Everyone knows Lead Belly’s.”

  “We just moved—­”

  Mary tapped him on the shoulder. “Who was that?”

  “The mayor.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I’m still trying to process it.”

  “There’s only a ­couple of sparkling waters in the fridge,” said Mary. “Let’s see where they eat in this town, and you can tell me over dinner.”

  THE PANHANDLE

  Motorists watched in shock at the unfolding road rage.

  “Get out of the car, bitch?” Serge repeated to himself. “Are you kidding me? It’s a mother grocery-­shopping with her kids.”

  “He’s reaching through the window,” said Coleman. “She’s trying to pull away from him and get the window rolled up at the same time.”

  “He’s running alongside the car still trying to grab her,” said Serge. “Now his arm’s stuck in the window.”

  “She’s dragging him through the intersection,” said Coleman. “I’ve heard of ­people doing this at street brawls.”

  “Except she’s not trying on purpose,” said Serge. “That maniac has her terrified out of her mind for her children’s safety.”

  “The window busted out of the car. He’s tumbling in the street.” Coleman winced. “He’s going to need some Bactine.”

  “Another sixties favorite,” said Serge, “but no time to cherish that nugget.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s running back to his truck and tearing off through the intersection after her.”

  “Doesn’t he have somewhere better to be?” asked Coleman.

  “Of course,” said Serge. “But the latest wave of road-­ragers has an impressive work ethic. They just follow and follow.”

  “I think there’s going to be a chase,” said Coleman.

  Serge smiled and threw his car in gear. “I know there’s going to be a chase.”

  It was indeed a chase, technically, so to speak. Not quite as slow as the O.J. thing in the Bronco. The mom was splitting the difference between eluding the tormentor and not endangering her children. Plus there was a lot of traffic and red lights. The pickup’s driver used those opportunities to pull alongside and scream profanities, but the woman couldn’t hear them because his stereo was too loud.

  Serge followed the pair of vehicles as they turned into a neighborhood. “That mom’s making the classic mistake. She should look for a police station or remain in some other public place with a lot of ­people. But in her panic for the offspring, she’s reflexively seeking the safety of her home. Even if she has time to unlock the door and get everyone inside—­which she won’t—­she’s leading this cretin right to their address.”

  “She just passed that fire station,” said Coleman.

  “Which reminds me of Vietnam.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Remember my hometown fire station with the civil defense siren? I vividly recall them blasting the thing at the official end of the Vietnam War. Where can youth get that today? And now, whenever I hear a siren of any kind, I think about cartoons.”

  “Because of Vietnam?”

  “No, the firehouse siren would wail on Saturdays right after I finished watching the Warner Brothers classics. Kids today need more Foghorn Leghorn.”

  “I’m a chicken hawk.” Coleman giggled.

  “I say that boy needs a talkin’ to,” said Serge.

  “Remember Pepe Le Pew?” asked Coleman.

  “A sexual harassment lawsuit in every episode,” said Serge. “And Daffy Duck.”

  “ ‘It’s fiddler crab season,’ ” said Coleman. “Bang!”

  “But my favorite was the Road Runner,” said Serge. “I was enthralled by the coyote’s irrepressible interest in experiments, which inspired me to conceive my own projects. It also taught me to separate reality from fiction because, no matter how great an idea it may seem at the time, nothing good ever came from igniting model rocket engines on my roller skates.”

  “I liked how the coyote could get whatever he wanted from the Acme company,” said Coleman.

  “That was the best part,” said Serge. “Anvils, foot springs, hot-­air balloons, giant magnets . . .”

  The Mercury Comet turned onto a sleepy street where an SUV had just raced up a driveway, followed closely by a pickup truck.

  “ . . . Please don’t hurt my children! . . .”

  The duo parked at the bottom of the driveway and began walking toward the source of the shouting on the front doorstep.

  “ . . . Bat wings, TNT detonator plungers, iron birdseed, tornado pills, earthquake pills. And all his shit would arrive right away,” said Serge. “Nobody besides me has made the connection, but that’s where Amazon got their business model: wide selection, prompt delivery.”

  The woman’s trembling hands fumbled with her keys as she rushed to get the door open. The pickup driver snatched them away and seized her by the arm. Three little tykes hid behind her legs.

  “ . . . You miserable cunt . . .”

  “Now, now,” said Serge. “Let us all come together at the banquet table of humanity.”

  The pickup driver spun around. “Who the hell—­ . . . Oh, you again!”

  “That’s right. I’m the producer of a famous regional reality show,” said Serge. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Florida’s Got Dicks, Season Twelve.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “You’ve heard the saying ‘Too bad stupidity isn’t painful’?” Serge grinned. “I bring tidings of great joy.”

  Zzzzzzap!

  The man fell hard to the ground, twitching and moaning from a Taser.

  “Ma’am, everything’s okay now.” Serge retrieved the woman’s house keys from the assailant and handed them back. “Please be safe and lock your doors.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “No, but I am with the state.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.” She stuck a key in the knob.

  “Come on, Coleman . . .”

  They dragged their quarry to the rear of the car.

  The woman turned around before closing the door. “You’re putting him in your trunk?”

  Serge grabbed a pair of ankles. “We don’t have one of those police cars with the cage separating the backseat, but I’ve been doing this for years. Have a nice evening.” The trunk lid slammed shut. “Everything’s back to normal.”

  Chapter THREE

  DINNER

  Peter and Mary Pugliese walked arm in arm along Main Street. It was a shaded street. A single traffic light blinked. A striped bar
ber pole rotated. Potter’s Drugs still had Old Man Potter counting pills. There were portable drills in the window of the hardware store, along with a sign saying the local post office counter was in back by the penny nails, but everyone already knew that. A crimson caboose stood in the courtyard of the Railroad Hotel.

  Mary stopped to stare in a window. “They have antique shops. There’s a gumball machine.” She squeezed her husband’s arm. “I already love this town.”

  Across the street, sandwiched between a paint store and a locksmith, was an old red wooden building with a steep roof. VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPARTMENT, EST. 1901.

  “Check out the vintage engine,” said Peter. “All that’s missing is a spotted dog.”

  “They still use something that old?” asked Mary.

  “No, it must be a museum now, to go with the antique stores for the tourists,” said her husband. “Doubt that thing even runs.”

  Suddenly there was a siren and flashing red lights. A locksmith and a paint salesman flew out their doors. Someone else with shaving cream on his face ran from the barbershop. The men piled in the quaint engine. The siren seemed to be laboring for volume, because it was the original model that worked on a hand crank. A dalmatian jumped aboard. They took off into the countryside.

  “That answers that,” said Mary.

  They continued to the corner and Shorty’s Garage. A “Closed” sign in the window, next to a display of fan belts and wiper blades for all occasions. The building sat amid a sea of non-­running vehicles that Shorty had promised he would “get to.”

  “Look.” Peter gestured up the block.

  “Where?”

  “That dirty old neon sign sticking out from the building.”

  “The black one with flickering orange tubes?” said Mary. “Lead Belly’s?”

  “So it’s a barbecue joint.”

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner.” Peter picked up the pace. “I haven’t had good barbecue in like forever!”

  The front of the ramshackle restaurant featured weathered wooden shingles, with narrow horizontal slits for windows. The ­couple entered to the loud gong of a brass bell over the door. “Did we do that?”

  “I can’t see anything.” Peter stopped to prevent tripping as his eyes adjusted. “It’s so dark.”