“But there’s no election going on.”
“What?” Serge removed the tube. “Listen, is this some kind of deal where you’re just trying to leave work early?”
“That’s not it—”
“Because I understand the hardship with government pay and all, but it’s nothing like the minimum-wage customer-care people. I won’t mention names, but you know the stores . . .” The tube went back in, slurp, slurp, slurp. “. . . Those lard-bricks have it down to a science with a one-size-fits-all answer: ‘No.’ And I’m trying to return a toaster, with a receipt no less, but it’s after the thirty days . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“. . . And the woman says I can only exchange it for the exact same model, and only if it’s defective, even though I’ve already told her that I want to upgrade to a better toaster and am willing to pay the difference—like she’s not listening to a single word I’m saying . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“So she plugs it in and says it’s not defective. And I say, ‘Oh, it’s defective all right. It doesn’t meet my toast requirements.’ ” Slurp, slurp. “I need ‘fast’ toast with my coffee for today’s balls-out lifestyle . . . Oh, if that last phrase was offensive, I meant like juggling a lot of balls in a hectic schedule, as opposed to, say, my balls. Darn, I’m just making it worse. Anyway, I love toast, especially with runny yolk, but toast is like the last food left that you can’t microwave, even though I’ve tried with special homemade reflectors that they ‘say’ you’re not supposed to put in the microwave, but I wasn’t believing it . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“. . . Now I have to return a defective microwave, and they asked, ‘What the heck did you put in here? and I said, ‘Just toast and hope.’ And they wouldn’t give me my money back because of so-called misuse. But here’s the remedy for that scenario: If you approach ten employees in these stores, you get ten different answers. So I waited until they went on break and found someone else at the counter who was busy texting and gave me my refund, which I wanted even less than to vote right now . . .”
“Excuse me—”
“So if you don’t mind, I’d like to try someone else in this office for a different answer. What about that fat lady over there eating a bag of Funyuns? Maybe I’ll ask her.”
“Sir, I’m quite sure of this.”
“What about early voting? Or absentee voting? Or one of impenetrable ten-paragraph constitutional amendments on homestead ad valorem reform. I’m ready to be counted!”
“Sir, there aren’t any elections for weeks.”
Serge pouted and pooched out his lower lip.
The woman smiled warmly. “Why don’t you just register to vote for now, and then it’s taken care of and you’ll be ready to vote when the election does come?”
Serge slowly sat up straight. “Alllllll right. I guess that will have to do.”
“Good,” said the clerk, getting out the forms. “Do you want to register with one of the political parties so you can vote in the primaries?”
“Definitely,” said Serge.
“Which one?”
“Both.”
The woman looked up. “You can’t join both.”
“Why not?” asked Serge.
“That’s just the way it works.”
“Are you sure you don’t have to leave work early?”
“I’m positive you can’t be in both parties.”
“Can I register to vote twice?”
“No.”
“I’m not getting this,” said Serge. “You can have dual citizenship. Surely loyalty to a political party isn’t more important than the country.”
“Actually it is.”
“Let’s fix that.” He opened a notepad and scribbled.
“Why do you want to join both parties anyway?”
“Because each has some great ideas, as well as some that are quite stinkaroo.” Serge stuck the tube in his mouth again. “Why not harness the best that both have to offer so it’s morning in America again? I already did the math.”
“You sound like you mean well, but the parties’ rules don’t permit it.”
Serge raised a fist over his head. “That’s the whole problem! I have no issue with fellow citizens pushing opposing viewpoints as long as it doesn’t involve drum circles or long-term magazine subscriptions. In fact, I’ve changed so much over the years that now I disagree with most of the people I used to be. And I liked those guys, who were me. Where is that tube? Oh, it’s in my mouth.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “My beef isn’t philosophical; it’s strategic. The parties want half of America to hate the other half so we’re distracted from their real game. ‘Look! Over there! Two dudes are making out!’ ‘Where? I don’t see anything . . . Hey, I’m upside down on my mortgage, and my retirement account just lost three fucking decimal places!’ ”
“Sir, your language.”
“I’m on it.” Slurp, slurp. “You do that long enough to people and there’s open insurrection in the streets until we’re Northern Ireland, spending entire lives cutting through fields of shamrocks so we don’t pass any parked cars. I have enough on my plate already.”
The county clerk saw a way out of the quicksand. “You do realize there’s no rule against volunteering for both parties.”
Serge stopped for a moment with his mouth open. Then he grabbed Coleman by the arm and ran out the door.
Chapter Twelve
TROUBLES-VILLE
A rusty freighter sailed down the Miami River, destined for Jamaica and Hispaniola, where they delivered stolen electronics. Once empty, the freighter would buy stolen electronics and head back.
The small ship cruised under the Interstate 95 bridge. On one bank was a series of business endeavors that required barbed wire. Then a vacant lot with copulating dogs and a run-down two-store office building at 15 percent occupancy.
Five percent of that occupancy was sitting behind a second-floor window. A hat rack stood in the corner with a single rumpled fedora. On the desk was a black rotary phone, a bottle of rye and a dirty glass. The person behind the desk had his feet propped up, repeatedly shuffling a deck of cards without intention. His necktie had a pattern of dart boards. The playing cards had stag-party pictures of dames.
The phone rang.
And rang.
The feet eventually came off the desk. Cards scattered. He grabbed the receiver.
“Mahoney, mumble to me.”
Former state agent Mahoney, officially retired in the greater Miami-Dade community with a private office in the shadow of a drawbridge. The frosted glass on the original 1940s door had gold letters with his name and PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.
The person on the other end of the phone was a recent client, the victim of a fly-by-night mortgage-loan scam. Mahoney could barely understand because the client was talking so fast, expressing profuse thanks. Once again, he’d gotten someone’s money back, and word was getting around.
“Ice it, Goldilocks,” said Mahoney. “Just hoofin’ my beat. Two-bit shylock bent job.”
More thanks in closing.
Mahoney nodded. “Shama-lama-ding-dong.”
He hung up and gathered the playing cards. Before he could resume shuffling, the phone rang again. Mahoney eyed it. He never answered on the first ring. Because once he did, mundaneness set in. But until then, the possibilities were endless: a coded message from a wharf in Bangkok until the line went dead after a gunshot; someone with an eye patch wanting to arrange a border crossing in East Berlin; a dizzy broad with a mysteriously dead sister, but that turned into a case of split personality when she pulled out the meat cleaver. Or even, dare he hope . . . Hollywood.