Today, the library’s parking lot was mostly empty, but that was because of the hour. Didn’t open for another thirty minutes. Just a few cars in the employees’ section. Red Nissan, black Mazda and the vehicle of the library’s most recent hire, a brown Plymouth Duster.
The staff was gathered inside for an announcement.
“May I have your attention,” said the library director. “I’d like you to meet Pam, the newest addition to our staff.”
Pam’s makeup was rosy, her hair down. She grinned wide, crinkled her shoulders and gave a spunky little wave. The director urged everyone to drop by their new co-worker’s desk and get acquainted.
Shortly after noon, a couple of young professionals came in on lunch break to return books.
“Hey, who’s that new girl over in fiction?” said the first guy.
“Don’t recognize her,” said the second.
“What do you think?”
“Too conservative.”
“Those are the ones you have to worry about.” He started walking in the woman’s direction. “I’m going to ask her out.”
A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA left the Florida Keys and headed west through the Everglades.
Windows down, bright sunlight.
Serge had weighed their investment options and advised Coleman to skip out on the rent. He grabbed a radio knob and turned Moby up loud.
“…Extreme ways are back again…”
The swamp air was sticky and thick, the horizon low across the sawgrass.
“What’d you say?” asked Serge.
Coleman cracked a Schlitz. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes you did. About swamp air and the horizon.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“You’re stoned.” Serge faced the road again. A snowy egret swooped low over the Tamiami Trail.
“There,” said Serge. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“You mentioned an egret.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Well if you didn’t—” Serge turned around and saw a grinning man sitting in the middle of the backseat. “…Who the fuck are you?”
Narrator.
“Narrator?”
Ex-narrator, actually.
“What are you doing here?”
Kept telling them I wanted a little screen time but they just strung me along. Now that I’ve been fired, what can they do? I’m taking matters into my own hands.
“More power to ya,” said Serge.
“Want a beer?” asked Coleman.
Sure. The narrator accepted the can and popped it open. He tapped Serge on the shoulder. So, you don’t mind if I continue?
“Knock yourself out.”
Thanks. Serge accelerated and whipped around a slow-moving tractor. Coleman chugged the rest of his beer and grabbed another. The Buick continued across the Tamiami, past the cadaver farm, where a civil servant stood at the open trunk of an Impala, glanced around, then erased a number on his clipboard.
A Note on the Type
The text of this book was set in a face called Kartonia Linotype, a style first developed by a guild of radical underground printers in seventeenth-century Luxemburg, whose audacious use of kerning almost ended the monarchy and… A NOTE ON THE TYPE IS TEMPORARILY CLOSED. PLEASE COME BACK LATER.
KEY WEST, Fla. — A joint federal and state strike force launched a coordinated predawn raid at a local Note on the Type, uncovering six kilos of cocaine, $280,000 in cash, 120 illegal lobsters, 23 prizefighting cocks, and 17 undocumented Haitians living in subhuman conditions and forced to fact-check for the equivalent of eight cents a day.
Contacted out of town, the author who owns the Note on the Type said he had no knowledge of the activities on the premises but plans to reopen in the future, possibly as a preface and epigraph clearance outlet.
Acknowledgments
Gratitude is due once again to my agent, Nat Sobel, and my editor, Henry Ferris. I also owe another round of thanks to Michael Morrison, Lisa Gallagher, Debbie Stier, and David Brown.
About the Author
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999 and is the author of six previous novels — Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, and Cadillac Beach. He lives in Tampa, Florida. Visit his website at www.timdorsey.com.
Books by Tim Dorsey
THE BIG BAMBOO
TORPEDO JUICE
CADILLAC BEACH
THE STINGRAY SHUFFLE
TRIGGERFISH TWIST
ORANGE CRUSH
HAMMERHEAD RANCH MOTEL
FLORIDA ROADKILL