South Tampa. The neighborhood was called Palma Ceia. An oasis of pastel bungalows, preserved Mediterraneans, and old Florida ranch houses. Tastefully landscaped with royal palms and bougainvilleas. Kids on sidewalks. Bikes and skateboards. Safe.
The streets had names like Santiago, San Juan, and Sunset Drive. A few blocks in from the bay sat an unassuming road called Triggerfish Lane.
Fourth house on the left. Whitewashed with turquoise trim and, next to the front door, a turquoise sailfish over the address: 888. In the middle of the yard stood an arching date palm that was illuminated after dark with a baby spotlight, but it was only noon, and the tree didn’t need attention.
Thanksgiving Day.
Inside, the home was filled with the kind of loving aroma from holiday cooking that makes women think of past family gatherings and makes men want to watch football.
Jim Davenport opened the oven door with pot holders.
“Jim!” whispered Martha. “Your mother’s fluffing the cushions!”
“You made a great turkey this year.”
“You’re not listening!”
“I am.” He slid the turkey out. “I just want this to go well.”
“And she brought her own stuffing, even though I asked her not to because I had my own recipe. And then she shows up at the door with a bowl and claims she doesn’t remember me saying any such thing. She conveniently forgets all my requests.”
Jim set the pan on the counter. “Martha-”
“It’s passive-aggressive.”
“It’s stuffing.”
“Did you see her stuffing? Hamburger! Who puts meat inside of meat?”
“Let’s go sit down…”
… Silence at the dinner table.
Martha Davenport smiled tensely across the serving platters.
Rita Davenport smiled back and looked at her plate. “Martha, do you need a new dishwasher?”
“Why?”
“Nothing. But remind me to ask you where the bleach is.” Then she shifted her eyes. “Jim? Remember the turkey your grandmother used to make? Nothing could compare to her recipe… Oh, and by that, I didn’t mean anything about your turkey, Martha. I’m sure it’s fine. Especially with my stuffing.” She placed her napkin in her lap. “Yessiree, his grandmother was quite the cook…”
Martha practiced breathing exercises.
“Jim,” said Rita. “Have you heard anything from Tommy Kilborne?”
“No, Ma.”
“I heard his wife invited his mother to move in with them. Isn’t that nice? I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I worry that nobody will be there. I was trapped in my bathtub the other day.”
“What!” said Jim. “For how long?”
“Just a few seconds this time, but soon, who knows?”
Martha clutched her napkin tightly under the table.
Jim glanced anxiously at both of them. “Ha ha, don’t want the food to get cold.”
Rita scooted her chair closer to the table. “I always liked Tommy’s wife. So generous. Some women could have a problem with their mother-in-law moving in, even if it means leaving them to rot. I have spastic colon.” She bowed her head. “Jim, why don’t you say grace?”
“I’d much rather hear you give the blessing,” said Jim. “It’s practically tradition.”
“No, I insist.”
“Mom, I’m not sure I even remember.”
“How can you forget grace if you say it every night?”
“You know I converted years ago.”
She briefly waved a hand. “I don’t believe that. You know, it’s not too late to have the children baptized.”
“Mom,” said Jim. “Melvin’s in college, and Debbie’s married.”
“What about Nicole. She’s still in high school.” Rita looked in another direction at a young girl seated at the table, dressed entirely in black with heavy black eye makeup. “Nicole, why are you giggling?”
“Nothing, Grandma.” She turned and smiled in her mother’s direction.
“Nicole,” said Rita Davenport. “Why don’t you say grace?”
Martha’s eyes shot daggers when she saw the grin on her daughter’s face: Don’t you dare!
Nicole looked back at her grandmother. “I can’t say grace.”
“Why not, young lady?”
“Because I don’t believe in God.”
“Ahhhh!” Rita clapped her hands over her ears.
Martha involuntarily shrieked.
Jim lowered his head and sighed.
Nicole cracked up.
Rita Davenport rocked back and forth in her chair. “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear that! Jesus in heaven, the child-she doesn’t mean it!..”
“Nicole!” shouted Martha. “Tell your grandmother right now you don’t mean that!”
The teenager stifled laughs. “Sorry, Grandma. I was only kidding.”
“What kind of a joke is that?” Then to Martha: “You approve of this behavior?”
Jim’s arms flew out, practically lunging halfway across the table. “Mom, Martha didn’t say anything. I’ll talk to Nicole later.”
Rita turned back to the teen. “Please don’t do that again to your sweet grandmother. So, you really do believe in God?”
“Yes.” Nicole shot her mom a glance, then back to her grandmother. “But I choose to follow Satan.”
“Ahhhhh!” Hands over Rita’s ears again.
Martha shrieked.
Jim slowly covered his face with his hands.
Nicole was still cracking up as she rose from the table and headed for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” yelled Martha.
“To the mall.”
“No, you’re coming back to this table and sitting down right this minute!”
The door slammed behind the teen.
Rita’s hands fell from her ears. “I’ll be dead soon.”
South Dale Mabry Highway.
A ’72 Chevelle jumped the curb in front of a sub-budget motel.
“Serge,” said Coleman, glancing over his shoulder into the backseat. “That’s a pretty big turkey.”
“The biggest they had.”
“But there’s no way we’ll be able to eat it all.”
“That’s the whole point of Thanksgiving!” The Chevelle skidded up to their room. “Cooking way too much friggin’ food, cramming the fridge with mountains of leftovers, and then the race is on against salmonella. The most exciting holidays are the ones where not everybody is going to make it.”
Coleman opened his door. “You sure we’ll go unnoticed at this motel.”
“We loaded all that copper, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, but then we dragged that tied-up guy from your trunk and into the room.”
“Did anyone complain?”
“The guy.”
“Besides him?”
“No, but I feel pretty exposed right next to this busy highway.”
“Look, if Cuban spies can go unnoticed, we’ll blend in like ninjas.”
“Spies?”
Serge reached in the backseat and grunted to lift the turkey. “See the military checkpoint down at the end of this road? That’s MacDill Air Force Base, home of Central Command. Most people don’t realize it, but everything important in the world is coordinated on that tiny tip of land at the south end of the Tampa peninsula. Iraq, Afghanistan, you name it.”
“What does that have to do with Cubans?”
Serge waddled toward their door with the giant frozen bird in his arms. “Back in the nineties, Castro sent spies here to monitor the base. Total farce. Against an installation sealed that tight, what are a few of Fidel’s boys going to do? It was all just window dressing so Castro could tell the other Latin leaders, ‘Shit yeah, I have people in Tampa.’… Coleman, get the door for me?”
Coleman inserted the key and turned the knob. “They didn’t spy?”
“No, they starved.” Serge entered the room and hit the light switch with his shoulder. “Castro so totally destroyed his island’s economy that he couldn’t pay them anymore. They ended up pawning their binoculars and taking jobs as dishwashers. And because they were so broke, they lived in motels right along this strip, maybe even this one.”
Serge tossed the turkey on the bed and it bounced two feet.
“We’re just going to eat the turkey straight?” asked Coleman.
“Of course not.” Serge ran back to the car and returned with a large paper sack. “Thanksgiving is why they invented Kentucky Fried Chicken. We got all the fixin’s.” He began removing items. “Here are the biscuits and super-large sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese… Doesn’t it smell great?”
Coleman turned on the TV. “Football.”
Serge dug deeper into the bag. “And the piece de resistance, coleslaw to die for.” He tossed the last Styrofoam container to Coleman. “Ice that down in the sink like the Pilgrims did with the Indians.”
Coleman went in the bathroom. “But how will we cook the turkey? Everything else is ready.”
“Have to eat the turkey later. It’s all side dishes until then.”
Serge sat down at the desk facing the wall and tucked a napkin in the collar of his T-shirt. Coleman sat next to him, facing the same peeling wall. Serge set his fists on the desk, a plastic utensil gripped upright in each one, and smiled back at his buddy in their crack-den motel. “Now, this is fuckin’ tradition.”
Coleman dove into the mashed potatoes. He stopped. “Serge, what about the guy?”
“The guy?… Oh!” Serge threw his arms up. “My manners!”
He walked across the room, opened the closet, and stared down at a young, hog-tied man with duct tape across his mouth. “You completely slipped my mind. I’m so embarrassed. Come! Join our feast!” Serge dragged him across the carpet.
Coleman munched a biscuit and turned up the TV. “The Dolphins are playing the Lions.”
“The Dolphins?” Serge let go of the hostage and wandered over. “I love the Dolphins! What’s the score?”
“Don’t know.” Munch, munch.
Serge pulled up a chair in front of the TV. “It’s third and long. Pick up the blitz! Pick up the blitz!.. Ooo, they didn’t pick up the blitz.”
Coleman pushed the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and popped another Pabst. “What’s that noise?”
Serge’s nose was practically against the TV screen. “What noise?”
“ That noise.”
Serge turned the volume down. “I hear it…” He turned around. “Oh, forgot about him again. Just left him on his belly. My attention span.”
“Because you stopped taking your meds.”
“Exactly. I like my attention span.” Serge got up from his chair. “Lets me juggle multiple tasks and get more accomplished. Follow the space program, work on my total solution for the Middle East, thwart customer-service people who make up answers, determine if fifteen minutes really can save me fifteen percent, develop renewable energy source from golf balls lost in ponds, retrieve priceless brass plaques …”
“That guy’s wiggling around the floor pretty good for someone hog-tied,” said Coleman. “I think he’s trying to say something.”
“Probably wants to tell us what side dishes he wants.” Serge leaned down and ripped the duct tape off the captive’s mouth.
“Ow!”
Serge smiled with big white teeth and held a Styrofoam container under the man’s nose. “Good coleslaw! Nobody makes it like KFC. Go ahead, have the rest.”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “Doesn’t he need plastic utensils?”
“No, I’ll just set it on the floor in front of his mouth.”
“Please!” said the hostage. “Don’t hurt me!”
“Hurt you?” said Serge. “Why would I do that? Oh, I know. Like when we came to your apartment last night and requested the plaques back. And if I remember, I asked real nice, too. I might have said ‘cocksucker’ a few times, but that’s always taken out of context. And what did you do? First, you cut my friend with a knife…”
Coleman held up his arm, showing a fresh bandage on a flesh wound.
“… Then you pulled a gun on me. Luckily I had pulled mine first. Even then, I didn’t take your style of hospitality personally. But what crossed the line was when I tried to reason with you about the importance of those plaques-real nice again-explaining the difference between them and air-conditioning coils, and what did you say about the people whose names were engraved?” Serge got out his gun again and tapped his chin in thought. “Yeah, I remember now. ‘Fuck ’em.’ ” He shook his head. “Not good. That’s the problem with this generation. No sense of history. They haven’t the foggiest notion of all the sacrifices that have been made so they can safely lounge about this country texting and tweeting…”
The man began whimpering.
“Not the crying again,” said Serge. “Obviously you don’t know anything about me. I take the high road. The answer isn’t to attack you. Our nation’s too divided for that. No, the constructive remedy is to educate you and welcome you into the program. It’s Thanksgiving! So I’ve invited you here today as my guest, to break bread and celebrate the men and women on those plaques. Look around you! This room is chock-full of liberty. Some mold, but more liberty.”
Coleman raised a beer. “Pursuit of happiness.”
Serge nodded. “And pursuit of happiness.” He replaced the tape on the captive’s mouth and clapped his hands a single time. “You hungry? Let’s start getting that turkey ready!”
“But, Serge,” said Coleman. “How are we going to cook it? There’s nothing in here.”
“Got it covered.”
Serge grabbed his car keys and ran outside to the trunk of the Chevelle. He came back carrying a large metal device, and kicked the door closed behind him with his foot.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
Serge carefully set it down next to the plaque burglar. “Remember that menu of Florida newspaper headlines that keep repeating themselves every holiday season?”
“Yeah?”
“This is one I forgot to mention.” Serge reached inside for a page of safety instructions and tossed it over his shoulder. “Hand me that turkey.”
A dozen police cars converged in the parking lot of a sub-budget motel on South Dale Mabry Highway near the air-force base. Yellow crime tape. Forensic team.
A white Crown Vic rolled up. The detectives got out and stared at the incinerated and gutted room.
A stretcher rolled out the door with a covered body, still smoldering.
The lead investigator approached the sergeant in charge. “What have we got here? Another meth-lab explosion?”
The sergeant took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “That’s what we thought at first.”
“What else could possibly have caused it? In all my years, I’ve only seen destruction this total at drug labs.”
“You know those same newspaper headlines you see every year? Floridians trying to keep warm by barbecuing indoors?”
“He was barbecuing?” The detective watched them load the stretcher into the back of a coroner’s truck. “What an idiot.”
“Not barbecuing. We found a large deep fryer in the room. And a big turkey. There won’t be leftovers.”
“Deep-frying a turkey?” The detective looked back at the room. “But a grease fire wouldn’t cause that kind of damage. The door’s blown off the hinges and charred like a briquet.”
“Wasn’t your average grease fire. Forensics hasn’t officially ruled, but it’s looking like they were deep-frying a frozen turkey.”
“Jesus, you never deep-fry a frozen turkey. It goes off like a bomb. A big one.” The detective opened a notebook and shook his head. “Well, like you said about those headlines, every year, two, or three. This guy really was an idiot.”
“Or a genius,” said the sergeant.
The detective stopped writing. “What are you talking about?… Wait a minute. You said ‘they’ were deep-frying. I thought there was only one body.”
The sergeant held up an evidence bag. Melted nylon cord. “Our friend was hog-tied. He had some help in there with the basting.”
“You mean this was a murder? But what kind of sick-”
A uniformed officer trotted over, finishing a conversation on his walkie-talkie. “Sir, we just got a report from the VFW hall. Someone returned those stolen plaques.”
“Great,” said the sergeant. “But what’s that got to do with this?”
“They left a note. An apology. Maybe not, I don’t know. But there was a driver’s license, and the address of this motel room. We might have just ID’d the victim.”
The sergeant glanced sideways at the detective. “Score one for the good guys.”
The detective stuck his notebook back in his jacket. “Send me the case report. I’ll make sure it gets filed under a very tall stack of papers.”