I am the native and this is my home. Faded pastels and Spanish tiles constantly slipping off roofs, shattering on the sidewalk. Dogs with mange and skateboard punks with mange roaming through yards, knocking over garbage cans. Lunatics wondering the streets at night, talking about spaceships. Bail bondsmen wake me up at three A.M. looking for the last tenant. Next door, a mail order bride is clubbed by a smelly man in a mechanic's shirt. Cats violently mate under my windows and rats breakdance in the drop ceiling. And I'm lying in bed with a broken air-conditioner, sweating and sipping lemonade through a straw. And I'm thinking, geez, this used to be a great state.
Quite a rant delivered by Serge Storms, the native Floridian who makes this debut here as the protagonist of a modern crime caper from Tim Dorsey. If all he did was droning on about the history and the sights of the country, or giving impassioned discourses about the politics, environmental destruction, tourism or morality in his beloved Florida, Serge Storms could almost qualify as a sane human being, pleading for a better society. There's a slight flaw in his character though: he likes to kill the people who cross him or annoy him using complicated and inventive contraptions. And please don't call him a serial killer because it bothers him and it might set him off on a murderous rampage. Tim Dorsey did an incredible (if not exactly original) genre switch here by making his hero not a part of the law enforcement or a gumshoe, but a local criminal with a neighborhood vigilante complex dealing his own brand of justice rather indiscriminately against evildoers and innocent bystanders. I am usually turned off by extremely violent and amoral lead characters, but Serge proved irressistible in his cheerful anarchism and earnest enthusiasm for historical trivia. The knack the author deployed is to make him irresponsible for his actions: Serge is classified as criminally insane by the Palm Beach County Health Department. He should be put behind bars or locked in a secure padded cell for the rest of his days, but the justice system, like so many other governement agencies, is broken in Florida.
Serge's attention deficit disorder was the first of many hyphens. Obsessive-compulsive, manic-depressive, anal-retentive, paranoid-schizophrenic. He was believed to have been the only self-inflicted case of shaken-baby syndrome. Some of the same disfunctions also made Serge animated, charming, ntertaining and sporadically brilliant.
If Serge wanted a recreational drug experience, he would skip taking his Prozac, Zoloft, Elavil and lithium. This usually resulted in brief incarcerations for petty mayhem, vandalism and unexplained acts of psychosis like putting on a top hat and tails and shooting up a cemetery.
The inspiration for the character and for the madcap style of black humor is stated openly and proudly by Mr. Dorsey, who pays homage in this first novel to the greatest crime writers of the Sunshine State, starting of course with Carl Hiaasen (Serge 'wagged a latent tail' at a book signing of the creator of Skip, the eco warrior of the swampland). Later, Serge visits the Bahia Mar Marina in Fort Lauderdale where a plaque commemorates the Travis McGee character from Ross MacDonald's novels and gets an autograph from Dave Barry, a local columnist that I probably need to check out. From my own lectures I would add as another influence the Archy McNally books by Lawrence Sanders, even if the main character is quite tame compared to Serge.
If you wonder why I am not saying anything about the plot, I should point out that my reticence comes not so much from a fear of spoilers, but from the impossible task of making sense of the complex dance of coincidence and bad luck that brings together a district attorney and his definitely not gay friend who go on a fishing trip vacation, a venal land developer, an insurance company owner who specializes in scamming his clients, the worst bike gang in the country( a trio of rednecks named Stinky, Cheese-Dick and Ringworm), an inept gigolo who is still a virgin, some enraged elderly residents of a new housing estate, the 37th top drug cartel from the Carribbean, the SuperBowl, the launching of the Columbia shuttle and a bait in the form of a valise filled with money. Some paralles could be drawn with the Stanley Kramer comedy It's a Mad, Mad, Mad World if the reader is prepared for about twenty times the craziness of the original.
Great, thought Serge, The Three Freakin' Musketeers. A ringleader, a mascot and a hood ornament!
Our neighborhood vigilante slash psychopat is sometimes assisted, but more often impeded, on his roadtrip by a couple of low level criminals: the equal opportunity drug addict Coleman, who is unable to operate a TV remote probably because he likes to try a different drug every day of the week (If it's Tuesday, it's crack!) and the sexbomb, amateur black widow Sharon, who would fornicate with anyone owning a bank account. Both of them are far behind in the brains department to Serge, who in his more sane moments could be classified as genius material, but they are quite good for comic effect. Here's a sample of Coleman playing a game of free association after inhaling a huge dose of pot. The passage could also serve as an impromptu book synopsis:
We're on the road to ruin, the highway to hell, going to hell in a handbasket, on the wrong side of the tracks, the last train to Clarksville, a bridge over troubled water, off the beaten path, between a rock and a hard place, at the school of hard knocks ... in Palookaville, dire straits, under the gun, up shit creek, the last resort, the end of the line ...
The end of the line for Serge et Co. is at the very southern tip of the Keys, after traversing the State from one corner to another, but the author promises more dead bodies, more car chases, more local colour delivered from the encyclopaedic reservoir of trivia stored in the deranged mind of our improvised tourist guide who goes by the name of Serge Storms. 20 more novels in his company don't sound at the moment to me as a bad proposition.
I will close this first review of a book by Tim Dorsey with another sample of his entertaining rants about a local convenience store:
Rapid Response stood a few blocks in from Biscayne Bay. Through the front door came construction workers filling forty-four-ounce Thirst Mutilators, schoolkids in baggy clothes shoplifting, registered nurses grabbing Evian from the glassed-in cooler, businessmen on cell phones unfolding maps they's never buy, Nicaraguans, Germans, Tamil rebels, Sikh separatists, scag mules, prom-queens-turned-drug-trollops, armored car guards, escaped convicts, getaway drivers, siding salesmen, rabbis and assorted nonbathers. Ellrod, like all Florida convenience store clerks, had the Serengeti alertness of the the tastiest gazelle in the herd.