There it was again, his face on the front page, third day in a row. “Manhunt Widens for Keys Killer.” Can’t they give it a rest? You go and do a little spree killing and they never let you forget about it.
I almost forgot how much I enjoyed the debut novel in the series, always in a hurry to try new things, explore other literary avenues. My return to Florida feels both fresh and familiar, a sort of visit to an insane asylum where the inmates are sunning themselves on the beach and drinking colourful cocktails in bars, driving vintage cars over miles-long bridges. For most of the story, Serge Storms resides at the location named in the title.
“Hold it. Hold it! he said. “Let me see if I understand. The motel owner was really a gangster. A guy named Lenny was pretending to be Don Johnson. The short fella over there wants to be a private eye from the forties. And this guy thinks he’s Hemingway. Do I have all this straight?”
Everyone nodded.
“What kind of crazy motel is this?” asked the cop. Is there anyone here who’s what they’re supposed to be?”
“I am,” said Serge, raising his hand. “I’m a one-hundred-percent, made-in-Florida, dope-smugglin’, ‘time-sharin’, spring-breakin’, log-flumin’, double-occupancy discount vacation. I’m a tall glass of orange juice and a day without sunshine. I’m the wind in your sails, the sun on your burn and the moon over Miami. I am the native.”
Serge A. Storms is also a serial killer who just misplaced the medication needed to keep under control his five-star cocktail of neuroses and psychoses. And he is still hunting for a mysterious suitcase holding five million dollars in drug money. Nevertheless, I can’t think of a better guide for a tourist interested in Florida [unless you can get Clinton ‘Skink’ Tyree instead].
When he is not spree-killing annoying people, Serge Storms will probably dazzle you with his encyclopaedic treasure trove of trivia about his native state, from history and economic data to little known facts about movies and architecture.
“Did you know the first barbecue was held in Tampa?”
“It’s true,” said Serge. “In 1528 a stranded Spanish explorer named Juan Ortiz was marked for death by Harriga, the Timucuan Indian chief in Tampa Bay – mainly because another Spaniard had earlier cut off the chief’s nose. And we called them savages ...
Anyway, they decided to roast Ortiz alive over a fire pit that the Indians called barbacoa – and that’s how we got barbecue!”
I enjoy the scandalous, subversive narrative so much, I don’t even care how accurate Serge’s historical data is. Tim Dorsey did an amazing job, from the first book in the series, in turning the bad guy into a sympathetic lead character, someone to root for as he uses unconventional methods to thwart and expose corruption, graft and other criminal activities that threaten his idea of what Florida as a state should be. One is left thinking at the end of the story that Serge’s victims deserved whatever crazy punishment our resident psychopath dealt.
Jethro grabbed a day-old newspaper off the floorboard and handed it to Art. Strong-Arm robbery. Exploitation of the elderly. Church funds missing. Handicapped woman raped. Four-year-old bludgeoned to death by boyfriend while mom went to buy crack.
This militant, satirical attack on a society that is going down the drain fast [an imagery reinforced by looking at the map of the US as a sort of giant bathtub, with Florida as the place where all the dirty stuff is flushed] is what prompted my association between this series and the Carl Hiaasen books featuring the eco-warrior ‘Skink’ . The author’s background in newspaper publishing may explain both the numerous trivia details that enhance the local colour and the social engagement of the main character.
“Our assault rifle prices are so low because we’re absolutely insane!”
I had to check the year this novel was published [2000] and make sure I am not reading an account of one of Trump’s rallies as various radio DJ’s, mayoral candidates and quasi-forgotten celebrities endorse Proposition 213:
“Holy shit,” Zargoza yelled. “This is that stupid anti-immigration thing. This can’t be happening!”
The TV panned over the large crowd in front of the stage. Several people waved signs: “They don’t look right!” “Different is evil!” and “If you can’t understand something, kill it!”
Both the plot and the large cast of characters serve this dual role of social commentary and wacky, screwball crime caper. My opening quote barely scratches the surface of the unfortunate and often fatal encounters between clueless petty criminals and disoriented tourists. Most of the action, in between car chases after the fabled money suitcase, takes place in and around the Hammerhead Ranch Motel, a decrepit lodging place by the beach, frequented by bad-luck playboys, cocaine dealers, FBI agents, spring-breaking students, ‘The Flying Hemingways’ [Don’t Ask!], runaway waitresses, drug addicts and telephone scammers.
“Sad-Sack Santa Swan-Dives in Seasonal Sunshine Skyway Suicide”
The fact that the story jumps around the timeline in unexpected directions adds to the general confusion. It also pushes the maniacal laughter quotient sky high, where not even Toto the Weather Dog is safe from accidents. The last hope for Florida might be the approaching hurricane Rolando-berto – a direct hit on the Hammerhead Ranch to wash all the crazies out to sea.
“This is the only way to experience a natural disaster – throw a little schizophrenia in the soup.”
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I enjoyed my second Serge Storms caper even more than the debut, but I recommend not waiting seven years between visits like I did – I’m sure I missed a lot of references to past events and characters. I hope to get my hands on the third book a lot sooner .