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Authors: Jeff Lindsay
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just happened, and then to find something clever to say to get things back
onto dry land.
But it was far too late. “I'll call Vince back,” she said,
and she leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, this is so
exciting. Thank you, Dexter.”
Well, after all, isn't marriage about compromise?
Dexter 3 - Dexter in the Dark
SEVEN
NATURALLY ENOUGH, MANNY BORQUE LIVED IN SOUTH Beach.
He was on the top floor of one of the new high-rise buildings that spring up
around Miami like mushrooms after a heavy rain. This one sat on what was once a
deserted beach where Harry used to take Debs and me beachcombing early on
Saturday mornings. We would find old life preservers, mysterious wooden chunks
of some unfortunate boat, lobster-pot buoys, pieces of fishnet, and on one
thrilling morning, an exceedingly dead human body rolling in the surf. It was a
treasured boyhood memory, and I resented extremely that someone had built this
shiny flimsy tower on the site.
The next morning at ten Vince and I left work together and drove over to
the horrible new building that had replaced the scene of my youthful joy. I
rode the elevator to the top in silence, watching Vince fidget and blink. Why
he should be nervous about facing someone who sculpted chopped liver for a
living, I don't know, but he clearly was. A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek
and he swallowed convulsively, twice.
“He's a caterer, Vince,” I told him.
“He isn't dangerous. He can't even revoke your library card.”
Vince looked at me and swallowed again. “He's got
a real temper,” he said. “He can be very demanding.”
“Well, then,” I said with great good cheer,
“let's go find somebody else more reasonable.”
He set his jaw like a man
facing a firing squad and shook his head. “No,” he said bravely,
"we're going to
go through with this.“ And the elevator door slid open, right on
cue. He squared his shoulders, nodded, and said, ”Come on."
We went down to the end of the hall, and Vince stopped in front of the
last door. He took a deep breath, raised his fist, and, after a slight
hesitation, knocked on the door. After a long moment in which nothing happened,
he looked at me and blinked, his hand still raised. “Maybe,” he said.
The door opened. “Hello Vic!” the thing in
the doorway warbled, and Vince responded by blushing and stammering, “I
only hi.” Then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stammered
something that sounded like, “Er wellah,” and took a half step
backward.
It was a remarkable and thoroughly engaging performance, and I was not
the only one who seemed to enjoy it. The manikin who had answered the door
watched with a smile that suggested he might enjoy being in the audience for
any kind of human suffering, and he let Vince squirm for several long moments
before he finally said, “Well come in!”
Manny Borque, if this was really him and not some strange hologram from
Star Wars, stood a full five foot six inches tall, from the bottom of his
embroidered high-heeled silver boots to the top of his dyed orange head. His
hair was cut short, except for black bangs which parted on his forehead like a
swallow's tail and draped down over a pair of enormous rhinestone-studded
eyeglasses. He was dressed in a long, bright-red dashiki, and apparently
nothing else, and it swirled around him as he stepped back from the door to
motion us in, and then walked in rapid little steps toward a huge picture
window that looked out on the water.
“Come over here and we'll have a little
talk,” he said, sidestepping a pedestal holding an enormous object that
looked like a giant ball of animal vomit dipped in plastic and spray-painted
with Day-Glo graffiti. He led the way to a glass table by the window, around
which sat four things that were probably supposed to be chairs but could easily
have been mistaken for bronze camel saddles welded onto stilts.
“Sit,” he said, with an expansive wave of his hand, and I took
onto dry land.
But it was far too late. “I'll call Vince back,” she said,
and she leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, this is so
exciting. Thank you, Dexter.”
Well, after all, isn't marriage about compromise?
Dexter 3 - Dexter in the Dark
SEVEN
NATURALLY ENOUGH, MANNY BORQUE LIVED IN SOUTH Beach.
He was on the top floor of one of the new high-rise buildings that spring up
around Miami like mushrooms after a heavy rain. This one sat on what was once a
deserted beach where Harry used to take Debs and me beachcombing early on
Saturday mornings. We would find old life preservers, mysterious wooden chunks
of some unfortunate boat, lobster-pot buoys, pieces of fishnet, and on one
thrilling morning, an exceedingly dead human body rolling in the surf. It was a
treasured boyhood memory, and I resented extremely that someone had built this
shiny flimsy tower on the site.
The next morning at ten Vince and I left work together and drove over to
the horrible new building that had replaced the scene of my youthful joy. I
rode the elevator to the top in silence, watching Vince fidget and blink. Why
he should be nervous about facing someone who sculpted chopped liver for a
living, I don't know, but he clearly was. A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek
and he swallowed convulsively, twice.
“He's a caterer, Vince,” I told him.
“He isn't dangerous. He can't even revoke your library card.”
Vince looked at me and swallowed again. “He's got
a real temper,” he said. “He can be very demanding.”
“Well, then,” I said with great good cheer,
“let's go find somebody else more reasonable.”
He set his jaw like a man
facing a firing squad and shook his head. “No,” he said bravely,
"we're going to
go through with this.“ And the elevator door slid open, right on
cue. He squared his shoulders, nodded, and said, ”Come on."
We went down to the end of the hall, and Vince stopped in front of the
last door. He took a deep breath, raised his fist, and, after a slight
hesitation, knocked on the door. After a long moment in which nothing happened,
he looked at me and blinked, his hand still raised. “Maybe,” he said.
The door opened. “Hello Vic!” the thing in
the doorway warbled, and Vince responded by blushing and stammering, “I
only hi.” Then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stammered
something that sounded like, “Er wellah,” and took a half step
backward.
It was a remarkable and thoroughly engaging performance, and I was not
the only one who seemed to enjoy it. The manikin who had answered the door
watched with a smile that suggested he might enjoy being in the audience for
any kind of human suffering, and he let Vince squirm for several long moments
before he finally said, “Well come in!”
Manny Borque, if this was really him and not some strange hologram from
Star Wars, stood a full five foot six inches tall, from the bottom of his
embroidered high-heeled silver boots to the top of his dyed orange head. His
hair was cut short, except for black bangs which parted on his forehead like a
swallow's tail and draped down over a pair of enormous rhinestone-studded
eyeglasses. He was dressed in a long, bright-red dashiki, and apparently
nothing else, and it swirled around him as he stepped back from the door to
motion us in, and then walked in rapid little steps toward a huge picture
window that looked out on the water.
“Come over here and we'll have a little
talk,” he said, sidestepping a pedestal holding an enormous object that
looked like a giant ball of animal vomit dipped in plastic and spray-painted
with Day-Glo graffiti. He led the way to a glass table by the window, around
which sat four things that were probably supposed to be chairs but could easily
have been mistaken for bronze camel saddles welded onto stilts.
“Sit,” he said, with an expansive wave of his hand, and I took
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