Read Online The Big Bamboo by Tim Dorsey - Free Book Online

anything.”
    Coleman picked up a rare figurine of a sad clown with a crumpled hat.
    “Gimme that!” Serge set it back on a shelf. “We have to pay for anything we break. This isn’t like one of those big stores where we can run away again.”
    Coleman swayed and latched on to a china cabinet. Plates rattled.
    “Watch it!” Serge grabbed Coleman by the shoulders and carefully balanced him on the vertical axis. He slowly removed his hands. “There. Don’t move.”
    “Was this always an antique place?” asked Coleman. “From the outside it looked like it used to be a restaurant or something.”
    “It was,” said Serge. “Old neighborhood bar and grill called Dino’s. The kind of place with live honky-tonk musicians in the corner. True story: Forty years ago, some customer was in here drinking and it begins getting late and suddenly the guy gets up and starts playing a guitar left on the stage by one of the musicians on break. I mean like a crazy man, attacking the instrument, distressed noise. They thought he was having a seizure.”
    “Was he?”
    “Naw, it was just Jimi Hendrix. Knocking back a few after playing Curtis Hixon or some other torn-down arena.” Serge began jamming on an air guitar behind his head:
“…Wah-wahwah-wah-wowoooowah-wah-wah!…Purple Haze inside my veins!…”
    The man in line in front of them turned around. Serge was playing with his teeth now.
“…Waahhhoooo-wah-wahzowoozoo-wahhhhhh!…”
    “Sir!” said the man. “Do you mind?”
    Serge stopped and looked up. “Oh, excuse me…”
    The man turned back around.
    “…While I kiss the sky!”
    The man turned back again with disdain.
    Serge grinned.
    “Serge,” said Coleman. “This line is taking a lot longer than you said. Let’s get out of here.”
    “Hang on,” said Serge. “I hate lines, too. But sometimes it’s worth it. This may be our last chance to meet the great Karl Slover.”
    “Karl?”
    “You’re joking, right? I told you about him in the car.”
    “Must have been doing something. Who is he?”
    “Just one of the last living Munchkins is who. And Tampa has him! Lives just up the street. But I decided to wait until a public appearance instead of knocking on his door because I’m not familiar with Munchkin lifestyle and didn’t want to barge in on anything freaky.”
    “Is this part of your current Florida movie kick?” Coleman picked up a ceramic German boy playing the accordion.
    Serge grabbed the figurine and replaced it on the shelf. “Nothing
current
about it. This is different from every previous obsession. Movies are my life now.”
    “If you say so.”
    “No, really. I’ve dedicated my existence to absorbing the entire film history of Florida so I can find out what the problem is.”
    “I didn’t know there was a problem.”
    “Oh, there’s a problem all right.” Serge snatched a sleeping cherub from Coleman’s hands. “Why should California get all the glory? Every movie filmed out there has that same shot, aimed up at tall rows of palm trees running down both sides of the street like we should all genuflect. Shit, the
bad
parts of Fort Myers have that.”
    “Doesn’t seem fair.”
    “Here’s the thing that really makes me want to kill. A movie is supposed to depict Florida, and they don’t even pay us the common courtesy of shooting it here. Remember
Some Like It Hot
? Filmed at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego. And don’t even get me started on the Miami Beach scenes in
Get Shorty
.”
    “That wasn’t Miami Beach?”
    “Santa Monica,” said Serge. “I want answers.”
    “But, Serge, what can one person do?”
    “That’s what they said back in the 2000 election. Then Katherine Harris ends up in Congress. But not this time. Did you know there used to be studios all over this state competing with Hollywood? During the silent era, one was almost as big. Jacksonville.”
    “What happened?”
    “Shortsighted civic leaders and residents complaining about