Read Online The Riptide Ultra-Glide by Tim Dorsey - Free Book Online Page A

dead.”
    â€œDid you kill him?”
    â€œNo.” Serge emptied a box of Tide. “I don’t kill every body.”
    A thumping sound from behind a closed closet door. Muffled whining.
    Coleman fired up a joint and looked back over his shoulder. “What are you going to do with the ATM guy?”
    Serge held a jar of olives to his eye. “Still on the bubble . . . Did you check those chairs?”
    Coleman grabbed another cushion. “You sure this is legal?”
    â€œNot only is it legal—it’s our job. I already explained this to you. Twice.”
    â€œI was fucked up.”
    â€œWe were hired to clean out dead people’s houses.”
    â€œThat’s a job?”
    â€œAn excellent one.” Serge pulled out a lower drawer full of real silverware and dumped it into a suitcase that already contained sterling candleholders. “It’s this economy. To survive, you have to find the weirdest jobs that nobody else thinks of. And with all the retirees in Florida, there’s a booming, under-the-radar industry of people who get houses ready for probate sales. And it pays a ton better than cleaning up the homes of the living. Plus the best part of this job: The boss is dead . . . I used to put that in my résumés. ‘Seeking fifty-K-plus, flexible hours, dead boss.’ But it never worked because I guess everyone else was asking for the same thing.”
    â€œWhy does this pay a ton better?”
    â€œBecause the people we’re working for don’t give a hoot.”
    â€œI thought you just said the boss is dead.”
    â€œActually we’re working for his estate, the kids and all.” Serge made room in the suitcase for a new food processor, which was a late-night infomercial impulse purchase that the deceased couldn’t remember arriving. “It’s all found money to the adult children. And that’s why retiree-rich Florida leads this business: The heirs are a million miles away. Sure, they fly down for the funeral and the reception with barbecue-glazed mini-weenies and a casserole from a recipe on a bottle of Kraft ranch dressing. But then they can barely wait to rush back up north from where their loved ones retired.”
    â€œMichigan?” asked Coleman.
    â€œSometimes. And they definitely ain’t sticking around the house to get it ready for resale. They hire lawyers and real-estate agents and tell them: ‘Just get it done.’ And then the people they hired hire us and pay ridiculous fees because nobody’s counting. It doesn’t come out of their end; they just want to turn the property. And most people are creeped out by this kind of job, especially if they didn’t find the dude for a week and you have to deal with the mattress. It works out even better if they’re like this guy and die intestate.”
    â€œThey cut his balls off?”
    â€œColeman! . . .”
    Coleman took a toke and giggled. “I see dead people’s stuff.”
    â€œSo how about giving me a hand with the stuff?”
    â€œOkay.” Coleman crouched down and reached under the couch. “I think I found one of the miniweenies.”
    â€œIn case you’re wondering, that goes in the trash.”
    Coleman leaned and reached again. “But I thought you said your personal code only allowed you to steal from other criminals.”
    â€œWhat I specifically said was I don’t steal when it makes me feel guilty. Criminals are just the best example.”
    â€œStill sounds like you’re ripping off innocent people in grief.”
    â€œHey, I don’t know from these kids.” Serge held a gold pocket watch to his ear. “If they cared, they’d be in the room with us right now, helping out, and then I’d get to know them and feel guilty.”
    â€œAnd then you wouldn’t rob ’em?”
    Serge stopped to rub his chin. “Michigan’s a tough call