Dilbeck cackled. “You better not!”
“What then?”
He wiggled the pink razor in the air. “Shave me, Erb. Shave me all over.”
Crandall glared loathesomely as he stalked from the room.
David Lane Dilbeck was the only son of Chuck “The Straw” Dilbeck, once the foremost pumper of septic tanks in Dade, Broward and Monroe counties. In the early boom days of South Florida, before sewers were available, nearly every family relied on a septic tank buried in the backyard. The massively squat cylinders were vital components of the average household, and a frequent source of whispered anxiety. A septic-tank backup was the secret nightmare of every rural husband, as dreaded as a hurricane or a heart attack. Cleaning clogs was a vile business, and only a few hardy entrepreneurs had the will to compete.
The Dilbeck name was widely known in the solid-waste industry, and its prominence endured long after most South Florida septic tanks had rusted out. Young David never spent a day pumping sewage (he insisted it gave him a rash), but early on he recognized the value of having a notable father. In 1956, at the age of twenty-four, he boldly announced his candidacy for the Hialeah city council. Many of the town’s citizens were lifelong customers of Chuck Dilbeck, and were glad to support his son’s ambitions. Speedy response was critical in a septic-tank crisis, so it was important to stay on The Straw’s good side. Hundreds of local septic-tank owners enthusiastically volunteered to help in young David’s first political campaign, which he won handily.
Even by Florida standards, Hialeah was—and remains—egregiously corrupt. For council members, the easiest graft was the fixing of zoning cases in exchange for cash, real estate and other valuables. David Dilbeck was fortunate to be in Hialeah during the salad years, when there was still plenty of land to be carved up and paved. He spent four fruitful terms listening, learning and successfully avoiding indictment. He excelled at negotiating bribes, and carried the skill with him when he went to Tallahassee as a junior member of the state Senate.
The atmosphere in Florida’s capital was different, and the pace of life was faster. Corruption was a sociable affair, rich with tradition; the stakes were higher, as well. Because of occasional scrutiny by pesky news reporters, it was unwise for legislators to be seen drooling openly on the laps of private lobbyists. David Dilbeck worked hard to polish his rough edges. He learned to dress and talk and drink like a country gentleman. The senate was loaded with self-cultured rednecks, and most were unabashedly crooked. But the pecking order was rigid, and newcomers who ignored protocol paid dearly for the mistake. Dilbeck adapted smoothly, and was soon studying at the knees of some of Florida’s most prolific thieves. He was rewarded in the usual ways.
It was in Tallahassee where he first learned that some women were attracted to politicians and would actually have sex with them. Dilbeck gained this pleasant knowledge episodically, and with each conquest he became more obsessed. He’d always anticipated that public service would make him wealthy, but he never dreamed that it would get him laid. For eight years Dilbeck wallowed promiscuously and then—in fine Southern tradition—married a phosphate tycoon’s gorgeous, semi-virginal daughter, who seldom consented to sleep with him. Pamela Randle Dilbeck was more interested in new fashions and social causes. Her husband encouraged her to travel often.
By the mid-1970s, Dilbeck’s career had stalled in the halls of state government, where he had authored exactly two pieces of legislation. Neither could be described as landmark. One of the bills made it illegal for sporting-goods stores to sell machine-gun clips to minors on Sunday. The measure passed narrowly, despite staunch opposition from the National Rifle Association. Dilbeck’s only other achievement was a joint resolution naming the Okaloosa dwarf salamander as Florida’s official state amphibian; a special limited-edition license plate was made available to the motoring public for thirty-five dollars, plus tax. The salamander tag was designed by a vivacious art instructor from Florida State University, who was paid $40,000 from the general revenue fund, and who also happened to be screwing a certain senator on Thursday afternoons.
Dilbeck’s big break was the passing, at age eighty-two, of Congressman Wade L. Sheets of South Miami. The venerable old Democrat had been mortally ill for the better part of three terms, and was rarely seen on Capitol Hill. Those close to Sheets sadly reported that his numerous health problems were complicated by fast-advancing senility; toward the end, he refused to wear pants and demanded to be addressed as “Captain Lindbergh.” By the time Sheets died, a score of local politicians had positioned themselves to make a run for his seat in the House of Representatives. Among the hopefuls was David Lane Dilbeck.
At Sheets’s funeral, Dilbeck delivered a eulogy that was uncharacteristically graceful, bringing fond laughter and tears from the huge assembly of mourners. The emotional speech was even more remarkable, considering that Dilbeck had met Wade Sheets only twice in his life and on both occasions the ailing congressman appeared not to be conscious. Dilbeck’s remarkable panegyric (written by an eager young staffer named Crandall) borrowed heavily from old John F. Kennedy scripts, which had borrowed heavily from everybody else. No one in the hushed church picked up on the plagiarisms. The other candidates for the dead Sheets’s seat also presented eulogies, but none were as moving or as memorable. The others knew they were sunk when all the TV stations led the news with a video snip of David Dilbeck in the pulpit. That single maudlin oratory ensured his selection as Wade Sheets’s successor. Hands down, Dilbeck had given the best damn sound bite at the funeral.
He was thrilled to travel all the way to Washington; the farther one got from one’s constituents, the harder it was for them to keep an eye on you. Again, Dilbeck modified his style of larceny to fit local custom. Outright cash-in-a-bag bribery was rare on Capitol Hill; special-interest groups were more subtle and sophisticated. A compliant congressman might receive four sky-box seats to a Redskins game in exchange for a key vote. Such arrangements were virtually impossible to trace, much less prosecute. Another quick way to a politician’s heart was by exorbitant campaign donations; in this manner, David Dilbeck was seduced by the powerful sugar lobby. Other industries found him equally receptive to their attentions. For two decades he was content to coast along as a well-lubricated lackey. He weathered several stiff Republican challenges and numerous negative news stories, but always managed to get reelected. Those who owned Dilbeck’s soul remained silent because they were satisfied with his favors. Consequently, he was never threatened by a scandal.
Until now.
“Good evening, deacon.”
“Hello, Malcolm.” The congressman shrank in Moldowsky’s presence. Erb Crandall could be handled, but Moldy was something else. The man held no loyalties beyond the contractual.
He said, “Where’s the cowboy suit, Davey?”
“So Erb told you.” Dilbeck had ditched the boots and the cowboy hat for a maroon jogging suit. He stood casually in the den, sipping an iced tea.
“Erb is concerned,” Moldowsky said. “Frankly, so am I.”
As always, Dilbeck found himself admiring Moldy’s elegance. He wore a gorgeous dove-colored Italian suit with an indigo necktie. Tonight’s cologne was particularly memorable; Moldowsky smelled like an orange grove.
“David,” he said, pacing, “I hear talk of Vaseline.”
“I’m trying to cope—”
“—and laundry lint. Is this possible?” Moldy’s fulsome pucker suggested that he was about to spit on the carpet.
“Malcolm, I wish I could explain. These are forces rising up in me, animal urges … and it’s simply a matter of coping.”
“Sit down,” Moldy barked. No taller than a jockey, he hated staring up at the person he was berating. “Sit, goddammit.”
Dilbeck did as he was ordered. Moldowsky moved slowly around the den, occasionally pausing to scowl at the photographs and laminated press clippings that hung on the wall. Without glancing at Dilbeck, he said, “Erb found a lady’s shoe in your
desk. Where did that come from?”
“Chris bought it for me.”
“From this stripper?”
“Yes, Malcolm.” Dilbeck took a gulp of tea. “These little things—they help me get by. It’s harmless sport.”
Moldy felt a jolt of desperation. Insanity was one thing he could not fix, spin, twist or obscure. And David Dilbeck was plainly nuts.
“What did Erb do with the shoe?” the congressman demanded. “He didn’t throw it away, did he?”
Unbelievable, thought Moldowsky. He’s like a damn junkie.
“My inclination,” Moldy said, “is to haul your ass back to Washington and lock you in my apartment until the sugar vote. Unfortunately, we’ve got a campaign to worry about. It would be poor form for you to vanish.”
“I suppose,” Dilbeck said, absently.
“David, you do understand what’s at stake?”
“Of course.”
“What if I brought in a woman, to be here just for you—for when you got in these moods. Maybe two women …”
Dilbeck thanked Moldowsky for the offer but said it wouldn’t solve the problem. “Love has swept me away,” he said.
“Love?” Moldy laughed acerbically.
“It’s frightening, Malcolm. Haven’t you ever felt so passionately about someone?”
“Never,” Moldowsky said, truthfully. He stuck to call girls. They spoke his language.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be all right,” Dilbeck told him. “I’ll make it to the election just fine.” He rested his glass on the arm of the chair. “Erb says Flickman wants a debate. I’m ready.”
“Ignore the little fuck,” advised Moldowsky.
Eloy Flickman was Dilbeck’s hapless opponent in the Congressional race. Under ordinary circumstances, a debate might’ve been productive, since ideologically Flickman stood slightly to the right of Attila the Hun. Among his campaign promises: televised executions of drug dealers, free sterilization of welfare mothers and a U.S. military invasion of Cuba. Even the state GOP was leery, providing the shrill appliance salesman with only nominal support.
Dilbeck said, “I could destroy him, Malcolm.”
“Why bother. He’s destroying himself.”
“I worry about that Cuban thing. It’s loony enough to catch on.”
“No debate!” Moldowsky said. He stopped pacing and planted himself in front of Dilbeck’s face. “Davey, we’ve got a more pressing matter—this goddamn stripper you’re so taken with.”
The congressman bowed his head. “What can I say? I’m no longer in control of my impulses.”
In Malcolm Moldowsky’s grand vision of the future, David Dilbeck already was a goner. The day the sugar bill moved out of committee, he was finished. A stiff. Moldy and the Rojos would get him dumped from the chairmanship. Other congressmen would be elated to assume Dilbeck’s special role; surely not all of them were so conspicuously deranged. In the meantime, Moldowsky had formed a plan. It was not without risk.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he told Dilbeck. “First you’ve got to promise: no more collecting her laundry lint and razors and her goddamn shoes. Is that understood?”
“All right. But what do I get?” The congressman sounded skeptical.
“A date.”
Dilbeck rose slowly, eyes widening. “God, you’re serious.”
“Her boss called me tonight. He said she might be up for it, if the price is nice.”
“When?” Dilbeck’s voice jumped. “You mean, right now?”
Incredible, Moldowsky thought. He’s about to come in his pants. “Tie a knot in it,” he told the congressman.
“A date, you said.”
“I’m working out the details.”
Dilbeck showed no curiosity about Moldy’s relationship with the owner of a nudie bar. He held Moldowsky by the shoulders. “If you can arrange this, honest to God—”
Moldy brushed Dilbeck’s hands away. “Then you’d behave until the election? This crazy shit’ll stop?”
“On my father’s grave, Malcolm.”
“Very funny.”
The Straw—a showman to the end—had been buried in a silk-lined septic tank. Moldowsky thought: His lunatic son should have so much class.
Dilbeck rubbed his damp palms on the knees of his jogging suit. “Malcolm, are we talking about a date date, or the other kind?”
“Meaning, do you get to screw the girl? That’s between you and her. Hell, I can’t do everything—”
“You’re right, you’re right—”
“—I can’t get it hard and put it in for you. Some things you’ve gotta do for yourself.”
The congressman was on a cloud. “My friend, you’ve got no idea what this would mean to me.” He raised his glass to Moldowsky. “Another coup, Malcolm.”
“Try miracle,” Moldy said. “A fucking miracle.”
“Your specialty!”
“Oh yeah,” Moldowsky mumbled. Rep. David Dilbeck had no inkling of the drastic steps that had already been taken to save his worthless hide.
By the 1970s, the once-dazzling underwater reefs of Miami and Fort Lauderdale were dead, poisoned by raw sewage dumped into the ocean from the toilets of swank waterfront hotels. Submerged pipes carried the filth a few hundred yards offshore, so beachgoers wouldn’t see the billowing brown spumes. It was assumed that even the most dogged tourist might think twice about snorkeling in a torrent of shit.
Decades of rancid outfall eventually killed the delicate corals and drove the glittering fish away. The reefs became gray escarpments, barren and manifestly untropical. Driftboat captains and dive-shop operators complained of losing customers to the Florida Keys and the Bahamas, where the water was still clear enough to see one’s hand in front of one’s face. A few South Florida coastal cities took modest measures to reduce the offshore pollution, but the reefs failed to regenerate; once dead, coral tends to stay that way.
Biologists theorized that it was possible to attract fish without real coral, and thus was born the concept of “artificial reefs,” which was neither as exotic nor as high-tech as it sounded. Artificial reefs were created by sinking old ships; once nestled on the bottom, the ghost hulks attracted schools of baitfish which in turn attracted barracudas, jack crevalles, sharks, groupers and snappers. The drift boats and scuba captains were happy, as they no longer had to travel forty miles to find an actual fish to show their customers.
From a public-relations standpoint, the artificial reef program was a grand success—a sort of living junkyard of the deep. For once, human practices of waste disposal could be passed off legitimately as a benefit to the environment. Every few months another derelict freighter would be towed offshore and blown up with dynamite. Local TV stations swarmed the event, as it gave them an opportunity to use their expensive helicopters for something other than traffic reports. Predictably, the highly publicized demolitions became a regular South Florida tourist attraction, attended by hundreds of boaters who cheered wildly as the rusty vessels exploded and disappeared under the waves.
On the morning of October second, an eighty-six-foot Guatemalan banana boat called the Princess Pia was towed from Port Everglades to a pre-selected site off the Fort Lauderdale coast. The Princess Pia had been salvaged meticulously from the inside out: gone were the melted twin diesels, the corroded navigational gear, the radio electronics, the bilge pumps, the ropes, the hoses, the pipes, the fixtures, the batch covers, the windshield, even the anchor—every item of value had been stripped from the boat. What remained essentially was a bare hull, de-greased to minimize the purple slick that inevitably would form when the Pia went down.
The preparation of the ship had taken nearly a month, and was supervised by a Coast Guard inspector, a Broward County environmental engineer and an agent from the U.S. Customs Service, which had seized the vessel fourteen months earlier. Once the Customs agent was satisfied that the Princess Pia had no more hidden cargo compartments and carried no more hidden hashish, he signed off on the project. The C
oast Guard inspector and the county environmental expert walked through the old heap one last time on the evening of October first. Much later, both men would testify that, except for the explosives, the Pia was empty that night, specifically, the aft hold was bare.
A single guard, hired by the demolition company, was posted at the ship’s mooring to prevent the dynamite from being stolen from the hull. The guard kept watch dutifully until approximately three in the morning, when a group of friendly stevedores invited him aboard a Japanese lumber barge to play cards and watch pornographic videotapes. In all, the Princess Pia was unguarded for at least three and possibly five hours, depending on whose testimony one believed.
This much was undisputed: At dawn the next day, two tugs hauled the Pia out to sea on a falling tide. Three Florida Marine Patrol boats and a Coast Guard cruiser led the way, positioning themselves between the celebratory armada and the dynamite-laden freighter. The site for the new artificial reef was only three miles offshore, but it took a full hour for the Princess Pia to get there. The ocean was choppy, with northeast winds kicking to twenty knots; the tug captains kept a cautious pace.
By 9 a.m., the Pia was tethered in place, bow facing into the breeze. The police boats raced in widening arcs, clearing a buffer zone. At precisely 10 a.m., a radio signal detonated twin explosions in the ship’s hull and stern. Tall blasts of dirty smoke rose from each end, and the ship listed dramatically starboard. She sunk in nine minutes flat. Boaters clapped and howled and sounded air horns.
Nobody suspected that there was a 1991 Lincoln Continental chained to the beams of the aft cargo hold. Nobody knew, until much later, what was in it.
22
The wrestling pit was in the back room, which had its own stage and a small horseshoe bar. Erin was dancing tables while Urbana Sprawl wrestled members of a bachelor party in ninety gallons of Green Giant niblets. The bachelor of honor was a young mortgage banker with many pallid, out-of-shape companions. They stood no chance against Urbana, who played rough and employed her formidable cleavage to maximum advantage. She specialized in pinning opponents without using her arms.