Tim Dorsey Collection #1 Read Online Free

hand, then Martha’s. “Gonna love it here in Florida. Couldn’t live anywhere else!”
    Jim went out on the lawn and triumphantly pulled up the FOR SALE / SOLD ! sign.
    A boy on a skateboard stopped at the end of the driveway. “You bought a house on this street?”
    The Realtor grabbed Jim by the arm. “Let’s go inside.”
    “What did that kid mean?”
    “Guess what!” said the Realtor. “The cable’s already hooked up!”
    Heart be still, Martha told herself as she walked between bougainvillea in terra-cotta pots atop pedestals flanking the porch steps. She stopped and turned slowly. A cedar porch swing. Three verdigris eights next to the door and a stained- glass window over it. Little fish swam in the painted glass. Triggerfish, Martha decided.
    She walked inside, carrying Nicole in her car seat, and it just didn’t quit. Cherry hardwood floor and a yellow brick fireplace. Jim stood in the middle of the empty living room with hands on his hips. Melvin ran upstairs and claimed the cool bedroom overlooking the porch, and Debbie sulked up the stairs and kicked him out.
    Martha stopped and gazed at Jim in the center of the room. There had always been something about him. People said he reminded them of Tom Hanks, although there was little resemblance except for the eyes and slightly curlydark hair. It was a certain sympathetic quality. The disarming smile. A vulnerability that made people want to take care of him.
    There was yelling upstairs.
    “No fair!” shouted Melvin.
    “ Life’s not fair!”
    A door slammed.
    Another voice from the porch: “Hellooooo, new neighbors!” Heavy panting.
    Martha gave Jim a look—What can this be?—and opened the door.
    “You must be the Davenports!”
    A woman with a low center of gravity jogged in place on the welcome mat. Her sweatsuit was covered with Dalmatians. “Sorry, can’t stop running. Have to keep the heart up for at least thirty minutes…” She tapped the stopwatch hanging from her neck and kept panting. “Saw the moving van. Your car. Had to say hello. I’m Gladys. Gladys Plant. Of the original Tampa Plants.” She held out her bouncing hand for Martha to shake.
    Gladys retrieved her hand and looked at the palm. “Sorry about the sweat. I’ll shower and come back.” She ran away.
    Martha closed the door and braced it with her back. “Jeee-zus!”
    “Harmless,” said Jim. “Probably won’t be back.”
    He was wrong. Gladys returned in an hour with a bottle of wine and an antique tin of homemade lemon cookies. Several excruciating hours later, the sun set over the tops of the palm trees at the end of the street. The movers in the driveway were down to just the big stuff stacked in the back of the truck, dressers, box springs. Gladys was still with them on the porch, a crowd of three on the cedar swing.
    “…So then my great-great-grandfather built the TampaBay Hotel for the rich Yankees coming down on his railroad…Churchill stayed there. And Stephen Crane. And Remington. He was a painter, you know…”
    Jim and Martha forced smiles and pinched themselves to stay awake.
    “But you don’t want to hear about that…” said Gladys.
    Thank God.
    “…You want to know about your neighbors.” Gladys pointed across the street, two houses up, 907 Triggerfish. She checked her watch. “Keep your eye on the front door. Any second now…”
    The door at 907 opened and an elegantly dressed couple emerged and got in a green LeSabre.
    “The Belmonts,” said Gladys. “Up close, they look like Angie Dickinson and Dean Martin, but with a lot more mileage. They like their gin. That’s where they’re going right now. They’ve got Tampa’s happy-hour scene down to a science. Know every special at every bar in town, even the VFW hall and the Moose Lodge. It’s actually quite remarkable.”
    The LeSabre drove by and Gladys waved, still talking. “See the place next door? Eight-ninety-seven?” They turned. A woman with cropped blond hair shepherded