Tim Dorsey Collection #1 Read Online Free Page A

three small boys in designer tennis clothes into a sport-utility vehicle.
    “Barbara Colby, soccer mom from hell. If you ask me, she’s going to drive those kids up a tower with a rifle. She’s compensating for a father who went insane when she was a child and forced her to start memorizing the Bible. She was up to Deuteronomy before calmer heads prevailed.”
    Gladys saw the looks on the Davenports’ faces.
    “Oh, nothing’s a secret around here,” she said. “Every summer the Bradfords tape newspaper up in their windows for illegal renovations, every fall Mr. Donnolly blows all hisleaves into the Peabodys’ yard, and every winter the Fergusons put up so many Christmas lights it smashes the power grid. Mr. Schmidt has a yard the size of a postage stamp, but he has to have the best riding mower, and he’s always drunk when he’s on it. The Hubbards argue way too loud, which is how we found out about their swinging love harness. The Rutherfords can’t park in their garage because it’s full of Jet Skis and mopeds and unicycles and all this stuff they buy and use just once. The Baxters claim they’re Xeriscaping, but everyone knows they just don’t give a damn. And we all wish the Coopers didn’t give a damn so they’d stop with the lawn jockeys and cement mermaids. Then there’s Mr. Oppenheimer. I’ve never even seen Mr. Oppenheimer. They say he lives in his garage, where he’s been building an experimental aircraft from a kit for twelve years…”
    Gladys pointed directly across the street at 887 Triggerfish and the man kneeling on the manicured lawn with scissors.
    “Jack Terrier. His middle name is actually Russell. Can you imagine parents doing that to a child? Takes all kinds. His thing is a lawn fetish.”
    They stopped and watched Jack hand-prune the St. Augustine.
    “He does have nice grass,” said Martha. She looked around at the other yards. “Everyone else’s looks so… brown. ”
    Gladys waved at the sky. “We’re in the middle of a drought. The city’s under Code Red lawn-watering restrictions. Every night at four A.M., Jack comes out in a camouflaged hunting outfit to water his yard. I kid you not.”
    They stopped to sip wine. Triggerfish Lane took on idyllic amber and rose hues as the sun went down. The foot trafficcame out: wholesome couples jogging and riding bikes and power-walking with heart monitors.
    “It’s so safe,” Jim marveled.
    “Like the fifties,” said Martha.
    “ Ozzie and Harriet, ” said Gladys. “You’re now living in the best part of Tampa, S.O.K.”
    “S.O.K.?”
    “Local slang. South of Kennedy Boulevard. That’s like the demilitarized zone. The Thirty-eighth Parallel…”
    “So on the other side it’s like…?”
    “North Korea.”
    A dog began barking. They looked up. A fat pit bull ran out of Jack Terrier’s yard and chased a jogger three houses down the street. Then the dog stopped and lumbered back to Terrier’s front yard. The jogger turned and shook a fist at Jack, but he was busy with his scissors.
    “Is that his dog?” asked Martha.
    Gladys nodded. “His name’s Rasputin.”
    A Rollerblader came by, and the dog took off again. Then a couple with a twin baby stroller, who had to do a wheelie to get away.
    “Isn’t there a leash law?” asked Jim.
    “Of course,” said Gladys. “But enforcement is weak. We tried calling the police, but Jack always has the dog back in the house by the time they arrive. Cops say there’s nothing they can do until it actually bites someone.”
    Martha noticed Jack walking across the street. “Shhhh! He’s coming over here.”
    “Probably wants to welcome us,” said Jim.
    Jack stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. “Got a second?”
    “Me?” asked Jim.
    Terrier nodded.
    “I’ll be right back,” Jim told Martha and Gladys.
    He came down off the porch with his right hand extended. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Jim Davenport. That’s my wife, Martha.”
    Martha smiled and waved from the