Free Tim Dorsey Collection #1 by Tim Dorsey Page B

standing here with Mr. Heywood Jablowmey…”
    Coleman and the college students began snickering in the background.
    Blaine turned around. “What? What’s so funny?”
    Coleman and the students contained their laughter. “Nothing.”
    Blaine faced back to the camera. “We’re speaking with a close personal friend of the man who foiled today’s deadly bank robbery, Heywood Jablowmey…”
    Coleman and the students cracked up again and were unable to stop this time.
    The satellite truck drove off after the aborted interview. Serge unspooled a garden hose and took something out of a bag.
    “What’s that he’s putting on the hose?” asked Martha.
    “A Water Wiggle,” said Gladys.
    “A what?”
    “Water Wiggle—don’t you remember?” said Gladys. “They must have sold a million. A yellow plastic cone with a goofy face painted on it. You attach it to the end of a hose. It redirects the water backwards, and the cone and the hose fly like crazy all over the yard.”
    “What for?” asked Martha.
    “For fun,” said Gladys. “Just look.”
    Coleman stood in the middle of the yard, chugging a beer and doing a wobbly hula hoop. The Water Wiggle took an erratic course and struck Coleman in the back of the head.
    “Ouch!”
    But Coleman didn’t think to move beyond its range.
    Serge put The Lovin’ Spoonful on a boom box. The students played Frisbee. Siddhartha sat next to the hedge, mollified by the soap-bubble wand.
    The Water Wiggle hit Coleman again.
    “Ouch!”
    “. . . Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty…”
    Serge went to the end of the Slip ’n Slide and paced off his approach like an Olympic long jumper. He took a few moments to mentally prepare himself, then: “Cowabunga!” He sprinted toward the yellow chute.
    Coleman’s face was up to the sky as he drained his beer. The Water Wiggle hit him in the head again and knocked him off balance. Serge sailed down the Slip ’n Slide on his stomach like Superman. Coleman stumbled onto the plastic tarp. They collided. Coleman was upended and landed on his clavicle; Serge’s left arm got caught in Coleman’s hula hoop, spinning him around and sending him off the side of the chute into the chicken-wire Gettysburg.
    The Water Wiggle was still flailing in the background as the students applied ice to Coleman and untangled Serge from the snarled metal.
    Gladys poured another glass of lemonade and shook her head. “Renters…”
    A van with a magnetic sign on the side cruised slowly down the street and stopped four houses to the left.
    “Who lives there?” asked Martha.
    “The Sanchezes,” said Gladys. “Actually, there’s just one Sanchez now. Raul. They’re separated. Simone recently moved out after they got hooked up to the Internet and Raul began spending eighteen hours a day at Gillian Anderson websites.”
    Four men with greased hair got out of the van and walked toward the house. They all wore the same black pants and sleeveless black T-shirts.
    “What are they supposed to be this time?” asked Martha.
    “An ersatz Sha Na Na,” said Gladys. “But they’re pretty good.”
    Mr. Sanchez answered the door. The shortest Sha Na Na handed Raul some legal papers and blew a pitch pipe. The men broke into four-part harmony.
    “Ohhhhhhhhh, you’re getting a divorce, you’re getting a divorce, you’re getting a divorce…”
    Bowzer: “Bow, bow, bow.”
    “You wife is leaving town, no more sex for you, you don’t make enough money…”
    Bowzer: “Bow, bow, bow.”
    “And you have a small pecker, toooooooooooooo!!!!”
    Raul disappeared into the house and came back seconds later firing wildly with a large revolver. He hit one Sha Na Na in the shoulder, and the singing group scattered across the lawn.
    “Jesus! Did you see that!” said Martha. “He shot Bowzer!”
    “I think it was just someone who was supposed to look like Bowzer,” said Gladys.
    Police surrounded the Sanchez homestead. It was a