Never Again, Seriously

by Forrest Steele

  “From what I’ve read, it’s a popular community festival.”

  Vicki landed a light punch on his shoulder. “From the appearance of the buildings and sidewalks, they ought to call it the Mildew Festival.”

  “Come on, Vicki, this is Florida. We have mildew. Keep your mind open; we’ve only been in Lake Creed a short while. You must admit those murals are pretty cool. We should take time to enjoy them. Most if not all are historically significant locally. Not bad artwork either. Ever been to a rodeo? They hold those around here during the winter.”

  Vicki turned and stared at him through her oversized glasses. “Is your brain listening to your mouth? Murals? Really?” She laughed. “And, yes, dear. I have been to a rodeo. Check that one off. How about some decent concerts or stage productions? How about we go somewhere that doesn’t have mildew?”

  “Okay. Dear. We’ll cross mildew off our list of possibles. I have no desire to stay around here long term. But I do think we need to stay under the radar for another few months.”

  He smiled. Mildew, what a funny word. “Let’s enjoy what is here. The local college in Bard Green books a lot of touring acts in the winter, plus the occasional musical. I have a brochure back at the house. Let’s go over it and pick out some events. The community theater isn’t bad either, from what I’ve read. If we want a big-time production, we take an easy ride over to Tampa, Orlando, or perhaps Miami.”

  “Bill, have you lost your mind?” Her haranguing tone was beginning to grate, but Bill knew better than to say anything.

  Vicki continued, “We can’t go to any of those places for fear of being recognized. In fact, we need to be cautious. Someone visiting Lake Creed could spot us right here. I know there’s not much chance, but still …”

  Bill made a face. “You’re right. The chance of being discovered is slim, but we need to keep it in mind. We should change our appearance, at least while we’re in this area. I’ll grow a beard and mustache and shave my head. You could change your hair color and find some different glasses. A complete change of wardrobe would be a good idea too.”

  They stopped for the light at an intersection with an east-west highway. Bill counted white pickup trucks crossing in front of them, counting each dually as two. He scored a new personal record.

  Vicki poked him. “Wake up. The light’s green. From what I’ve seen, if we want local disguises, we should wear faded jeans and the colorful fishing shirts we see on everybody. Nosy Neighbor will pick up on any major changes in our appearance.” She made a gesture, pointing two fingers of her right hand at her eyes and then at Bill.

  “You’re right again. No shaved head, but I can wear a ball cap all the time. And sunglasses.” He stroked his chin. “I’ll make the beard one of those short stubble things the movie stars are doing. I bet I can take off twenty pounds too.”

  “Are you suggesting I should lose some weight?” Vicki’s tone was ominous.

  “No, of course not. I’ll leave it to you to decide your new appearance. I’m sure it’ll work great no matter what you’re wearing.”

  Bill considered Vicki with a furtive eye lingering on her curves. He felt a surge in his groin. Wouldn’t be a bad thing to stay home, relax together. Cook some nice dinners, catch some decent movies. Make love. Vicki’s state of mind would improve, and so would his.

  The mood in the old, white, refrigerator-shaped Volvo was sour. After several weeks of digging around in the Fort Myers area, Malcolm Weaver and Willis Turek reluctantly concluded they had lost the trail. They were now driving back to Turek’s apartment in Miami.

  “Worst luck,” Willis said. “They must have figured out we were tracking them and used her phone as a red herring. Hidden it somewhere. What are we going to do now?”

  Malcolm suppressed the urge to complain. On the uneven road, the old Volvo, which he mentally called “the busted fridge,” pitched and rolled. His stomach churned and threatened to erupt. “Pull over at this convenience store. I need a Coke to settle my stomach, and we can sit in the car and talk. I need to sort out my thoughts.”

  After chugging half an ice-cold twenty-ounce Coke, Malcolm inhaled the dusty air in the car and belched. A few swigs had helped cool him off from sitting on the sunny side, no help from the struggling air conditioner. “They changed their names and must have new IDs. They must have done it in Miami. I have a private detective who can locate the source and find out the names they’re using, plus a few other details.”

  “This is going to cost money, boss. We’re tapped out.”

  Malcolm sat straight, pulled his shoulders back, and stretched. “You may be tapped out, but we’re not. I’ve been building a mad money slush fund for years. Never thought I would need it for something like this.”

  He wondered if Turek was sharp enough to understand the situation had turned. His former employee must have been wondering what he needed Malcolm for, maybe even thinking of taking the whole $3 million for himself.

  Malcolm said, “Now, you need me, because I’ve got money to find them. But I don’t need you. Except for one reason: strength in numbers. We can’t foresee where this thing is going from here, and it has to be a team effort.”

  He glared at Willis. “I’m a man of my word, and you’ll get your half million if we recover the stolen money. I’m proceeding as though you’re honorable too and won’t turn on me once we find it.” Leaning close, he snapped, “This isn’t a game to me, Willis. This is about the fruit of my whole career.” He pulled a pistol from his pocket. “I’ll be carrying my Sig Sauer as extra comfort in case they give us that kind of trouble. If I spy a weapon, I’ll shoot you in self-defense. I won’t hesitate if you try to screw me either. Put a knife in your hand to show you were trying to kill me.”

  Willis shrugged and gave a feeble salute. “Gotcha. No problems from me, pal. It’s found money as far as I’m concerned. We’re on the same side.”

  Malcolm finished his Coke and tossed the bottle in back. The fridge resumed plunging and bottoming out on its journey toward Miami. Malcolm closed his eyes and tried to relax. Why did employees always think the bosses were weak and stupid? It felt good to shove this guy back into line. He looked forward to doing it again at the first sign of insubordination.

  Bill drove the motorhome north toward Tampa from Highlands Haven campground, the Honda in tow—sometimes called the “toad.” Some RV lingo was odd, too cute. As he neared Lake Creed, Bill on impulse pulled into the large, empty lot at the business next door to McDonald’s. After parking, he walked over, wondering if the man he’d met earlier was around.

  Gupta sat in a relaxed posture at the same table as before, his wrists resting on the edge. His eyes met Bill’s, and he gave a small nod. Bill got coffee and sat down.

  “I’m curious. Are you here every day?”

  “No, Bill, but I am here when you come.”

  Bill brushed his hand across his face. “I’m sorry, but what you’re saying is nonsense, at least to me.”

  Gupta smiled. “I think you are busy now. Perhaps when you have more time to contemplate, you will become more conscious of the thing which is troubling you.”

  Bill’s eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to do? Who do you think you are, telling me something is troubling me?”

  “There is nothing I am trying to do. Remember, it is you who have come to me. I have not come to you. If we don’t meet again, I wish you well. But I think you will be back.”

  Gupta’s tendency to use stilted language got on Bill’s nerves. “Where are you from, Mr. Gupta?”

  “Please, just Gupta. My family came to the United States from India when I was twelve. I learned English in India, but I have trouble with some of your idioms. Like pig in a poke. Now, I consider myself to be from Murrells Inlet, South Carolina. At the Myrtle Beach pavilion, I danced up a storm as a youth. I stayed away from the beach, since I didn’t need more tan.” He flashed a
quick smile. “I was a well-known shagger.”

  “You mean you shagged a lot of girls? I don’t believe you.”

  “I wasn’t meaning it like that. The shag—the dance. Like what they used to call ‘western swing,’ but a little slower, with short steps.”

  Bill scoffed, “I’m a very good dancer myself. Won a few contests. I don’t know about anything called the shag.”

  Noting Bill’s confusion, Gupta rose from his seat and executed a series of shuffling heel and toe steps, with some short kicks, his hips swiveling. He was wearing penny loafers without pennies, and no socks.

  When Bill stared at the shoes, Gupta said, “These are Bass Weejuns. Only shoe to wear for shag, or for anything else.” His knees were close together, each lifting slightly as a foot came barely off the floor. Every few steps, the outer edges of one of his soles dragged, making a swishing sound. He spun around, James Brown style, and stopped with a short bow. His shoes had remained within an imaginary two-foot-by-two-foot square throughout.

  A few people stole glances at Gupta, curious. Their eyes lingered on Bill’s face.

  Gupta sat. “You have to see a couple dancing together. Synchronized. They hold contests. You can check out the champs on YouTube. The only thing is they speed it up too much in those competitions.”

  “You’re not bad at all,” Bill said. “Can you hold your own in normal dancing?”

  Gupta gazed into the distance. “To the question you asked about shagging girls, I never had trouble getting my share, as we used to say. Oh, yes, I also excel at what you call normal dancing. Girls come from all over to Myrtle Beach. They taught me well, even about dancing. I can dance rings around somebody out of shape as you are.”

  Smiling, Bill pointed at Gupta. “Maybe not, beach boy. Someday I’ll ask you to prove that.” His expression hardened. “I thought you were some kind of guru from far away. Are you telling me you’re just a southern boy, bumming around?”

  “I suppose you could say I am bumming around. This life has been an easy one for me. Believe me, some of my earlier lives were hard.”

  “You don’t stop, do you? I wish I knew what you’re up to. I can assure you this game of yours, this scam, is not going anywhere, not with me.”

  “I remind you, I do not come to you. You come to me. Perhaps you fear something following you.” Gupta stood and moved toward the door, doing a couple of quick dance steps along the way.

  Bill shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, wondering why he was drawn to this man. The guy seemed to imply he knew more than he said and made some uncanny statements—like the intimation something was troubling Bill. That could be a reference to his “black dog,” recurring depression. And the business about “something following” him. Gupta might even realize he’s on the run. But how?

  It was time to go and sell the motorhome.

  Chapter 17

  Bill raised his hand to slam the phone, then stopped and set it gently in its cradle. “What’s wrong with this guy? This is the third message I’ve left for him this morning.” He scowled at Vicki, who sat at the kitchen table with a water bottle and a magazine.

  She looked up. “What’s the problem?”

  “This guy Jimmy—Jimmy’s Electronics. I stopped in his store last week and made an appointment for him to come out at ten this morning to check the sound system. Something’s wrong with it. The sound is all scratchy and goes in and out.”

  Vicki said, “Well, I think some tradespeople in a town like this can be passive-aggressive with newcomers, especially ones who appear affluent. I mean, I’ve been on the other side of the fence back in Ray City. You wouldn’t believe the things some of those local people say about snowbirds. They get a kick out of giving them the runaround too.”

  She sipped from her water bottle. “I’ll tell you something else. I find a lot of racism here, way more than in Ray City, where I grew up. People are open about it if they think they’re among friends. They use the n-word in regular conversation as though there were nothing wrong with it—like most southern people used to talk fifty years ago. Last week, I was in a dress shop, and a woman who appeared to be Mexican was holding up a blouse. The salesperson walked over and said in an unfriendly tone she was sorry, but the item had already been sold. The woman left.”

  Bill turned away and rolled his eyes. “Vicki, you’re so cynical. The dress shop thing may not be what you thought at all. When I spoke to the electronics guy, he spoke politely and showed interest in our problem. I’m sure he lost track of the appointment. He wrote it down on a piece of scratch paper by his telephone and mislaid it.”

  “You want to bet you never hear from him?”

  “No, I don’t. You’re being ridiculous. I’m going to jump in the car and go over there to find out what’s going on. It’s only ten minutes away.”

  As Bill climbed into the SUV, the curtain moved at the side window of the house next door. He wondered if the occupant had anything to do besides watch the neighbors.

  The door of Jimmy’s Electronics chimed as Bill entered. The musty odor of mold aggravated his sinuses. A few new but dusty televisions on the floor partially blocked the approach to a glass counter housing miscellaneous electrical parts and cables. An open area behind the counter held several work tables cluttered with television sets of various sizes and vintages, some of them in pieces with parts lying beside them. No one was in sight.

  He called out. After sounds of movement from above, a woman came down an open stairway, from a roughed-in mezzanine level. This was the most nondescript woman he’d ever met. Her beige blouse almost matched the light tan of the loose-fitting pants she wore, and her hair, her complexion, and the rims of her glasses also harmonized. She favored him with a blank expression.

  “I had an appointment with Jimmy to come out to my house this morning, but I haven’t seen him, and no one is answering the phone. I’ve left three messages over the last forty-five minutes.”

  She took a moment to think about this. “Your name?”

  “Bill Clawson. I live over on Rainbow Drive. Is Jimmy around?”

  She gazed down for a couple of seconds. “Well, he’s not here.” She didn’t raise her eyes.

  Bill felt himself drifting, lulled into this torpid conversation. “I don’t know what to do. Do you think he might call me back this morning?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “Well,” he said, imitating her voice, “do you know where he is?” He wondered if he’d gone too far.

  “I think he had to go over toward Arcadia to help a customer.”

  “Does he have a cell phone?”

  She stiffened. “Well … he does, but he doesn’t answer it when he’s out.”

  Bill stifled a groan. Why carry a cell phone if you’re not going to answer it? “Let me give you my name, address, and phone number again—and please ask him to call me.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He wrote his information on a piece of scratch paper and handed it to her. She stood with her arms crossed as he left, the note wrinkled in her hand.

  Bill drove back to the house and told Vicki about the sluggish woman. He told her he thought Jimmy would call after lunch.

  Vicki said, “Sure. You want to go out for a sandwich? That little restaurant we went to last week was great.”

  “I’m glad you found something to like here.”

  Vicki watched as Bill turned the powerful fan on the range hood to “high,” sprinkled two handfuls of peppercorns on the cutting board with some coarse sea salt and crushed the mixture with the bottom of an iron skillet. Wiping both sides of the skillet, he placed it on the large burner of the stove and added grapeseed oil, turning the heat all the way up.

  He placed two room-temperature New York strip steaks on the cutting board, then pushed down gently with the flat of a chef’s knife to embed the peppercorns and salt
. He gathered the loose seasonings with the knife and pressed them into the top sides of the steaks.

  The meat sizzled in the skillet, and he covered it with a splatter guard. The pepper released a complex aroma Vicki found heavenly. He flipped the steaks after three minutes, waited two minutes, and poured a small amount of water over them. After covering them with a tent of foil, he put them in the oven on warm.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Vicki, will you see who’s there?”

  “Just a second. I’m almost done setting the table.”

  Vicki opened the door to a man in his fifties, dressed neatly in black T-shirt and slacks. “Hi, I’m Elmer Leonardis from next door.” He gestured with his thumb to his left and extended his hand. When she took his hand and shook it, he held on a little too long before letting go. “I’ve been remiss by failing to come and introduce myself, but it looks as if I haven’t chosen a propitious time. I can smell a good dinner cooking.” Leonardis sniffed so deeply his chest and head lifted. Vicki wondered if he hoped for an invitation.

  “I’m Vicki Clawson. Very pleased to meet you. Yes, we’re about eat. Otherwise I’d ask you in for a drink. Please come on in and say a quick hello to my husband. We’ll make a point of catching up with you soon.”

  Leonardis set his mouth in a flat line and nodded, following her to the kitchen where she introduced him. Bill said, “I’m Bill Clawson. He dried his fingers with a towel and shook hands with their visitor. “As you can see, we’re ready to put dinner on the table. Appreciate your coming over to say hello, and I’m sorry the timing is bad. I’m sure we’ll catch up with you in the next couple days, Mr. Leonardis.”

  Leonardis held his smile while his gaze traveled about the kitchen before turning cold and fastening on Bill. “Pleased to meet you. I see my timing is poor. I’ll stop in another time.” He glanced toward the front door. “By the way, it’s Dr. Leonardis, if you don’t mind. I’m a professor of criminal justice. But please call me Elmer.”