by Tim Dorsey
“Mrs. Dominguez,” said Brook.
Gosling turned back around. “What?”
“Cashing the check ends claims from Mrs. Dominguez,” said Brook. “Not other new clients I’ll be calling after lunch to start the class action.”
“You’re still actually going through with this?”
Brook looked at her watch. “It’s now twelve ten.”
He marched forward. “Then give me my check back.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll stop payment!”
“It’s certified.” Brook snapped her purse shut. “And after your financials arrive at my office, you’ll be needing two lawyers.”
“Why?”
“Civil and criminal,” said Brook. “This kind of fraud conviction brings ten years in Raiford . . . Jacklyn, isn’t that right?”
“Unless they stack sentences per count.”
Brook slapped herself in the forehead. “How did I miss that? He could be facing centuries.”
Gosling stood in the cone of a disorienting emotional tornado. All color fled his face, then immediately flooded back with volcanic rage until he was almost purple. His eyes turned into something from a devil-possession movie.
“I’ll kill you!”
He dove over the desk with outstretched hands clutching for Brook’s neck.
She hadn’t seen that coming. He was so fast his fingertips brushed her throat, and she crashed backward. But there was something even faster than his lunge.
Jacklyn.
In one fluid, blinding motion, she got a forearm around his neck, twisted one of his wrists behind his back in a restraint hold, and pinned him to the floor.
“You’re hurting me! Get off!”
“As soon as the police arrive.”
He struggled, and she twisted his wrist harder.
“Ahhhhhh!”
The police took statements from the women before leading the future ex-landlord away in cuffs.
Brook straightened a photo of a firefighter on the wall. Then she looked at her colleague—only slightly larger in stature than herself—and shook her head in amazement. “I still don’t know how you do that.”
It wasn’t much of a mystery. Besides being a self-defense instructor, Jacklyn was a former NCAA wrestling All-American. She hadn’t been sitting in Brook’s office simply to witness the serving of papers.
Jacklyn smiled. “Want to celebrate by getting a pedicure?” She looked toward the floor. “The nail place is just downstairs.”
“So is the beauty salon,” said Brook. “It could be seen as taking sides.”
“And?”
“It’s starting to get ugly.”
Chapter 4
That Evening
It was not a usual sight in rural North Florida: a vintage silver Corvette pulling up to a bare-wood cracker house on the edge of Sopchoppy near the forest. It had a sagging porch roof atop four-by-fours. Two bearded men in overalls sat out front in rocking chairs they’d fashioned from cut pine.
“See you fellas made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss a meal like you described for the world,” said Serge.
“Moonshine!” said Coleman.
They all headed inside the cabin to a single large room. Beds with chipped antique frames in back, dining table up front, and the whole space filled with a medley of aromas from the gas stove.
Jasper stirred a cast-iron pot. “Didn’t know what you had a hankerin’ for, so we made a little of everything. But I’m betting you’ll like everything.”
“How can I help?” asked Serge.
Jasper pointed with a wooden spoon the size of a boat paddle. “Venison could use a flippin’ in that skillet.”
“You got it,” said Serge. “What’s in the other pan?”
“Snapper.”
“Surf and turf,” said Serge.
“The kind we like up here. Willard’s my brother. Probably guessed that. He’s divorced. I never could take to moss . . . Hey, Willard, break it out.”
Willard walked over to the gun rack and reached inside one of the ammo drawers for a mason jar.
“What’s that?” asked Coleman.
“The white lightnin’ you been lickin’ your chops about.”
“Now you’re talking!”
Serge flipped the meat. “Let the reindeer games begin.”
“You boys just make yourself at home . . .”
Behind them, Willard poured clear liquid into a pair of mismatched coffee mugs. “Easy with this stuff if ya ain’t used to it.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Coleman took a stiff pull.
“What do ya think?” asked Willard.
No answer. Coleman stood perfectly still, surprised eyes indicating an internal security breach. Then he suffered a brutal coughing fit that brought tears and drool.
“You better set yourself down.”
Coleman waved him off and pounded his chest, then jiggled his coffee mug, signaling for another pour.
“You sure?”
Coleman nodded firmly.
“Damn,” Willard said as he unscrewed the jar again. “Hey, Jasper, this one’s got some tough bark on him.”
Jasper set down his wooden spoon and turned the stove’s burners to simmer. “Grab plates. We serve ourselves around here.”
Soon they were all seated around the dining table with checkered place mats. The brothers tucked bibs in their bib overalls. They bowed their heads.
Coleman reached for the basket of buttermilk biscuits, but Serge slapped his hand.
“Ow. What?”
Serge gave him a hard look and pointed at the brothers.
“Oh.”
They lowered their own heads.
Willard said the grace, seeing he was a volunteer at Sunday school. It was a good grace, from Ecclesiastes.
“. . . A time to plant, a time to reap . . .”
Coleman whispered sideways. “Isn’t this the Byrds?”
“Shhhh!”
“Amen.” Willard raised his head. “Dig in before someone else does.”
Coleman grabbed the mason jar.
“What an incredible spread,” said Serge. “There’s the meat and fish, and this must be fried okra and collard greens.” He cut into something else with a fork, blew on the steaming bite, and popped it in his mouth. “Mmmmmm!” He closed his eyes. “Tastes like heaven. What is it?”
“Swamp cabbage patties,” Willard said with his own mouthful. “Panhandle truffles.”
“Never heard of it,” said Serge. “And I’m intensely comprehensive in that regard.”
“Not surprisin’,” said Jasper. “Even country restaurants don’t have a likin’ for the words ‘swamp cabbage’ on their menu, so they call it heart of palm, which is the tasty soft bulb you cut out of the trunk just below the base of the leaves. Cabbage palmetto, also known as—”
“Sabal palm,” said Serge. “The state tree. They probably would have picked the coconut palm, but needed something that also grew in Florida’s northern latitudes.”
“You sure nuff know your facts.”
Serge took another bite. “I’m getting a party in my mouth, but I can’t place all the guests.”
“Chop up the hearts with some onion, add a beaten egg, lots of pepper and bacon fat,” said Jasper. “’Cept I just also add the bacon itself ’cuz life’s too short. Then some flour makes the patties.”
Something knocked Serge’s arm, and his fork fell to the floor.
“Sorry,” said Coleman, passing the mason jar to Willard.
Jasper broke off tender flakes from the snapper that still had its head. “Been meanin’ to ask, and feel free to tell me it’s none of my business, but how exactly did you spook all those worms with those gizmos?”
Serge wiped his mouth with his bib. “Happy to tell . . .” And he slowly laid out the entire process.
Willard whistled. “That’s some technique. But it doesn’t make money sense if you don’t mind me sayin’. We just get two sawbucks a pa
il, and that equipment must have broke the bank.”
“It did,” said Serge. “But in business, it’s all about taking the long view. Yeah, it’ll take years to pay off, but after that the profits just gush.”
“And how long you plan on workin’ these parts for worms?”
“Couple more days, till the next episode.” Serge speared an okra.
A knock at the door.
“Forgot to mention,” said Willard. “We might have company.” He finished chewing and hollered, “You know to come right in!”
First they heard the screen door. Then the proper one creaked open.
Three of the men politely jumped to their feet. Serge yanked Coleman up by the arm.
“Boys,” said Jasper, “I’d like you to meet our sister, Lou Ellen . . . Lou Ellen, these nice fellas are Serge and Coleman, some of the best grunters we ever laid eyes on. Even let us have four pails of their haul . . .”
Coleman whispered again. “Awkward.”
Serge quickly grabbed a chair from the side of the room and brought it to the table for Lou Ellen to sit. “Listen, about the other day. I got an emergency call—”
“No need to explain.”
Willard aimed a knife. “You two’s acquainted?”
“Met briefly at the grocery,” said their sister, lowering her voice: “And the high school.”
Serge quickly slapped the table. “Say! How ’bout I fix you a plate, Lou Ellen?” He got up and the rest of the gang joined him at the stove for second helpings.
A half hour later, the guys all threw in the towel, literally. White bibs tossed on empty plates. Stomachs patted. Leaning back in chairs. “I’m stuffed.” “Why’d I eat so much?” “It was good there for a while.” “More moonshine, please.”
Jasper broke out the toothpicks and passed the box.
“Thanks,” said Serge. “All this reminds me of Route 66. Dinner at the house of friendly locals who take kindly to strangers.”
“I remember that show,” said Willard. “Every town they went to, those guys were screwing everything that wasn’t nailed down, but they couldn’t let on too much back then.”
Coleman: “Awwwk-ward.”
“Shut up with that.”
Willard held his mason jar to unfocused eyes and poured the remnants in two mugs.
Coleman drained one. “So what do you guys do around here after drinking moonshine?”
“Only one thing to do,” said Willard. “Shoot guns!”
“Eeee-hah!” said Coleman.
They stumbled back to the gun rack and crashed into it. Rifles toppled, along with Willard. Coleman got on his knees. “I’ll pick up the bullets . . . Here, bullet, bullet . . .”
Willard reached in a drawer. “I got us another mason jar. Let’s go, buddy . . .”
The pair swerved out the screen door into the night.
Serge’s head slowly rotated toward Jasper. “You know how sometimes when everyone is standing around in horror, and you wish you could turn back the clock to a certain point in time? This reeks of one of those points.”
“They’ll be fine.” Jasper made a backhanded wave of assuredness. “Willard took a gun safety class.”
A musical ring-tone emanated from an unseen source. Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi.” “That’s mine.” Lou Ellen reached in her purse. “Hello? Oh, hi, Joline . . . What’s the matter? You sound— . . . Slow down. I can’t understand a word . . . Yeah, uh-huh . . . Hold on a sec.” She covered the phone. “I need to take this somewhere private.”
She headed outside, where the evening air was filled with happy shouts, singing and gunfire.
Willard held up an empty bottle and turned to Coleman. “See if you can hit this.”
“Okay.”
“No, let me throw it first . . .”
It became still inside the cabin as Serge and Jasper sat back in the silence of being drugged by food.
A rapid-fire burst from the Browning level-action rifles echoed across the countryside. A scream. The screen door flew open. Lou Ellen ran inside.
“What is it?” asked Serge. “Who got shot?”
“Nobody.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
She grabbed a chair. “Jasper, it’s Aunt Maybelline who lives in Port Saint Joe.”
“What’s happened to her? Is she okay?”
“We don’t know,” said Lou Ellen. “We can’t get in touch with her.”
Jasper jumped to his feet. “Call the po-lice! Aunt May might’n be lyin’ on the bathroom floor with a busted hip!”
“It’s not like that,” said Lou Ellen. “The guy from the assisted-living service hasn’t let Joline talk to Aunt May in nearly a month. Keeps saying she’s not feeling well.”
“She phone the service office?” asked Jasper.
“She did,” said Lou Ellen. “The man taking care of her quit the company a few weeks ago. He told Joline he’ll just be working with May now.”
Outside: Bang, bang, bang . . .
“Sounds hinky,” said Jasper.
“Joline felt the same way, so she did call the cops. They talked to the guy, and all his professional certificates were up-to-date. They also talked to Aunt May and she told them she was happy . . . But Joline still didn’t feel right, so she went to the bank because she’s joint co-signer on all of May’s accounts. They said she no longer had access to them.”
“Why?”
“All they could say was that new documents had been filed by my aunt, which took Joline’s name off everything.”
Bang, bang, bang. “Yahoo!” Bang, bang, bang . . .
Serge held up a hand for permission to speak. “I hate to be indelicate, but may I inquire as to the state of your aunt’s mental faculties?”
“Early stages of dementia,” said Lou Ellen. “Maybe middle by now.”
Serge nodded with sadness. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen this one too many times before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It usually starts out on the level,” Serge continued. “But temptation is too great for some people. Whoever this guy is, he probably assessed her condition and started poking around her checkbook and other stuff while she was napping. Then he persuaded your aunt to replace Joline’s name with his on all the accounts, giving him power of attorney, and finally cutting off all contact with her relatives.”
“Then we definitely have to go back to the cops,” said Jasper.
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” said Serge. “If this is playing out like I think, he drafted a bunch of completely legal contracts charging exorbitant fees for services rendered. I’d bet the farm that he’s already cleaned her out.”
“But if that’s true, why is he still there?”
“Why not? If he doesn’t have much drive in life, he’s living there free in a spare bedroom, cashing her Social Security check each month, and propping his feet up on empty cases of Mallomars.”
“And military benefits from her late husband, Homer,” said Lou Ellen.
“Plus I’m sure her life insurance policy has a new beneficiary,” said Serge. “No, going to the authorities isn’t an option. He might end up in jail, but it won’t help recover what’s already been lost.”
“But how can you be so sure of this just from that short phone call?” asked Lou Ellen. “How do you know all the details?”
“Wish it weren’t true, but this is such a common scam in Florida that the authorities have trouble keeping up,” said Serge. “Even worse, they have a harder time prosecuting the cases they do uncover because these lowlifes specifically target the elderly with health issues that make them unreliable on the witness stand. Just when you thought they couldn’t drop the bar any further, this new breed of criminal comes along with no conscience at all. The old, young and weak are the first ones they go after. Call me old school, but when I pick a target . . . well, it’s best just to leave it at that.”
“So what do we do?” asked Willard.
&n
bsp; “You don’t do anything,” said Serge. “I’ve got this one.”
Bang, bang, bang. “Yippeeeee!” Bang, bang, bang. BOOM. “Oops.”
The screen door flew open.
Willard and Coleman tumbled inside.
Jasper stood over them. “What in tarnation?”
The pair on the floor just pointed at each other in blame.
Serge walked to the window. “By any chance is there a place nearby that sells propane?”
Chapter 5
The Next Morning
Workers scaled tall ladders again to reach the catwalk along the front of a billboard. Which meant no winners had been picked in last night’s lottery drawing, and the jackpot had rolled over once more. The workers pulled down old numbers and put up new. Most of their signs were in blighted neighborhoods.
Down below, predictable lines snaked out of convenience stores, and TV crews broadcast the excitement across the greater metropolitan area . . .
Just over a decade ago, there were a couple of back-to-back hurricane seasons that made even lifelong Floridians go “Damn.” For the first time ever, the weather service ran out of pre-chosen names for storms, and had to go deep into the Greek alphabet before the year was out.
Now it was lottery season, and it was the same story. Never had the state experienced such a conga line of massive jackpots. It was all about random odds. Right after one massive payout made landfall, nobody would win for several more weeks, and the next jackpot kept gathering force until it reached dizzying wind speed. Then bam! Another winner, and the whole mathematical process began again. Already this season there had been five jackpots with nine or ten digits after the dollar sign. And since the state had increased drawings to twice a week, the fever was constant. Billboard companies loved it.
The last winner came a month ago. The press conference featured balloons and one of those giant checks the size of a door. The Florida State Lottery gleefully introduced its latest mega-jackpot winner, an eighty-year-old woman with a poodle who chose the lump-sum payment.
Viewers at home thinking: It’s always an eighty-year-old with a poodle. What a waste.
