by Tim Dorsey
“Sorry,” said Serge. “Talking a blue streak, talking till blue in the face, talking through one’s hat, talking a mile a minute, talking in circles, talk is cheap, money talks, like talking to a brick wall, talk the talk and walk the walk, running off at the mouth, diarrhea of the mouth, speak no evil, speak softly but carry a big stick, spill the beans, a picture is worth a thousand words, from your lips to God’s ear, silence is golden . . .”
Coleman finished another oversize martini and fell out of the booth.
Lawrence and Nancy glanced at each other.
“So what do you say?” asked Serge. “Can we give you a lift back to the park?”
Chapter 12
Boca Shores
The Falcon slowed as it approached the guard booth, but Earl recognized the car by now. The gate arm was already raised, and Earl waved them through.
The car circled the man-made lake and parked. Serge pointed at a sign on the screen-porch door.
No Solicitors.
“I know,” said Lawrence. “You wouldn’t think we’d need a sign like that in a place like this, but we do. And it doesn’t work.”
They entered through the sliding glass door. “Look at all this space!” said Serge. “You’ve managed to stay off the list.”
“I’m still amazed at the sheer volume of scam artists who prey on seniors today,” said Lawrence. “It’s become so bad that Mrs. Olsteen on the next street was burying her husband when some guy came up in the cemetery and claimed Mr. Olsteen had an outstanding debt, and she needed to write him a check immediately or lose her trailer. She’s old, grieving, confused . . .”
“And she wrote the check,” said Serge.
“It’s a different world,” said Lawrence.
Rrrrring! . . . Rrrrring! . . . Rrrrring! . . . Rrrrring! . . .
Serge glanced at the wall phone. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“Why?” Lawrence went in the kitchen for a glass of water. “Nine out of ten times it’s someone trying to scare us into coughing up information to get into our bank accounts. Fake tax collectors, fake lottery, fake medical billing.”
“And the tenth time?” asked Serge.
“Someone who says, ‘Hey, Grandpa, guess who this is?’ That one’s particularly devious. A lot of us are dying to get a call like that, and just as many are hard of hearing. So the person who picked up the phone guesses the grandchild whose voice sounds the closest. The person on the other end says ‘Right,’ and then the games begin. The Klostermans are out five grand to ‘Jimmy.’”
“How come you don’t get taken?” asked Serge. “How do you know all this?”
“I’ve seen more of the world in my life, and it’s set the bar for depravity pretty low,” said Lawrence. “I arranged for the state attorney to come here and give a seminar in the park’s clubhouse on scams against the elderly, and without exception, someone inevitably raised their hand and said they’d been a victim of each scheme described.”
Ding-dong . . . Ding-dong . . .
Serge jumped and looked toward the front of the house. “Who’s that?”
Lawrence sighed. “The sign on the door still isn’t working.”
“I’ve got this one.” Serge went out onto the screened-in porch and opened the door. “May I help you?”
“Yes, is Mr. or Mrs. Shepard in?” A young man in a thin tie smiled and cradled a folder of shiny brochures.
“I’ve been expecting you!” said Serge. “They can’t wait to be swindled. Please, come right in!”
The man’s smile dissolved into a quizzical look. Wait, this is the guy the others warned me about.
He ran off, leaving a trail of pamphlets.
Serge returned to the living room. “What got into him?”
Lawrence chuckled. “It’s not just the residents who are talking about you. You’re a hot topic with all the salesmen, too. Hornsby said you kicked that one guy in the balls pretty hard.”
“You know about that?”
“Everyone does,” said Lawrence. “It was the high point of the month around here. You’re bigger than bingo.”
Nancy came out of the bedroom in a one-piece bathing suit and rubber swim cap with plastic daisies. “Lawrence, did you forget?”
“What time is it? Crap!” He turned to Serge. “I hate to be a rude host, but we have our aqua-aerobics class.”
“Aqua aerobics!” said Serge. “I’m all about aqua and aerobics! Can I join you?”
“You don’t have a swimsuit.”
“Always carry one in the car for the possibilities.”
“What about him?” asked Lawrence.
Serge looked behind the sofa, where Coleman was spread out on the carpet in another signature chalk-outline pose. “I also carry smelling salts.”
Minutes later, a group of seniors slowly descended the concrete stairs into the pool. The instructor came over with a clipboard.
“These are our guests,” said Lawrence.
“That’s wonderful,” said a fit middle-aged woman named Heather. “Always happy to have a couple more.”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” said Serge, fitting a borrowed swim cap onto his head.
Heather stared up at the plastic daisies but maintained her smile. Then she turned and called out across the water: “Let’s begin . . .”
Coleman nudged his buddy. “What do we do?”
“Just follow their lead.”
The residents spread out across the pool in precisely spaced rows.
“Remember to warm up,” said Heather.
The class grabbed their elbows and twisted side to side, then alternated raising their knees.
“Why aren’t we warming up?” asked Coleman.
“I’m constantly in a state of overly warmed up, and you just did your stretching on the carpet.”
“Let’s begin,” said Heather. “Kick! One, two, three . . . Kick! One, two, three . . . The other way. Kick! One, two, three . . .”
“This is harder than I thought,” said Coleman, surrounded by bubbles.
“Did you just fart?”
“More to come,” said Coleman.
Bubbles and giggles.
“Jesus!” Serge slid away in the water with a look of contempt. “You need medical attention. The kind where you’re in a giant operating room at a teaching hospital with a glassed-in spectator section above so other physicians from around the world can observe.”
A voice from across the pool. “Is everything okay?” asked Heather.
“You can smell it all the way over there?” said Serge. “Don’t worry. The offshore breeze is dispersing it out to sea. Please proceed . . .”
The residents were soon all grabbing the edge of the pool and kicking lightly. Coleman clung motionless to the wall while Serge kicked the water into a roiling froth.
Heather smiled patiently. “And now our water ballet . . .”
“Water ballet!” Serge told Coleman. “This is my favorite!”
“This is stupid.”
“That’s because you’re not used to seeing people with heads-on-straight priorities.” Serge swept an arm toward the rest of the class. “Exercise, fresh air and friendship. These motherfuckers have their shit wired solid.” He looked up. “What? . . . No, I didn’t realize I was talking that loud . . .”
Heather turned on a boom box at the side of the pool. A recording from the metropolitan ballet. Everyone began twirling gracefully in the water.
Serge made his arms into a circle over his head like a ballerina. He twirled in synchronization with the others. Coleman twirled the other way.
The music picked up rhythm, and so did Serge. His spinning rate increased, slightly at first, then faster and faster, until he was at top speed, a splashing blur in the water.
Serge became seriously dizzy and stopped spinning, staggering side to side in the pool with his arms out for balance. He regained his bearings and looked up again.
The rest of the pool was silent and still. Everyone was staring at him.
&n
bsp; “What?”
There was a barely audible bloop in the back of the pack. Nobody saw it because they were all still looking at their visitors.
But Serge did. He violently dove down in the water, paddling furiously until he reached the drain. Then he bent his legs and pushed off from the bottom. He broke the surface with a lithe woman over his shoulder and rolled her onto the cement along the edge of the pool.
People screamed. Heather came running.
“It’s Rose!”
“What happened?”
Before the instructor could arrive on the far side of the pool, Serge had already vaulted from the water, expertly performing chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth.
“Dear God!”
“Call an ambulance!”
Serge made a final two-handed thrust, and Rose spit up water and coughed.
The paramedics arrived. Silent drama as they checked her out. The whole exercise class pregnant with worry.
An EMT stowed a stethoscope. “Probably just a fainting spell, but we’re going to take her to the hospital for overnight observation just to be on the safe side.”
The audience remained silent as the back door slammed shut behind the stretcher, and the ambulance drove away. Then they all turned and stared at Serge.
“What?”
The Next Day
A Nissan Versa sat at a red light in heavy morning traffic. The driver had changed his routine, listening to a new radio station in order to relate to his younger coworkers.
“. . . Don’t believe me, just watch! . . .”
Benmont Pinch bobbed his head and tapped fingers on the steering wheel. “This new music these kids listen to isn’t that bad.”
“. . . Don’t believe me, just watch! . . .”
The tapping continued as the light turned green, and the Nissan started through the intersection. “I wonder who this is?”
“. . . You’ve just been listening to a commercial-free set from Beyoncé, Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars . . .”
“Who?”
A hand reached for the radio tuner. “Let me see what other young stuff I can find . . .”
“. . . Home, home, where I’ve wanted to go . . .”
The Versa pulled into the employee parking lot.
“. . . This is WPPT-FM, the Party Parrot, and you’ve just been listening to ‘Clocks’ by Coldplay.”
Benmont again was one of the first to arrive at the offices of Life-Armor. He went in the lunchroom to reheat a breakfast biscuit. The flat-screen TVs were on.
“. . . Police are at the scene this hour of another double homicide . . .”
Benmont froze to watch. Then he scrambled for a pen and paper, and let the cheese burn on his biscuit.
. . . A half hour later, Quint Powers and his expensive briefcase entered the building and strolled toward his office. He hesitated a step as he saw Benmont Pinch sitting in a chair outside his door. And not the usual chipper Benmont.
Quint got out his keys to open the office. “You look like something’s on your mind.”
“We need to talk,” said Benmont. “And we need to close the door.”
Anyone outside watching the silent exchange through the window would have thought someone’s dog had died.
“I didn’t expect this when I got here today,” said Quint. “Can you back it up?”
Benmont reached into a folder. “I did an Internet search of news articles. Some are unsolved, others have been closed as murder-suicides, but all occurred after I turned in that Social Security project.” He passed two pages across the desk. “I compiled the victims’ names.”
Quint held the pages side by side, looking at one then the other. “You gave me a duplicate copy. They’re identical.”
Benmont shook his head. “The one in your left hand is a list of victims from the news reports. The other is names I compiled for our client.”
Quint practically choked. “You’ve double-checked this?”
“Over and over,” said Benmont. “What do you think of my theory now?”
Quint solemnly set the two pages down on his desk blotter. “We’re in new territory. Before, when the theory seemed farfetched, I didn’t want to pass it along because of legal issues. But knowing what we do now, it’s an even bigger problem if we don’t act.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Benmont. “Call the lawyers back?”
“That’s my second call. Because they won’t want me to make the first,” said Quint. “Do you mind if I take credit for this?”
“What?”
“I’m not trying to be a jerk,” said Quint. “But this is too important, and your theory will still sound absurd at first impression. It will be far more credible to my contact in the government if it comes from me. I swear, after the dust settles, I’ll sing your praises from on high.”
“I trust you.”
“Give me the room.”
Benmont respectfully left and closed the door.
His boss picked up the phone and dialed a number with a Baltimore area code. “Jerry, it’s me, Quint . . . Yes, the kids are doing great . . . No, don’t worry about the Christmas cards. Listen, remember that last e-mail I sent you? There’s been a development . . .” He pressed a button on his computer. “I just sent you another e-mail, but I wanted you on the phone when you opened it because it’s going to seem like the craziest theory. Hear me out . . .”
The line was quiet as a person in a government building in Maryland read down his screen. “You’re on the level?”
“Couldn’t be more serious.”
“Then as of now, this is all officially classified,” said Jerry. “Who else has the list?”
“One of my analysts, the client and the lawyers.”
“Secure them all. I’ll get back to you.” Click.
Quint held the disconnected phone in front of his face. “That was abrupt.”
. . . A man named Jerry Symanski ran through a building in Baltimore and into another office. His division chief.
“You’re all out of breath.”
“Sir, remember the e-mail I sent you from Florida last week?”
The chief thought, You mean the one I ditched? “Yes, I recall it.”
“It seemed innocent, but now we’ve got a big problem. We need to fold the FBI in.”
“Slow down,” said the chief. “You’re skipping steps.”
“Check your inbox.”
The chief did. He read to the end of the e-mail. “Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a conspiracy nut.”
“A friend of mine in Tampa came up with that theory,” said Symanski. “I checked it out on the Internet. All those people are really dead.”
“Stop talking,” said the chief. “Not another word to anyone, not even me. Go back to work and forget this conversation. Someone will come around this afternoon for a routine virus inspection of your computer. They may have to switch out your hard drive.”
Symanski understood. Firewalling. He’d never see those e-mails again. “Yes, sir.”
The door closed.
The chief: “Dammit! Why did I ditch that first e-mail? How do I fix this?” He picked up his phone. “Get me a secure line to the FBI . . .”
Two separate e-mails began zipping through the nation’s most secure servers, up the food chain. Benmont’s original work product from the previous month, and his current theory. They moved faster than normal through the bureaucracy because the whole mess had a giant, unspoken headline on it: This Could End Careers.
The e-mails hit the computer screen of one particular FBI agent, who finished reading them and turned off his computer. He grabbed a heavy coat off a hook and decided to take a chilly lunchtime stroll through a public park.
He took a seat on a bench. Someone else sat down. They didn’t talk.
The agent placed a newspaper on the bench and left.
The other man picked up the paper and walked away in the opposite direction.
Chapter 13
Sarasota
<
br /> The Shepards from Springfield, Missouri, sat in their screened-in porch enjoying their evening tea. They had company.
Lawrence set a cup in a saucer. “That was some fast reacting at the pool yesterday.”
“It’s the only way I know how to react,” said Serge, pinkie extended from his teacup.
“If the park wasn’t talking all about you before . . .” said Nancy.
“It’s about to get dark.” Lawrence tapped his wristwatch. “Scott.”
“That’s right, Scott,” said Nancy, getting up to make preparations.
“Who’s Scott?” asked Serge.
“Why don’t we walk and talk?” said Lawrence.
The pair strolled along the edge of a peacefully empty street as the air cooled, and the Florida sky shared its burnished beauty. Three-wheel bikes and exercise walkers greeted them. The fountain in the lake gurgled to a stop, and a turtle crawled onto it.
Serge pointed at the water. “You have swans. Did you know that they’re some of the most violent and aggressive birds on earth? It’s true! People universally accept them as elegantly beautiful creatures, but that’s our downfall. You don’t even have to go near them; they’re out looking for shit. You think you’ve got a comfortable life, just walking around wondering if you still have that pecan log back at the house, and then you’re chased by swans. Deal me out of that program.”
“Serge, forget the swans,” said Lawrence. “This is important. I need to tell you about Scott, one of the greatest kids you could ever meet.”
“Right, Scott. You mentioned he’s the grandson of the Packers?”
“Buford and Wilma.” Lawrence waved at a passing cyclist. “He lost his parents early, and they raised him from age two until he left for college. Now it’s a decade later, and he’s back staying with them for caregiving.”
“That is a great kid,” said Serge. “So young, yet sacrificing his social life to be a caregiver.”
“No, the other way around.” Lawrence shook his head. “Worst luck in the world. Big handsome kid, brilliant computer technician, until he was hit by a drunk driver. Bad insurance coverage, lost his job, car, girlfriend, emptied his bank account, everything. Had nowhere to live, so he’s back with his grandparents. Doctors say he should recover almost ninety percent, but it did a real number on his back and will take at least twelve months, maybe eighteen.”
