by Tim Dorsey
The bartender nodded and took the Andrew Jackson. He picked up the remote and clicked the TV over to entertainment news and something about Tom Hanks’s biggest regret. The bartender returned and looked at a nearly empty martini glass. “Another Belvedere, Mr. Pickering?”
The customer placed a palm over the top of his glass. “Two’s the limit. Got a case in the morning.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Pickering. If you need anything else . . .” The bartender wasn’t a particularly polite or attentive person, but the tips at this place could change your worldview. The bartender zeroed in on another lawyer holding a folded twenty and rushed off.
Because of its proximity to the courthouse, the bar was well known for its attorney clientele. And because of that, it was known for something else. A scientifically improbable concentration of drop-dead-gorgeous women. It was the rare kind of bar where the females dangled the pickup lines. And it was usually this: “What firm are you with?” Some checked for wedding bands; others didn’t care. Neither did the men. Marriages came and went in this place. The women attorneys who practiced at the courthouse were uniformly disgusted by the whole scene and never set foot inside.
“You look like you could use a friend,” said a voice behind a stool. “. . . Hello? . . . Anybody home?”
“What?” Pickering turned around. “Oh, sorry. Just distracted.” Then he looked again. A dark-haired dream in a long black dress right out of the Hollies song. “Can I buy you a drink?”
She took the stool next to him. “What are you having?”
“Belvedere vodka martini.” He went to signal the bartender, but she beat him to it and held up a pair of fingers. “Two Belvederes.”
“No,” said Pickering, hand over his glass again. “I’m just about to leave.”
“Oh, come on. Have some fun.” Then a sultry smile that caught the lawyer in headlights. “I know your type. Too responsible. That’s a good thing, but so is lightening up once in a while. Something’s on your mind . . .”
“This stupid case today. I hate that firm. You know, the one with the ads . . .”
The bartender arrived and silently awaited his decision.
Pickering pushed the empty glass forward. “Sure, why not.”
A commercial came on.
The lawyer grimaced. “What’s with the kittens and string?” He pointed at the set, and the bartender swung into action, switching over to a singing competition with snarky judges.
The drinks arrived, and the woman raised hers. “Cheers.” Glasses clinked. “So tell me why so glum? . . .”
Two hours later, they were laughing and touching in incidental ways that weren’t incidental. The kind of woman who made men break rules. Pickering was on the business end of his fifth Belvedere when she whispered something in his ear. Another wilting smile. “I just have to go powder my nose . . .”
He watched intently as she sashayed toward the restrooms. “Damn, that’ll turn a bad day around.”
Pickering sipped his last drink of the evening. Eventually he glanced toward the back of the lounge and checked his watch. “What’s taking her so long?”
Finally, Pickering stood up from his stool and placed a final tip on the bar. “Knew it was too good to be true.” He got in his black Lexus and turned onto Clematis.
Immediately, his rearview lit up with flashing red and blue lights. “Of all the bad luck!”
It wasn’t luck. The patrol car had been waiting at the curb, thanks to the anonymous tip: “I tried to stop him, but he’s leaving the bar anyway. I’d feel terrible if someone got hurt. . . . Yes, a black Lexus.” Click.
A block away, in the dim back booth of another lounge, Nathan Sparrow held out a folded stack of hundreds. A woman in a black dress reached for it, and he yanked it back. “You need to sign this first.”
“What is it?”
“Non-disclosure agreement. It’s standard.”
She took his pen and began writing. “Are you seeing anybody? . . .”
The next day, a pheasant lunch in the conference room of a law office. The DUI was all over the news and the talk of the courthouse, thanks to Pickering’s stature in the community.
Reinhold chewed an expensive bite. “Man, if he thought he was going to lose clients because of that verdict . . .”
Nash pointed with a salad fork. “You had something to do with this, didn’t you?”
Sparrow pointed at his chest. “Me?”
“Don’t answer,” said Reinhold. “But I heard the whispers at the courthouse this morning. Everyone suspects.”
Nathan stabbed his own bite. “Good.”
“Good? It could be trouble.”
“How?” said Nathan. “What statutory line was crossed? Hypothetically somebody paid a woman to flirt with a guy. Nobody forced him to drink, forced him to drive off in his car.”
The other partners stared off in thought. Legal permutations flickered in their eyes. Nash nodded. “You’re right. But why? You already crushed him in the courtroom.”
Sparrow dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “That’s the problem with people today. No work ethic. When you knock someone down, make sure they can’t get up.”
The courthouse talk continued, and it became a source of admiration and lore. In these circles, ruthlessness was the coin of the realm. Mercy was a bounced check. From then on, everyone either wanted to be their best friends or stayed clear. Money gushed in too fast to spend, and the sky was the limit.
Reinhold actually said it. “The sky’s the limit.”
“I want to go into orbit,” said Nathan.
Chapter 10
The Present
Coleman opened a glass door and pulled a twelve-pack from a shelf in the beer cooler. “Serge? You seem distracted.”
“I am.” Serge held an energy drink in his hand, as if to read the ingredients, but he was surreptitiously looking to the side. “Here’s a travel tip for those at home planning to visit Florida. If you’re in a convenience store paying a cashier, always check your surroundings before pulling out your wallet, and then grip it tight against your stomach and hunch your shoulders to shield it with your body.”
“Why?
“The first time I noticed the phenomenon was in Daytona. I was walking up to the store and the door suddenly flew open and this girl comes flying out like Usain Bolt, really booking it and not stopping for five blocks. I went inside, and the customer at the counter was staring weird at his upturned hands like it was the first time he’d ever seen them.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what I asked, and the guy said he was about to buy a sandwich and the girl just grabbed his wallet and took off. Another time I was in Miami at one of those stores where the cashier is behind bulletproof glass and you slide your money underneath through a curved metal slot—which is a red flag that you should take your tourist dollars elsewhere—and this guy is buying a single beer with a large bill, and as soon as the cashier places the change in the slot, the customer gets seriously hip-checked out of the way by this younger cat who grabs eighteen bucks from the slot and it’s a sprint again.”
“How often is this happening?” asked Coleman.
“I talked to some cashiers, and they said all the time since meth and heroin took hold. And only getting worse because of credit cards.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You used to be able to swipe a credit card, but now most have security chips, which ironically decreases security. Customers have to stick it in a slot and wait for the machine to do its magic while they have that final-Jeopardy!-answer countdown music playing in their heads. And then they’re shocked when their card is yanked out of the slot by another track star.”
“Why don’t they just call and cancel the card?”
“Most do, but not in time because the number to call about a lost or stolen card is on the back of the card, and you have to go home to look up paperwork. A design flaw if you ask me. The problem is so rampant that our state had to pass a special
law called ‘sudden snatching,’ to fill the gap between simple theft and strong-arm robbery. Which pisses me off on another level. ‘Sudden snatching.’ How do you have confidence in a government that can’t even master the basic language? Is there slow-motion snatching?”
“The distraction?” asked Coleman.
“Oh, right. I got distracted.” Serge glanced to the side again. “A few months ago, some surveillance camera footage from Florida went viral. Turns out this one customer was ninety years old and looked every bit as frail. In the video, he’s got his wallet out, slowly counting his money like it’s going to take him another ninety years, and meanwhile this muscular young guy is pacing back and forth behind him. Finally, the thief didn’t even have to snatch. He just gently lifted the wallet from the guy’s hands and walked out of the store. But the saddest part was the old man’s delayed reaction, looking down puzzled like a dog that eats a last bit of food and then is surprised to see an empty bowl and thinks, ‘What the fuck just happened?’ The Internet post of the video got a thousand comments from Floridians that were all variations on ‘Kill this piece of shit,’ which made me swell with local pride.”
“And that’s why you’re looking over at that old geezer standing by the machine that turns the hot dogs?”
“Yep,” said Serge. “Going through his wallet without a care.”
“Some young guy’s walking behind, checking him out.”
“Already on my radar,” said Serge. “And the old man has one of those military-veteran baseball caps. That should be a nationwide hands-off symbol. What’s wrong with people?”
“I think it’s about to happen,” said Coleman.
“This shouldn’t take long,” said Serge. “Keep the old guy company while I’m gone.”
The wallet was lifted, and the thief sprinted out of the store, followed quickly by Serge.
Coleman ambled up to the confused vet. “So, how’s your day going? . . .”
Ten minutes later, Serge returned with a smile and a billfold. “I think you dropped this. Thank you for your service.” He placed it back in the man’s hands, triggering a second round of confusion.
Serge walked up to the cashier with his energy drink. He stuck a pre-paid credit card in a slot, then leaned over the machine and wrapped his arms around it.
“What are you doing?” asked the cashier.
“Fighting crime. Tell me when the payment clears . . .”
A 1970 Ford Cobra sped north on U.S. 1.
“That was fast,” said Coleman. “How’d you get the guy’s wallet back?”
“I have the gift of persuasion.” Serge pulled a stun gun from his pocket and stowed it under his seat.
“Oh, I get it,” said Coleman. Then he heard a noise and turned around.
Bam, bam, bam.
Coleman pointed at the trunk. “Bonus round?”
“Afraid so. Look for a motel.”
The Cobra continued north as the occupants in the front seat swayed and sang.
“Ohhhhhhh! The bonus round! The bonus round! Shits and giggles sure to abound! . . .”
Bam, bam, bam.
It was noon, and the budget motel room was dark.
Someone vainly tried to yell from a mouth covered with duct tape.
Suddenly, a slit of light where Coleman was peeking out through the blinds toward the beach.
A head slowly rose from the water. Serge removed his mask and snorkel and slapped ashore with big swim fins.
Coleman stepped aside as his buddy entered the back door with the fins under his arm. “Hand me a towel.”
Coleman complied. “How was it?”
“Fantastic!” He rubbed his hair dry. “I’ve just rededicated my entire life to snorkeling and all things snorkel-like! I usually go offshore by boat in the Keys, but this is possibly the best spot accessible right from the beach.”
“Where are we?”
“Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.” He waved an arm in the direction of waves. “I dove the Datura Avenue Shipwreck Snorkel Trail, just south of the pier at Commercial Boulevard.”
“They actually have a trail for snorkeling?”
“It’s the rage now, like the new one at Phil Foster Park in Riviera Beach.” Serge opened the blinds and pointed. “Great visibility in shallow water that goes out a couple hundred feet to a reef and a so-called shipwreck, which is actually replica cannons and anchors that the townspeople kindly planted like Easter eggs.” He began enthusiastically counting off on his fingers. “I saw tarpon and lobster and rays and nurse sharks, a turtle, a moray eel—”
“Mmmm! Mmmm!”
“What?” Serge asked their guest. “You don’t like snorkeling?”
“He doesn’t like being tied up,” said Coleman. “And duct-taped.”
“Probably the chair. It lacks that ergonomic look.” Serge walked over and began tapping the hostage on the head with his snorkel. “Is it the chair?”
“Mmmm! Mmmm!”
Serge turned around to Coleman and nodded. “It’s the chair.”
“Mmmm! Mmmm!”
“Sorry, it’s the only one in the room,” Serge told the guest. “Should have figured that into your plans today when you strayed from the decency herd.”
Coleman sat at the foot of a bed and clicked the TV on. A local broadcast began. “Hey, Serge, isn’t that the place we were at earlier?”
“Shhhhh!”
“. . . We lead off tonight’s news with the story everyone’s talking about. A convenience store surveillance camera captured this footage . . .”
Coleman gestured with a beer. “There’s the guy grabbing the wallet. And there you go.”
“Watch the suds!”
“. . . The theft is trending heavily on the web with comments we cannot repeat on the air. Fortunately, we’re able to report the story has a happy ending as this anonymous Good Samaritan was somehow able to retrieve the wallet and return it to its rightful owner . . .”
“And there you are coming back in the store!”
Serge just glared at Coleman and toweled Schlitz off his arm.
“Mmmm! Mmmm!”
“Hold tight a sec,” Serge told the hostage, before draining an entire cup of 7-Eleven coffee. “Ahhhh, that’s better. Now relax, because you’re in the best hands possible. I know it doesn’t intuitively seem that way with all your rope and tape, but we’ve done this a hundred times, and I’m all about safety. If you’re staying in a budget Florida motel, you can never be too careful. First, strictly obey the sign inside your motel room, saying not to open the door for people unknown to you. Of course, I always open up because I’m a professional. I have to open up. Call it curiosity: What is the nutty backstory of the person knocking? One time I was in this bargain-basement motel and opened the door and it was this woman with a duffel bag asking if I had any detergent because the laundry vending machine was out. I said sure, but I require payment. She said she only had enough change for the wash, and I said, ‘Not money, I want backstory.’ So I walked with her to the laundry, and she starts pulling socks and T-shirts out of the duffel bag and brushing off all these twigs and leaves before dumping them into the washer, and she tells me how grateful she was to be staying at the motel. I asked where she was staying before. She says, and I quote, ‘Sleeping in the woods sucks!’ I asked how she suddenly became upwardly mobile, and she tells me she went down to the employment office and got a waver. I’m thinking she meant ‘waiver,’ like for unemployment money or something, and she says, ‘No, I got a job waving a sign on the sidewalk outside a strip mall. Today was my first day, and they pay at the end of the shift, and I was able to get a room here tonight.’ Then she reaches in the duffel and pulls out this costume for the washer, and I said, ‘Holy crap, you’re one of the Statue of Liberty sign wavers?’ She says it was that or the gorilla. And now every time I’m driving and see someone waving a sign in a Statue of Liberty costume, I think, damn, that’s all that’s standing between sleeping in the woods. So now I always carry extra little bo
xes of detergent to accelerate the process. Other times I get bored in a motel room because nobody knocks, so I knock. And when someone answers I say, ‘You shouldn’t have opened up. Please observe the warning on the back of the door. Luckily, it’s just me. Backstory, please.’ And the stories! Hoo-wee! One guy said he was there because his wife was hurling a series of heavy objects again and he got tired of ducking. Another had blood all over his T-shirt and said it was from shaving and could he borrow my ID. But enough about me! Let’s see how you’re trending, shall we?” Serge grabbed his smartphone and looked up the Internet post of the wallet snatching. He kept glancing dubiously at the hostage as he scrolled down through the profane comment thread. He whistled and turned the phone off. “Trust me, seeing that will only complicate your digestive tract. But suffice it to say there’s a massive lynch mob out there looking for you right now. I guess you’re just lucky to be in here with us.”
“Mmmm! Mmmm!”
“Coleman, I think he wants to see my new toys.” Serge picked something up off the bed. “First, the mask is key to snorkeling, like speakers to a stereo. If you can’t see shit, what’s the point? Second, a self-purging top-of-the-line snorkel. Next, my booties, which allow me to wear these super-long open-ocean fins that cost a fortune. Then this—”
“Mmmm! Mmmm!”
“What? It’s just a speargun,” said Serge. “You think I’m going to use it on you? Please! Give me more credit for imagination.”
Finally, Serge picked up a small pole that the prisoner didn’t recognize and Serge didn’t explain. He reached into his backpack for a hacksaw and began cutting the end off the stick. “There. That about does it.”
“Time for the bonus round?” asked Coleman.
Chapter 11
Twenty-Five Years Ago
Long black eyelashes flickered in the soft dawn sunlight drifting into the second floor, through fronds of royal palms and gossamer linen curtains.
