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  “He joins the navy.”

  “The navy?”

  Tofer nodded. “They stay on ships and don’t go into combat. Except I have an uncle who’s a chief petty officer on the aircraft carrier Enterprise off the coast of Nha Trang, and they just had a big explosion. Planes are always crash-landing, and artillery batteries on destroyers blow up. There’s a bigger risk on surface ships right now. But my uncle says very few people request submarines, which means they almost automatically get in.” Tofer nodded again. “Ted should request submarines.”

  Glenda sniffled and blew her nose in a tissue. She never would have thought of the navy. For the first time, she was beginning to turn around on the Tofer thing. He was saving her son.

  So down to the enlistment office they went the next morning. And out came future Seaman Third Class Theodore Pruitt, the newest recruit of the United States Navy.

  Then, in quick succession, high school graduation, boot camp and a brief furlough home in West Palm before his first deployment.

  Tofer and Ted hugged in the living room. The hippie rubbed Ted’s practically shaven skull. “That haircut is a trip.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” said Ted.

  “Me too.” Tofer held up his acoustic guitar. “One last jam session?”

  “Let’s go.”

  This time Glenda didn’t give it another thought as they rushed down the hall and closed the bedroom door.

  Tofer sat on the bed and strummed “Summertime Blues.” “You got submarines just like I said! What ship are you on?”

  “The USS——.”

  “Holy smokes,” said Tofer. “That’s the real deal. You’re on one of the boomers.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The subs with the nuclear missiles.” Tofer whistled. “Hope you’re not claustrophobic.”

  “Why?”

  “Missile subs are different from the others. They stay submerged for almost three months without surfacing, mainly under the Arctic Circle, because that’s the shortest ballistic path to the Soviet Union.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “My uncle, the petty officer.” Tofer glanced at the ceiling. “Man, Armageddon at your fingertips. That some heavy shit to lay on your karma.”

  “I think I’m just supposed to be a cook.”

  “I know, I know.” This time he strummed something by Cream. “This Cold War is a mind-bender. I’m not worried about the standoff with all guns pointed at each other. I’m worried about either side gaining an advantage . . .” Then singing: “In the white room . . .”

  “Why?”

  “The Dogs of War!” said Tofer. “The political leaders don’t worry me as much because they’re somewhat rational actors, but if the generals get any temptation from an edge of superiority, they just can’t resist the itch to go.”

  “Now you’re worrying me,” said Ted.

  “Oh, dude, sorry to freak you out. And just before you’re about to deploy.” New chords on the guitar from Simon & Garfunkel to tranquilize the mood. “Where you sailing out of? King’s Bay?”

  “Where’s that?” asked Ted.

  “Just north of Jacksonville in Georgia.”

  “Then King’s Bay,” said Ted.

  “Hey, I have an idea.” Tofer put down the guitar. “I know this professor at college, and he knows these other teachers in Europe and Asia, on both sides of the Iron Curtain. They’re on like this global peace-initiative committee, you know, to keep dialogue open among level heads. Sort of the opposite of the Dogs of War. Anyway, they said today’s biggest threats on the doomsday clock are missile submarines. They’re an all-or-nothing game of cat and mouse with the whole planet’s chips on the table.”

  Ted always respected Tofer’s take on the worldview. “How so?”

  “There are two kinds of submarines in the U.S. and Soviet fleets: boomers and fast-attacks. Boomers you already know about, lurking around below the Arctic at a few knots trying to be as quiet as possible. The fast-attacks aren’t really attack submarines as the name might suggest. They’re essentially surveillance subs, trying to find the enemy’s boomers and hanging by their sides. If—and only if—the sonar equipment on the attack subs detects missile doors opening, then they fire their torpedoes before the atomic bombs are launched. Otherwise, they’re just babysitting the missile subs.”

  “This seems very dangerous for the world,” said a shaken Ted. “Very dangerous for the existence of the whole human race.”

  “It is,” said Tofer. “But there’s hope. While our professors and diplomats are trying to settle things down, the safest thing is for both sides to know where all the other’s subs are. The best deterrent to preemptively launching nukes is knowing that you’ll be stopped before you can even fire them.”

  “Then I guess I just have to hope our attack subs can track their missile guys.”

  “Me too,” said Tofer. “The problem is that our equipment is more advanced and our guys do their jobs too well. It’s ramping up the temptation for our generals and admirals.”

  “I hope they work it out,” said Ted.

  “You can’t always bet on hope, but there’s something you can do in the meantime,” said Tofer, unfolding a plastic chart with a ruffling sound. “You’re going up to the Arctic Circle, right? I brought along a shortwave radio map of the area you’ll probably be traveling through.”

  “That doesn’t look like any shortwave map I’ve ever seen.”

  “Because it’s the latest, covering areas over oceans, ice caps and scientific outposts,” said Tofer, smoothing out the noisy wrinkles. “These are the most likely routes you’ll be traveling, up between Greenland and Iceland and onward to points north.”

  “I was going to ask how you know, but—”

  “My uncle.”

  “Of course.”

  “Here are your quadrants.” Tofer drew on the chart with a grease pen. “Erase all this when you’re done.”

  “What exactly are you asking me to do?”

  “Since you won’t be surfacing and there’s no way for anyone to communicate with the outside, it’s pretty much an open boat.” Tofer drew a black line past a frozen coast. “That means you’ll be around material that’s classified beyond your security grade. And since space is at a premium, the navigation team plots their charts out in the open where a lot of other stuff is going on. People are always walking by on their way to different parts of the ship. It’s a third forward on the second deck. So you walk by.”

  “And do what?”

  “Glance at the charts,” said Tofer. “And seek out the navigators in the galley during chow time. Make friends. Give it a good few weeks, only seeing them at meals. Then after that, it won’t seem unusual if you stop to chat while walking by and take longer looks at the navigation charts. You keep a diary, innocent stuff, but work out a personal code—maybe the first letter of each sentence—to embed stuff that will help you remember what you saw on those charts when you get back. And also get the depths and speed—those should be clearly visible on the control panels in the con where everyone also walks through.”

  “Hold it right there,” said Ted. “You want me to spy on my own country?”

  “Oh no, no, no, no!” said Tofer. “It’s for these professors. They explained it all to me. The more they understand how close we are to the brink, the better they can try and work things out by bringing up your information at their symposiums. It’s totally innocent.”

  “But why do professors need navigation information?”

  “Like I mentioned, the safest world is when both sides know where all the subs are,” said Tofer. “But right now America has pulled ahead in stealth technology to make our subs run quieter and less detectable.”

  “If it’s not spying, then what’s with all the cloak-and-dagger?”

  “This sort of thing would definitely be frowned upon, but it’s really no big deal,” said Tofer. “You and I have talked a lot about politics and how insane the world has b
ecome with greedy corporations. Even a conservative like President Eisenhower warned of the military-industrial complex. We agreed on this, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “It’s your chance to make a difference.” Tofer picked up the guitar again. “The bottom line is you’ll be helping America. It’s actually patriotic.”

  The Present

  A Ford Falcon sped south on the Tamiami Trail. Serge drained an extra-large cup of 7-Eleven coffee.

  Coleman glanced over—“Here we go again”—emptying his own mini Jack Daniel’s with a tincture of hash oil.

  Serge crumpled the cup and emitted a satisfied ahhhhh. “You know what I just remembered I dig from childhood? Old cartoons where the Florida Keys are actually piano keys. And that game Operation we played as kids. ‘Remove wrenched ankle.’ And Rock’em Sock’em Robots.”

  Boom!

  Coleman turned around. “What was that?”

  “The shock wave from the motel,” said Serge. “Next question.”

  “Why do you like old people so much?”

  “There’s all the wisdom that I’ve mentioned,” said Serge. “Second, we’re old, too.”

  “We’re not that old,” said Coleman, exhaling a hit.

  “That isn’t what I mean.” Serge pointed ahead out the windshield. “See that building? We perceive it like the rest of the world, in three dimensions, height, width, depth. There’s also a fourth dimension, time, but humans are limited to perceiving this dimension one point at a time.”

  Coleman held his thumb and index finger a half inch apart in front of his right eye and squeezed them together. “I’m crushing that building.”

  “Try to stay with me,” said Serge. “Some scientists theorize that all of time has already happened, and the dimension is completely laid out like the others, but it’s just the constraints of our particular universe that create the illusion we’re flowing through it.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Coleman, tapping an ash out the window.

  “And thank God it’s set up that way!” said Serge. “Can you imagine if we could see all of time at once, but lose one of the other dimensions? And then we’re a bunch of flat people who can’t move, like refrigerator magnets stuck to an infinitely large metal astro-plane stretching across the cosmos.”

  “I hate it when that happens.”

  “Scientists also subscribe to the notion that there are many other parallel universes operating right now under completely different rules of macro physics and quantum mechanics,” said Serge. “The next one over from us might be the giant refrigerator door with all the flat guys who can see their whole lives in a single mural but can’t scratch their noses.”

  “Those poor people,” said Coleman.

  “I should probably send some money or something,” said Serge. “Anyway, that’s why when I get up each morning, I close my eyes, straining real hard to break the shackles of my earthly construct and see time for what it really is. And it works! Suddenly I’m at the end of my life, living in a strange future land where there’s no need for shoes because everyone hovers everywhere whether they want to or not, and food tastes a million times better, which is odd because it’s all made from seaweed that has been harvested by the sirloin steak and ice cream ministries. Tell me if I’m babbling.”

  “You’re good.”

  “So there I am lying in bed at sunrise with my eyes shut, contentedly reflecting on a life well lived. With one reservation. If I could have a single wish, I’d like to be younger. Then I open my eyes, and I’ve gotten my wish!” Serge nodded to himself as he raced through a yellow light. “When you begin each day like that, how can you not want to skip down the street?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost four.”

  The Falcon skidded into a parking lot. Serge and Coleman sat alone in a dining room. A shuttle bus arrived and suddenly they were hardly alone. Trays of martinis rushed in.

  “Coleman . . .” Serge tilted his head at another couple in another corner booth. He stood up and grabbed his coffee.

  The pair arrived at the booth, and Serge bounded on the balls of his feet. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything . . .

  “You must be Serge,” said the man.

  “And you’re probably Coleman,” said the woman.

  Serge went flat-footed. “How’d you know?”

  The smiling couple scooted over to make room. “There’s been a lot of talk about you guys,” said the husband.

  “You’re getting quite the reputation at Boca Shores,” said the wife.

  “Uh, what are they saying?” asked Serge.

  “That you got a bunch of money back for some of the residents who were swindled,” said the man.

  “Nobody’s been able to do that before,” said the woman. “And you’re very polite and respectful.”

  “A little energetic, but appreciative and interested in our lives,” said the man, offering a hand to shake. “I’m Lawrence, and that’s Nancy. The Shepards from Springfield. Missouri, not Illinois.”

  “It’s an honor.” Serge slid into the booth. “Did you read about those teenagers in Fort Lauderdale who threw the sixty-eight-year-old woman in the swimming pool because she asked them to turn down their music?”

  “Sadly. Sometimes I don’t recognize my own country anymore,” said Lawrence. “If anyone ever did that to Nancy . . .”

  “You’d be in line behind me.” Serge set his recorder on the table. “So what’s your fantastic story? How’d you two lovebirds meet?”

  “In the Peace Corps.”

  Serge nudged Coleman. “We’re off to the races . . .” He grinned at the couple. “What did you do in the Peace Corps?”

  “We were doctors,” said Nancy. “Epidemiologists. In Africa.”

  “Holy shit!” Serge covered his mouth. “I mean wow. You could have made a lot of money with that specialty.”

  “People were suffering needlessly,” said Lawrence. “But we missed the States and later opened a practice in Appalachia, because they didn’t have enough physicians.”

  “Then we joined a free clinic in Oakland,” said Nancy.

  “Damn,” said Serge. “You had me at Peace Corps . . . Coleman, meet our newest heroes!”

  “Hooray.”

  “You could be living in a mansion,” said Serge. “Instead you’re stuck in a trailer. Okay, that came out wrong. A manufactured home, and a nice one at that.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s a trailer,” said Nancy. “And we couldn’t be happier.”

  Lawrence nodded. “What good is money if you know you could have helped others but didn’t? Few realize the infant mortality rates we’ve seen.”

  Serge’s mouth was hanging open in disbelief when a passing waiter noticed his empty cup.

  “More coffee?”

  “What? Yes! By all means!”

  Nancy cut a piece of meat loaf. “So what do you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Serge said defensively. “I mean it’s a discreet business. I do favors for people. Social odd jobs. You could say I fill a vacuum.”

  Coleman sucked a martini olive and nodded. “People always wonder how he makes his money, where he gets his cool cars and a bunch of cash to travel all the time.”

  “That’s right,” said Serge. “Say you start a business and take on a legitimate partner, but then that partner goes seriously in debt—medical bills, gambling, who knows—and gets a black-market loan, and now you’ve suddenly got a new silent partner you didn’t bargain for. I had a totally innocent accountant friend who was doing very well before this shady character from Hialeah put the arm on him. Turns out the shady character was working for an even scarier boss in Miami. Threats were made. My friend was out of his league, weeping on the phone. That’s where I came in.” He held an empty cup out in the aisle and a waiter refilled it. “I went to the guy’s house in Hialeah. I think he was sleeping when I knocked, just because i
t was after midnight. Anyway, he asks what the hell I wanted, and I said to dissolve the partnership and never contact my friend again. So he reaches behind the door and becomes puzzled. I say, are you looking for your baseball bat? It’s duct-taped to the ceiling fan. He looks up and is shocked to see it there. I also tell him his golf shoes are on top of the mantel. He says I’m a dead man, and gets out his phone to call his boss in Miami, and I say, ‘While you’re on the line, tell him his goldfish bowl is on top of the refrigerator.’ Of course next to the fish bowl was a personal note that whoever put the bowl there could get back inside the house at will, especially when he’s sleeping. And by the time the guy got off the phone with his boss, I had vanished. I remember him creeping around his yard in his pajamas looking for me, gripping that baseball bat like Pete Rose. Hoo-wee, what a hilarious image! Bottom line, they received the message loud and clear and decided the matter was more trouble than it was worth. My friend had no more problems, and I got a cool Ford Falcon!”

  The Shepards’ smiles had transformed into frightful stares.

  “Uh, that’s the exact reaction I was looking for,” said Serge. “It’s a screenplay I’m working on, but it’ll probably end up a TV pilot. What do you think?”

  “Ohhhhhh . . .” Nancy exhaled with relief. “You’re a writer. You really had me going with that story!”

  “Thank you for being a wonderful focus group,” said Serge.

  They enjoyed their meal and small talk—“Your thoughts on the Big Picture. Refrigerator door or what? . . .”—Serge manically shook an empty cup at the waiter again, who poured a third refill.

  “Thanks!” Serge began vibrating as he sipped. “That and a dime will get you a cup of coffee, the sixty-four-dollar question, if I had a nickel for every time, a penny saved is a penny earned, penny wise and pound foolish, selling like hot cakes, since sliced bread, a New York minute, a country mile, the whole nine yards, ten ways to Sunday, everyone and his uncle, you and the horse you rode in on, all that and a bag of chips, don’t count your chickens, don’t burn your bridges, don’t eat the yellow snow . . .”

  “You’re babbling,” said Coleman.