No Sunscreen for the Dead Page 12

  “That’s such a shame,” said Serge.

  “Nancy and I always have the best time when he comes over.”

  “Well, if you’re having him and his grandparents for dinner, Coleman and I should probably be going,” said Serge. “Tight fit.”

  “No, only him,” said Lawrence. “And not just for dinner. He’s spending the night.”

  Serge slowed a step. “Now I’m confused. If he’s living with his grandparents, then why is he crashing at your pad just a few doors down?”

  “Park rules,” said Lawrence. “Nobody had heard about this one regulation because it’s buried way down in the fine print of our contracts. Scott had been staying with them a few months when somehow the park management got wind. Not that anyone was trying to conceal it. Anyway, one of the managers came around and informed the Packers that one of the park’s rules is that residents can only have visitors under fifty-five years of age for a maximum of thirty days in any calendar year. They said Scott would have to leave immediately, and they didn’t mean the next morning. So his grandparents registered him and his wheelchair at a local motel that night.”

  “Don’t they have a heart?” asked Serge.

  “Apparently not,” said Lawrence. “A bunch of us went to the management office the next day and asked for a hardship exemption, but they wouldn’t budge. Can you believe that? Scott is like everyone’s adopted grandson around here. So we had a meeting among the residents and decided to rotate him trailer to trailer each month to get around the rule. This is our month.”

  “You seniors never cease to amaze me,” said Serge.

  “Here we are,” said Lawrence, turning up a walkway toward a screened-in porch where a radiant face was already poking out the door.

  “Hi, Mr. Shepard.”

  “How many times have I told you to call me Lawrence?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Shepard.”

  The grandfather already had the wheelchair open at the bottom of the steps. Scott slowly worked his way down to it with a cane, but his cheer never faltered. They helped him into the chair, and the young man placed his walking stick across his lap.

  The grandfather furtively motioned toward Lawrence that he wanted to step aside for a private word.

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure, but it doesn’t look good,” said Mr. Packer. He pulled a letter from his pocket. “Just got this in the mail today. You said you know some lawyers. Could you look at it for me?”

  “No problem.”

  Scott tried to see back over his shoulder. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Nothing,” said Lawrence, tucking the envelope away. He walked up behind the chair and grabbed the handles. “Ready for a ride?”

  Serge touched Lawrence’s arm. “Please allow me. It’s important.”

  “Who’s that?” Scott called behind him.

  “Serge, your newest best friend. And your chauffeur for tonight.” He pushed the chair back down the driveway to the street. “And I know all about you nutty kids, so don’t even ask me to do a wheelie. Okay, but just one . . . Weeeeeee!”

  “Serge! Jesus!” yelled Lawrence. “He’s in physical rehab! Can you please push him normal?”

  “Just trying to find the edge of the performance envelope on this wheelchair,” said Serge. “But you’re right. It’s probably safer to test it on Coleman first.”

  He resumed pushing at a slow rate with all wheels on the runway. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?” said Scott.

  “Got a girlfriend, right?”

  “Well, used to.”

  “Damn,” said Serge, stomping a foot on the pavement. “I’ve done it again. Wandered like an unattended toddler into insensitivity traffic.”

  “No,” said Scott. “It’s fine. Actually, it’s great!”

  “That’s an interesting attitude.” Serge pushed on in the growing darkness. “How so?”

  “My grandparents raised me, and what a fantastic childhood!” said Scott. “Ever since I can remember as a little guy, my grandpa was never too busy to play baseball with me or go fishing or help me build a fort in the backyard. And Grandma played Legos with me and Tinker Toys, and let me lick peanut butter off the spoon. The whole time encouraging me, always saying I was destined for great things.”

  “They sound wonderful,” said Serge.

  “They are,” said Scott. “Bought me a computer when I was young, and I got really good at it. Beyond what I ever would have imagined. Guess I just had a knack, but my grandparents said they always knew. Then I got a job. I was rising up fast, even receiving offers from other companies for more money. One of them hired me to be the head of IT for the entire firm, the youngest ever, with a ridiculous salary and a company car. The weekend before I was supposed to start, bam, that guy hit me. Was in a coma three days. Fast-forward: I went to court and the guy seemed genuinely sorry, so I asked the judge to show leniency if he would agree to go with me to local high schools and talk to the kids about what had happened, because something good can come out of everything.”

  Serge glanced at Lawrence, who returned a look: What did I tell you about this kid?

  “But here’s the best part!” said the handicapped youth. “I get to live with my grandparents again! Most people grow up and leave home and try to stay in touch the best they can, but life is just life, and new responsibilities gradually drift you away until you’re spending practically no time at all. But in my case, after missing them for ten years, we all get to live under the same roof again! I know I’ll eventually recover from my injuries, so in the meantime I’m going to savor every moment with them. Most people never get a chance like this. I guess I’m just really lucky.”

  Now Serge gave Lawrence a look: This kid is unbelievable.

  “My grandparents sleep in separate rooms, because he snores,” said Scott. “Grandpa has an extra bed in his room, and he went to the lumberyard and had them cut a thick piece of plywood to fit between the box spring and mattress to support my back, and after we go to bed at night and turn off the lights, we just talk and talk about sports and memories like a couple of little brothers bunking together. Then he bought two flashlights and some walkie-talkies for us to goof around with in bed like we really were little brothers, laughing and cutting up until my grandmother has to come in the room and ask us to keep it down. But she asks nice . . . Anyway, now that I have to sleep at the other trailers, I miss those late-night talks with Grandpa. That’s my only regret . . . Oh, sorry, Mr. Shepard . . .”

  “It’s Lawrence.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

  “Believe me, you’re not even in the ballpark.”

  They wheeled him up to the screened porch, and Serge ran on ahead inside while Lawrence helped Scott with his cane.

  Serge waved at Nancy sitting on the couch, then called out: “Coleman! You have to meet this kid! . . . Coleman?”

  “Here.”

  Serge looked behind the sofa, where Coleman was lying on the carpet again with his limbs defying anatomy. “What the hell are you doing down there?”

  “Just what you told me to,” said Coleman. “Visiting with her.”

  “Coleman, I believe in the rest of the English-speaking world, that means something different.”

  Nancy suddenly popped up with excitement. “Scott! Come in!” A huge hug.

  The evening wore on, and the living room filled with Scott’s contagious optimism. Nancy served pastries. They watched the late news.

  Outside: “Lean into it! Lean into it!”

  “I’m trying! Slow down!”

  Crash.

  “Ahhhhh!”

  The Shepards ran out onto their porch in alarm.

  Serge righted a wheelchair in the street and smiled. “Nothing broken. But I’ve established some important data on the envelope.”

  Coleman sat up on the tar and rubbed his knees.

  “He’s bleeding,” said Nancy.

  “Just a little roa
d rash,” said Serge. “Most of the time he doesn’t even feel it.”

  “I’ll get some Band-Aids.”

  They returned to the house, and chitchat resumed. “Then my granddad took me to like a million spring training games back before the mini-stadiums when they still played at the historic old fields and the players were up close: Al Lopez in Tampa, Al Lang in Saint Pete, Payne Park here in Sarasota. And all the baseball junk food I could eat! . . .”

  Lawrence pointed out the sliding glass doors. “Show’s about to start.”

  “What show?” asked Serge.

  “Oh, you’ll love this,” said Scott.

  They all went out on the porch and took viewing seats as fat raindrops began to plop in the lake.

  “I still don’t know what I’m looking for,” said Serge.

  “You know how Tampa Bay is accurately named the lightning capital of the world?”

  “Intimately,” said Serge.

  “Well, weather doesn’t obey county lines, and down south here in Sarasota, we still get more than our share,” said Lawrence.

  “At first, when we moved in, it was a source of concern,” said Nancy. “‘What’s up with all this lightning?’ Transformers blew and lights went out, and there were sirens. But the lights were always quickly back on, because the power company had beefed-up, round-the-clock emergency crews on standby.”

  Lawrence chuckled. “Workers in thick, blowing raincoats always out in cherry pickers in the middle of monsoons to get our favorite TV shows back on. Corporations aren’t known for that level of service, but local politicians don’t like receiving lots of calls about extended outages, especially from us seniors, who vote like maniacs.”

  The group noticed other residents emerging onto their own porches with drinks and snacks to take in the free fireworks show. It wasn’t as odd as it sounds. Contrary to popular impression, much of the lightning here wasn’t the classic scary bolts with crashing thunder. It tended to be heat lightning and distant air-to-air strikes that made the clouds glow in a dancing chain of flashes that was actually an enjoyable display of nature’s beauty. And the thunder was more of a gentle, rolling rumble. Given the area’s bounty of almost perpetually sunny days, it became welcome variety.

  The palms started to rustle and rain began to pour. “Here we go,” said Lawrence.

  The flashes began, and horizontal streaks laced the sky. It seemed like it would continue forever.

  “Only one thing missing . . .” said Lawrence.

  “What’s that?” asked Serge.

  Bang.

  A transformer blew, knocking out power in the neighboring, rival retirement park. An enthusiastic cheer went up from all the other trailer porches.

  Then a Florida thing. Just as quickly as the storm had swept in, it was gone.

  Lawrence got up. “Show’s over.”

  They all went inside, and soon the yawns started as people prepared for bed. Lawrence stood in the kitchen. “Serge, could you come here a minute?”

  “What is it?”

  “Just when I thought the bar of human callousness couldn’t get any lower.” Lawrence was holding a piece of paper and almost shaking. “The Packers got this today via certified mail. Buford gave it to me before we wheeled Scott over.”

  “Let me see that.”

  Lawrence handed it over. “Letter from the park’s attorney. They’re reinterpreting the policy in the terms of agreement. Now they’re saying that the thirty-day limit in any year applies to the entire park. They’re classifying Scott as the Packers’ visitor, regardless of which trailer he stays in. They want him gone again.”

  Serge read the correspondence and gave it back. “What’s wrong with these people?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m calling an attorney first thing in the morning.”

  “Does Scott know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then don’t call an attorney,” said Serge. “If I’ve figured Scott out, he’ll feel terrible about the cost and strain of a legal fight.”

  “We can’t just allow them to throw him out on the street.”

  “Trust me, that’s not going to happen,” said Serge. “Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “It’s better you don’t know in case you’re called to testify.”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Who owns the park, anyway?”

  “Big local development company with lots of political clout,” said Lawrence. “The owner has a giant beach house out on Siesta Key.”

  Three A.M.

  German binoculars focused on a full moon that had faded from bright white to a daffodil yellow as it prepared to set over the shimmering Gulf of Mexico.

  “Just listen to that ocean. There’s nothing more peaceful than waves quietly rolling ashore at night.” The binoculars swept across the water to a post-modern beach mansion with lots of glass blocks and brushed-metal balcony railings.

  Coleman was in the passenger seat, playing with a lock pick set. “Ow, I stuck myself.”

  “Give me that!” Serge snatched the kit and returned it to his pocket.

  Coleman uncapped a flask. “That was a pretty cool pet store we went to. They had all kinds of strange creatures I never knew people wanted. What do you even say to a newt?”

  The binoculars returned to the second floor of the residence, where all the lights were out. Serge pressed buttons on a cell phone. Understandably, it rang and rang. Until finally, a groggy voice: “Uh, hullo . . .”

  Serge could hear the person on the other end fumbling with a bedside alarm clock that crashed to the floor. “Is this Mr. Dryden?”

  “Who the hell are you? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Listen carefully,” said Serge, “because you won’t get a second chance. Whatever you do, don’t throw your legs over the side of the bed and put on your slippers.”

  “What is this bullshit?”

  “Turn on the lamp instead.”

  Serge saw an upstairs light come on in his binoculars.

  The scream was so loud he heard it in stereo: through the phone, and outside, echoing off the balcony.

  Mr. Dryden clutched the side of the bed and stared down. A thread was tied to his left slipper. The other end acted as a kind of tiny leash, around a pissed-off scorpion.

  “Hello? Hello?” said Serge. “Are you still there?”

  “I’ll kill you! I’ll call the police!”

  “Doubtful.” Serge’s binoculars watched an upstairs silhouette going through dresser drawers. “In case you’re looking for your gun, it’s in the refrigerator on top of the eggs. And it’s time to throw out that milk.”

  The silhouette stopped. “What’s going on? What do you want?”

  “That’s better,” said Serge. “You own Boca Shores, right? There’s a retired couple living there, and their grandson is going through a difficult period. You’re going to let him stay at the park as long as he wants.”

  “Are you fucking joking? That’s what this is about?” yelled Mr. Dryden. “They signed the terms of agreement, and that kid is taking advantage of me! You’ve threatened the wrong person, asshole. I have private investigators and I’ll track you down. But first—just because of you—I’m kicking that kid and his grandparents out of my park!”

  “You might want to check your jewelry box,” said Serge. “You never know when someone could develop a case of sticky fingers.”

  “Son of a bitch! If you touched a single one of my Rolexes! . . .”

  The binoculars watched the silhouette change course. Then another chilling scream in stereo.

  “That would be a tarantula,” said Serge. “I can do this all day long. All year long, because the weather’s incredible down here. So many interesting insects and reptiles. In the future you won’t be getting a courtesy call.”

  “I’ll—! I’ll—! . . .”

  “Why don’t you calm down and take deep breaths?” said Serge.

  Silence
on the other end.

  “That’s much better,” said Serge. “And for the record, the Packers don’t know anything about this, and I don’t know them. I just heard on the grapevine what was going on with this poor kid, and I thought, ‘There’s got to be some kind of mistake. The owner definitely must not realize this is going on,’ so I’m doing you the favor of filling you in.”

  More silence.

  “You’ve got it pretty cushy out here on Crescent Beach,” said Serge. “So ask yourself this question: Is hassling that young man and his grandparents really worth inviting me into your life?”

  “You’re a madman!”

  “That should make your decision a no-brainer.”

  A long pause. “If I let him stay, is that the end of this?”

  “You have my word.” Serge slapped himself on the forehead. “Almost forgot about the rattlesnake in the humidor for your Montecristos.”

  “Okay, okay, just leave me alone!”

  “Oh, and a couple last conditions . . .” Serge told him what they were. “It’s non-negotiable under my terms of agreement.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me!”

  “I wouldn’t shit you. You’re my favorite turd.” Serge laughed maniacally. “I never get tired of that old joke. Have to admit, you opened yourself up for that one!” More unbalanced laughter.

  “Fine! Anything! Just don’t hurt me!”

  And Serge hung up.

  Chapter 14

  The Next Morning

  Bright and early.

  Knock-knock-knock . . .

  “Who can that be?” asked Wilma Packer.

  “Even the salesmen don’t knock this early,” said her husband.

  Knock-knock-knock . . .

  “Hold your horses! I’m coming!”

  Bam-bam-bam . . .

  Buford opened the sliding glass door. “I said I was coming! What’s the emergency?”

  There was a golf cart in the driveway and a man in an Italian suit at the screen door. “Are you Buford Packer?”