Howard hung up and set the ringer to vibrate. He turned back around.
Serge’s face was grave. “Couldn’t help but hear. Is your mother all right?”
“It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it.”
“Maybe I can help.”
Howard stared at the floor. “No …”
“Look at me,” said Serge. “What’s going on?”
“Well, after my dad passed last year, mom’s been looking for a smaller place …”
“Smart financial move.”
“… Just closed this morning on a cozy little cottage. Especially loved the kitchen.” “Problem?”
“All the appliances were brand new, but when they went to the house after the closing, the refrigerator had been switched with an old rusty one that buzzes and the door won’t even shut all the way. I’m thinking of calling an attorney.”
“Won’t do any good.”
“Why not?”
“I know this scam inside out. The contract lists all nonpermanent fixtures that are supposed to come with the house. When dealing with reputable people, it’s enough to just write ‘refrigerator, stove, washer, dryer,’ but it’s not airtight. If the seller and agent aren’t scrupulous, you need to put the make, model and even serial number into the contract, or they can swap ‘em out with any old pieces of crap, and it’s totally legal.”
“So there’s nothing I can do?”
“Didn’t say that. What’s the name of this real estate agent?”
BACK STORY
There was a scandal a little time ago at one of south Florida’s less prestigious colleges. It stayed behind closed doors.
Sexual harassment. Ho-hum. At least as far as the administration went. Young women disgruntled about poor marks were always threatening trumped-up charges to get a grade bump. Others with father complexes took revenge when their crushes went unrequited.
The rest of the allegations, the wide majority, were simply true.
One case was different from all the others.
Rape.
But that’s not what set it apart.
Sure, the test kit came back positive. DNA matched the professor, and bleeding from soft-tissue lacerations in the expected location ruled out consent. Not to mention a pattern of fingertip-sized bruises around the neck from forced fellatio.
No, what separated this case was that the professor also ended up at the hospital, and in distinctly different shape than his victim. The young woman was soon up and walking, while the teacher had a concussion, three broken ribs and a punctured lung-all while a team of surgeons labored into the fourth hour to reattach his half-bitten-off member.
The school’s board of directors freaked. No hiding from this one. Until, that is, a king-size gift fell in their lap. The lawyers pounced. They visited the D.A., who called in the victim and broke the news.
“What do you mean, they’re not going to press charges against me?”
The prosecutor laid out the unpleasant political realities of modern jurisprudence.
“But that’s got nothing to do with it!”
Sorry, said the D.A., but his office had to allocate resources based upon odds of prevailing at trial. And strippers don’t win rape cases.
“But he-” She cut herself off, as she had throughout her life. Then composed: “That’s why he attacked in the first place. Called me up for an office conference and said he was surprised I was failing, which was impossible because I’d aced every test. Then he mentioned a friend had seen me at the club, and that a private lap dance would go a long way. I said I’d rather fuckin’ fail, and tried to leave his office. You know the rest.”
This was the part of his job the prosecutor hated.
He explained that normally, with a victim in her profession, they plea bargain out with greenhorn defense attorneys who don’t know they’ve got a winner with the jury. But the college’s legal team was top notch. And they’d be sure to mention the woman’s criminal record for aggravated assault: in her second trimester, beating the snot out of an abortion protester blocking the clinic entrance.
Oh, and more bad news. She was expelled.
The now ex-student went numb in the face.
The prosecutor offered to call the victims’ assistance unit, even drive her over.
She refused.
Did she have family?
No.
Need any money?
She got up and left.
Every stripper, before she was a stripper, was a little girl.
Story Long wanted to be a teacher, astronaut, veterinarian. And to stop the beatings from her alcoholic mother’s boyfriends.
Most children who are dealt such hands withdraw and withei. Some lash out antisocially. A rare few, like Story, overachieve. Straight A’s, clawing for every crumb, hiding the shame of her welts with makeup or long sleeves. No dances or proms. Just a one-in-a-thousand thermonuclear survivor’s drive. If you stepped in front of her dreams, prepare to get run over.
By the time she was kicked out of the house, it became an instant calculation of math and desensitization. Stripping was the best way to make it through college.
Her first job lasted a week.
“What do you mean I’m fired?”
“You kicked that guy in the nuts!”
“He tried to grope me.”
“It’s a fuckin’ strip club!”
That was eight jobs ago, all ending more or less the same.
The evening after the expulsion and leaving the D.A.‘s office, Story arrived for work at her ninth gig, a high-roller Fort Lauderdale lounge. The bouncer shook his head and barred the door with a thick forearm.
“What?”
“Owner says you can’t dance here anymore.” “Why not?”
“Lawyers came around.”
“What lawyers?”
“The college. Threatened to sue.”
“But you didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Doesn’t matter. Owner said we can’t afford the legal bills.”
Another wave of numbness. Then she raised her chin, turned and walked back to her car.
The bouncer had been one of her best friends at the club. Tutored him for his G.E.D at no charge. He wanted to say something but instead just watched her ten-year-old Taurus leave a trail of Valvoline as it disappeared down Old Dixie Highway.
Nothing left but to drive back home to Jacksonville. At least there were a few old friends where she might bunk a night or two before regaining her footing. No money for the Turnpike, so it was I-95. She reached Lantana by midnight. The engine block cracked by Tequesta.
She began walking.
NEXT AFTERNOON
Another sweaty day on U.S. 1.
Below Daytona Beach, a small bridge crosses picturesque Rose Bay, and a little north of that sits a tiny brick building pressed up against the sidewalk, somewhat alone on a sparse stretch of highway featuring traffic intent on getting anywhere else. Many of the building’s bricks were painted with people’s names. A cinder block propped open the front door. Inside: darkness and the vague outline of clientele. On the roof, a plywood sign: the last resort bar.
Coleman sat on the penultimate stool of the infamous biker dive, staring up at bras hanging from electrical conduit. Bloodshot eyes drifted to layers of ever-present graffiti representing mankind’s existential yearning to write on shit while drinking: The Hedz, Slut Puppies, T-Fox, Deap (sic) Dick, Zippo, Kroakerhead, Bike Week, Total Eclipse, “1500 miles to get here!” then doodling of boobs, a rodent and a pentagram.
Serge came running through the bright doorway, sweating rivers. He hopped aboard the stool next to Coleman.
“Hey, Serge, how’d it go at the Fairview Motel?”