“Who is it?” He turned a page to agate scores.
“Eyewitness Five again.”
“Let the dogs loose.”
“Okay.”
She smiled back through the crack. “Just be a moment.”
“Thank you,” said the reporter. She closed the door. “How much blood money did this house cost!…”
She walked through the living room and out the back door and opened a gate. She returned and sat down with her magazine.
The man grabbed the business section. The yelling on the front lawn eventually subsided. It went with the territory. He was Troy Bradenton, owner of Troy’s Roofing Plus. The Plus was the extra money you paid. Troy was one of the most respected, looked-up-to men in the local contracting industry, because he was rich.
Troy’s trucks made the rounds of the day-labor offices each morning, collecting winos to canvass suburban shopping centers with windshield flyers that shouted in big red letters: “Why throw away hundreds on needless roofing repairs? That little leak could be a modest shingle replacement. Don’t get ripped off! For honest, dependable work, call Troy today!” There was a cartoon of a happy homeowner counting a big wad of money.
Troy’s office was manned with phone answerers and salesmen whom Troy had personally trained with a slide show and a motto: “Every call is five thousand dollars!”
The Roofing Plus salesman went up on the prospective roofs and smoked or ate a Snickers, then came down and called out to the owner, “I need to show you something. Afraid it isn’t good.”
“What is it?”
The salesman scampered up the ladder in a hurry. “Take a look at this.”
“Do I have to climb up there?”
“Yes.”
The customer was now on the salesman’s turf, clinging to the rungs. Bolts were deliberately loosened so the ladders wobbled. The older the customer, the better.
“See these rusty nails? The whole thing’s shot. And the trusses are probably eaten.” He made notes on a pad. “I’m sorry, but the law requires me to inform the building department.”
No, it didn’t.
The salesman climbed down. “Luckily, we had a cancellation. A truck can be here this afternoon.”
Troy’s fortune swelled, and he became more respected. Even Eyewitness 5 couldn’t ruin it with their exposé footage. The next Friday was the last of the month. Sales bonus day. Tennis rackets, video cameras, water beds. The top three salesmen got the grand prize. Sailing trip to the Keys. Troy didn’t have a sailboat, so they all got sailing jackets and spent the weekend in the bars.
After announcing the winners, Troy packed up his black Jaguar, slipped into his blue and white sailing jacket with red piping and kissed his wife goodbye.
“Another great month,” said Troy.
“You earned it,” said Mrs. Bradenton. “Have fun.”
The Jag drove off.
17
A TV REPORTER stood on the edge of U.S. 1. He looked at the cameraman. “We ready?”
The cameraman pressed an eye to the rubber viewfinder. The reporter raised a microphone.
“Good morning. It’s another beautiful day in the Florida Keys for the twenty-third annual Seven-Mile Bridge Run….”
The camera panned across the sea of runners gathering at the eastern end of the bridge, which had been closed to traffic. A sheriff’s helicopter skimmed overhead. The camera swung back to the reporter. A ’71 Buick Riviera pulled up in the background. Serge and Coleman got out in shorts and T-shirts.
“I still don’t understand what we’re doing here,” said Coleman.
“I told you. Women respond to fitness. This is the first day of my big new working-out phase. I’ve decided to totally dedicate the rest of my life to running excellence.”
Coleman filled a sportster water bottle with two beers and began sipping through a Flex-Straw. “I heard you’re supposed to gradually ease into these new workout programs.”
“That’s for the sheep. The only correct way to do everything is dive right in the deep end.” Serge sat down and untied his sneakers, then retied them as tightly as he could.
Coleman put on knee and elbow pads. “You ever play sports before? I mean for real?”
“Was on the high school football team for part of a season, before I got kicked off.”
“What happened?”
“We were playing our big cross-city rival, and as the final seconds ticked off the clock, I dumped a cooler of Gatorade on our coach.”
“So what? I see that done all the time on TV.”
“We were losing by four touchdowns.”
A silver Infiniti pulled up next to them. A tall, handsome man got out wearing a gold silk warm-up suit. The man looked at Serge and Coleman and smirked. He took off the warm-ups to reveal matching silk shorts and an ultra-lightweight, breathable tank top. He leaned against the Infiniti and began a long menu of stretching exercises. Hamstrings, groin, calves, pulling his feet up behind him, twisting torso and neck.
Serge and Coleman had stopped talking and were now staring slack-jawed at the man like they were watching someone prepare shrunken heads. Then, just when they thought the protracted ritual was over, a whole new set of gyrations on another muscle group.
Coleman angled his head toward Serge. “Should we be stretching?”
“Absolutely not,” said Serge. “I’m naturally limber and you’re drinking beer, which is a form of stretching.” He looked down. “I can’t feel my feet.”
“Maybe your shoelaces are too tight.”
Serge sat on the ground.
The man finally completed his pre-race routine with a series of ankle and wrist bends. He reached back in his car and came out with a blood-pressure kit. He wrapped it around his left arm and timed himself on a stopwatch.
Serge rolled his eyes.
The man finished and smirked again at Serge and Coleman. Something under his breath that sounded like losers.
“Hey,” said Serge. “For your information, we’re going to win this race.”
The man laughed.
“And you know why we’re going to win? Because we don’t care about winning! That’s the big mistake you guys make….” Serge waved toward the thousands of runners near the starting line. “This thing today is about more than winning. It’s about something much bigger.”
“What’s that?”
“A souvenir T-shirt. You should see my collection.”
The man gave a final look of disdain and trotted off.
“We better get going,” said Serge. “It’s almost post time.”
The pair walked over to the assembling runners. “…Excuse me… excuse me…” Pushing their way through the pack, people running in place, thousands of independently bobbing heads. Men, women, children, a rainbow of brightly colored shirts, pieces of paper pinned to the fronts with four-digit numbers, except for the shirtless triathletes, who had numbers in grease pencil on shaved chests. “…Excuse me… excuse me…”
“Watch it!”
“Sorry,” said Coleman. He took a sip from his sportster bottle and tapped Serge on the shoulder. “Why do we have to be in the front row, anyway?”
“Because of my strategy to win this race. Most people make the mistake of trying to pace themselves. The key is to go all out from the starting gun and open up an insane lead, completely demoralizing the rest of the field, which will be flooded with confusing emotions of worthlessness and suicide. Then, before the end of the first mile, they’ll all stop running and go home.”
Serge and Coleman finally made the front row, wedging themselves between entrants who gave them dirty looks.
The official starter stood by the side of the bridge. “On your marks…”
The runners stopped jogging in place and leaned forward in anticipation. Except Serge. He was down on the pavement in a four-point sprinter’s stance, grinding the toes of his sneakers into the cement for traction.
“Get set…”
The starter raised his pistol.