The manager scratched a scab. He pushed open the front door and stepped out into the parking lot as a Monte Carlo took off. He looked up at the side of the building. In giant, spray-painted letters: COUPON RIP-OFF MOTEL (AND CRABS IN THE SHEETS).
Serge couldn’t take his eyes off the magnificent Landsdorf postcard. “Howard, I seriously owe you. Promise to make this up in a big way.”
“Forget about it.”
“I insist.” Serge slipped the card into his canvas shoulder bag. “You going to more shows ?”
Howard handed him a flyer; Serge scanned the dates and cities. ‘You’re heading south just like we are. I’ll definitely try to make some of these, drumming up huge crowds of customers requiring police to direct traffic. Or I might come alone.”
A cell rang. Howard pulled it from his pocket and held up a finger.
“Coleman, hear that personalized ringtone ?” said Serge. ” ‘Gimme Back My Bullets.’ Another Skynyrd fan!”
Howard turned around for privacy. “… Mom, slow down. You’re talking too fast… When did you find out?… No, that doesn’t sound fair … I’ll see what I can do … I don’t know yet … I have to ask around … And I’ll call … I don’t know when … Mom, I have customers … I do so care about your problem … I’ll call… I really have to go. Bye.”
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.
