No Right Turn

by A. J. Stewart

  “How do you know him?”

  Rucci shrugged like he didn’t know. “He looked after my mom, after my old man ran out.”

  I nodded. There was a front-end loader full of subtext there, but I left it alone.

  “Let me get my ladder and I’ll take a quick look,” he said, striding back through the house.

  I didn’t know my lintels from my lallies when it came to construction, so I left Rucci to his business. He climbed up on the roof and had a look, and then I heard him rooting around in the crawl space under the house. I was standing by the front door when the letter carrier zoomed to a stop in front of my house. He kicked the stand on his moped and ambled up the path. He looked hot under the helmet.

  “Back at it already,” I said.

  “Not rain, nor sleet nor snow, and all that crap.” He handed me a wad of mail bound by a rubber band and turned away.

  “Thanks,” I said, rifling through the mail. It was the usual junk, bills and such. I noted the logo of Great Southeast Permanent. I slipped their envelope out of the deck and tore it open with my finger. It was a single sheet. I flicked it open. It was a letter. Not from my local agent. It was signed by someone calling himself the senior vice president of claimant relations. It was a hell of a title. The letter spelled out, in much plainer English than my actual policy, that my claim for damages to my dwelling was being denied.

  I read the letter a second time just to make sure I was getting it right. The reasoning for the denial was noncoverage. What that meant exactly was anyone’s guess. There was a 1-800 number I could call should I have any questions.

  I had questions. Quite a few as it turned out. I called the number and got three separate numbered menus that I needed to select from to ensure I was routed to the person most able to help me. I felt myself falling down the rabbit hole as I got deeper into the labyrinth of menus. After a battle of wills that lasted a good ten minutes, I finally got hold of a human. I asked for the senior vice president of claimant relations and was told he was not available, but the woman on the line assured me that she could be of service.

  “I have a home and contents policy with you. Now that my house has been blown away it seems you’re denying my claim.”

  “I’d be more than happy to help you with that,” she said. I could hear the happiness bursting down the phone line. I heard the sound of tapping keys and a grunt or two.

  “Yes, it seems your coverage doesn’t cover this particular incident.”

  “My house was blown away. My coverage specifically covers hurricane damage.”

  “I’m looking here, and it seems that your house didn’t blow away.”

  I glanced up my house. It was still there, mostly.

  “Not entirely, maybe.”

  “Yes, that’s the problem, you see.”

  “How is that the problem? My house has been half-demolished by a hurricane. That’s the problem.”

  “Yes, I see. However, the hurricane didn’t damage your home, sir.”

  “How do you figure that? The county has declared it unfit for habitation.”

  “I’m looking here and see that the damage was caused by flooding, not a hurricane.”

  “What do you think caused the flooding, lady?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a meteorologist, sir. I couldn’t say.”

  “The hurricane caused the flooding. It was on television and everything.”

  “Well, I can’t speak to the cause of the flooding, but I see here your home and contents insurance doesn’t cover flooding.”

  “Of course it does. I have flood insurance.”

  “Not as part of the policy I see here, sir.”

  “Of course not. It’s a separate policy. That’s how flood insurance works.”

  “Is it?”

  “Is it? You’re the insurance agent and you’re asking me is it?”

  “Sir, I’m just looking at your home and contents policy here, and I can confirm that you are not covered for losses by flood or similar act of God.”

  “Then how about you look at my flood policy?”

  “I’m afraid that’s a different department, sir.”

  “Of course it is. Can you put me through to the right department?”

  “I’d be happy to help you, sir.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “Unfortunately we’re not connected to that department, telephonically speaking.”

  “So how do I get hold of them, telephonically speaking?”

  “We have a 1-800 number.” She recited the number to me.

  “That’s the number I used to call you.”

  “Of course.”

  “So when I called just now, there was no option for flood insurance, specifically.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “As far I can count, you haven’t actually helped me with anything yet.”

  “Of course, sir. Thank you for allowing Great Southeast Permanent to serve you. Have a nice day.”

  The sound of silence rang hollow in my ear. I looked at my phone as if it was faulty somehow and wondered if this was the kind of service Angie Beadman was getting with her claim. I resolved to ask Ron about it. He had worked in insurance, and if anyone could penetrate their wall of babble and misdirection, it was him.

  “You’re sinking into the ocean.” I turned to see Rucci the builder standing before me, dusting his hands off like he’d just been baking.

  “I’m what?”

  “Your foundation. It’s no good. The flooding damaged your posts. The back half of your house is sinking.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  He shrugged. I loved the way that guys like that reacted to things. What sounded like the end of the world to me was water off the backs of guys like Rucci. I guess he wasn’t so confident throwing a fastball at a batter averaging .400.

  “You need to replace them, is all.”

  “Okay. So what am I looking at?”

  He shrugged again. “Fix the foundation, you’ll have to redo most of the subfloor. I can put in new engineered floorboards or tile, fix up your roof damage. Probably eighty thousand. But since you know Sal, let’s say fifty grand.”

  I gave him my pouty face of consideration. I had no doubt that a friend of Sal’s wasn’t going to cheat me on price. Hell hath no fury like Sally Mondavi when someone let him down.

  “Of course, your insurance might just write the whole house off. Then I could knock it down and build you something like that,” he said, nodding toward the wedding cake that I had to live beside. “Probably do that for two hundred, nice concrete slab and all.”

  “You can’t save the carpet?” I asked.

  Rucci looked at me like I should be happy to be rid of the orange shag. “It’s done for. Better to get it out sooner than later. It’s a breeding ground for mold.”

  I thanked Rucci for his time and told him I would be out of town for a few days but would let him know which way I wanted to go as soon as I got back. He left me with a card and the thought that he could really do something with the lot I had. I didn’t doubt it. The problem was, I didn’t want to really do something with the lot. I liked it how it was. I liked the thick shag pile and the Formica counters. I liked the paved patio out back that overlooked the Intracoastal. It was my home, just the way it was.

  Then I thought about Danielle and about what I had said the previous night. How she was my home. So how did this waterlogged structure before me fit into that definition? I never felt more at ease than when Danielle and I ended a day by laying on our loungers and watching the sun fall beyond Riviera Beach. Suddenly I wasn’t sure what part of that equation was the home part. Or was it all of it? And if it really was all of it, then what happened if Danielle was no longer in Palm Beach?

  It was too much to think of. I pulled the front door closed and stuffed my mail in the glove compartment. I started my SUV and looked around the plastic interior. It was new, it smelled good and it drove easy. But all of a sud
den, even my vehicle didn’t feel like mine. I didn’t give my house another glance. I didn’t know which direction I would drive if I did. And I needed to drive to my office. That was where some of the answers lay.

  At least I hoped so.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I handed the laptop back to Lizzy as I came in the office. I was surprised she hadn’t made me pay a deposit to take it, and she looked equally surprised that I had returned it in one piece. I wandered into my office and found Ron at my desk, clicking away at something or other on the screen. I flopped down on the sofa.

  “That good, huh?” asked Ron.

  I let out a huff. “The insurance company is denying my claim.”

  Ron nodded like this was the most natural thing in the world. “That used to always be the opening gambit. Deny and hope they go away. If the client pressed a little more, they’d often get their claim. It’s not done so much anymore. A new insurance policy is but a click away.” He held up the computer mouse he had in his hand. “Did they send you something?”

  I rolled off the sofa and tossed the letter on the desk and then flopped back down. Ron took the letter and read, nodding like he’d seen it all before.

  “Not all that surprising,” he said.

  “Not to you, maybe. I figured if I paid my premiums I’d get looked after, you know, after a hurricane or something.”

  “You’d hope, wouldn’t you? No, I mean it’s not surprising from what I hear about this company, Great Southeast Permanent.”

  “What are you hearing?”

  “The CEO is a real go-getter. One of these entrepreneurial types. You know the ones. Get the product to market and work out the kinks later.”

  “Isn’t insurance more regulated than that?”

  “It is. Sort of. But a storm like this one can take down a smaller insurance company if they hold too much paper in the one location.”

  “Too much paper?”

  “Too many policies. See, from an actuarial point of view, it is always better to spread your risk. Across different sectors, different products, different geographies. Then if something happens in one of them, you still have others paying their premiums to keep your bottom line healthy.”

  “So?”

  “So I heard on the grapevine that Kent—that’s the CEO, Kent Fulsome—was pushing hard in this market to buoy his chances of getting the okay to do business in New York. See, he’s New York people but he went to college at Florida. Word is he wants pretty bad to get into the right circles in the Empire State, so he’s been aggressive with his growth strategy here.”

  “You know, Ron, some days I have no idea what the words coming out of your mouth mean.”

  “If he’s taken on too much coverage in one location—say, South Florida—and a natural disaster hits that location—say, a hurricane—then he might not have enough cookies to refill the jar.”

  “You know a lot about this guy.”

  “Like I say, he’s making some noise in the market. And you know, he just joined the club.”

  “Which club?”

  “My club. South Lakes Country Club.”

  “The golf club?”

  “Yes. So did you speak to Sally’s guy?”

  “Yeah, I did. He says he can fix the house for fifty thousand.”

  “Could be worse.”

  “Yeah, Great Southeast Permanent could go broke.”

  “I’m not saying that’s going to happen. I just mean that might explain using an old-school denial of coverage technique.”

  “They seem to have the technique down pat. They even passed me off to a department they couldn’t contact themselves.”

  “That is old-school. The next trick is to deny the hurricane policy because it doesn’t cover flood, and deny the flood policy because it doesn’t cover a hurricane.”

  “They’re gonna love getting the claim from Dale Beadman.”

  “They hold the paper on Dale Beadman’s collection?”

  “They do. For thirty million.”

  “Ouch.”

  “So if they get nailed by that claim, I might be toast. And I don’t have fifty grand to fix my place.”

  “You know, I just had a thought.”

  “Better you than me.”

  “You might be able to negotiate a bounty.”

  “A bounty? What am I, a bail bondsman?”

  “No. Insurance companies sometimes offer bounties to find stolen or missing property. It can be cheaper to pay out ten percent of the value of a claim than the claim itself.”

  “You’re saying if I get the cars back and save them the claim, I could get ten percent?”

  “Not every company does it and not in every case, but for a thirty-million-dollar payout? That might be the difference between GSEP’s financial viability or not.”

  “How would I get hold of this guy? I can’t even call the department I need to process a claim.”

  “Let me put the feelers out at the club. Maybe he’s due for a tee time.”

  “Thanks, Ron. Do that.”

  We heard the front office door open and Lizzy squeal.

  “Lucas,” she said.

  If there was one person Lizzy had a soft spot for, other than Lenny Cox, it was Lucas. Perhaps she too thought them to be two halves of the same fortune cookie.

  “How are ya, darl?” I heard him say. I wasn’t sure what that meant but I was certain that it would have earned me a slap.

  We waited for them to do whatever it was they were going to do, and then Lizzy poked her head in through the door.

  “Lucas is here,” she said, beaming like a child on Christmas Day. It was an interesting look given her otherwise gothic appearance. Lucas stepped in past her.

  “G’day, all,” he said.

  “Don’t leave without saying goodbye,” said Lizzy, stepping back. Lucas shot her a wink and I thought she was going to burst.

  Lucas stood before us, all sinew and tanned hide, a canvas backpack hanging off his shoulder.

  “How are you, Lucas?” Ron asked, half-standing and shaking hands.

  “Still tickin’, Ronnie. You?”

  “I’m well.”

  “How’s that filly of yours?”

  “Cassandra? She’s very well. Cleaning up after the storm.”

  “Yeah, it was a good blow.” Lucas smiled at me. “How are you, champ?”

  “You ever have one of those weeks where you just shouldn’t get out of bed?”

  “Nup. Every day’s a good day if you consider the other option.”

  “What’s the other option?”

  “Dead, mate. Dead.”

  I nodded. It was a reasonable point. The other option did put my troubles into perspective.

  “So, we going to Daytona, or are we just gonna stand around here like a bunch of galahs?”

  Once again I had no idea what Lucas was saying, but I got the point.

  “No, let’s get out of here. Ron, will you check up on that Southeast Permanent guy?”

  “Kent Fulsome. Will do.”

  “Lucas, shall we?”

  “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Daytona Beach was a nice three-hour zoom up the coast along I-95 from West Palm Beach. It was an easy run and the traffic really thinned out in Martin County. A guy could make great time in the right car. A Cadillac SUV is not the right car. It’s a very nice vehicle for the discerning family. It is not Daytona-approved. Lucas made this point several times on the ride up. On the plus side, the state troopers could be rather vigilant north of the Titusville turnoff, and we drove by a number of Daytona-approved muscle cars and convertibles pulled over to receive speeding tickets.

  Route 92 peels off the freeway and heads past Daytona International Speedway—which itself is nestled into the armpit of Daytona Airport—and on toward the beach, where it is imaginatively known as International Speedway Boulevard. We passed the usual assortment of chain restaurants and bars on the left before the stadium stan
ds of the race track showed themselves on our right. Lucas wore a face like a kid at the carnival as we drove by the speedway, the flags of various car brands fluttering in the breeze. He craned his neck as I continued past the track and under the Welcome to Daytona Beach emblazoned on the walkway overpass, and then turned left.

  “Who is this guy again?” Lucas asked as he lost sight of the racetrack behind us.

  “Travis Zanchuk. He was an engineer with Dale Beadman’s automotive engineering company. According to Ron, he was fired by Beadman for attempting to steal trade secrets. Zanchuk, on the other hand, claimed that he had invented some kind of braking system that made Beadman a bundle, so he sued him.”

  “I feel like it didn’t go well for old Travis,” said Lucas.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Look around.”

  I was looking. We had left the new hotels and the Bob Evans and the wide, freshly paved boulevards of tourist poster Florida for the other Florida. The one where the roads had been baked so hard by the sun they’d gone a powdery gray and cracked like a forsaken mirror. The one where the grass was thirsty yellow not lush green and the buildings looked like they had photographic filters applied to them to make them look like they were something from the sixties. But there were no filters. The buildings were just from the sixties, and had not been painted or had siding replaced since then. The whole area felt run-down and forgotten and was in stark contrast to the commercialism and shiny new look of the area surrounding the speedway. Yet we had only driven a couple miles.

  I followed my GPS to a complex that looked like a storage facility that no one visited anymore. There were rows of buildings, more like large sheds, each with a roller door. Most of the doors were closed. I took my foot from the accelerator and rolled through. It was like some kind of ghost town. I had to turn at the end and roll down a second row to make any sense of the numbering system for the units. There really didn’t seem to be one.

  “I think that might be what you’re looking for,” said Lucas.

  He pointed at one of the sheds that had the door rolled up. It looked like a down-at-heel automotive workshop. There was a car out front with its hood up, and inside we could see a second car up on a hydraulic automotive lift. I didn’t pull in. There didn’t seem to be any point. I just stopped the Caddy in the middle of the driveway and we got out.