Naked Came the Florida Man

by Tim Dorsey

  “Pastor Donovan, but I—”

  “The name’s Serge.” He shook the preacher’s hand. “I roam the countryside, enjoying fresh air, monitoring my hygiene, and helping the downtrodden. Favorite food: pizza. Turnoffs: the word conflate and women who think a small dog in a purse is a fashion accessory.”

  A voice arriving from behind. “I’m Coleman . . .” Trip, splat.

  Serge looked down and shook his head, then raised his face again. “Now, how may I be of assistance?”

  “I don’t think you can,” said Donovan.

  “Then what have you got to lose?” He turned toward the couple. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Buford and Agnes Whorley, of the Nantucket Whorleys,” said the man. “We retired here ten years ago.”

  Agnes broke down again. “And now we have no place to go!”

  Serge straightened up with an odd look. “Why not go to where you’ve been the last ten years?”

  Her face was buried in her hands. “We can’t! It was stolen from us!”

  “This is sounding complicated.” Serge turned to address Buford. “Can you back up and explain from the beginning?”

  “The house was all bought and paid for, our life savings,” said Buford. “But then we began running short on the monthly bills. Who knew we’d live this long, or stuff would get so expensive?”

  “What did you do?” asked Serge.

  “We thought it was a sign from God,” said Agnes. “We began seeing all those ads on TV for reverse mortgages, and it sounded like the answer to our prayers . . .”

  Buford nodded. “But then we mentioned it to Tyler from our congregation, and he told us that those reverse things were the biggest racket going. They’d gouge us on the interest rate, then compound it, not to mention hidden up-front costs.”

  “Let me guess,” said Serge. “He offered to help you with a better deal?”

  “Told us that a conventional equity loan from an upstanding local bank would accomplish the same goals but on much better terms. He even went and got the loan documents from the bank—”

  Serge held up a hand. “I’ve seen this movie before. Then he asked you to sign some title documents that the bank needed for collateral. And the next thing you knew, the bank called to report a loan problem with the title, and the sheriff was at your door saying your home had been sold and you needed to leave.”

  “The deputies were so nice,” said Agnes. “They told us they had investigated and knew exactly what was going on. But their hands were tied because, while it was totally immoral, it was also totally legal.”

  Buford nodded again. “And the people who bought the house were another retired couple who used their entire life savings. What can you do?”

  Serge took a seat on the steps next to them. “This one really breaks my heart. The reverse mortgages on TV are generally legit—it’s the lone wolves you have to watch out for. Scams in this department have gone so sky-high in Florida that it’s an epidemic waiting to make the press. Worst of all, the predators come to town and weasel their way into positions of trust. The newest trend is joining churches to prey on your virtue and trust in a fellow worshiper. Let me guess: Was this Tyler character in the choir?”

  “How’d you know?” asked the pastor.

  “And he just joined your congregation?”

  “Two months ago,” said Donovan. “Seemed like the greatest guy. Explained he had just relocated for employment, and that his wife and children would join him as soon as the school year ended up north. He even showed me their photos.”

  “Probably came with the wallet,” said Serge. “I’ve heard enough. I assume Tyler has made himself scarce.”

  “Nobody’s seen him since the sheriff knocked,” said Buford.

  Serge shook his head again. “Anything at all I can go on to track him down?”

  “Not really,” said Agnes.

  But Serge noticed the pastor making a furtive head tilt out of their view. “Serge, I’m sorry there’s nothing you can do, but it was kind of you to stop by. Why don’t I walk you back to your car?”

  “How gracious.” Serge looked down. Kick. “Coleman, time to get up.”

  They all met back at the Plymouth.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are,” said the pastor. “Undercover law enforcement? Private investigator from Tyler’s last victim? Bank auditor? But something tells me it’s information you can’t divulge for professional reasons.”

  “That would be accurate,” said Serge.

  “I may be a pastor, but I’m not naive about the world.”

  “Really?” Serge looked toward the edge of the street. “You had me fooled by your sign.”

  “What?” Donovan turned. “Whoa. ‘Missionary Position.’ Slipped right by me.”

  “Not everyone’s an editor.”

  “What I’m getting at is that I did research on the Internet, and I found out about the angle you were describing,” said the preacher. “How these predators are increasingly using churches as their hunting grounds. I rarely curse, but this was more than I could take.”

  “Understandable.”

  “I also read how they move on before the locals can figure out their dishonesty, but the land is too fertile in Florida, so they can only go so far.”

  Serge rested an elbow on the roof of the car. “What are you trying to say?”

  “The pastors around these parts keep up with each other. Personally, we’re not the Internet types, but our chat rooms have their purpose,” said Donovan. “Usually it’s positive, like how to pump up congregation attendance. But this time I put out a warning on this Tyler guy so it wouldn’t happen to anyone else in the area. I also posted a photo that my secretary was able to grab from the last video of our choir performance.”

  “I think I see where this is going,” said Serge. “Where is he?”

  “Goes by ‘Nicholas’ now.” Donovan pointed north up the empty road splitting wild meadows. “Pastor four towns up gave me the word. Joined his church two weeks ago. He’s keeping an eye on him so he doesn’t pull anything before we can explore our options.”

  “When is the next service with the choir?” asked Serge.

  “Started at noon.” The preacher checked his wristwatch. “That gives you forty minutes max to catch him before he leaves.”

  “How long a drive?”

  “Hour.”

  Four Years Earlier

  A tiny cork ball rattled around the inside of a small metal enclosure. It had an extension that fit in a coach’s mouth. A shrill whistle blew for the hundredth time that afternoon. But this time it was followed by the head coach storming onto the field.

  “Dougan! Get over here!”

  The player trotted up. “What?”

  The coach grabbed a fistful of the wide receiver’s jersey between the numbers. “You quit on that play! You were practically walking like my grandmother at the end of your route!”

  “But it was a screen to the other side—”

  “And now you’re arguing with me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You never, ever quit on a play! You always run through the whistle!” The coach released his grip on the uniform. “Stadium steps! Now!”

  The other players winced as Dougan removed his helmet and jogged toward the stacked rows of aluminum benches.

  “Helmet on!” the coach yelled after him.

  Another collective cringe.

  Stadium steps were the worst. The punishment took place where the parents sat for all those Friday-night games under the lights. The punished player ran up the steps all the way to the top row of the viewing stands, then down, then up again, over and over as lactic acid built up in the legs and muscles cramped. But that was no excuse. You kept going without end in sight until the coach mercifully called you back to the field. Then, hopefully, lesson learned.

  The exiled receiver’s cleats began clanging off the steps. The rest of the players got the message. There would be no more letups before the whi
stle this day. Play resumed back on the field with noticeably renewed purpose. The blocking harder, pass routes fully run, tackles like car accidents.

  It was now taking two or three whistles to stop each play.

  Lamar Calhoun was on the sideline, bent forward with hands on his knees, studying the technique of his starting halfback taking a delayed handoff and waiting for the block to open daylight next to the noseguard.

  Another assistant coach stepped up next to him, the same one as the day before. Receivers coach named Odom. “Lamar, isn’t that you-know-who?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Up there.” Odom shielded his eyes against the sun. “Just below the press box.”

  Lamar squinted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Over in the viewing stands, there was now a second set of feet clanging up and down the aluminum steps.

  “What’s the deal with that kid?” said Odom. “Who the hell runs stadium steps because they want to?”

  “Good grief,” said Calhoun. “Can you take over for me again? . . .”

  Lamar arrived at the bottom step just as Chris touched it—“Hey, Coach”—and pivoted to head back up.”

  “Stop,” said Lamar. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Heavy breathing. “Getting in condition, Coach.”

  “Didn’t I tell you yesterday that only players were allowed on the field?”

  “I’m not on the field, Coach. I’m in the stands.”

  “And stop calling me Coach.”

  “Sorry, Coach.”

  “Sit down.” Lamar joined her on the bottom bench. “Maybe I wasn’t perfectly clear yesterday, but when I said you couldn’t be on the field, I meant the entire grounds, including the stands.”

  “You didn’t say that.”

  “Now I am.”

  A pout. But not one of self-pity. Just a moment of frustration until Chris figured out her next move.

  “And please don’t pout,” said Lamar. “Not that.”

  “Then make me a manager.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” said the coach. “Just relax and stop all . . . this . . .”

  “This what?”

  “All of it. You’re driving me nuts,” said Lamar. “And when you’re a freshman, I think you’d be a great manager.”

  Chris shook her head. “I’ll lose a whole year.”

  “Of what?”

  “Getting better. I want to learn.”

  She got up and began jogging away. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”

  “Stop calling me—”

  “Sorry . . .”

  “Hut! Hut! Hut!”

  The football was snapped. Players violently collided. The quarterback got leveled just after releasing a perfect fade route to the back corner of the end zone. Couldn’t blame that one on the defender.

  A whistle. The head coach clapped hard a single time. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

  Behind him, two assistant coaches stood next to each other, looking in a different direction.

  Odom canted his head and said out the side of his mouth, “Technically she’s not on the grounds.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  They continued watching Chris run laps around the outside of the fence.

  Odom shook his head, “I don’t think she’s going to quit.”

  “You don’t have to smile about it.”

  Practice ended. Everyone headed for the locker room. Almost everyone.

  Lamar strolled toward the student parking lot. Chris came dashing around the corner of the fence, head down.

  “Sorry, Coach, didn’t mean to run into you.”

  “You win,” said Lamar.

  “Win what?”

  “You can be a manager.”

  Big grin. “Really?” Jumping up and down now.

  “And no jumping when you’re manager,” said Lamar. “You need to take this seriously. You need to be a help, not a distraction. Meet me in my office before practice tomorrow. And bring your last report card.”

  “You got it, Coach.” She began jumping again.

  Lamar turned toward the locker room. “I’m already regretting this.”

  Chapter 11

  Central Florida

  The Plymouth Satellite blazed north through that rural swath of the state where you were never more than five minutes away from the ability to purchase marmalade.

  Coleman looked down and found a Cheeto stuck to his shirt. “Ooooh, my lucky day.” He popped it in his mouth. Crunch, crunch. “Serge, don’t take this wrong, but a cemetery tour is kind of dull. Nothing’s moving.”

  “Visiting these final resting places is in large part a pretext.” The speedometer needle climbed as the muscle car raced down the orange center line of the two-lane road like a 1970s B-movie starring Steve McQueen. “The graves of people who lived life to the fullest are highly inspirational. They’re the perfect place to reflect and remind yourself to never stop chasing your dreams.”

  “I had a cool dream last night,” said Coleman.

  “It’s not that kind of dream.”

  “Wait, I want to tell you,” said Coleman. “I was sleeping.”

  “That’s usually when you dream.”

  “No, I mean I was sleeping in the dream,” said Coleman. “Nothing happened.”

  Serge turned and stared curiously. Coleman was nodding to himself. “Much better than my nightmares. A few days ago I dreamed that I had a job and had to work all night in the dream and then I woke up tired. I hate that. What about you?”

  “Okay, here’s the thing I love about dreams.” Serge took his hands off the wheel and rubbed them together. “You get to meet famous people throughout history. I’ve gotten to know Genghis Khan, General Custer, Joan of Arc, Tolstoy—who by the way was really long-winded—Galileo, Gandhi, Gershwin, the Marx Brothers, Richard the Lionhearted. But the high expectations can also lead to major disappointment. For some reason I have this recurring dream that I’m on a passenger train with Jesus, and it begins with him showing me magic tricks, like pulling quarters out of my ear, and I’m like, ‘We get it. You’re Jesus. Give it a rest.’ And every time, before it’s over, we somehow end up in a fistfight. But here’s the weird part: He’s the one who always starts the shit, poking me in the chest with a finger, over and over: ‘What are you going to do about it? Huh? Big man? What have you got to say now?’ And I tell him, ‘Christ, this isn’t like you.’ And then he sucker-punches me! Who would ever see that coming?”

  The Satellite sped on down the winding road. Vultures were picking apart an armadillo and took flight. Coleman cracked a can of Pabst. “You’re driving pretty fast, even for you.”

  “Nobody could ever write a better job description for me: Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas,” said Serge. “Haven’t I mentioned this to you before?”

  “Only about a gazillion times.”

  “Unfortunately, today we have an appointment.” He checked his wrist. “And it’s going to be close.”

  Serge gave it more gas, and the red needle in the dashboard climbed higher. Twenty minutes later, they skidded onto the shoulder of the road, next to a barbed-wire fence and bales of hay. Across the street, bells rang in a steeple as congregants poured out the front doors.

  “How do you know what he looks like?” asked Coleman.

  “I don’t.” Serge climbed out. “I can narrow it down with choir robes, but then it’s just my gut.”

  They walked against the stream toward the front of the church. Most of the choir people were still up at the altar, stretching out their fellowship time.

  “I think I see him,” said Serge. “That young guy on the end of the second row.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Most of the others are a bit older. And he just has that entitled shit-grin. It’s got to be him.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Pull the car around back, then wait outside by the entrance.”

  Ten minutes later
, the first of the choir began dribbling out and strolling down the walkway, checking with each other about their next practice time. Serge stood in the grass next to the path. Then, like someone who steps off a curb in front of a bus, he just ambled into the flow.

  Crash.

  A taller man grabbed Serge by the shoulders for balance. “Are you okay? Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

  Serge had his head down. “No, it was all my fault. I apologize. I just have a lot on my mind.” He raised his face and wiped Oscar-winning tears from his eyes.

  “Hey, hey, hey, what’s the matter?” said the man, holding a folded choir robe.

  “It’s nothing I need to bother you about.” Then Serge covered his face and resumed sobbing. He parted two of his fingers to peek.

  “Take as much time as you need.” The man placed a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “If your life’s troubled, you’re at the right place. We’re all family here. I insist you allow me to help, brother.”

  Serge finally dropped his hands and sniffled. “It’s my mother.”

  Alarm: “Her health? Is she okay?”

  Serge nodded. “It’s about money. She might lose her house.”

  “What? She can’t afford the mortgage?”

  “No, the house is completely paid for,” said Serge. “It’s just that between the insurance and all the rising monthly bills, her Social Security doesn’t make it anymore. If she can’t pay next month’s property taxes, the county will seize her house, and she’s been there fifty years.” He kicked the ground in anger. “I feel so guilty!”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  “I’m not a good son.” Serge wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I’d pay the taxes myself, but I got laid off, and my own family is behind on everything.”

  “Then you’re in luck.”

  “Why are you smiling?” asked Serge.

  “Because this is my field of expertise. I handle real estate matters all the time.” He held out a hand to shake. “My name’s Nicholas. Call me Nick.”

  “Serge.”

  “Well, Serge, your problems are already behind you,” said Nick, extending an arm all the way around his new buddy’s shoulders. “I can easily structure something to get more than enough equity out of her house to take care of those taxes. Heck, she’ll have so much left over that this time next month, she’ll probably be waving bon voyage from a cruise ship.”