Hob Broun - Odditorium

“Tarpon fishing in the Keys? Would you like that?”

“Honeyboat, you know I would. I’ll be a fish-killin’ fool for you.”

“Where does that leave me?” Christo said.

Where it left him was right by the window and in a position to understand just a few minutes later that there wasn’t going to be any fishing trip. The clock had run out and the exits were closed.

“A large black car just drove up on the lawn,” he said. “Guy in a cowboy hat and a beehive blonde. They seem to be checking the place out.”

Tildy rushed to join him, the confirmation of dread in some strange way a relief. Vinnie Sparn wore the cowboy hat and striding regally under the dome of glazed hair was Dolly Varden. Sundown tints blushed the waxed surfaces of the limo as Big Pete stepped out, buffing his lips with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Isn’t that the bozo who tried to grab you at the hotel? The one in the hat?”

“Yes, yes.” Tildy pulled away from him. “I’m going out there.”

“What good is that going to do?”

“Whozzat?” Karl, who had put on a hat adorned with lures, moved uncertainly out of the shadows. “You leavin’ without me?”

“Don’t worry,” Christo said. “Nobody’s leaving.”

Karl shuffled forward and peered out. “Is it bad?”

Pete had spotted them, waved his hanky. “Hello, young people. A lovely spot you have here.”

Tildy froze with her hand on the knob. “Ten more minutes,” she said hopelessly. “Ten more minutes and we could have been gone.”

Karl’s lips began to tremble. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” In one horrible mental leap, he’d understood what this was going to cost.

Then Pete nodded to Dolly, who began to read expressionlessly from her stenographer’s notebook.

“Florida statute number seven one six point zero one: ‘It is hereby declared to be the policy of the State, while protecting the owners thereof, to possess all unclaimed and abandoned money or property for the benefit of all the people of the State. This law shall be liberally construed to accomplish such a purpose.’”

Sparn looked skyward and opened his arms like a crooner. “I come here today as a representative of the people, one citizen standing for all. In this capacity, it is my intention to recover the abandoned property of one Lester Clines, deceased, on behalf of the general public. The liquid capital subsequently transferred to me will then be sent through the pipelines of my various commercial holdings to trickle down and irrigate the economic community at large. I love Florida. I believe there is no better living anywhere on this planet. I’ve had many good years here. Profitable years, years of growth and family closeness. Now, in my own small way, I would like to offer recompense.”

Christo whistled softly. “Somebody throw a net over this guy.”

“Go home, Pete,” Tildy said from the doorway. “There’s nothing for you here.”

“I have different information. According to a call I received this morning from a trusted employee — one, I might add, who believes in the team concept — the Clines bequest may be found in a footlocker under your marriage bed.”

All Tildy could think of was: Why in God’s name didn’t we take a vault at the bank?

Finally, because something was required, she said, “If it was only a question of money, I’d say come on in. But see? I’m locking the door.”

“If you like. I’m a generous man and I haven’t forgotten the good times we had. Ah, how I favored you. A waste. But I will allow you a last thirty minutes to enjoy your ill-gotten wealth before you hand it over to me. Starting now.” Sparn gave a limp salute and turned to his boy. “Vinnie, you may set the table.”

“Righto, Dad.”

Vinnie seethed with resentment. Set the table, Vinnie. Change the tire, Vinnie. Orders me around like one of his greaser caddies at the club. Like I don’t have feelings.

He began removing things from the trunk, remembering the trip down and Pete making him call the radio station that was having the Mother’s Day Mom-A-Thon. For a pledge of fifteen dollars or more to Children’s Leukemia Research, they read your message on the air. To Mrs. Helen S. with love and admiration. Right there in front of Dolly; Pete had even handed him the dime. What could he do? Righto, Dad.

Vinnie set up the folding chairs, the card table. He fluffed the linen cloth, laid out plates and silverware, cheese and fruit and cold cuts. He lit the tall white candles.

“A toast,” Pete said as he filled three glasses. “To better things for all of Florida’s sons and daughters. And for Les Clines and his boys, our hope that the heat’s not too terrible down where they are.”

“This wine should have been chilled,” Dolly said.

The siege was on.

“So?” Tildy’s cigarette was the only light in the room. “Sorry you came, I’ll bet.”

Christo reached across her and took a puff of his own. “To be a part of this little pageant I would have come twice as far.”

“I believe you.”

“So where do we stand with our half hour?”

“They’re still dining out there. Maybe his watch stopped.”

The refrigerator door was audible as it opened and closed, its rubber gasket unpeeling, slapping; then came the clatter of an ice tray being emptied.

“Karl, are you mixing drinks?”

“Probably not a bad idea,” Christo said.

They saw moving past them a vague shape which, as it neared the front window, turned out to be Karl cradling a bowl of ice.

“Cocksuckin’ Sparn. Eat ice.”

Before they could stop him, Karl began flinging cubes at the enemy. Hard white knots bounced in the grass, burst against the limo fenders. One, traveling straight as a clothesline, knocked the fork from Dolly’s hand, and Karl gave out a long falsetto war cry.

Vinnie pulled open his suede jacket. In the hand that dipped under his heart was an oily black lump.

“Get back,” Christo roared. “He’s got a piece.”

Karl said, “I ain’t afraid of no popgun cowboy. Whyn’t you come a little bit closer?”

Vinnie aimed and squeezed off a round: exploding glass and a shriek from Karl as the slug buzzed over him and buried itself in the wall. The recoil threw Vinnie’s arm upward and his second shot hit nothing but sky.

“When are you going to learn to use both hands?” his father said.

Refusing until now to let go of old putty, a final wedge of glass fell and the sound made Karl duck and cover. Christo dragged him up and threw him angrily against the wall.

“Want to get us all killed? This is no playground fight, you jar-head. It’s dead serious and we’re all in the line of fire. Now, can you grasp that or not?”

“Okay, so I’m a jerk. But I don’t need you to tell me what’s serious. Who you think dug up that treasure chest they all want so much? Karl D. Gables, that’s right. And ain’t nobody got cause to take it from me. I figured where to look and how, and with my own wife disbelievin’ me, I made it pay off. So you’re damn right it’s serious. Just as serious as my life.”

“Not mine.” Tildy was curled on the floor, as far away from everything as she could get. “I don’t want to die for a box of jewelry. Let’s give in to him. I want to see the end of this, that’s all.”

“Let’s not go overboard,” Christo said. “Maybe he’ll take half.”

“Ain’t yours to offer, neither one of you.” Karl tried to find his wife’s face in the dark. “Don’t do this to me, baby. You know it ain’t right.”

“Karl, didn’t anyone ever give you the story on being a grownup?”

Out of the murk, her hand slapped his face. He felt weak all over and an awareness of disgrace filled his brain, made him forget where he was.