Sink

  The well-dressed business man told Otis he was going to stock the lake with all types of native Florida sports fish and that it was going to be completely, computer controlled. Otis did not hesitate very long before he accepted the offer. A place, where there were plenty of fish and a new apartment with, God forbid, air-conditioning, and all Otis had to do was tell a bunch of Yankees how to bait a hook. YessirreBob, a dream come true. Otis knew he was getting on in years and a nice comfortable place to spend his twilight years sounded ideal.

  His luck had really improved but now Otis had the feeling that everything was going to change. He didn’t know what was going to happen but he thought it would really be kind of nice to be back in his safe little shack on the bank of the lazy river.

  June 13, Friday 7:42 p.m.

  St. Petersburg Beach, Florida

  The beach bar was still full of bikinis from the onslaught of sun worshippers who preferred the rum concocted drinks to the harsh rays of Florida sunshine in the middle of June. The bar had been packed since before eleven a.m. and now that the night shift of vacationers and local patrons began filling in, the bronzed day goddesses began to filter out to head for a cold shower and to get prepared for another Friday night of checking the meat factories for a suitable companion to impress their friends, for at least a couple of days.

  One of the outnumbered males, his back leaning against the bar and a bottle of Heineken Dark resting lazily in his lap barely supported by his right hand, turned to his friend on the next stool and muttered in a low, slightly drunken voice.

  “You know Jim. I really could dig this life style. There are some fine looking women that frequent this place. I’ve been in love at least a dozen times today.”

  “Settle down Romeo.” His friend teased. “You know you have a so-called date tomorrow, even if it is a publicity stunt. Over half the men in America would love to be in your shoes on Saturday and you’re sitting here scoping out the local beach babes.”

  '”Look Jim. You know what an airhead Tiffany is. I couldn’t spend a real night with her if my life depended on it. All she talks about is how good-looking she is, which is true, and how rich she is, which is true, and what a beautiful body she has, which is true. Oh dammit, I might talk my self into enjoying it, which I know I, won’t so let’s just stop talking about it. Okay?”

  “Sure Brandon.” Jim Caldwell laughed. “I’m sure you’re really going to suffer. If it bothers you that much, why don’t you shave off your beard and take off those super dark glasses and let these girls see who you really are. I know you like traveling incognito until you make a public appearance but wouldn’t all these lovely ladies be really surprised to know they spent the afternoon in a beach bar with America’s heartthrob Brandon Miles.”

  “Shut up man. You know I don’t want anybody to know I’m here. Especially my manager. He would have a fit if he knew I was out in the general public without a product endorsement or some other money making scam. I wish I could lead a normal life but oh well, that’s the cost of fame and fortune I guess. Come on, let’s get back to the motel so we can get some sleep. We have to be at the resort by noon. Just because you’re my best friend that doesn’t relieve you of what my manager is paying you for. To be the bodyguard for little old defensive me. Now come on and protect me from all these wild women.”

  June 13, Friday 10:34 p.m.

  County Sheriff’s office

  Paul Johanson, his long, thin, almost artistic fingers were again stroking the scruff of his blond goatee. This action, plus the fact he was growing any hair on his pink baby faced features was a constant annoyance to twice elected Sheriff Ralph Slocum. Sheriff Slocum, defender of all that was good and a tyrant to those unfortunate few who were unlucky enough to break a rule in his county, leaned precariously back in his worn red leather chair, a gift from the Hinkley estate when old man Hinkley bit the big one, sighed for perhaps the third time in ten minutes and asked again.

  “Okay Paul. Just what are you trying to tell me for the umpteenth time? It’s after ten o’clock and I realize you just came on duty at six but I’ve been here since five thirty this morning and all I can think of is a nice cold shower and sitting back drinking about six brewskys and wondering who else will screw up tomorrow.”

  “Well sheriff, as I was saying before, we need to deputize about ten more men and stake them out all around the new resort. We can issue them whatever guns we have and the rest they could volunteer because as you know every able-bodied man in this county owns a firearm or two since they all go hunting in the fall anyway. We would only need them for about twelve hours anyway because that’s when all the rich people will be at the resort. We would be prepared for, any idiot fool enough to try to rob the new place, and we would surely be heroes if anything happened.”

  “Are you out of your fool mind, boy? Just, who in God’s name is suppose to pay for all this military deployment you have in mind and besides, the resort has its own security force plus, I hear it has the best computerized alarm system on the market. We would be the laughing stock of the county if we showed up with a bunch of rednecks pretending to be cops. I bet the resort wouldn’t even let us on the property, much less protect all those high society snobs they call important guests. Sometimes boy, I don’t know where you get all those big city ideas. Those two years at junior college must have really warped your mind.”

  “I’m telling you Sheriff. I have this crazy feeling that somebody or a group of some bodies is going to try to rob the place. There will be more money drippin’ off the necks of those socialites than this county has ever seen and I think we need to be there when it happens.”

  “I’m not going to listen to any more of this hogwash. I’m going out to my county police vehicle and try not to leave any rubber when I blast out of here. Trust me, nothing is going to happen.”

  June 13, Friday 10:42 p.m.

  Room 234

  The three tannish-red Advils left a melt in your hand, not in your mouth stain directly in the center of Steve Sidel’s sweaty left palm as he contemplated the irony of the current situation. Fourteen hundred miles he had traveled to be on time for the super grand opening of the super new resort in the middle of this super ex-farmland and he had forgotten his super stupid pre-prepared speech from his super supervisor. Opening his mouth with less than super enthusiasm he popped the Advils in his mouth and swallowed them with the help of a very strong Jack Daniel’s and Coke. The last place he wanted to be, was representing his computer equipment company to a bunch of wealthy people who were here for the status recognition and could care less if everything from the elegant meals to the very tight security were all completely regulated by the latest in electronic technology. His company, Datafuture, was a Fortune 500 firm with more employees than he wished to think about and why they had chosen him to brag about their wonderful advancements in the computer field was beyond him but, oh well, he had decided. POR, push on regardless, and then his secretary had forgotten to pack his speech. By the time he had discovered the folder missing from his attaché case, the home office was closed, and his secretary was probably on a date with her pimply geeky boyfriend and, there was no way she could fax it to him if she was getting groped in the back seat of her boyfriend’s 85 Cutlass. Tomorrow is another day he thought, he would get up at his usual five a.m. and write his own damn speech. He knew more about the workings of the systems anyway since he had designed the entire project. He would just tell the guests the advantages of the new system and how it would vastly improve their comfort and safety as they enjoyed there stay at the beautiful new resort. That’s all they cared about anyway. They could care less about how the company was the wave of the future and how it would influence the entire nation in the years to come. He would just state the facts, mam and deal with the wrath of his boss when he got back. In the meantime he would just nurse his Jack with a silly grin on his face and deal with whatever, whenever.Steve and his younger brother Sam
grew up in a modest neighborhood with middle class families surrounding their two story stucco home. Steve loved school, and was a member of the National Honor Society and made the Dean's List every semester. Sam hated school and hung out with some very low class individuals that were always getting into trouble. Their father, an accountant by trade, tried to interest both his sons into sports but, Steve was the only one interested in any school oriented extra curricular activities. Sam's extra curricular activities was beating up and robbing the younger kids of their lunch money and trying to steal from parked cars. Sam's friends were all losers and he fit right in.

  Steve excelled in sports and was a multi-letter man every year. Sam excelled in terrorism and was a multi-visitor at the juvenile detention center every year. Steve knew at a young age that he was going to be very successful in his business life. Sam really didn't give a damn. When Steve graduated from high school, he received several scholarships and decided to attend MIT (The Massachusetts's Institute of Technology). When Sam dropped out of high school, he attended, not by choice, the county jail. Steve graduated with honors and was swept up by Datafuture, a dynamic new company that was experimenting with computer controlled technology to efficiently run companies in all aspects of their business. Sam was released with parole and was immediately swept up by the authorities when he violated the parole in the first twenty four hours. Two brothers, so different but, still brothers.

  June 14, Saturday 3:08 a.m.

  In a drainage ditch, behind the tennis courts

  The scarab beetle, feeling secure in its homemade tunnel five inches below the surface, heard a scraping sound and began digging furiously downward. A long saliva sticky tongue put a quick halt to its escape plans and the beetle was sucked rapidly toward the surface and into the waiting mouth of the hungry armadillo. The armadillo with its keen sense of smell could find its prey even six inches below the hard packed dirt in the side of the drainage ditch. Seconds after swallowing the hard-shelled insect the armadillo with its equally keen sense of hearing began picking up vibrations from deep within the ground. These sounds, not unlike a large earth mover might make, brought back memories to the armored beast of nests being torn up and having to constantly relocate its home burrow. Over the last three years the armadillo had to move five different times, even though the last six months had been relatively free of disturbances in its lifestyle. Standing on his hind feet, he twisted his head back and forth but couldn’t pinpoint the direction of the noise. Deciding it was unsafe anywhere in this area the armadillo dropped back down on all four legs and scampered hastily back to its burrow more than a hundred yards deep into the thick forest. Three deer, a buck and two does, were nibbling on fresh leaves on young oak saplings when a deep vibration under their feet alerted them to danger. The buck, clearly the leader, raised his head and turned it slowly to the right and then the left. His nostrils flared trying to pick up a strange scent. His sensitive ears twitched rapidly back and forth trying to pick up a noise that he could identify. Puzzled, he jerked his large white bushy tail frantically to signal his two does. The does, seeing the danger sign from the buck, jumped quickly over to their familiar game trail and headed toward the safety of their lair deep in the forest. The buck, pleased that the does responded quickly to his alarm signal, took one last look around and hastily followed his does to their home.

  A horned owl, high in the branches of a majestic magnolia tree, was following the movements of a field mouse that was intent on collecting the bright red seeds from the magnolia pods. The owl, planning his attack, was suddenly jolted, by an abrupt shaking of the trunk of the hundred year old tree. Discarding his plans for dinner, the owl flew quickly off the branch he had been perched on and flew deep into the forest. The mouse, unfazed, continued his search for seeds. The tree, quiet now, continued just being a tree.

  June 14, Saturday 5:00 a.m.

  Middle of Lake

  The weathered white wooden sides of the twelve-foot long boat rocked gently in the gray water as Jeff Finley leaned his four hundred plus pounds over the battered plank that served as the back seat of his fishing boat. Lifting the scarred lid of the ten year old red and white plastic cooler, he didn’t have to glance downwards for his pudgy fingers to grasp the icy metal sides of the Budweiser that lay nestled with its companions, like new born chicks in an overfilled nest. Chips of ice fell off the near frozen twelve ounce can as he expertly flicked the tab top and brought the container to his ample size lips. Draining half the can and belching with a ferocity that echoed across the still lake he set the can on the gritty floor and turned towards his only son, Todd.

  “You know boy, this is the life. A peaceful morning on a beautiful lake surrounded by miles and miles of dark green woods. The sounds of ducks flying overhead. This is almost heaven boy.”

  Todd Finley, at seven years old, forty-six pounds, and a mop of bushy blonde hair was a sharp contrast to his balding dark haired overweight father. His sleep encrusted eyes were barely opened as he partially suppressed a yawn with the back of his fragile looking small hand and answered in a squeaky voice.

  “I know dad but why do we have to start so early. Don’t the fish ever sleep in?”

  “Come on son, where’s your sense of adventure? The early worm catches the biggest fish or something like that. You’d be up already watching those cartoons anyways, so you might as well learn about nature from an expert like myself.”

  The disability checks that Jeff Finley had been receiving for the last five years supported quite well his retired type life style. His very caring wife’s paychecks from her job as an office manager for a large industrial firm paid the rent, utilities, groceries, and school clothes for their son. She didn’t mind if Jeff splurged his money on his hobbies and outdoor activities. Her theory was a happy man was a lot easier to live with and besides he took care of Todd whenever he wasn’t in school. Jeff was by far not a greedy man and he quite often tried to donate his income to help with the bills but she had repeatedly assured him that her paychecks covered the bills with plenty to spare and that he worked very hard until he got injured so he deserved this permanent vacation.

  Jeff bought her flowers at least once a week and surprised her sporadically at other times with little gifts that she knew came from his heart.

  Her only regret was the weight he had gained since the fallen crane boom at the construction site had pulverized his right leg into a mass of jigsaw type bone fragments and he would never walk without a leg brace and a cane. This lack of activity plus a combination of at least a case of beer a day and tons of snacks had turned him into a jolly rotund butterball with eyes that twinkled like Santa Claus. Jeff was in pain almost constantly but his family and friends had never heard one complaint or word of pity from him. He had a philosophy, whatever happens, happens for a reason and you might as well make the most of it.

  “Well dad, how long are we going to stay out here? I promised I would go over to Billy’s house this afternoon to play his new Nintendo game he got for his birthday.’

  “Don’t worry son, we’ll leave about one o’clock. We’ll have a boatload of fish by then and the sun will just start getting too hot to stay on the lake. You may not want to go in by that time though because you’ll be catching fish right and left. The speckled perch are really going to be biting this morning and you know how much fun they are to catch.”

  “Ok dad, but promise me we’ll go in if we’re not catching anything.”

  “I promise Todd, but I guarantee you will never forget this day. It’ll really be exciting, trust me!”

  June 14, Saturday 7:06 a.m.

  Lobby of resort hotel

  Dilford Bailey, at thirty-eight years old, was probably best described as a pompous ass. His pencil thin heavily waxed brown mustache set precisely one half inch above his tight always frowning thin upper lip gave the appearance of being painted rather than grown on. His wire rim glasses perched halfway down his long
pointed nose brought back memories of a cranky schoolmaster even to those who never a had the misfortune of learning the three r’s from one. Bailey’s eloquent use of very long words brought not only a sense of boredom but also a feeling of being lectured on any subject he decided to pursue at any given moment. His employees all regarded the resort manager as a royal pain but they all groveled nevertheless in front of him because they had all heard the rumors about his past work history. The rumors, many of which were actually true, buzzed around the hotel whenever a new employee started work.

  “Did you hear old Bailey once fired an eight-month pregnant desk clerk because she was five minutes late because of false labor pains?”

  “Or did you hear about the time the bell hop left one piece of luggage at the front desk and old Dill baby tripped over it and fell flat on his face? That poor guy was fired before the elevator door was fully shut.”

  '”How about the time the French chef at the Palisades put too many blueberries in the soufflé, Bailey ranted and raved for two whole hours about how the price of fresh fruit was bankrupting the entire operation.”

  Dilford Bailey was definitely not one to tangle with. His strictness and adherence to the rules had pleased many a rich hotel owner and he could pick his choice of prestigious hotels to manage. That was why he now was the chief honcho of this new elaborate state of the arts resort. His six months of meticulous planning and attention to detail, including the exact placement of the tremendous floral displays decorating the enormous lobby was now coming to a head. The grand opening was at noon today with more than one thousand guests and visitors expecting to overflow the ballroom and adjacent well-manicured grounds. Bailey had hand picked his staff from a large turn out of applicants, each one pre-qualified over an extensive six month search of all the great hotels and resorts in the country. Ads were placed in newspapers in all the major cities promising top pay, excellent benefits, free room and board and the promise of being on the staff of the newest, best designed, computer controlled resort in the world. The criteria of the job published in the newspapers was the applicant had to be well-educated, very experienced, good work history and impeccable credentials. What wasn't stated and was kept away from all but the people in the know was the applicants had to be attractive, intelligent and young. Definite qualifications for a discrimination suit. Dilford Bailey wanted only the best for his resort.