He reached over and flicked the brim of my Cubs cap.
His smile remained, but his voice changed. We weren’t just chatting anymore.
“Too hot to walk.”
“No.”
“It’s not open for discussion.”
I recognized him now, but I couldn’t place him. He had the tough look of a television heavy. He caught me looking. His smile got a little broader. He put his left hand on my shoulder to stop me and turn me toward him.
An old woman with a small, fuzzy white dog leading the way on a leash came out of the apartment building. She glanced at us, moved past, and started across the street.
“She wasn’t carrying a plastic bag,” he said, watching the woman and the eager dog pulling at the leash. “She doesn’t plan to clean up after the dog.”
“She’s old,” I said.
“Then she shouldn’t have a dog.”
“Maybe that’s all she’s got,” I said. “Jeff Augustine.”
“Son of a gun. You not only recognize me, you know my name. I’m impressed, flattered.”
“I used to watch a lot of old television shows. Rockford, Harry O.”
“I want you to meet a guy,” he said seriously.
“Mike Mazurki as Moose Malloy in Farewell My Lovely,” I said.
“Right, but it’s also Jeff Augustine on a street in Sarasota. I really have someone who wants to meet you.”
“And if I don’t want to be met?”
He shrugged and said, “Suit yourself, but I think it would be a good idea if you met this fella. Besides, he’d be very disappointed in me if I didn’t deliver you.”
“What happened to your career?” I asked.
He shook his head and watched the old lady and the little dog, which was now making a deposit under a small palm tree.
“Twenty-five years waiting for checks so I could pay my phone bills and my rent and eat reasonably. Toward the end I was singing second banana in dinner theaters. My biggest role was Judd Frye in Oklahoma, in Knoxville. When Judd Frye died that last time, I said good-bye to my career.”
“Now you…?”
“Yes, I work out, wear nice clothes, and persuade people to do things. It pays well and some people like the idea of having a guy with a familiar face getting things done for them.”
“Is Steven Seagal really tough?” I asked.
“You remember.”
“He threw you through a factory window and you fell four floors to your doom.”
“Doom?”
“It’s been nice talking to you,” I said. “Now I’m walking home. I’ve got packing to do.”
“You haven’t been listening closely… Look at that. She’s just leaving it there.”
This was all said calmly, more with regret than anger.
“You want an appointment,” I said, “give me a call or just drop by my new office. I’ll give you the address.”
“No, now,” he said, his smile even more friendly.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
He opened his jacket to show a holstered gun.
“You’re going to shoot me on the street because I don’t want to get in your car?”
“The car smells like a forest, and I’ve got a small cooler with bottles of water,” he said. “And yes, I could shoot you a little bit.”
“No,” I said, turning to walk away.
“You’re a real phenomenon. You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Worst you could do is kill me. This isn’t a bad place, and it’s a nice day for dying.”
“You’re a little crazy,” he said.
“You caught up with me just when I ended a session with my shrink. You know any good jokes?”
“Jokes?” He looked puzzled now.
“Jokes,” I repeated.
“Yes, lots. I did stand-up for a while. The good jokes weren’t in my act, but I remember them from Larry the Cable Guy and Diane Ford.”
“I’ll go with you if you tell me five good jokes,” I said.
The old woman with the dog was no longer in sight, but a shirtless black man with sagging slacks, unlaced shoes, and no socks was advancing on us, scratching his belly. I recognized him, had given him coffee and an occasional biscotti. He said his name was Clark, or maybe Cleric, and he claimed that he wasn’t homeless. His home, he said, was under the second bench in Bayfront Park, not far from where the dog had just relieved himself or herself.
“Five good jokes?”
“Five.”
“Deal.”
“This way.”
Clark was headed right for us.
“A friend of yours?”
“I don’t know,” I said as Clark lifted his chin, reached into his pants to adjust his testicles, and said, “Too many midgets. Too many.”
“It’s a problem,” I agreed.
Clark looked at Augustine and pointed a finger.
“You shot ol’ Kurt Russell. Some soldier movie.”
I gave Clark two quarters and said to Augustine, “The scent of the forest in a Buick LeSabre?”
“That’s right,” said Augustine. “Let’s go.”
“The Cubs,” said Clark, looking at my cap as if he had suddenly realized it was there. “Andy Pafko.”
“Who?” asked Augustine.
“Never mind,” I said. “Tell me jokes on the way.”
The LeSabre did smell like a pine forest. I turned down the offer of Evian water. Augustine drank one as he drove.
“Five jokes,” I said, index cards and pen in hand.
“Okay,” he said.
He told the jokes. I wrote them down. I didn’t laugh or smile.
“You don’t think they’re funny?” he asked as we headed north on Tamiami Trail.
“They’re funny,” I said, tucking the cards into my appointment book.
“I like you,” he said. “Do people generally like you?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I mean, I like you, but I’m not sure why.”
“It’s my curse,” I said.
“That people like you?”
“They expect to be liked back.”
“And you can’t?”
“I don’t want to,” I said. “The cost is too high, and people die.”
He looked at me, one hand on the wheel, one grasping a bottle of water, which he squeezed, making a cracking sound.
“So you have no friends?”
“Too many,” I said.
The big two-story gray stone house was right on a cul-de-sac on the water a few blocks south of the Ringling Museum. The house had a front lawn that looked as if it had been manicured with a pair of very small scissors. At
