news story the other night?”
“Because even the War on Terror has rules. Like, you don’t use crowbars to ply the brass plaques off VFW posts that list the names of all the local patriots who have made the supreme sacrifice since the First World War.”
“That’s not right.” Coleman tried the TV. “Can’t they just make a new one.”
Serge shook his head. “It’s a small post. They didn’t keep a list of the names. Sounds like an obvious thing to do, but nobody even considered this a distant possibility. The tribute will be gone forever unless we can trace the culprit. I’ve got eyes on the street.”
“That phone call to Manny’s Towing and Salvage?”
“If the bastard tries to fence the plaques within twenty miles, we got him.”
Coleman changed channels. “What about all this copper?”
“Sell it to Manny. And give him some for his trouble if he comes through.”
“No, I mean where’d you get it?”
“Another thing that burns my ass. Florida is one of the few places with a law that says your primary residence can never be seized to pay debts, even if they’re the results of criminal fraud or worse. That’s why O.J. moved here when he was being sued by the Goldmans. Wall Street fuck-heads regularly liquidate all their assets and buy the biggest home possible before going to jail. Then they get out a few years later and live in a palace, while their swindled retirees eat Kibbles ’n Bits-”
Knock knock knock.
Serge spun and flicked open a switchblade. “What the hell’s that?”
Coleman turned up the volume on the news. “The door.”
Knock knock knock.
Coleman began going through the room’s bureau for loose change. In the second drawer he discovered three prescription bottles and instantly glowed with the kind of dark horse optimism that is only available in the drug culture. His spirits sagged when he realized the bottles were empty, had Serge’s name on the labels, and were all for no-fun serotonin-management chemicals. The refill dates bordered on historical. “Serge? When was the last time you took-”
Knock knock knock!
Coleman returned to the TV dial. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“Yes, but not right away. Because it’s not just any door.” Serge started to tiptoe. “It’s the magic door at a fleabag motel. Which means until I open it, the possibilities are infinitely greater than that of other doors we’ve come to know and love…”
Knock knock knock!
Serge continued silently creeping. “No fuckin’ boundaries, man! This dump could attract anyone with a limber global outlook. Cadaver dog trainers, pearl divers, snake handlers, snowboarders, celebrity bulimics, Filipino mystics who hang themselves with hooks through their flesh, Blue Oyster Cult, cannibals, and people curious about cannibals.”
Coleman fired up a joint. “What if it’s a midget?”
“That would work,” said Serge. “You open a door and find a midget, and there’s no way you can be in a bad mood. It’s just not possible.”
Knock knock knock. “Dammit, Serge, open up! I’m growing a beard out here!”
Serge’s chin fell to his chest. “Crap.” He undid the chain and turned the knob. “Manny, great to see you.” Serge stuck his head out the door, glanced suspiciously both ways, then grabbed his guest by the shirt and yanked him off his feet into the room. “Please come in.”
Manny looked around the room at all the copper. “You’ve been a busy boy.”
“Terrorism.”
“Where’d you get all this?”
Coleman changed the channel again and turned up the volume on another local news program.
“Good evening. This is Pam Swanson outside the waterfront mansion of disgraced hedge fund manager Tobias Greenleaf, where police are releasing few details about a brazen overnight break-in…”
Manny pointed at the TV. “Greenleaf?”
Serge just smiled.
Manny slapped him on the shoulder. “Should have known.” He walked over to a stack of copper coils. “Looks like you hit the a/c units pretty hard.” Then he swept an arm back at the rest of the room. “But those straight pipes and wires must have been inside the walls.”
“Not anymore,” said Serge.
Manny whistled. “Must have taken hours of work hacking through the drywall with axes.”
“And a demolition saw.”
“… However, unnamed sources describe extensive interior damage at the mansion and estimate repair costs at almost a quarter-million dollars. Off the record, officials speculate the wholesale vandalism could be payback for the hundreds of retirement accounts that were left worthless…”
“You used a demolition saw?” said Manny. “You’re not in contracting. How’d you figure out which walls weren’t load-bearing?”
“That’s easy,” said Serge. “Just follow the stress lines of the architecture. It’s obvious to anyone with a knack for calculus.”
“So you left the copper in those walls behind?”
“No, I figured out a way to get that, too.”
Manny scratched his head. “But how would you be able-”
“… Wait, something’s happening…” A deep rumbling sound from the TV set. “… There’s frantic activity at the west wing of the mansion…” Background shouting. “Get out! Get out now!” People running willy-nilly across the lawn. “… Police and fire officials are evacuating the mansion. The roof… the whole wing… it’s collapsing as we speak… Now it’s pulling down the center of the building… Words cannot begin to describe this scene of devastation, but I’ll keep talking anyway…”
Manny turned to Serge and slowly grinned. “I thought this was about copper.”
“It was.” Serge stopped and smacked himself in the forehead. “I forgot. I never took calculus.”
“… Now the east wing has just come down, the whole estate completely flattened. And since all of Greenleaf’s assets had been sheltered in the house under Florida’s no-seizure law, he’s completely wiped out.”
“Pam, this is Jim on the anchor desk. Surely someone as smart as Greenleaf would have insurance…”
“That’s correct, Jim. But as soon as the claims check is issued, it’s a financial instrument and not a house, which is no longer shielded under the no-seizure law, and will immediately be turned over to the victims whose retirement accounts he wiped out…”
Manny glanced at Serge again. “You planned this all along?”
“Who? Me?”
A hearty laugh. “I got the guys outside. Let’s start getting this copper loaded.”
The TV screen switched to a local VFW hall. “… In other news, there are no new leads in the heartless theft of memorial plaques to the area’s fallen, which has brought out dozens of supporters holding a candlelight vigil…”
A cell phone rang. “Manny here… What?… When did this happen?… That’s great news… I mean it’s bad… I mean, you know what I mean.” He clapped the phone shut. “Serge, that was Nicky the Mooch. Just got word on those plaques of yours. Someone’s trying to unload them in Lutz.”
“So Nicky’s got them?”
Manny shook his head. “Guy’s been laying low because of all the heat. But he finally risked going to Nicky’s scrap yard because Nicky is, well, like you and me.”
“You mean casual with the letter of the law?”
“Nicky said that when he dialed my number a minute ago, the guy must have thought he was calling the cops. He spooked and split.”
“Damn,” said Serge. “Now we may never get them back.”
“Not so fast,” said Manny. “He recognized the guy. From time to time, brings in stuff from construction sites. But a month ago, he was actually selling something legitimate. The bumper fell off his car. So he let Nicky copy his
