Florida Heatwave (7 page)

Randy knew some of the parts suppliers were pissed and had made noise about going to the cops, but there was nothing they could do to him. Dale had worried about his Series 63 securities license but in the end no one cared. It was the price of doing business in a place as wild as South Florida.

This endeavor they had now was bigger, bolder, and potentially a lot more profitable. They’d used the profit from the last scam to finance this one. They had moved past small, anonymous offices and mail drops. Now they had the look of a respectable business. And Randy had learned that looks were more important that anything around here.

They had five separate rooms in their corporate empire. The entry, the main room, the trading pit, which was really four desks with phones, and the two offices, which each man claimed. Randy’s was on the Intracoastal side with a view as spectacular as the main room’s of the Seventeenth Street Causeway to the south. They had seen the Goodyear Blimp rise from its hangar to the north in Pompano Beach twice in the six days they had rented the space. Randy wished they could stay here. This was the kind of place that oozed respectability and was so far removed from his normal existence that he sometimes forgot how to act. Like telling Dale he’d “whip his ass” if he didn’t line up dependable people for the trading pit. He had to watch that shit. He also realized that, based on the rent and the deposit, the landlord knew they weren’t on the level and planned on getting his money up front. He’d claim ignorance if anyone ever came by to ask about the company that stayed for less than two months. A lot of people did business that way around here. As long as you showed the cash up front you could claim you were going to be a tenant for the next fifty years and no one would blink. That was why the east coast of Florida from Miami to Boca Raton was the fraud capitol of the western world. Randy was just happy to be part of it.

The two men strolled through the office as Randy leveled picture frames of Florida wildlife. He smiled at the irony that Northeasterners couldn’t resist Florida real estate when they were shown photos of the animals that were being displaced by the new residents. The best photos hung in the trading pit, where Randy intended to casually stop and chat with their investors while the phones rang off the hook. He’d paid the guy who fixed the gas pump on his Chevy thirty bucks to call the four phones on a rotating basis between two and two thirty.

The photo Randy adjusted now was of a Florida panther. If he used that term now all anyone thought of was an underachieving hockey team, but Randy remembered seeing one as a kid when they went camping in Martin County. Even something as plain as an armadillo, which were plentiful a few years ago, were never seen now. But there was no cash in little smelly animals and the fucking New Yorkers were going to move here anyway, so Randy didn’t see any problem making a few bucks on the whole trend. Besides, if he made enough money now maybe a few of these bastards wouldn’t be able to afford to move down. Looking at it from that perspective he figured he was doing his civic duty as a Floridian.

He turned to Dale. “You got the sample all set up?”

“It’ll work like a charm.”

“If this asshole wants to look at the fountain, he won’t figure it out?”

“Not a chance. Looks like a water nozzle. The bag will be good and hard. With the phones in the background he’ll feel the excitement.”

“Should we move the fountain into the pit?”

Dale scratched his second and third chins then looked out the window toward the Atlantic. “No, no I like the phones as a more distant but constant sound from the other room.”

Randy nodded his head in agreement. These investors had hired a private, independent lab to check out the viability of their product. It had cost Randy ten percent of the potential profit but a scientist from the lab had certified the product. Now all the investor wanted was to see it in action.

Finally they were ready. He looked at his knock-off Cartier watch. One fifty-five. If this guy Golden was a real businessman he’d be here any minute. He looked over at Dale and noticed a line of sweat trickling down the side of his face, pasting his stringy hair to his skin. “Jesus, Dale, what’s with you?” He reached over and wiped at the perspiration with his bare hand.

“Sorry, guess I’m a little nervous is all.”

“Get into the washroom and clean up. This whole deal is based on perception and the perception that you’re a sweaty little pig won’t help.”

Without a word Dale scurried off to the restroom. Randy called after him. “Don’t forget to turn on the accent a little when he gets here. He’ll feel more secure thinking we’re rednecks.”

Dale nodded as he disappeared into the small but plush restroom.

As the bathroom door closed, the front door opened and a man in his late fifties with the look of a gambler who liked to eat and drink stood in the doorway like he had to be escorted in. Fucking New Yorkers.

Randy smiled and stepped toward the man who was an inch taller than him and a foot wider. “Mr. Golden, please come on in.” Randy offered his hand. He could see Golden’s eyes take in the office and the view.

Golden had a grip like a man used to working slot machines. “You guys spend a lot on office space.”

Randy was taken aback and considered several responses. “Some of our clients expect a certain feel to the place.”

“Thirty-two years in the garment industry and I learned to spend money on my house not my office.”

“That’s exactly why we’re hoping you’ll be interested in our business plan.”

The big man in a casual peach-colored shirt looked over the entry room with its vista and the photographs of animals his grandchildren would never get to see and said, “This is pretty quiet for a place of business.”

Randy let his eyes dart to his “almost Cartier” and see it was still two minutes to two. Before he could say anything he heard the first phone ring in the trading pit, two rooms away. Then the next phone and the next. Randy let out a quick nervous laugh and looked up at his fish that suddenly didn’t seem so fish-like.

Randy said, “Here, let me show you around.” He took a few steps toward the main room when Dale popped out of the bathroom, adjusting his shirt like it was stuck on that matte of chest hair that often got him confused for an otter at the beach.

“Mr. Golden, this here is my associate, Dale Timmons.” He looked at his partner and was disappointed to see that not only had he failed to stop his serious perspiration, he now looked disheveled like he had just gotten out of bed. He wanted to project a slight backwoods impression to this man who had made a fortune selling truck loads of fabric and leather, but Dale had taken it a step too far. What had gotten into this tubby little turd?

Dale stuck out his hand and said, “Pleased to finally meet you, sir.”

Golden looked apprehensive to take the smaller man’s porcine hand. Dale’s thin comb-over still splayed out in several directions as he smiled and pumped their investor’s hand like a politician.

Randy led them through the entire office, savoring the look of the three young men and one woman answering their endlessly ringing phones. Two desks sat empty to give the impression of a larger staff.

They paused at the door to Randy’s office. He wanted the older man to get a glimpse of the view he commanded and of his shelf of business books. Now, after seeing him in person, Randy wondered if this throwback businessman had any idea who Jack Welsh was or if he had ever seen any of these titles. He had impressed Randy as a guy who’d been successful through hard work and breaking balls. That’s why southerners had such a hard time in the cut-throat corporate climate.

“Shall we talk in here?”

Golden immediately shook his head. “You said I could see a demo.” He stopped mid-thought and gave Dale a look that said, “Back out of my space,” then continued. “You led me to believe there was a demo here. We don’t have to go out in this godforsaken humidity to see it, do we?”

“No sir,” said Randy, inching his way back toward the fountain and bumping Dale back physically so he had a few feet to himself. “Right this way.” He turned to his partner and said, “Dale, get a couple of the bags to show Mr. Golden.”

Golden watched the tubby partner hustle into the smaller office then said, “If it weren’t for Verge Labs certifying this shit I’d never believe it.”

Randy knew he had him. “This works and besides, the big money is in the real estate. Either way we’re profitable. Very profitable. If it’ll make you feel better you can just ignore our ‘bag of land’ product and still get involved in the condo sales. Or you can do both. No pressure here.” He smiled at his large fish as he listened to the phones and knew the old man heard them too. No, no pressure here. Not unless you want to miss a chance to make a fortune.

Golden said, “I’d like to see the demo before I decide.”

As if on cue, and it actually was on cue, Dale came back with two burlap bags a little bigger than a shoebox each. They weighed about twelve pounds apiece.

Randy smiled as he took a bag and hefted it in his right hand. “Here you go.” He handed it to Golden, who also felt its weight. Then Randy added, “Feels like gold to me.”

Golden held the bag upright and tugged at the banded cord that held it shut. The opening loosened and he peered inside.

Randy said, “Go ahead, you can touch it. That’s the beauty of it: the ingredients are all natural. That’s what’ll keep the tree huggers quiet.”

Golden reached in and pulled out a handful of the bag’s contents then worked it through his thick fingers like sand at the beach. Finally he said, “This shit will work?”

Randy nodded. He knew this fish was hooked. Now he could land him easy. The mixture of sawdust, shaved plastic, light cement and actual beach sand looked perfect.

He and some of his “redneck” buddies had talked up the idea of a way to claim some of the Everglades once the right mix was in the Florida legislature. Randy didn’t know of a better group than they had right now. These money hungry morons were in the news every day for one ethical lapse or another. Reasonable growth control was lower on their list of concerns than pregnant pigs. Literally. They had passed a law to protect pregnant pigs but the land use policy of the state was a shambles. Developers controlled everything and no one seemed to care except the dwindling number of Florida natives. Randy saw himself as a defender of the frontier. He saw no reason why a defender couldn’t get rich. Shit, he’d be a hero in a lot of people’s books.

The actual vote of the legislature wasn’t important. Just the perception of what they would do. At least to make the plan sound plausible. Shit, if offshore drilling and giant bio-research facilities were okay, then a few thirty-story condos in a swamp wouldn’t raise any questions. Besides, he just had to sell the idea, not implement it.

Golden said, “Let me see what happens when this concoction expands. You said that water activates it.”

“That’s correct.” Randy smiled, using the one his first boss taught him. The smile that made his eyes twinkle. “We can use this little fountain.” He led the older man over to a basin, which had a small stream of water that projected over three coral-like rocks. Randy made a show out of setting the bag in the water and soaking it well then shoved the nozzle of the spray insulation can into the front of the bag. Golden never stepped closer than a few feet. For once he wasn’t upset Dale was crowding them so bad. The little doofus made it hard for the man to come too close.

Randy used one finger to press the hidden can of insulation and felt the foam start to inflate into the bag. It became rigid in less than three seconds. If it worked right, the sand and sawdust mixture would be stuck to the outside of the foam in the front of the bag and look like it just expanded. It just had to look good this one time. The investment was for large-scale production. By the time this old fart figured out there was a problem, they’d be in bankruptcy and apologizing that things didn’t work out.

He faced Golden and smiled. Playing with the bag he said, “Takes a minute but it firms right up.” He handed the bag to Golden who squeezed it and then, with out asking permission, opened it to examine the inside.

Randy smiled, thinking it couldn’t have gone more perfectly.

Dale squeezed in next to them, radiating a body odor that went with that fountain of perspiration he’d been leaking all morning.

Golden looked hard at Dale until he took a step back. Then he turned to Randy without any expression, the bag still in his hand.

Randy’s heart started to pump faster and, for the first time, realized he was dealing with a man who had been in different businesses for the past forty years. A man used to scams and angles. He was the type of man who had developed Florida in the first place, displacing species and causing housing to soar so locals had to move. Randy felt certain their plan had been discovered.

Then Golden smiled.

Was it a smile of appreciation or a predator who had caught his prey?

The older man’s face softened and he said, “The lab says this will hold as a foundation. What about condos?”

“We need more testing. That’s what this round of capitol will finance.”

“How many investors so far?”

“We intend to raise ten million. We’ll base the investment on a percentage of the capitol.” Randy studied the man’s face. He was hard to read but he didn’t seem wary. Maybe this was working out. Maybe he was about to reel in the big fish.

After another thirty seconds of studying the bag and considering things, Golden turned his attention to the six-foot-tall posters of the artist’s rendition of “The Preserve.”

The older man turned his large frame to study the layout.

Randy said, “Each tower is self sufficient with a pool and amenties. They are all named after a native Florida plant or animal. The Panther is the first one. The Key Deer and Alligator will go up next, followed by the Sawgrass, the Manatee, and the Palmetto.”

Golden nodded and said, “I like that. Sounds like a fitting tribute. Will interest older people in Connecticut and Massachusetts too.”

“We intend to advertise in the
New York Times, Boston Globe
and
Hartford Currant
to start.” He was pleased he was able to pluck those names right out of the air with no notice. He was born for this kind of work.