The Big Bamboo (6 page)

The Magic Fingers started again. Coleman reclined and set a beer on his stomach. “What’s wrong with renovating a nursing home? Makes it nicer for the old people.”

“Another Florida scam to exploit our seniors, and they keep getting away with it! The state always says its hands are tied…” He turned and smiled at Coleman. “…But mine aren’t.”

Coleman drained the can and crumpled it. “Scam?”

Serge rummaged in his suitcase. “Ruthless, out-of-state investors look for old Florida nursing homes full of Medicare patients. They get them super cheap because Medicare doesn’t pay much. Then they float some bullshit why they have to close the place for six months—improvements, asbestos, whatever. They just turn all these old people out on the street, granny-dumping on a mass scale…” Serge rooted deeper in his luggage. “Where’s that darn thing?…Then, once investors have emptied the place and made the ostensible repairs, they reopen—exclusively for private payers. Triples the home’s book value, and they immediately sell to a conglomerate…I found it!” Serge set a sleep timer on the TV and commenced another suitcase search. “Some of the residents are ninety years old, confused, confined to bed, suddenly finding themselves shuttled on stretchers from one temporary shelter to another until they find a new home…” More stuff came out of the suitcase: metal hooks, fasteners. “…Very traumatic, like repotting temperamental houseplants. Some die within weeks, or even in transit, but the investors don’t care…”

“What are those hook things?” asked Coleman.

“Marital aids. Got them at a porn store.” Serge sorted the hardware on the nightstand. “Was having chronic problems tying people down spread-eagle. The beds in economy motels are usually pretty plain without anything convenient to attach restraints.”

The bed stopped vibrating. Coleman put the quarter in the slot again. The bed began humming. “But, Serge, I didn’t know you were the kind of person who shopped at porn stores. You’re always making fun of my adult videos.”

“Because they
are
funny. A housewife answers the door for a plumber, and five minutes later she’s wearing nothing but leather riding chaps and blowing a referee’s whistle.”

Serge unplugged the cord to the bed vibrator.

“Hey!” said Coleman. “I was jiggling here!”

“You need to get off the bed anyway.” Serge grabbed the sleep timer and plugged the Magic Fingers cord into it, then plugged the timer back in the wall. He twisted the dial to one hour. It began ticking. “Now it’s time to meet our special guest!”

Serge fetched his trusty .45 automatic from the suitcase. He threw open the closet door and violently jerked the man to his feet. The gun went between his eyes. “First funny move and your brains are Martha’s pick-of-the-month wallpaper. We understand each other?” The man nodded hard. “Good! To the bed! Lie on your back!” Serge began tying an ankle. “So one day I was in the Pink Pussycat. I always feel gooey when I’m in those places, like I have to take three hot showers as soon as I get out, but I make the sacrifice to chronicle the decay of civilization. I’m walking down the S-and-M aisle with trapezes and water-sports tubing, and as soon as I saw these things, I said, ‘Hot damn! That’s exactly what I’ve been looking for!’ A lot of people must have been having the same problem, because this company in Hallandale started marketing clamps that cup under the corners of box springs to provide universal mounts for handcuffs and ropes and shit.” Serge tossed the empty box to Coleman, who read the product’s motto: NO BEDPOSTS? NO PROBLEM!

Serge finished tying knots on the man’s limbs. He handed the pistol to Coleman. “Keep an eye on him. I have to get something from the trunk.” Serge opened the door a crack and peeked outside. He darted into the parking lot, then dashed back a minute later with two heavy-looking pieces of machinery.

Coleman scratched his head with the gun barrel. “What are those things?”

Serge raised each hand respectively. “Compressor, pneumatic nail gun.”

“They look expensive.”

“Only forty bucks at the pawnshop.”

“That’s all?”

“Another cool thing about Florida. You can always depend on construction workers to encounter problems with their portfolios, like drug debts. The savings get passed on to us.”

Serge flicked open a Swiss army knife and began stripping the compressor’s power cord.

“What are you planning?”

A chuck of insulation flew off Serge’s blade. “Science project.”

“You mean like in school?”

“My favorite part of education. I’d work on my project all year long, even through summer vacation. The effort finally paid off in seventh grade.”

“Which project did you do?”

“All of them, combined into one giant extravaganza—magnetism, optics, kinetic energy, steam engine, photosynthesis, electric generator…”—Serge was now stripping wires on thermostat components—“…model rocketry, a papier-mâché volcano that really worked, and finally a climactic series of violent chemical reactions in a maze of glass pipes and vapor traps—head and shoulders the best science project you ever saw, and definitely better than that kid who beat me germinating those fucking beans.”

“You didn’t win?”

“The first hint that life wasn’t going to be totally fair. I turned my project on, and everything’s going perfect, getting bigger, faster, louder, ten different things happening at once. The other kids loved it, but the teacher demanded that I turn it off immediately. I said, ‘What do you mean?’ She said, ‘Shut it down right now!’ I said, ‘I can’t. You’re a science teacher and you don’t understand basic thermodynamics? Once in motion, this thing’s got a mind all its own.’”

“And that’s how you lost to the bean kid?”

“They evacuated the school.” Serge began twisting bare wires together. “Then it turned out they didn’t have enough insurance.”

The hostage panicked and started screaming under his mouth tape.

Serge looked up. “What?…Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Bare wires—fire hazard. Don’t worry.” Serge began wrapping the naked copper with black electric tape. “Wouldn’t dream of not meeting code.”

The man squirmed desperately as Serge removed a panel on the side of the nail gun and switched the positive wire to another post. He grabbed the hostage’s collar with both hands, ripping open his shirt. The man wept quietly as the nail gun was duct-taped to his chest. Serge used practically the whole roll—“Don’t want this thing falling over and causing an accident.”

Finally, he was done. Serge stepped back and beamed proudly at the man. “What do you think?”

Two big white eyes.

Serge walked to the foot of the bed and pointed down at the cannibalized temperature control on the edge of the mattress. “Pay attention because I’m only going to explain once. I patched the mercury switch from the thermostat into the power cord of the compressor, which runs the nail gun taped over your heart. I also took the liberty of modifying the gun’s wiring to bypass the trigger, so it’s fully automatic, like a machine gun. But I digress—back to the thermostat. Did you know they can be used in a pinch to detonate bombs? True. Works on vibration principle. Extremely sensitive. When a temperature change expands or contracts the metal coil, it tips the bulb full of mercury, a conductive liquid, which flows to the other end, completing the circuit with the electric contact sticking through the glass here…”

Coleman exhaled a cloud of smoke. “What’s the ticking thing plugged into the wall?”

“The part I’m really jazzed about.” Serge pulled a quarter from his pocket and stuck it in the Magic Fingers. “A direct connection to Florida motel nostalgia.”

“What’s wrong?” said Coleman. “The bed’s not moving.”

“That’s what the timer’s for. When it gets to zero, it’ll start the bed vibrator, sloshing the mercury, tripping the compressor and activating the gun…Wonder if I have enough nails in the magazine strip?”

“How many?” asked Coleman.

“Only fifty, but they’re the big galvanized ones for pressure-treated four-by-fours.”

“That should be plenty.”

More screaming under the mouth tape.

“Don’t be such a baby!” said Serge. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. After the first twenty or so, you won’t feel a thing. Besides, there’s a tiny chance you can untie yourself and get that thing off your chest if you don’t make any sudden moves.” He rubbed his chin. “Actually, that mercury switch is pretty sensitive, so I’m probably wrong. On the other hand, who knows? The key is to keep a chipper outlook. You’ve still got at least twenty minutes on the timer.”

Coleman leaned toward the socket. “More like fifteen.”

“How time flies when you’re having fun!” Serge fed the bandolier of nails into the side of the gun. He couldn’t get it to catch. He tried again. He struggled. “Something’s wrong.” He stopped and held the strip to his face. “Shit! They’re the wrong size! My science project is completely fucked!” He threw the nails against the dresser. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”

Coleman got up and put a hand on his pal’s shoulder. “Easy. It’ll be okay.”

“The whole day’s ruined! And it’s the beginning of the week, so the wrong tone has been set. Which means the entire year’s shot to bloody hell!” Serge began punching a wall. “Why even go on living? Why! Why! Why!…” Serge suddenly stopped and smiled at Coleman. “We’re going to have some fun.”

“Thought you didn’t want to go on living.”

“I do my best work under pressure. That’s why I create unnecessary alarm.” Serge ran out the door and quickly returned with a roll of aluminum foil and a big blue container of salt. He handed Coleman his .45 pistol. “Keep him covered while I turn him over.”

Coleman aimed the gun with his right hand and drank a beer with his left. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see…” Serge untied the man’s left hand and foot and rolled him up on his right side. “No funny business! Coleman’s not the best shot when he’s drinking, so he might hit something you care about…” He tore off three long sheets of foil and spread them across the bed. Then he rolled the man back onto the crinkly sheets and retied his limbs.

Coleman scrunched his face. “I still don’t get it.”

“Keep watching.” Serge reached in the trash for a jumbo convenience-store soda cup. He filled it with water, dumped in a bunch of salt and stirred with a screwdriver, then liberally splashed the man head to foot. He filled the cup a second time, more salt, splashing the man again, a third time. “Lather, rinse, repeat…” He cut the power cord to the nail gun, stripped the wires and crinkled foil around the bare ends, holding them in place with more electrical tape.

“Get it now?” said Serge.

Coleman shrugged.

“Salt water is an electrolyte, conducting the foil. Full body electrocution. The worst!…” He closed his eyes and shook at the thought. “…Lots of writhing and foaming. Glad we won’t be here because only a sicko would want to watch.”

“You sure you want to do this?” said Coleman. “I’m not criticizing, but we’ll have to lay low again. Last time on TV, they called you a serial killer.”

Serge gritted his teeth. “The media!”

“But you did do all that stuff they said. I was there.”

“I know, but ‘serial’ means you get some kind of perverse satisfaction and intend to keep picking out more innocent victims.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not!” said Serge. “I always tell myself: This is absolutely the last one. But it’s the fucking state we live in! I just keep coming across people who need killing.”

Coleman pointed at the bed. “Where’d you find the foil and salt so fast?”

“Same place as the duct tape,” said Serge. “Three Boy Scout items you should always keep in your trunk. Duct tape and foil can fix anything.”

“Salt?”

“For my food. They never put in enough. I douse everything.”

“Isn’t too much salt bad?” said Coleman. “Heard it makes you hyper.”

“Hyper
tension,”
corrected Serge. “But people say that like it’s something undesirable. Personally, I want hypertension. Sounds positive. Like in the movies: ‘Hang on to your seats for a new level of suspense beyond Hitchcock! It’s never-ending hypertension!’…How long now?”

Coleman bent down to the timer. “Eight minutes.”

Serge crammed a few last items in his suitcase and snapped it shut. “Got all your stuff?”

Coleman picked up a gym bag. “Why didn’t you just wire the foil straight to the sleep timer instead of that mercury thing?”

“Because the Magic Fingers wouldn’t come into play. Why kill someone if it isn’t culturally relevant?”

“It would be less work.”

“This isn’t about work. It’s about enjoying yourself.” Serge leaned over the bed. “Have you learned your lesson? Are you going to fuck with old people again?”

The man shook his head hard.

Serge smiled and nodded. “I’ve got some good news.”

The man raised his head expectantly.

“I just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance.” He walked out the door with Coleman.

Wooden stakes propped up immature palm trees recently planted in small, grassy islands scattered uniformly across the parking lot of the Broward Mall.

The shopping center was ten miles inland, part of the lush, manicured creep advancing on the Everglades. No industry, just residences, retail and car care. The mall was a medium-size one, as South Florida malls went, but the parking lot appeared especially large when it was empty at times like this, which was ten A.M. on a Tuesday.

A senior citizens’ bus pulled up to the curb in front of JCPenney. Retirees climbed out and headed into the store at a velocity that was the opposite of staying out of the way. A few shuffled slightly faster to get dibs on the complimentary electric scooters. The familiarity of the department store made them comfortable. They liked to shop weekday mornings when there weren’t a bunch of other customers rushing around them in the aisles. Then they all crammed the cafeterias for lunch.

Among them were three lifelong friends. Used to be six, before the funerals started. Like many aging residents of Miami-Dade, they were forced out of their retirement home when it stopped taking Medicare and had to migrate north across the county line to one of the newer, cookie-cutter facilities. They were not happy about it. They wore untucked guayaberas.