All Through the Night Page 3

  Foster cast his lure with enough spite to wing it almost to the lagoon’s other side. “Here we go.”

  Wayne said, “That’s not a challenge. It’s an absurdity.”

  “Is that a wager, young man?”

  “Absolutely. I’d bet you anything on earth. Only I won’t take an old lady’s money.”

  “How gallant. But I’m not talking about money. I don’t gamble.”

  “You want to make a bet but you don’t gamble.” Wayne looked at the two men. “Is this a joke?”

  Foster reeled in so fast his lure scarcely touched the water. “Walk away from this while you still can. That’s my advice.”

  Victoria said, “When I win, you pay me in kind.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ll know at the time.”

  Foster flung his lure again, the line zinging from the reel. Wheeeeeee. “Now you’ve done it.”

  “Let’s just be certain we’re on the same page. I shall be asking God to reveal himself. I shall pray that God takes the worst, the very worst of what you carry, and makes it into a sign that lights up the heavens.”

  Jerry felt what he always did when Victoria started in that way. Like he’d been disenfranchised from reality. Like he’d lost half his body weight and was barely able to keep from floating away. Foster stopped hauling on his lure and stood staring at the lagoon. Limp. Defeated.

  She carved a tiny hand across the air between her and Wayne. “I shall be praying that God illuminates your internal darkness. I will ask Him to quiet the storm that rages and tosses you and holds you in its dire grip. The storm that only He can still.”

  Only Wayne appeared untouched by the woman and her words. “What are you putting up for when you lose?”

  Victoria gazed in sweet triumph at the young man. “Whatever you want.”

  “You’ll let me name my own stakes?”

  “Anything that’s in my power to give. But I have to warn you, son. My God won’t let me lose.” Victoria offered Wayne a hand of parchment and spun glass. “Do we have a deal?”

  FOUR

  Wayne pushed hard through the work. Harder, in fact, than he pushed himself on the house. And he worked on the cracker cabin with more effort than he had ever worked on anything in his life.

  Even so, it was another three weeks before he could see the situation with any sense of clarity.

  His sister the reverend came around now and then. Eilene never pressed and seldom stayed more than a few minutes. Just long enough to let him know she was close at hand and thinking about him.

  Eilene usually left around the time he was about to ask for the name of the lady driving the red rocket. Clearly the female intuition was working overtime.

  The two guys, Foster and Jerry, had basically attached themselves to him. Jerry cut himself a key to the maintenance shed, borrowed what Wayne required without asking, and helped with the renovations. Even Foster helped out now and then. Puffing and groaning and not accomplishing a whole lot. Foster spent most of his time reading the Wall Street Journal. When Jerry got tired he sat on the front porch with Foster and argued over things that didn’t matter to anybody except a pair of old men.

  One morning they arrived pushing wheelbarrows with two window AC units that now cooled Wayne’s nights. Another day, they dragged over the community’s lone maintenance man, a taciturn prune who scowled his way through the place, then returned with nine cans of paint for Wayne’s walls. Wayne saw Jerry slip the guy a couple of bills but said nothing. Somewhere along the way, friendship of any kind had become alien territory.

  Wayne was far more comfortable with how the others treated him. Which was, with watchful fear.

  There were a hundred and seven houses in the community. All of them were of a similar age and saggy state. Foster supplied some terse details from behind the shelter of his newspaper. In the early fifties, an old farmer and his wife met a missionary couple returning home to a penniless retirement. The childless farming couple had built them a small home on the lagoon. One poor missionary family led to a second, and they to another dozen. By that point a number of the region’s churches were involved. Two years later, soon after the farmer buried his wife of sixty-three years, he was approached by the foreign mission board. The Hattie Blount Retirement Community was born on a day perfumed by orange blossoms and a life well lived.

  Most of the homes were still occupied by either missionaries or retired church workers. Then there were people like Jerry and Foster, tossed a raw deal by life’s careless hand. The community also had a number of small separate facilities—Alzheimer’s unit, a nursing home, assisted living unit, hospice. The community center served as a focal point for volunteer work. Almost everyone volunteered somewhere for something. Which was how the community continued to survive at all. North of the community center stood the activities house, the shuffleboard courts, pool, tennis court, and library. None of it was fancy, but all of it was well used. To the south of the center and connected by a covered walk was an interdenominational church. The community had so many retired pastors, the volunteers only preached once each year.

  Eilene’s Orlando church paid her to help one day each week. Her title was outreach coordinator. Basically she acted as a young pair of hands.

  The community’s president, Holly Reeves, did her best to stay out of Wayne’s hair. She stopped in often enough to know he was working as hard as two men, far harder than the community deserved for the salary they paid. Wayne’s front room held a makeshift desk in the form of a solid-wood door laid on two trestles and a growing number of fruit boxes—the community’s filing system for the past year. As though they had given up and were waiting for the ship to sink. Holly took to arriving near sunset and studying him for as long as she could stand without shrieking her questions and her demands. When she left, they all breathed easier.

  That entire three-week period, Wayne saw nothing more of Victoria. The old lady’s cottage—a tiny place with an oversized screened-in front porch—was visible from his front doorway. Victoria’s house was almost lost behind climbing bougainvillea and was framed by birds-of-paradise. Victoria’s front door remained shut most of the time, the porch empty. Which was odd, since most of the folks there practically lived on their little screened-in havens. Several times Wayne started to ask Jerry and Foster about her. But something kept him back—fear over the answer, maybe. Something.

  Friday afternoon of his fourth week in the community, Holly Reeves stopped by as usual. Only this time she planted herself front and center before his desk, crossed her arms, and declared, “Time’s up, Mr. Grusza.”

  Wayne set down the ledger he was preparing, turned off the computer she’d given him, and waited.

  “I’ve given you all the time I possibly can. Our tax statement is overdue.”

  “I’ve already filed for an extension.”

  “You…” Her mouth was already forming the next part of what she’d probably spent hours preparing before her brain caught up. “By whose authority?”

  “I am your accountant. It’s within my mandate.”

  “You should at least have notified the board.”

  Wayne said nothing because he figured there was nothing to be gained by arguing. Besides which, she was probably right.

  “Really. I must insist upon your giving me a full report. Otherwise I will be forced to take action.”

  Jerry’s bulk cut the light streaming through the front screen door. Holly raised her arm in the jerky stiffness of one working from a full head of steam. “Don’t you even start.”

  Jerry remained where he was. Holly went on, “You must by now have some idea of the situation.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can understand how urgent our situation is.”

  Jerry said, “The man does nothing but work and work. Either the books or the house.”

  “Jerry, please.”

  “What you’re paying, I figure he’s making about sixty-five cents an hour. H
e wanted to make noise, we’d have a labor beef on our hands.”

  “Mr. Grusza, I really must insist.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “If you don’t …Excuse me?”

  “I can give you my report tomorrow.”

  Wayne liked the fact that he never locked his door. A community so tight the prospect of theft was impossible. At least, that was the idea.

  That next morning, he felt the eyes the whole way down the narrow oyster-shell lane leading between the houses. That was another thing, how nobody felt a need to drill open his skull and pour in a ton of rules. They basically governed by example. The cottages were all about the same double-wide trailer size, with screened porches either fore or aft. Cars crawled down the lanes, dropped off groceries and the ones too weak or old to make it from the front parking lot, then scrunched apologetically back. The community center ran a cafeteria for those who didn’t want to cook. The prices were low, the food fresh, the choices basic. Wayne took his breakfast there, a yellow mountain of eggs and toast and sausage and three gallons of coffee. That morning, the maintenance guy was the only one who met his eye directly. The janitor leaned against the wall behind the cashier, giving Wayne a careful inspection. Any doubt Wayne had that the residents knew what was going down vanished then and there. If even the janitor knew, it was all over town.

  No surprise, given what Wayne’s inspection had uncovered.

  The community center was essentially six big rooms with an equal number of offices. The cafeteria had three sliding glass doors that opened into an outdoor eating area. The grassy area’s other side was rimmed by two massive oaks, several blooming fruit trees, and a dovecote. The lagoon was just visible between the trees. A marsh island decorated with swamp grape and wild azalea rose about seventy yards off shore. Beyond that sparkled the Intracoastal Waterway, known in these parts as the Indian River. The northernmost causeway leading to the Vero Beach barrier island rose like a concrete hill to Wayne’s left. He ate his pile of eggs and watched the rising sun sparkle off the waters and the cars crossing the bridge.

  He stayed where he was until the cleaning lady lowered the slat blinds against the rising sun. He took that as his cue and headed next door.

  They were there waiting for him.

  All the folks who had been avoiding him and then some were gathered in the room. The rear wall was a battery of walkers and electric wheelchairs. The chatter was mostly soft, except for those trying to communicate with the ones whose hearing was about gone. Even they shut up when Wayne walked up the central aisle.

  The same three people were seated at the same conference table. The same chair waited for him. He had a little table of his own this time, as well as a glass and a water carafe. Otherwise the only difference was that his sister was seated in the front row, rather than standing against the wall. And the mystery lady. The one with the fire-engine-red Ferrari. She was seated beside Wayne’s sister. Everybody was silent now and giving him the eye. Even his two pals, Foster and Jerry. Cautious and tight.

  The hostile scrutiny reminded him of Kabul. Soft-spoken people whose natural hospitality had been cauterized. Wayne seated himself and waited. There might not be bullet holes in the walls. But the feeling was the same. Equal mix of helpless anger and outright fear.

  Wayne decided there was nothing to be gained by waiting. So he settled his hands upon the table and declared, “You were robbed.”

  There was a quiet intake of breath. A hospital kind of sound. Folks fearing the worst and getting what they’d expected.

  An old man said, “What?”

  “Robbed, Harry.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes, Harry. Now turn up your earpiece. I’m not shouting at you for the rest of this meeting.”

  Holly Reeves said, “The police sent in a detective. He claimed differently.”

  “I can’t answer for them. But your books tell a pretty clear story, far as I’m concerned.”

  Jerry said, “Explain it to us in words we can understand.”

  Holly glanced Jerry’s way, but did not speak.

  Wayne said, “The process was too systematic to be anything else. Sixteen months ago, you hired Zachary Dorsett as your accountant.”

  A woman seated behind him made a spitting noise. “Evil. The moment I set eyes on him, I knew.”

  A dozen people shushed her. Wayne continued, “He files your tax claims. Does the state and federal tax-exempt papers. Everything in order with both. Establishes his creds. Then he goes to work.”

  The woman behind Wayne said, “Just open the door and let evil sweep in. What do you expect, mutton? A nice cup of borscht maybe?”

  The old man with the hearing problem called out, “Who is that muttering?”

  “Hilda.”

  “Who?”

  “Hilda!”

  “Well, tell her to shut up! I’m trying to listen.”

  Wayne went on, “Up to that point, your assets were spread pretty thin. It made sense to reduce the number of commissions you were paying, which I suppose was how he convinced you to let him accumulate everything into one pile.”

  Jerry actually laughed out loud.

  That gave Wayne reason enough to suppose, “Then he probably made a presentation to the whole group. Gave you a major song and dance about this great investment opportunity. I imagine he even had slides. Maybe a PowerPoint with music. Brought in a guy with fine teeth. The two of them ganged up on you and talked about some fabulous rate of return. Sign on the dotted line, wait six months, and everybody would be set up with new dentures and the latest Chevrolet.”

  Holly asked weakly, “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” Wayne replied. “Until now.”

  “He actually promised us each a new Buick,” Foster corrected. “But otherwise you’ve got everything else down pretty solid.”

  Holly waited until the chamber settled, then asked, “How much?”

  “I won’t know for certain unless I get access to the individual accounts.”

  “The community,” Holly said. “How much did we lose?”

  “I don’t need a CPA degree to answer that one.” Foster snorted. “Everything down to the nails and the plywood, is how much. We’re stripped to the bone.”

  Wayne decided there was no need to answer with anything more than a look. Holly’s somewhat green complexion said she already knew.

  “Ask the man the question we brought him here for,” Foster said. “How long do we have?”

  It was bad to be the hangman. Even when the noose was tightened by somebody else’s hand. Still it hurt to pull the handle. Wayne had never realized that more clearly than just then.

  He said, “When I file this year’s accounts, your community will officially be in receivership. I’ve applied for an extension, so you have another three and a half weeks to come up with another source of funds. Otherwise …”

  The words punctured the room’s air like a blade through a balloon. The old man’s querulous voice rose above the hushed muttering. “What’d he say?”

  “We’re broke, Harry.”

  “I knew that already. That skunk in a suit stole every penny. Where are we supposed to live, that’s what I want to know.”

  Hilda’s voice broke slightly at that point. “He doesn’t know the answer to that any more than we do, Harry.”

  “Then what good is he?”

  The room filled with a wash of fractured talk. Holly and Foster’s heads came together at the conference table. From the row behind him came the sound of weeping. His sister swiftly went around to offer her well-trained comfort. Wayne rose from his chair and headed for the rear door. It wouldn’t be polite for an outsider to witness this private tragedy.

  Two sets of eyes watched his progress. His sister’s friend was actually wearing blue that day, but looked too hot for the color.

  The other was Victoria. Seated there at the table like she hadn’t played a vanishing act for the past three weeks. The only person in the room w
ho was smiling.

  Wayne pretended he didn’t notice either one. Held to his tight closed expression until he made the rear doors. Then he glanced back. Didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help himself. Almost like his head was drawn around of its own accord.

  All but two heads in the room stayed together, talking and worried. For once, he did not mind the intensity of his sister’s friend. And Victoria still watched him. Still smiling.

  FIVE

  Wayne sat in the shade of a live oak, a wild twisted sculpture of iron and bark. His bench formed a quarter ring around the tree, set where the branches offered the greatest shade. The bench was banded to the trunk with an iron rim, the woodwork pegged and grooved. The trunk had begun to flow over the band like wooden molasses. The bench was the work of a man who loved wood, someone who didn’t need any more accolade than to have people come and rest and enjoy the tree as much as he did. The nearby dovecote was cone-shaped with screened walls. Another live oak formed the dovecote’s central pillar. There must have been forty birds, chuckling and cooing and brushing the air with silken wings. Wayne sat and watched the old people totter from the community center, not actually clutching one another for support, but pretty close.

  When Jerry sauntered over, Wayne greeted the former cop with, “It’s not right.”

  “Glad to hear you say that.” The black man settled himself on the bench next to Wayne. “I’ve had this thing caught in my craw for eight months. Doesn’t make me feel a bit better that I didn’t get burned. The only reason was, I couldn’t get the money from my pension account fast enough. By the time I had the cash, the deal was done.”

  “So what happened?”

  Jerry did a thing with his hands, gripping the bench’s edge and trying to curl it, like he probably would’ve done to Zachary Dorsett’s bones if he had the chance. “Man, that dude was good. Right to the end. Came in that last day, grey as old dust, laid it out in a voice from the tomb. How he’d lost his own shirt in the process.”