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The Scheme“Eyes on the road,” I shouted. Bracing my arms against the dashboard, I ground my jaw tight and pushed deep into the passenger seat. Oh God, my mind flashed, a head-on collision — hope my underwear’s clean... Horn blaring, gears grinding, trailer rattling, the eighteen-wheeler in the opposite lane swerved away from the center line. Jim looked up from the brochure he was reading, smiled at me, tilted the steering wheel an inch to the right — and preserved our earthly existence. The big rig thundered past, shaking every bolt and rivet in our jalopy. I glimpsed the driver as he whooshed by, arm raised. One of his fingers told me he wasn’t waving “hello.” Behind me, in the back seat, a fist thumped against the roof of the car. “Frickin’ awesome,” my brother, Ronny, said, adrenaline heightening his voice. “Best road trip ever. Marco Island, here we come.” One at a time, I unclamped my hands from the dash board. Shirt sticking to my armpits, I went limp. “You guys are nuts,” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I knew I should’ve worked during spring break.” A white-gloved hand opened a gleaming glass door. Jim, Ronny and I stepped from the 90-degree, hair-frizzing, shirt-drenching Florida day into 68 frigid degrees of pink marble tile and teal stucco luxury. The Marco Island Hilton. Our heads swiveled simultaneously as a long-legged blond in a black Lycra bathing suit glided through the crowded lobby and stopped to ask the concierge a question. Jim showed two rows of even white teeth. “Looks like we came to the right place,” he said. He sucked in a gut that had engulfed his belt buckle since grammar school and hitched up his pants. “Watch and learn, boys,” he said. “Master at work.” Ronny slowly shook his head. “This is gonna be embarrassing… C’mon, let’s watch.” Sidling next to the blond, Jim propped his elbow on a counter and cupped his pasty, round face in a hairy, white hand. His voice oozed from thin, pink lips:“Haven’t I met you someplace before?” I covered my face with a hand and peeked through splayed fingers. The blond smiled. A wide, sincere smile. Was she actually gonna fall for that? “No, I don’t think so,” she answered in a voice from Down Under. “It’s the first time I’ve been in the U.S. — and the third time I’ve been asked that ridiculous question.” Her smile hardened and she turned and fled. “You need some new lines,” said Ronny. “They’re gettin’ away.” Jim rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Way ahead of you,” he answered. “Jimmy Bertucci in the land of hot babes without a scheme? Get real. Remember the brochure I had in the car. Made it myself. A hundred in the trunk — and here’s what we’re gonna do with ‘em…” I kicked at the hot, dry sand and it hissed across the beach. The smell of salt, seaweed and tanning lotion pinched my nostrils, and the afternoon sun scorched my neck and shoulder blades. A flock of seagulls chattered in a turquoise sky. Across the beach, the sound of feminine giggles floated above the pounding of the surf. A rousing game of co-ed volleyball. I admired the form of the dark brunette serving the ball, then tucked Jim’s brochures under my arm, and skittered toward a white and red striped beach umbrella. In the shade of the gigantic parasol, Ronny sipped an amber liquid from a tall, ice-filled glass. A few feet away, a dozen leather-skinned, blue-haired, senior ladies worshiped Sol from the comfort of two rows of reclining beach chairs. I set the brochures down. “Here they are,” I said, annoyed. “Jim filled in the room number. He’ll be out later; he’s getting things ready. I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Ronny took a long sip of his drink and rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal? A few brochures, a little fun…” “Fun?” I said, my voice rising. “Two first-floor, beach-access
rooms on my credit card? Three hundred bucks for liquor and snacks?”
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