The Big Bamboo by Tim Dorsey Page A

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.
     
     
     

4
     
FORT LAUDERDALE
     
     
    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.
    The oldest grabbed an electric scooter and rode alongside his two friends, who walked with canes up the aisle toward men’s socks. They picked out sheer, dark ones that would rise to their shins. The man on the scooter tossed a pair in his handlebar basket and hit the chair’s accelerator. It took off at a high rate of speed. In reverse. The man’s head disappeared under a row of sport coats hanging along the wall. “Son of a bitch!”
    Salespeople came running. All they could see were two white legs below a rack of thrashing blazers. They pulled the scooter out.
    “Sir, are you all right?”
    “No, he’s not all right,” said one of his companions. “He’s an idiot!”
    “It wasn’t me!” said the man on the scooter. “The damn thing malfunctioned!”
    “Every scooter you get on malfunctions!”
    “They need a recall.”
    “Guys,” said the third member of the trio. “Let’s not get into this again. We have the day to enjoy.”
    They headed up another aisle. “I need to look at shoes.” The scooter veered off.
    “We’ll be over at the watches.”
    Two hunched men in guayaberas approached a display case. They leaned their canes against the glass. The woman behind the counter was tall, with cropped brunette hair and sophistication. Her smile had a touch of pity, but in a good way. Memories of her late grandfather. “What can I show you today?”
    The taller one wore a Scottish golf cap. “I’ve had cheap watches my whole life. I’ve decided to treat myself.”
    “How much were you thinking of spending?”
    “The hell does it matter?” said the shorter one, adjusting his flat-brimmed straw hat and chewing a toothpick. “I’ll be dead soon.”
    The woman maintained poise. “I have some nice ones I think you’ll like.”
    She laid a pair of five-hundred-dollar jobs side by side on the counter. Pearl inlays, sterling bands.
    “Is this a joke?” said the one in the straw hat.
    “What do you mean?”
    “There aren’t any numbers. Not even little markers. How am I supposed to tell time?”
    “Sir, the plain face is very stylish.”
    “Right. I’ll be walking around very stylish—and late.” He nudged his