On the security counter’s far side, a woman watched Brian Newell’s approach. Red lipstick outlined her mouth. Rouge smeared both cheeks. Wearing a blue nylon jacket with City of Miami stitched in white script on the left and Sylvie on the right, she adjusted the quilt on her shoulders and pointed to a worn wooden cigar box. “Folder under the box. Keys, wallet, phones, anything metal, goes in the box.”
Brian put his portfolio on the counter, the cigar box on top, then dropped car’s fob, wallet, and iPhone into it. He shot his right wrist forward, exposing the Cartier watch his father gave him at graduation. “What about this?”
“Is it real?” Sylvia squinted, shook her head. “No. You’re fine. Step through.”
She used a shuffleboard stick to push the portfolio and box down the counter, past the metal detector.
Brian stared at his watch as he stepped through the metal detector into city hall’s lobby. Lights didn’t flash; sirens remained silent. He glanced back at Sylvie, picked up his wallet and iPhone in his right hand, fob in his left and turned back to test the detector.
“That watch is a fake, honey,” Sylvie said. “Trust the machine.”
Brian looked back through the portal to his past. Disappointments lurked everywhere.
Brash laughter and shoes scraping the terrazzo floors heralded the arrival of Miami’s political cognoscenti into city hall’s lobby. Surging from entryways left and right connecting commission chambers and offices beyond, thirty-seven people (if anyone bothered to count) in twos, threes and mores filed in. The city’s grand vizier and lesser beings, dressed in smart and rumpled suits, elegant and plain dresses, torn jeans and cargo shorts, shouted histories, lies, and prognostications. Enemies stood close, lips to ear, smiling as they whispered threats. Friends kept a distance, patting arms, shoulders, and backs, pretending to listen. Those nearest to Brian saw him first. Their nattering stopped mid-sentence, mid-word. Silence washed like a wave across the lobby. Heads turned, eyes widened, jaws slacked. They stood still as a courtroom sketch; all eyes focused on him.
The grand vizier, Romero Ruz-Gonzalez — Romey to friends, smarmy dirtball to foes — officially deputy director of finance, unofficially custodian of slush funds, mayor’s nephew, vice-mayor’s brother-in-law, and fourth cousin of Fidel Castro, raised right fist to lips and cleared his throat.
At the prompt, Alberto Crespo, the multi-chinned Director of Protocol – freshly planted hair plugs sprouting like spring peas from his pink dome – announced from the back of the pack, “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the next Artie Pearl. Newly arrived in our Magic City from points north, I give you Mister Brian Newell. According to the city’s organizational chart, which I consulted just this morning, he’s the one hundred and seventy-fourth most important person in our fair city’s government, between the Clerk of Parking Lot Management, Lines and Striping, and the Director of Purchasing, Bulbs and Luminaires. Act accordingly.”
Brian rose on his toes and shouted to the voice. “I’m the new director at Stobo de Pas Park, but not the next Pearl.”
“Oh pobrecito,” cried Donora Sánchez, the mayor’s side piece and Crespo’s assistant. All she’d squeezed into a red and white polka dot frock that morning jiggled like Jello. “This little one doesn’t think he’ll get caught.”
“I’ll only get caught doing my job.”
“That’s the spirit, son,” cheered Father Richard, the defrocked priest and diocesan lobbyist. Dressed in a black mock turtleneck, he gripped the silver crucifix dangling around his neck. “To one who has faith, no alibi is necessary.”
The vizier recognized Aquinas. He laughed and snapped his fingers. “Good one, padre…”
“I knew Arthur Pearl,” cried Dotty Blucher, the Assistant City Attorney for Domestic Animal Abuse and Licensing. “He was a real charmer.”
“Yeah, a snake charmer,” piped up Haulover Jenkins from Solid Waste: Recyclables and Dead Animal Removal.
“See how far that gets him in Pensacola,” intoned Josephine Biggers, a long-suffering inner-city children’s advocate. “Think of what we could of done with all he stole.”
Anti-aging activist Rodrigo Duharte, who looked ninety at sixty-seven, chimed in, “Guys like Pearl always end up on top.”
“Let’s ask Father Dick,” added commission gadfly, Emile Johansen. “Which was it, Father Dick? Top or bottom?”
“Father Richard,” the priest corrected.
“No need for that kind of talk,” Josephine Biggers scolded.
“What kind of talk?” Emile replied. “Plain English? The truth?”
“Gutter talk.”
Just Johnson, Stephen “The Fatman” Teitelbaum’s bagman asked, “What did Pearl do? I never did hear.”
“He got caught,” squealed Donora Sanchez. Delighted with the joke, her Jello shook from top to bottom.
“The Fat Man would say there’s a lesson in that.”
Solomon Raffe, Assistant City Attorney for Internecine Disputation and Negotiation — Rabbi Samuel Raffe’s son and his life-long disappointment — said, “My father claims there’s a lesson in everything.”
“Fraud,” Emile piped in. “They got him on – fraud.”
“Fraud?” squealed Donora. “That’s a funny word. So small. Seems harmless.”
The vizier spoke again. “Criminal deception for financial or personal gain.”
“That’s half the people in this room,” suggested Haulover Jenkins.
“Just half?” Emile cried.
“That’s not funny,” said Josephine Biggers.
“Then why are so many laughing?”
“Laughter can be a nervous response to a known but unacknowledged truth,” suggested Solomon.
“Oh, look at you mister psychologist philosopher,” Emile said. “Mister big pants.”
“I got a hypothyroid, like my mother’s brother, Martin. May his memory be a blessing.”
“And you, new guy,” yelled Emile. “What’s your job? Do you know?”
“To make Stobo de Pas Park the best park in America… in the world.”
The vizier and the lessers fell against each other, howling.
Brian rose up on his toes and pointed. “Have you all always been so jaded?”
Solomon Raffe said, “He thinks we’re jaded.”
“We are,” replied Emile.
“We are?”
The vizier said, “Everyone who’s not jaded raise your hand.”
Brian thrust his right hand high and surveyed the crowd. Only Josephine Biggers joined him, holding both hands above her head.
Brian looked left and right. “Are we the only ones?”
“No,” Donora said, gesturing with her chin and the rest of her. “Look behind you.”
Brian looked over his shoulder. Sylvie held her right hand high.
“Thank you,” Brian said.
“That watch is still fake,” she said.
