Of Mice and Molecules...
Schott In The Back: An Ed Schott Mystery
Introducing a hero who lives on the edge of life and death… because he could die at any moment… unless he kills you first... The geriatric Jack Reacher, the misogynistic Mitch Rapp, the racist John Rambo. We not-so-proudly present:
The average American drastically underestimates the importance of North Myrtle Beach to our national security. In 1953, the US government saw fit to put a factory here that made headlights for military jeeps. That factory operated for six whole years. I want you to imagine facing down the Koreans entirely in the dark, and tell me we wouldn’t have won the war otherwise.
These days, the military and industrial base is still going just as strong. We’re barely two hundred miles from Parris Island, so we’re practically next door to boot camp, helping to shape the new generation of young warriors. Point is, NMB is the beating heart of not just Horry County, but America itself. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. As North Myrtle goes, so too does the world. Just think about what would happen to global peace if some foreign government managed to take out the Medieval Times down on McArthur Street. Anarchy would ensue, and instead of eating chicken bare-handed while watching knights joust, we’d be fighting each other for the last piece of cockroach during an endless nuclear winter. You think I’m joking, but remember we only lost Vietnam after some monk lit his dumb ass on fire. Too scared to pick up a gun, that guy. Well, I’m not too scared. And I own a lot of guns.
Where was I? Oh yeah, North Myrtle. National interests. That’s why I chose to retire here after my time in service. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate - I tell people I retired, but I never really quit. Once that military-grade training seeps into your bones, it never leaves. And that’s why I like to think I was put here at Sunset Acres Retirement Estates. Maybe it was the will of the Good Lord, or maybe by my family, but I’m right where I need to be. A silent watcher in the night. I mean that literally - I only sleep like three hours a night. Bed at 6:45 PM, then I come to around ten. Then it’s Fox News until 3:45 AM until I’m up with everyone else here. Breakfast at four, then a leisurely read of my periodical subscriptions.
For a man of my great accomplishments, life in the community is good. I’ve been put out to pasture. Not to die, mind you. I’m still a stud, every bit as chiseled as I was sixty-five years ago, when Korean prostitutes would practically fight each other for the privilege of getting chlamydia from me. There’s an aura I carry, people here are aware of it even before I tell them what a badass I am. Lots of rumors get started, too. There’s a story going around that I was the guy guarding Ronald Reagan the day he was shot. And maybe I was. My past is so shadowy that I can’t remember parts of it. When I classify something mentally, it stays gone.
Where was I? Oh yeah, nursing home stud. Brings me to Marlene. Marlene’s my girl. Ninety-one years young, skin so velvety and non-leathery that you could easily mistake her for an octogenarian. And flexible, too. Let me tell you - Marlene can almost touch her toes. I jumped on that situation the moment I saw her. There was a little competition for her affections. In the rush to court her, I “accidentally” sideswiped Marvin Oglethorpe, which landed me in front of the disciplinary board. Like I knew he had osteoporosis. Anyway, now I’m on strike two, but the past few weeks (months?) have made it all worth it. Marlene is everything you could want in a companion. The subtle bulge of the colostomy bag under her frock, the swell of her lengthy bosom… let’s just say I’m a lucky man. But this four AM when I rolled out of bed to pay Marlene a visit in my formal pajamas, she was nowhere to be found. I searched the dining room, the nurse’s station, the hospice clubhouse. I even checked shattered hip alley, the back hallway they wax so heavy you basically need a walker to have any chance of making it down in one piece. I went down too, but not until after I confirmed Marlene wasn’t there. As the orderlies carted me off to the nurse’s station, I started to wonder where my lady friend had gotten off to. By the time they’d X-rayed me and cleared me to leave medical, I was genuinely worried. I run a tight ship here, fueled by the pleasures of aging flesh that knows no bounds.
I tried calling the police, but the front desk bitch recognized my voice and wouldn’t put me through. Said it wasn’t an emergency. Like she’d recognize an emergency if it was gnawing her face off. The internal security forces of The Acres are useless in a crisis of this magnitude. Not to blow my own whistle, but I’m quite the gumshoe. Although I lack formal training, I’m such a patriot that solving crimes comes easily to me. It’s that confidence that guides my process as the self-appointed detective of Sunset Acres.
I checked all the popular spots. The morgue was empty today. The weeping chairs were all full, but Marlene wasn’t among the desolate. No one in the community room had seen her either. Normally in this situation, you just wait for the stench to find the body, but the stink of death was nowhere to be found.
I wanted to press on with the search, but at this point it was going to be dark in five or six hours, so I decided to call it a night. As I eased into my circulation garments, I pondered just how far I was willing to go to solve this thing. Except for three or four marriages along the way, I’ve never been one to be tied down. I have five or six girlfriends at Sunset Acres alone, plus a “special friend” who will come to my room if I ever want diaper play. It’s a balancing act, juggling all the girls, let me tell you. The immobile ones never find out what a Lothario I am, but it’s tougher with the walking crowd. For that reason, I prefer the dementia cases. I’m always convincing someone that catching me with another woman was a figment of their imagination. But Marlene is cognitively normal, and has the paper to prove it. Same genius test Trump passed, from what I hear. So I can’t let her go this easy.
Time to reveal one of my hidden talents. No one here thinks this old nugget’s got any tread left on his tires, but that’s only what I let them think. Truth be told, I can increase my intelligence at will. All it takes is a tall milkshake and disconnecting my insulin pump. About ten minutes after the juice hits my system, I start to get wise. Real wise. I see truths that no one has ever seen before. In these sugar journeys, as I call them, everything becomes clear. In this state, I can see through walls and read the minds of the other residents. Animals, too. On a whim, I mentally linked up with Rogan, the house dog, who’s in the bathroom, drinking from the handicapped toilet. He’s thirsty. Just like I’m hungry. Hungry for Marlene, and that jubble she has that just won’t quit.
Even on the juice, this was a tough nut to crack. I spent lord knows how long in my transcendent state. At one point I was screaming. It was a PTSD-fueled flashback to the time we went to that Korean restaurant in 1992 for my grandson’s birthday. Meat sizzles set me off something fierce, and when they’d asked us to leave I had to check their Asian privilege. Words were had. The main thing I remember was the waiter being a real prick when I told him I’d probably slept with his mother when I served in Korea. You lost the war, the least you could do is take a little joke. So sensitive, those Koreans. Everyone else laughed when I slanted my eyes and claimed to be his long-lost Uncle Ping.
Where was I? Right. The sugar journey. When I woke up in the ER, they told me I’d almost lost a foot. Then they asked how this happened. I lied and said I bumped my insulin pack on my Hoveround, but I think they’re onto me. I’m getting too wise, and the so-called people in charge are getting jealous. But the mystical trip served its purpose; when I got back, there was a scrap of paper waiting for me on the bureau. A little clue, written during my elevated state, just before they’d carted me off.
Who’d kidnapped Marlene? I’d known it once, now I’d know it under the influence of insulin.
Ko Veed is responsible, the paper read. What the hell’s that mean? I thought it was a technical term and tried to call my (great?) grandson to fix it, but my flip phone’s battery was dead, or maybe the power button’s been moving around again. What am I, a supercomputer repairman?
Then I started thinking about it, and the facts started falling into place faster than a Bill O’Reilly monologue. Ko Veed wasn’t some gadget, he was a person. I’m almost certain it was the name of that Korean waiter from that PTSD-inducing encounter ‘92, the one whose mom I’d boned during the war. Now I don’t have a degree in telling one Asian from another, but one of the orderlies at the Acres looked pretty Korean. We’ve never spoken, but dollars to donuts, that’s who snatched Marlene. Based on his age, it’s probably the waiter’s kid, waiting his whole life for revenge, on account of me leaving no tip. The bulgogi version of Hamlet, trying to step up to the new king like a big man.
The logic was absolutely airtight. The only question was, am I gonna let some immigrant get away with kidnapping my elderly girlfriend? Let’s just put it this way - if the gooks think they can pull one over on Ed Schott, they got another thing coming. There’s a little joke I’m fond of: You know the problem with killing Asians? You pop one, you’re just gonna want to do it again fifteen minutes later! I sent that joke in to Reader’s Digest. They’re going to publish it one day.
It’s possible, hell, probable, they’re using Marlene to get to me. Payback for being a war hero. This wouldn’t be the first time staff here have tried to set me up. Once, they drugged me and wrecked my car, then put me in the driver’s seat before the cops came. That’s when I learned you can’t trust anyone. Like I always say, Sunset Acres is the deadliest place in Horry County. No one makes it out alive.
I’d been waiting for them to try something like this again. Now at least I knew who was behind the plot against me. Still, taking out a staff member was a big step. I needed information, and for that I was going to have to visit the oracle.
Horus was in his normal spot in the corner of the intensive vegetative unit. To the untrained eye, he’s little more than a decaying lump of intubated flesh, but in truth the man is the nerve center of Sunset Acres. The average senior can’t keep their mouth shut for shit. People practically line up to tell Horus everything from routine gossip to their deepest, darkest secrets, on account of him being comatose for the past six years. To the busybodies ‘round these parts, Horus is that black hole for them, where the juicy gossip goes in, but never comes out. That’s what they think, at least, but I know the ultimate secret: Horus’s brainstem still works a little bit. Enough for him to regurgitate the facility’s deepest secrets if you ask him right, and know how to pay the price he demands for choice information.
At breakfast the following morning, I smuggled a box of lucky charms out of the chow hall. Back in my room, I carefully crushed the marshmallows into a colorful powder, which I added to an Ensure until the mixture thickened to the consistency of glue. Once the coast was clear, I snuck into Horus’s room and poured half the potion down his throat. We’re not supposed to feed him - it turns him into a broken soft-serve machine, if you know what I mean - but this was an emergency.
You could see the elixir working. Within minutes, Horus was moaning and thrashing. Sometimes he pretended like he was still in the coma, but you can’t hide a seizure. The second I saw his eyeballs dancing wildly through closed eyelids, I knew there was somebody on the end of the line.
“It’s Schott,” I announced. “Where’s Marlene?”
Horus was silent for a long moment. “More,” he breathed hoarsely.
I poured a little more sugar-sludge into his mouth and worked his adam’s apple until I triggered a reflexive swallow.
“More,” he demanded in his husky whisper.
“Tell me where she is, and you’ll get another taste.”
“Florence,” Horus breathed, the words so light and airy they could have been imagined.
Italy. Damn, this was bigger than I thought. “Who took her?”
Horus’s head lolled back and he emitted a thin, pitched belch. He was laying it on thick today, and I had no time for games. I pinched his IV drip shut until he moaned. “We can play this nice, or we can play this nasty,” I explained. “Your choice, big man. Now, give it up. It’s Ko Veed, isn’t it? The orderly who works on Thursday afternoons. That’s who took her?”
“Mmmmmhmmmm,” Horus moaned, as he thrashed like a hooked Marlin.
Good enough. I unkinked his feeding tube. “Thanks, buddy. You’re the best.”
Horus whispered something that might have been “Please kill me,” but I was already on the move. Marlene was in Florence, so that’s where I’d find her.
Fortunately, I have strong links to Italy. You might even say I’m connected in all the right places. On Wednesday, I took the bus from the senior center to the mall where the ladies power walk before it opens. Before we boarded, they gave us masks. Strange, but a good idea. A disguise never hurts.
Inside the mall, I ditched the hens and headed to the food court. I was heading to Sparrow, an ethnic eatery that was a known hangout for the local guido mob.
The place’s front man was a kid, who swabbed the counter with a filthy rag. Probably a junior lieutenant. I decided to roll him up strong.
“We don’t open for another fifteen minutes, sir,” he said.
“Good for you,” I replied. “I’m not looking for a slice. But I am looking for Ko Veed.”
The kid at the counter played dumb. “Covid? What about it?”
“Veed,” I corrected. “He’s Korean, but I think he’s heading to Italy.” I paused, letting the kid squirm. “You know anything ‘bout that?”
“I don’t.”
I let the question hang in the air. Let 'em stare at these old rheumy eyes for a second, and they all start talking. This kid was no exception. “Do you want to speak to the manager?” he asked.
I nodded. The second he turned his back, I reached into the tip jar and took all the bills. Let these lowlifes keep the change. Soon, another Italian appeared. Old, beefy, battle-hardened. Games wouldn’t work with a guy like this, so I decided to play it direct. “Where’s Veed?”
“Pardon?” the boss asked. For an Italian syndicate leader, his Lowcountry accent was surprisingly passable.
“I’m looking for a Korean named Ko Veed. Maybe you’re hiding him, maybe not. But if you know what’s good for you, you’re coming up with an address.”
The boss man frowned. “Can’t say I know the feller. Does he work here at S’barro?”
“It’s pronounced Sparrow,” I corrected. “And you tell me.”
You could feel the danger sizzling off the formica counter separating us, a pair of violent predators in a dance of death. There’s no way I would ever walk into a place like this without a piece. We’re not supposed to have guns in our rooms, but those rules aren’t for people who almost saw action in Korea. I moved to open my coat, to show the crime boss I was strapped, but realized too late that I’d taken off my windbreaker after Ethel Watkins decided put the heat on in the senior center’s van on an eighty-degree day. Now I was searching each pocket in turn, looking for a weapon that wasn't there.
Where was I? Oh ya - the crime boss, who was looking at me as I conducted a search of my person. Realizing that I might kill him if it came to hand-to-hand combat, I decided to show the man one of my cards instead. “If I was here for you, it would already be over. I know you’re working together. Veed’s Korean, now he’s in Italy. You connect those dots.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” the boss said.
“Florence,” I said, getting impatient. “Your turf, yes?”
“We have a location in Florence, yes,” he conceded. “Is there some problem with it?”
“There doesn’t have to be,” I said. “Veed’s taken something very precious from me. I want it back. If you’re going to stand between us, there will be problems.”
“Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for,” the boss said coldly. “Anything else, you’ll have to take up with corporate. I’ve got to start up the line for the lunch rush.”
He turned his back on me and started kneading dough. I almost shot the boss then and there, just from the lack of respect. There are cameras in the food court, but with the mask I was already dressed like a bandit. But the boss and his goons were also wearing masks. They’d been expecting me, and probably knew I was strapped up. In fact, there was probably a sniper with his sights trained on my chest right now. Maybe two. No wonder the boss was so confident.
I let my hand drift away from my gun (it was either my gun or the juice box I’d smuggled out of the cafeteria that morning) and bought a slice of pizza from the lieutenant. I negotiated fiercely for a senior discount, but they wound up giving it to me for free after I lied about forgetting my wallet at Sunset Acres. Least they could do after wasting my time. Fucking Italians, although these Sparrow bastards sure know something about old-world cooking.
Another dead end, but Schott just keeps on living through them. Family motto.
Where was I? Ah-hah - family. That gave me an idea. Back at the center, I used the house phone to call my worthless son. Told him I needed to go to Europe to re-live the World War Two landings I made. I wasn’t in the Second Big One, at least I don’t think I was, but no one thought to ask. Not patriotic enough. Their loss. Anyway, I guilted him into buying a next-day flight by telling him I have inoperable cancer and don’t have long. Fuck me, that kid’s gullible.
Speaking of, my son spent the whole flight asking me where he got this scar or that during his childhood. I told him to ask his mother. When he reminded me she was dead, I told him he’d be too if he kept asking questions. That shut him up good, let me tell you.
Other than my boy’s attempts to bond, the flight was good. I just ate the snacks I stole from the CNBC store at the airport. It’s not even stealing, really. This country and everyone in it owes me for Korea. Just like I owe Ko Veed a cold, hard bullet when I catch up to him.
Italy sucked. The hotel room’s shower looked like a toilet, and the water was cold. Good thing I wasn’t staying long. Once we settled in, I asked my son to fetch me a Coors Light, then ducked out while he was distracted.
My Hoveround couldn’t handle the cobbles, so I took off on foot, traveling light with only my whoopin’ cane and a set of brass knuckles I picked up at the flea market back in the Land of Freedom. I’d spotted a train station coming in. Good way to come in undetected on Veed’s headquarters. I know from watching Everybody Loves Raymond that everyone in Italy is basically related to everyone else, so I just told the man at the fare station to take me to Ko Veed. He said something in his made-up language. I told him to speak American, but he just played dumb. Probably looking for a bribe. Normally, I’d give him a taste of old Jack Johnson, AKA my right fist, but I didn’t have time today. Sighing, I gave him my Diner’s Club card. He swiped it and babbled some more shit. I told him I simply didn’t have time for this nonsense and headed for the platforms. That’s where the train goons jumped me.
It was a hell of a fight. I made America proud. Let’s just say there are three or four Giorgios who’re gonna be sitting on their hemorrhoid donuts tonight, but eventually there were too many pasta-suckers for me to handle. They swarmed me, then wrestled me into a holding cell disguised as an employee lounge. Next thing I know, my son shows up. Said he was taking me back to the hotel. Still not sure how he busted me out. The boy can’t fight for shit - I’d know, seeing as I’ve been smacking him around all his life - so he probably had to bribe those Italian pricks for my freedom. Maybe he gave the station agent a blowjob to look the other way.
I may have failed at the station, but I know more than I did before. Clearly Ko Veed is covering his tracks. Maybe my son is working with him. All he does is try and distract me from my mission. He keeps taking me to these beaches for some reason, and only lets us leave after we’ve both cried. It’s getting awkward. He thinks this trip is about healing our relationship, mending rifts that I barely even remember. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten I disowned him after he bought a Hyundai.
I tried to slip away a couple more times, but they’re watching me too close. The last time I tried was during my bath, but then I slipped for real. That put my plans - and my gimpy knee - on ice for a few days.
If this is all part of Ko Veed’s plan to psychologically torture me, I have to admit it’s working. My son’s been super clingy during this whole trip. He keeps trying to tell me about his family and his therapist and his dumb feelings, and he asks me all these idiot questions about my life. Who cares where I grew up or how my own father treated me? He also keeps talking about some asian woman he knows. Some chick named euthanasia - do I want her when the time is right? Maybe he booked a hooker, just like his daddy did when he wasn’t busy killing America’s enemies. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all. Regarding our night with euthanasia, I told my boy I’m ready for that action whenever, but instead of smiling and discussing who goes first, he got real quiet. Then he tried to hug me, and I told him to walk it off. It’s been frosty ever since, although that could be anger over me hitting the minibar too hard. I can’t be expected to do currency conversions in my head. What am I, a high school graduate?
On the fifth day of our trip, my son took me out to eat. That’s when he slipped up. At my insistence, we’ve only been eating at the local versions of American chain restaurants. There are only tiny pockets of civilization in this cultural wasteland, and the odd Texas Roadhouse or Hard Rock Cafe is just about the only place I can get a little taste of home. Usually I order the hamburger steak - an Italian specialty - but this time I decided to live a little and have it chicken-fried. But when I saw the menu, all I saw were crepes. French crepes. We were in France! My son had been keeping it from me for days, driving me around Normandy streets disguised as Florence and making me use the pay toilets that these godless commies seem to worship.
Veed’s gotten to my son, too, using him to lead me on a wild goose chase thousands of miles from where I needed to be. Diabolical. This mastermind has been one step ahead of me since he came for Marlene. I’ve been playing the game his way from the start. To have any chance of beating him at it I have to be careful. I’ll have to get wise. So instead of throwing a tantrum in the French IHOP, I just smiled and pretended to swallow my coumadin, paxil, synthroid, ativan, lasix, insulin shot, testosterone replacement, suppository, aricept, sulfas, enacard, atropine, and my baby aspirin. That got me a ride in God’s taxi - my little name for an ambulance - which took me to the hospital toot sweet. Once free from my son’s watchful eyes, I made my preparations to bolt. When the French ER doctors were distracted, I switched ID bracelets with a comatose patient and pushed an empty gurney down the hall, real casual, until I finally broke into a two-mph sprint and headed for the exit. Would have made it too, if we weren’t on the second floor. Long story short, the elevator must have been rigged, because I somehow became trapped in it. As though an elevator isn’t enough of a death trap already.
Where was I? Oh yeah, trapped like a rat. I hit the buttons, but all that did was make more alarm bells go off. Ko Veed’s men were coming for me, no doubt, and this time there was no son to fellate them out of their murderous rage. But I’ve got a few moves left in these old bones. In my old unit, they called me The Magician, on account of my ability to make things disappear. The key was misdirection. Distract them with your right hand so your buddy doesn’t notice when you snatch his wallet containing the nudie pictures of his wife.
Right now, I needed to make myself disappear, and could sure use some of that old razzle-dazzle. No problem for someone with my particular talents. As the elevator alarms blared, I took off my shirt and summerlights and quickly stuffed them with blankets to create a shockingly realistic lookalike “patient”. When the elevator doors opened, I simply pushed out ol’ sick Eddie Schott past the maintenance man like any other orderly. Would have worked too, if French hospitals didn’t make a big deal about a nude man pushing a gurney through the halls. I thought those eurotrash thugs were more progressive than that. Hypocrites.
Long story short, they locked me to a bed and told me to wait. But no one can hold Ed Schott for long. It was time to bring in the big guns. I faked a seizure until the nurse unlocked my restraints. When she left to get an anticonvulsant, I grabbed the bedside phone and dialed. I didn’t know the area code, but it didn’t seem to be a problem. “Get me the White House,” I told the woman who picked up. They transferred me immediately, and I explained the situation to the President. I rarely use phones - not secure enough - but this guy Trump knows how to listen, and the cavalry was soon on its way. Within an hour, a man from the embassy showed up, along with one of the president’s own secret service agents disguised as a geriatric psychiatrist. I saw the angle they were going for and played along like I was mentally ill, and we slipped from Veed’s grasp yet again. International incident averted, thanks to my quick thinking.
Back at the embassy building, the secret service agent pretending to be a psychiatrist asked me to do them a big favor and escort my son home immediately. At this point, I knew my cover was blown. I was too exposed. Literally; I was sitting in the US embassy wearing nothing but a foil blanket and a pair of Boston garters. Nude or not, though, this wasn’t over. I explained the situation and asked the agent to round up a strike force to kill Veed’s men in the hospital. Once the bad guys were dusted they could send for me so I could resume the mission. And they agreed! All I had to do was sign an extradition form and take some pills that made me sleepy. Grab a mop and spread those cheeks, France, you’re about to find out what it’s like to be cleaned up the ‘Murican way!
My son kept crying on the flight home. I took the dessert off his meal tray when he went to the bathroom. As we left the plane, the pilot saluted me before pretending to scratch his forehead. I tipped him a wink and grabbed a leftover bag of pretzels from the drinks cart. America takes care of their heroes forever.
Back on home turf, I plotted my next move. Obviously, one option was to take out Veed. He’d returned from Europe shortly after I had. I’d seen him skulking around Sunset Acres, staying undercover. Looking for his next rich widow, probably. Clearly, he subscribed to the doctrine of ‘keep your enemies closer’. Or maybe he had a death wish. Like I said, no one makes it out of the Acres alive.
I was still packing heat. Even with the foreign entanglements, I’d managed to hold onto my piece. Three hip replacements is a hell of an alibi each time the airport metal detector goes off. And I was dying to “give Veed his Schott”, almost as much he’d be dying to take it.
But life isn’t always sunshine and no-consequence homicides. Sometimes cooler heads needed to prevail for true justice to happen. If I could get the jump on Veed I could subdue him, take him hostage. The people at Sparrow would pay dearly for the return of their ally. Maybe I could exchange him for Marlene. Maybe the Sparrow folks would even throw in one of those punch cards for a free slice.
But before any of that, I’d need firm proof that Veed was involved in the mob’s plans. And there was no better place to find that proof than the place where it all started. Sometime between Hannity and Fox and Friends I decided to search Marlene’s room for clues. I’d do it when everyone was distracted, during bingo night. These are huge events at the Acres; the grand champion of the evening evening gets fifteen extra minutes in the hydrotherapy pool, so the hall was crowded with anxious greyhairs. During the third game, I slipped away. It wasn’t easy. I’d won the first game - the prize was a bag of Brach’s Maple Goodies - and was a hair’s breadth from winning the second. Walking away when you’re red hot isn’t easy, but I’m a man of duty, so I passed my card to Cal Ruttledge and told him we’d split the pool time if he could bring it home. I trust Cal, but he knows I’ll be checking on him later, should he get any funny ideas about going solo on the grand prize.
The halls were deserted, and my footfalls echoed as I moved into the residences. In the darkness of Marlene’s room, I let my mind go blank and prepared myself to embrace the otherworldly ethers of infinite perception. I ate some butterscotch I found on her nightstand and thumbed off the insulin. Immediately, I began growing wise. Within moments, I was the smartest man in the world. Within ten, I was more powerful than the ghost of Woodrow Wilson. I drank in the room, diving into its secrets and exploring for clues that no man could ever hope to uncover in a thousand lifetimes.
Some undefinable pressure drove me into one of the room’s closets. I opened the door and dove into a sea of women’s clothing, swimming through sheafs of fabric so soft, so delicate that they seemed to blend and merge with my skin. Inside those sinful caresses of silk and rayon, I found pure truth, an acceptance of what I’d denied myself for so long. Marlene shrunk into the distance as I shucked off the trappings of my own mortality and bedecked myself in the magic cloaks I’d long yearned to don. Once these trappings of opulence lay upon my shoulders, I knew I was truly home. I was at peace. I was- what was that?
A sound from the bedroom. I froze, but the loud popping of my joints betrayed me. From the bedroom, a light came on and a terrified voice cried out, “Who’s in there?”
That voice. So familiar. I stepped from the closet - it wasn’t a walk-in, so I wasn’t too winded when I emerged - and stood proudly in full view. “It’s Schott, Marlene. I’ve returned for you, my love.”
Marlene gasped. She seemed taken aback by the boldness of my appearance at her bedside, but something else was clearly wrong. She made to speak, but before she could warn me, a brown-skinned man in crisp whites stepped in behind her. It was Ko Veed, again disguised as an orderly.
“Something wrong, ma’am?” he asked.
“This man was in my room,” Marlene said.
“That true?” Veed asked with hostile indolence.
It was a setup. I should have seen it coming. “It’s Thursday,” I said to Veed. “You work on Thursdays.”
“Right up until I win the lotto,” Veed said, eyeing me with bemused contempt.
If this was his endgame, I’d have to move fast to avoid the checkmate. “I’d forgotten you were on duty,” I bantered, casually moving toward the nightstand. “That’s a mistake I won’t be making ever again.”
Physics tells us that two unstoppable forces, set in opposition, have no outcome other than total mutual destruction. Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty’s lethal plunge at the Reichenbach Falls. Odin and Loki’s glorious demise at Ragnarok. The shark and the other guy from Jaws. Well, if this saga’s meant to end in a short, savage knife fight in an assisted-living facility, so be it. Maybe they’ll honor me with a plaque on one of the benches near reception. Or maybe name a parking space in my honor. Either is good. Maybe both, though.
I snatched a nail file from the nightstand and brandished it. “Let’s dance, Veed,” I snarled, vaguely aware my bladder was emptying as my body automatically prepared itself for maximum agility. “I hope you’re ready to die for her,” I growled. “Because so am I.”
Marlene screamed. For his part, Veed seemed more irritated than surprised. He’d lived on the edge of a lightning bolt for
so long that the prospect of dying didn’t phase him. I admired his courage. “You gotta be shitting me,” he said.
“You’re not talking your way out of this,” I snarled. “I didn’t leave a tip for your daddy in ‘92, but I’m sure as hell about to give you something sharp!” I jabbed the point of the nail file into a stuffed animal on the bedside to demonstrate how sharp it was.
Polyester fill hemorrhaged from the plush toy with each stab of the file. “Stop that, right now,” Marlene demanded. “That’s a Build-a-Bear, and THEY’RE VERY EXPENSIVE!”
Veed made no move for a weapon of his own. “You know what, I make nine dollars an hour,” he lied, somehow managing to sound exasperated AND bored. “You two sort this out.” He turned away, in full flight. It was my only opportunity to end this, once and for all. I hurled the nail file, intending to skewer his carotid artery with a final precision strike, but the abnormally strong breeze from the air conditioner must have stifled the weapon’s velocity, as it only flew a few feet before clattering to the slip-resistant tiles.
Marlene scooped it up. “Whats going on?”
Poor dear. Must be traumatized. “I saved you.”
“From who?”
“From who?” I laughed, and sank down on the edge of the bed, as the adrenaline - and just a little bit of urine - oozed out of me. “I followed you all the way to Europe, kiddo. They tried to make me eat crepes,” I added. “But I didn’t swallow them.”
“I’ve never been to Europe!” Marlene said. “But I went to Niagra Falls a few years ago with my daughter and her husband. We rode on a boat!” She peered at me. “What’s your name? Are you also a new resident?”
She was a blank slate. Hypnosis. Great. Maybe the doctors at Veed’s French hospital had drugged her too. “Never mind. I’ll take care of them later,” I crooned. “You’re safe now. Safe for us to begin our life together.” I looked her dead in the eye and turned on the charm. “If you want to repay me with sex, I left a Viagra taped to the bottom of your nightstand.”
Marlene’s shock at the suggestion puckered her up even more than her normal resting-prune face. “What?” she cried. “I’ll have you know, I’m a married woman. And my name’s not Marlene. I’m Myrtle,” Marlene said, extending a brittle hand. She leaned in close, to where I could smell the heavy lavender perfume with an underwhiff of urine. On second thought, maybe that was me. “Oh, my sweet honey bunches, you’re looking for Mar-leeeeene,” she said. “You must not have heard. Your special friend, the lady who used to live here? She’s left us, honey.”
I’ve lived through some horrific things. NAFTA. Gay marriage. The cancellation of Law and Order. None of these hit me as hard as this news. “How did you die?” I asked Marlene.
“Oh, she’s not dead. She got sick - caught the Covid - and they just moved her to Gracious Meadows. The one up in Florence, near that Japanese restaurant where they cook on the table.”
The revelations were coming thick and fast. “Let me get this straight… Ko Veed moved Marlene to Florence, South Carolina?”
“I don’t think that’s how you pronounce it,” Marlene said. “It's Co-vid.”
“Who’s that?”
Marlene looked confused. “Covid? Covid-19? Coronavirus?”
The words didn’t make sense. I fell back on my training, my interrogation skills. “What's the realationship to Ko Veed?”
Now it was Marlene’s turn to frown. “Huh?”
“They’re both Korean names,” I explained. “Are they brothers? Is Ko Ronovirus working with Ko Veed?” Marlene’s faculties must be slipping. She’d need another Trump-brand cognitive test sooner than later.
“Oh, I don’t know anything about anyone’s name,” she said. “But Francee told me about Marlene,” Marlene explained, gesturing to the other bed. “That’s why the bed opened up, so I could move in this week. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she repeated, extending a withered paw.
For the first time in my entire life, I was confused. Was this Marlene’s ghost and, if so, why was she claiming to be married and, if so, what did the bible have to say about having sex with a married ghost? There was also the ghost’s claim that she wasn’t Marlene. Now that she mentioned it, this person did look a little different. The Marlene I knew didn’t have an eye patch, and I could swear the varicose veins in her legs had changed to a different pattern. Maybe this was a body double. Veed might still be playing me. But the sun would be going down in just hours and this was a problem for another day. I sighed and offered my hand. “They call me Schott,” I said. “Ed Schott.”
Marlene sat down next to me. “Can I ask you one thing, Ed? Why are you wearing the underjammies from my closet?”
“That’s classified,” I said. Something squished in Marlene’s dressing gown as I shifted. “You mind if I wash this before I return it?”
. .--. .. .-.. --- --. ..- .
Marlene’s different somehow. Things have cooled between us. She’s become more coquettish, wants me to call her Myrtle, and claims to be married to one of the stroke boys on the third floor. And she’s definitely changed. Probably lingering trauma from the experience with Ko Veed. I may be unlucky in love, but I still sleep well knowing I’m a gallant white knight, even if I do sleep alone.
Where was I? Oh yeah, Veed’s endgame. I sharpened a toothbrush and passed that first night lying in wait for Veed to try and take me in my sleep, but the coward slipped away. Some say that he’s moved on to the McDonald’s on Wexler Boulevard, but I know he’s really back in his homeland, rebuilding the shattered remains of his criminal network. When he decides to stick his head up, I’ll be waiting to blow it clean off. As Shakespeare once wrote, a bear hibernates in the winter, but becomes lethal once spring is sprung. And let me tell you, I’m on the lookout for spring. You’re not allowed to drive if you’re legally blind, but you can still buy plenty of guns.
This round may have been a draw, but there are always more chances to settle the score. We all have enemies but, like me, America never forgets. One day we’ll drop that third nuke on Japan, to thank them for what they did to GM and the rest of Detroit.
I haven’t heard from my overseas contacts, but I’m patiently waiting for word. There are always signs, letting me know that my friends are out there. America remembers its heroes. It’s not always obvious, but they let you know in the most delightful ways. For example, the National Parks Service has a bald eagle that lives in the parking lot here. A bald eagle, just to honor me. The young kid that manages the Sunside dining room says it’s a seagull that feeds off the dumpster out back, but what the fuck does he know - the punk just got his GED, and it’s clearly gone to his head. The guy’s been stealing medication, too. I’ve been meaning to do something about that.
Where was I? Oh yeah, America. They always take care of you. And if they don’t… I will. Ed Schott, coming your way.
Ed Schott will return in: South of the Border: A Schott of Tequila
The average American drastically underestimates the importance of North Myrtle Beach to our national security. In 1953, the US government saw fit to put a factory here that made headlights for military jeeps. That factory operated for six whole years. I want you to imagine facing down the Koreans entirely in the dark, and tell me we wouldn’t have won the war otherwise.
These days, the military and industrial base is still going just as strong. We’re barely two hundred miles from Parris Island, so we’re practically next door to boot camp, helping to shape the new generation of young warriors. Point is, NMB is the beating heart of not just Horry County, but America itself. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. As North Myrtle goes, so too does the world. Just think about what would happen to global peace if some foreign government managed to take out the Medieval Times down on McArthur Street. Anarchy would ensue, and instead of eating chicken bare-handed while watching knights joust, we’d be fighting each other for the last piece of cockroach during an endless nuclear winter. You think I’m joking, but remember we only lost Vietnam after some monk lit his dumb ass on fire. Too scared to pick up a gun, that guy. Well, I’m not too scared. And I own a lot of guns.
Where was I? Oh yeah, North Myrtle. National interests. That’s why I chose to retire here after my time in service. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate - I tell people I retired, but I never really quit. Once that military-grade training seeps into your bones, it never leaves. And that’s why I like to think I was put here at Sunset Acres Retirement Estates. Maybe it was the will of the Good Lord, or maybe by my family, but I’m right where I need to be. A silent watcher in the night. I mean that literally - I only sleep like three hours a night. Bed at 6:45 PM, then I come to around ten. Then it’s Fox News until 3:45 AM until I’m up with everyone else here. Breakfast at four, then a leisurely read of my periodical subscriptions.
For a man of my great accomplishments, life in the community is good. I’ve been put out to pasture. Not to die, mind you. I’m still a stud, every bit as chiseled as I was sixty-five years ago, when Korean prostitutes would practically fight each other for the privilege of getting chlamydia from me. There’s an aura I carry, people here are aware of it even before I tell them what a badass I am. Lots of rumors get started, too. There’s a story going around that I was the guy guarding Ronald Reagan the day he was shot. And maybe I was. My past is so shadowy that I can’t remember parts of it. When I classify something mentally, it stays gone.
Where was I? Oh yeah, nursing home stud. Brings me to Marlene. Marlene’s my girl. Ninety-one years young, skin so velvety and non-leathery that you could easily mistake her for an octogenarian. And flexible, too. Let me tell you - Marlene can almost touch her toes. I jumped on that situation the moment I saw her. There was a little competition for her affections. In the rush to court her, I “accidentally” sideswiped Marvin Oglethorpe, which landed me in front of the disciplinary board. Like I knew he had osteoporosis. Anyway, now I’m on strike two, but the past few weeks (months?) have made it all worth it. Marlene is everything you could want in a companion. The subtle bulge of the colostomy bag under her frock, the swell of her lengthy bosom… let’s just say I’m a lucky man. But this four AM when I rolled out of bed to pay Marlene a visit in my formal pajamas, she was nowhere to be found. I searched the dining room, the nurse’s station, the hospice clubhouse. I even checked shattered hip alley, the back hallway they wax so heavy you basically need a walker to have any chance of making it down in one piece. I went down too, but not until after I confirmed Marlene wasn’t there. As the orderlies carted me off to the nurse’s station, I started to wonder where my lady friend had gotten off to. By the time they’d X-rayed me and cleared me to leave medical, I was genuinely worried. I run a tight ship here, fueled by the pleasures of aging flesh that knows no bounds.
I tried calling the police, but the front desk bitch recognized my voice and wouldn’t put me through. Said it wasn’t an emergency. Like she’d recognize an emergency if it was gnawing her face off. The internal security forces of The Acres are useless in a crisis of this magnitude. Not to blow my own whistle, but I’m quite the gumshoe. Although I lack formal training, I’m such a patriot that solving crimes comes easily to me. It’s that confidence that guides my process as the self-appointed detective of Sunset Acres.
I checked all the popular spots. The morgue was empty today. The weeping chairs were all full, but Marlene wasn’t among the desolate. No one in the community room had seen her either. Normally in this situation, you just wait for the stench to find the body, but the stink of death was nowhere to be found.
I wanted to press on with the search, but at this point it was going to be dark in five or six hours, so I decided to call it a night. As I eased into my circulation garments, I pondered just how far I was willing to go to solve this thing. Except for three or four marriages along the way, I’ve never been one to be tied down. I have five or six girlfriends at Sunset Acres alone, plus a “special friend” who will come to my room if I ever want diaper play. It’s a balancing act, juggling all the girls, let me tell you. The immobile ones never find out what a Lothario I am, but it’s tougher with the walking crowd. For that reason, I prefer the dementia cases. I’m always convincing someone that catching me with another woman was a figment of their imagination. But Marlene is cognitively normal, and has the paper to prove it. Same genius test Trump passed, from what I hear. So I can’t let her go this easy.
Time to reveal one of my hidden talents. No one here thinks this old nugget’s got any tread left on his tires, but that’s only what I let them think. Truth be told, I can increase my intelligence at will. All it takes is a tall milkshake and disconnecting my insulin pump. About ten minutes after the juice hits my system, I start to get wise. Real wise. I see truths that no one has ever seen before. In these sugar journeys, as I call them, everything becomes clear. In this state, I can see through walls and read the minds of the other residents. Animals, too. On a whim, I mentally linked up with Rogan, the house dog, who’s in the bathroom, drinking from the handicapped toilet. He’s thirsty. Just like I’m hungry. Hungry for Marlene, and that jubble she has that just won’t quit.
Even on the juice, this was a tough nut to crack. I spent lord knows how long in my transcendent state. At one point I was screaming. It was a PTSD-fueled flashback to the time we went to that Korean restaurant in 1992 for my grandson’s birthday. Meat sizzles set me off something fierce, and when they’d asked us to leave I had to check their Asian privilege. Words were had. The main thing I remember was the waiter being a real prick when I told him I’d probably slept with his mother when I served in Korea. You lost the war, the least you could do is take a little joke. So sensitive, those Koreans. Everyone else laughed when I slanted my eyes and claimed to be his long-lost Uncle Ping.
Where was I? Right. The sugar journey. When I woke up in the ER, they told me I’d almost lost a foot. Then they asked how this happened. I lied and said I bumped my insulin pack on my Hoveround, but I think they’re onto me. I’m getting too wise, and the so-called people in charge are getting jealous. But the mystical trip served its purpose; when I got back, there was a scrap of paper waiting for me on the bureau. A little clue, written during my elevated state, just before they’d carted me off.
Who’d kidnapped Marlene? I’d known it once, now I’d know it under the influence of insulin.
Ko Veed is responsible, the paper read. What the hell’s that mean? I thought it was a technical term and tried to call my (great?) grandson to fix it, but my flip phone’s battery was dead, or maybe the power button’s been moving around again. What am I, a supercomputer repairman?
Then I started thinking about it, and the facts started falling into place faster than a Bill O’Reilly monologue. Ko Veed wasn’t some gadget, he was a person. I’m almost certain it was the name of that Korean waiter from that PTSD-inducing encounter ‘92, the one whose mom I’d boned during the war. Now I don’t have a degree in telling one Asian from another, but one of the orderlies at the Acres looked pretty Korean. We’ve never spoken, but dollars to donuts, that’s who snatched Marlene. Based on his age, it’s probably the waiter’s kid, waiting his whole life for revenge, on account of me leaving no tip. The bulgogi version of Hamlet, trying to step up to the new king like a big man.
The logic was absolutely airtight. The only question was, am I gonna let some immigrant get away with kidnapping my elderly girlfriend? Let’s just put it this way - if the gooks think they can pull one over on Ed Schott, they got another thing coming. There’s a little joke I’m fond of: You know the problem with killing Asians? You pop one, you’re just gonna want to do it again fifteen minutes later! I sent that joke in to Reader’s Digest. They’re going to publish it one day.
It’s possible, hell, probable, they’re using Marlene to get to me. Payback for being a war hero. This wouldn’t be the first time staff here have tried to set me up. Once, they drugged me and wrecked my car, then put me in the driver’s seat before the cops came. That’s when I learned you can’t trust anyone. Like I always say, Sunset Acres is the deadliest place in Horry County. No one makes it out alive.
I’d been waiting for them to try something like this again. Now at least I knew who was behind the plot against me. Still, taking out a staff member was a big step. I needed information, and for that I was going to have to visit the oracle.
Horus was in his normal spot in the corner of the intensive vegetative unit. To the untrained eye, he’s little more than a decaying lump of intubated flesh, but in truth the man is the nerve center of Sunset Acres. The average senior can’t keep their mouth shut for shit. People practically line up to tell Horus everything from routine gossip to their deepest, darkest secrets, on account of him being comatose for the past six years. To the busybodies ‘round these parts, Horus is that black hole for them, where the juicy gossip goes in, but never comes out. That’s what they think, at least, but I know the ultimate secret: Horus’s brainstem still works a little bit. Enough for him to regurgitate the facility’s deepest secrets if you ask him right, and know how to pay the price he demands for choice information.
At breakfast the following morning, I smuggled a box of lucky charms out of the chow hall. Back in my room, I carefully crushed the marshmallows into a colorful powder, which I added to an Ensure until the mixture thickened to the consistency of glue. Once the coast was clear, I snuck into Horus’s room and poured half the potion down his throat. We’re not supposed to feed him - it turns him into a broken soft-serve machine, if you know what I mean - but this was an emergency.
You could see the elixir working. Within minutes, Horus was moaning and thrashing. Sometimes he pretended like he was still in the coma, but you can’t hide a seizure. The second I saw his eyeballs dancing wildly through closed eyelids, I knew there was somebody on the end of the line.
“It’s Schott,” I announced. “Where’s Marlene?”
Horus was silent for a long moment. “More,” he breathed hoarsely.
I poured a little more sugar-sludge into his mouth and worked his adam’s apple until I triggered a reflexive swallow.
“More,” he demanded in his husky whisper.
“Tell me where she is, and you’ll get another taste.”
“Florence,” Horus breathed, the words so light and airy they could have been imagined.
Italy. Damn, this was bigger than I thought. “Who took her?”
Horus’s head lolled back and he emitted a thin, pitched belch. He was laying it on thick today, and I had no time for games. I pinched his IV drip shut until he moaned. “We can play this nice, or we can play this nasty,” I explained. “Your choice, big man. Now, give it up. It’s Ko Veed, isn’t it? The orderly who works on Thursday afternoons. That’s who took her?”
“Mmmmmhmmmm,” Horus moaned, as he thrashed like a hooked Marlin.
Good enough. I unkinked his feeding tube. “Thanks, buddy. You’re the best.”
Horus whispered something that might have been “Please kill me,” but I was already on the move. Marlene was in Florence, so that’s where I’d find her.
Fortunately, I have strong links to Italy. You might even say I’m connected in all the right places. On Wednesday, I took the bus from the senior center to the mall where the ladies power walk before it opens. Before we boarded, they gave us masks. Strange, but a good idea. A disguise never hurts.
Inside the mall, I ditched the hens and headed to the food court. I was heading to Sparrow, an ethnic eatery that was a known hangout for the local guido mob.
The place’s front man was a kid, who swabbed the counter with a filthy rag. Probably a junior lieutenant. I decided to roll him up strong.
“We don’t open for another fifteen minutes, sir,” he said.
“Good for you,” I replied. “I’m not looking for a slice. But I am looking for Ko Veed.”
The kid at the counter played dumb. “Covid? What about it?”
“Veed,” I corrected. “He’s Korean, but I think he’s heading to Italy.” I paused, letting the kid squirm. “You know anything ‘bout that?”
“I don’t.”
I let the question hang in the air. Let 'em stare at these old rheumy eyes for a second, and they all start talking. This kid was no exception. “Do you want to speak to the manager?” he asked.
I nodded. The second he turned his back, I reached into the tip jar and took all the bills. Let these lowlifes keep the change. Soon, another Italian appeared. Old, beefy, battle-hardened. Games wouldn’t work with a guy like this, so I decided to play it direct. “Where’s Veed?”
“Pardon?” the boss asked. For an Italian syndicate leader, his Lowcountry accent was surprisingly passable.
“I’m looking for a Korean named Ko Veed. Maybe you’re hiding him, maybe not. But if you know what’s good for you, you’re coming up with an address.”
The boss man frowned. “Can’t say I know the feller. Does he work here at S’barro?”
“It’s pronounced Sparrow,” I corrected. “And you tell me.”
You could feel the danger sizzling off the formica counter separating us, a pair of violent predators in a dance of death. There’s no way I would ever walk into a place like this without a piece. We’re not supposed to have guns in our rooms, but those rules aren’t for people who almost saw action in Korea. I moved to open my coat, to show the crime boss I was strapped, but realized too late that I’d taken off my windbreaker after Ethel Watkins decided put the heat on in the senior center’s van on an eighty-degree day. Now I was searching each pocket in turn, looking for a weapon that wasn't there.
Where was I? Oh ya - the crime boss, who was looking at me as I conducted a search of my person. Realizing that I might kill him if it came to hand-to-hand combat, I decided to show the man one of my cards instead. “If I was here for you, it would already be over. I know you’re working together. Veed’s Korean, now he’s in Italy. You connect those dots.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” the boss said.
“Florence,” I said, getting impatient. “Your turf, yes?”
“We have a location in Florence, yes,” he conceded. “Is there some problem with it?”
“There doesn’t have to be,” I said. “Veed’s taken something very precious from me. I want it back. If you’re going to stand between us, there will be problems.”
“Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for,” the boss said coldly. “Anything else, you’ll have to take up with corporate. I’ve got to start up the line for the lunch rush.”
He turned his back on me and started kneading dough. I almost shot the boss then and there, just from the lack of respect. There are cameras in the food court, but with the mask I was already dressed like a bandit. But the boss and his goons were also wearing masks. They’d been expecting me, and probably knew I was strapped up. In fact, there was probably a sniper with his sights trained on my chest right now. Maybe two. No wonder the boss was so confident.
I let my hand drift away from my gun (it was either my gun or the juice box I’d smuggled out of the cafeteria that morning) and bought a slice of pizza from the lieutenant. I negotiated fiercely for a senior discount, but they wound up giving it to me for free after I lied about forgetting my wallet at Sunset Acres. Least they could do after wasting my time. Fucking Italians, although these Sparrow bastards sure know something about old-world cooking.
Another dead end, but Schott just keeps on living through them. Family motto.
Where was I? Ah-hah - family. That gave me an idea. Back at the center, I used the house phone to call my worthless son. Told him I needed to go to Europe to re-live the World War Two landings I made. I wasn’t in the Second Big One, at least I don’t think I was, but no one thought to ask. Not patriotic enough. Their loss. Anyway, I guilted him into buying a next-day flight by telling him I have inoperable cancer and don’t have long. Fuck me, that kid’s gullible.
Speaking of, my son spent the whole flight asking me where he got this scar or that during his childhood. I told him to ask his mother. When he reminded me she was dead, I told him he’d be too if he kept asking questions. That shut him up good, let me tell you.
Other than my boy’s attempts to bond, the flight was good. I just ate the snacks I stole from the CNBC store at the airport. It’s not even stealing, really. This country and everyone in it owes me for Korea. Just like I owe Ko Veed a cold, hard bullet when I catch up to him.
Italy sucked. The hotel room’s shower looked like a toilet, and the water was cold. Good thing I wasn’t staying long. Once we settled in, I asked my son to fetch me a Coors Light, then ducked out while he was distracted.
My Hoveround couldn’t handle the cobbles, so I took off on foot, traveling light with only my whoopin’ cane and a set of brass knuckles I picked up at the flea market back in the Land of Freedom. I’d spotted a train station coming in. Good way to come in undetected on Veed’s headquarters. I know from watching Everybody Loves Raymond that everyone in Italy is basically related to everyone else, so I just told the man at the fare station to take me to Ko Veed. He said something in his made-up language. I told him to speak American, but he just played dumb. Probably looking for a bribe. Normally, I’d give him a taste of old Jack Johnson, AKA my right fist, but I didn’t have time today. Sighing, I gave him my Diner’s Club card. He swiped it and babbled some more shit. I told him I simply didn’t have time for this nonsense and headed for the platforms. That’s where the train goons jumped me.
It was a hell of a fight. I made America proud. Let’s just say there are three or four Giorgios who’re gonna be sitting on their hemorrhoid donuts tonight, but eventually there were too many pasta-suckers for me to handle. They swarmed me, then wrestled me into a holding cell disguised as an employee lounge. Next thing I know, my son shows up. Said he was taking me back to the hotel. Still not sure how he busted me out. The boy can’t fight for shit - I’d know, seeing as I’ve been smacking him around all his life - so he probably had to bribe those Italian pricks for my freedom. Maybe he gave the station agent a blowjob to look the other way.
I may have failed at the station, but I know more than I did before. Clearly Ko Veed is covering his tracks. Maybe my son is working with him. All he does is try and distract me from my mission. He keeps taking me to these beaches for some reason, and only lets us leave after we’ve both cried. It’s getting awkward. He thinks this trip is about healing our relationship, mending rifts that I barely even remember. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten I disowned him after he bought a Hyundai.
I tried to slip away a couple more times, but they’re watching me too close. The last time I tried was during my bath, but then I slipped for real. That put my plans - and my gimpy knee - on ice for a few days.
If this is all part of Ko Veed’s plan to psychologically torture me, I have to admit it’s working. My son’s been super clingy during this whole trip. He keeps trying to tell me about his family and his therapist and his dumb feelings, and he asks me all these idiot questions about my life. Who cares where I grew up or how my own father treated me? He also keeps talking about some asian woman he knows. Some chick named euthanasia - do I want her when the time is right? Maybe he booked a hooker, just like his daddy did when he wasn’t busy killing America’s enemies. Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all. Regarding our night with euthanasia, I told my boy I’m ready for that action whenever, but instead of smiling and discussing who goes first, he got real quiet. Then he tried to hug me, and I told him to walk it off. It’s been frosty ever since, although that could be anger over me hitting the minibar too hard. I can’t be expected to do currency conversions in my head. What am I, a high school graduate?
On the fifth day of our trip, my son took me out to eat. That’s when he slipped up. At my insistence, we’ve only been eating at the local versions of American chain restaurants. There are only tiny pockets of civilization in this cultural wasteland, and the odd Texas Roadhouse or Hard Rock Cafe is just about the only place I can get a little taste of home. Usually I order the hamburger steak - an Italian specialty - but this time I decided to live a little and have it chicken-fried. But when I saw the menu, all I saw were crepes. French crepes. We were in France! My son had been keeping it from me for days, driving me around Normandy streets disguised as Florence and making me use the pay toilets that these godless commies seem to worship.
Veed’s gotten to my son, too, using him to lead me on a wild goose chase thousands of miles from where I needed to be. Diabolical. This mastermind has been one step ahead of me since he came for Marlene. I’ve been playing the game his way from the start. To have any chance of beating him at it I have to be careful. I’ll have to get wise. So instead of throwing a tantrum in the French IHOP, I just smiled and pretended to swallow my coumadin, paxil, synthroid, ativan, lasix, insulin shot, testosterone replacement, suppository, aricept, sulfas, enacard, atropine, and my baby aspirin. That got me a ride in God’s taxi - my little name for an ambulance - which took me to the hospital toot sweet. Once free from my son’s watchful eyes, I made my preparations to bolt. When the French ER doctors were distracted, I switched ID bracelets with a comatose patient and pushed an empty gurney down the hall, real casual, until I finally broke into a two-mph sprint and headed for the exit. Would have made it too, if we weren’t on the second floor. Long story short, the elevator must have been rigged, because I somehow became trapped in it. As though an elevator isn’t enough of a death trap already.
Where was I? Oh yeah, trapped like a rat. I hit the buttons, but all that did was make more alarm bells go off. Ko Veed’s men were coming for me, no doubt, and this time there was no son to fellate them out of their murderous rage. But I’ve got a few moves left in these old bones. In my old unit, they called me The Magician, on account of my ability to make things disappear. The key was misdirection. Distract them with your right hand so your buddy doesn’t notice when you snatch his wallet containing the nudie pictures of his wife.
Right now, I needed to make myself disappear, and could sure use some of that old razzle-dazzle. No problem for someone with my particular talents. As the elevator alarms blared, I took off my shirt and summerlights and quickly stuffed them with blankets to create a shockingly realistic lookalike “patient”. When the elevator doors opened, I simply pushed out ol’ sick Eddie Schott past the maintenance man like any other orderly. Would have worked too, if French hospitals didn’t make a big deal about a nude man pushing a gurney through the halls. I thought those eurotrash thugs were more progressive than that. Hypocrites.
Long story short, they locked me to a bed and told me to wait. But no one can hold Ed Schott for long. It was time to bring in the big guns. I faked a seizure until the nurse unlocked my restraints. When she left to get an anticonvulsant, I grabbed the bedside phone and dialed. I didn’t know the area code, but it didn’t seem to be a problem. “Get me the White House,” I told the woman who picked up. They transferred me immediately, and I explained the situation to the President. I rarely use phones - not secure enough - but this guy Trump knows how to listen, and the cavalry was soon on its way. Within an hour, a man from the embassy showed up, along with one of the president’s own secret service agents disguised as a geriatric psychiatrist. I saw the angle they were going for and played along like I was mentally ill, and we slipped from Veed’s grasp yet again. International incident averted, thanks to my quick thinking.
Back at the embassy building, the secret service agent pretending to be a psychiatrist asked me to do them a big favor and escort my son home immediately. At this point, I knew my cover was blown. I was too exposed. Literally; I was sitting in the US embassy wearing nothing but a foil blanket and a pair of Boston garters. Nude or not, though, this wasn’t over. I explained the situation and asked the agent to round up a strike force to kill Veed’s men in the hospital. Once the bad guys were dusted they could send for me so I could resume the mission. And they agreed! All I had to do was sign an extradition form and take some pills that made me sleepy. Grab a mop and spread those cheeks, France, you’re about to find out what it’s like to be cleaned up the ‘Murican way!
My son kept crying on the flight home. I took the dessert off his meal tray when he went to the bathroom. As we left the plane, the pilot saluted me before pretending to scratch his forehead. I tipped him a wink and grabbed a leftover bag of pretzels from the drinks cart. America takes care of their heroes forever.
Back on home turf, I plotted my next move. Obviously, one option was to take out Veed. He’d returned from Europe shortly after I had. I’d seen him skulking around Sunset Acres, staying undercover. Looking for his next rich widow, probably. Clearly, he subscribed to the doctrine of ‘keep your enemies closer’. Or maybe he had a death wish. Like I said, no one makes it out of the Acres alive.
I was still packing heat. Even with the foreign entanglements, I’d managed to hold onto my piece. Three hip replacements is a hell of an alibi each time the airport metal detector goes off. And I was dying to “give Veed his Schott”, almost as much he’d be dying to take it.
But life isn’t always sunshine and no-consequence homicides. Sometimes cooler heads needed to prevail for true justice to happen. If I could get the jump on Veed I could subdue him, take him hostage. The people at Sparrow would pay dearly for the return of their ally. Maybe I could exchange him for Marlene. Maybe the Sparrow folks would even throw in one of those punch cards for a free slice.
But before any of that, I’d need firm proof that Veed was involved in the mob’s plans. And there was no better place to find that proof than the place where it all started. Sometime between Hannity and Fox and Friends I decided to search Marlene’s room for clues. I’d do it when everyone was distracted, during bingo night. These are huge events at the Acres; the grand champion of the evening evening gets fifteen extra minutes in the hydrotherapy pool, so the hall was crowded with anxious greyhairs. During the third game, I slipped away. It wasn’t easy. I’d won the first game - the prize was a bag of Brach’s Maple Goodies - and was a hair’s breadth from winning the second. Walking away when you’re red hot isn’t easy, but I’m a man of duty, so I passed my card to Cal Ruttledge and told him we’d split the pool time if he could bring it home. I trust Cal, but he knows I’ll be checking on him later, should he get any funny ideas about going solo on the grand prize.
The halls were deserted, and my footfalls echoed as I moved into the residences. In the darkness of Marlene’s room, I let my mind go blank and prepared myself to embrace the otherworldly ethers of infinite perception. I ate some butterscotch I found on her nightstand and thumbed off the insulin. Immediately, I began growing wise. Within moments, I was the smartest man in the world. Within ten, I was more powerful than the ghost of Woodrow Wilson. I drank in the room, diving into its secrets and exploring for clues that no man could ever hope to uncover in a thousand lifetimes.
Some undefinable pressure drove me into one of the room’s closets. I opened the door and dove into a sea of women’s clothing, swimming through sheafs of fabric so soft, so delicate that they seemed to blend and merge with my skin. Inside those sinful caresses of silk and rayon, I found pure truth, an acceptance of what I’d denied myself for so long. Marlene shrunk into the distance as I shucked off the trappings of my own mortality and bedecked myself in the magic cloaks I’d long yearned to don. Once these trappings of opulence lay upon my shoulders, I knew I was truly home. I was at peace. I was- what was that?
A sound from the bedroom. I froze, but the loud popping of my joints betrayed me. From the bedroom, a light came on and a terrified voice cried out, “Who’s in there?”
That voice. So familiar. I stepped from the closet - it wasn’t a walk-in, so I wasn’t too winded when I emerged - and stood proudly in full view. “It’s Schott, Marlene. I’ve returned for you, my love.”
Marlene gasped. She seemed taken aback by the boldness of my appearance at her bedside, but something else was clearly wrong. She made to speak, but before she could warn me, a brown-skinned man in crisp whites stepped in behind her. It was Ko Veed, again disguised as an orderly.
“Something wrong, ma’am?” he asked.
“This man was in my room,” Marlene said.
“That true?” Veed asked with hostile indolence.
It was a setup. I should have seen it coming. “It’s Thursday,” I said to Veed. “You work on Thursdays.”
“Right up until I win the lotto,” Veed said, eyeing me with bemused contempt.
If this was his endgame, I’d have to move fast to avoid the checkmate. “I’d forgotten you were on duty,” I bantered, casually moving toward the nightstand. “That’s a mistake I won’t be making ever again.”
Physics tells us that two unstoppable forces, set in opposition, have no outcome other than total mutual destruction. Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty’s lethal plunge at the Reichenbach Falls. Odin and Loki’s glorious demise at Ragnarok. The shark and the other guy from Jaws. Well, if this saga’s meant to end in a short, savage knife fight in an assisted-living facility, so be it. Maybe they’ll honor me with a plaque on one of the benches near reception. Or maybe name a parking space in my honor. Either is good. Maybe both, though.
I snatched a nail file from the nightstand and brandished it. “Let’s dance, Veed,” I snarled, vaguely aware my bladder was emptying as my body automatically prepared itself for maximum agility. “I hope you’re ready to die for her,” I growled. “Because so am I.”
Marlene screamed. For his part, Veed seemed more irritated than surprised. He’d lived on the edge of a lightning bolt for
so long that the prospect of dying didn’t phase him. I admired his courage. “You gotta be shitting me,” he said.
“You’re not talking your way out of this,” I snarled. “I didn’t leave a tip for your daddy in ‘92, but I’m sure as hell about to give you something sharp!” I jabbed the point of the nail file into a stuffed animal on the bedside to demonstrate how sharp it was.
Polyester fill hemorrhaged from the plush toy with each stab of the file. “Stop that, right now,” Marlene demanded. “That’s a Build-a-Bear, and THEY’RE VERY EXPENSIVE!”
Veed made no move for a weapon of his own. “You know what, I make nine dollars an hour,” he lied, somehow managing to sound exasperated AND bored. “You two sort this out.” He turned away, in full flight. It was my only opportunity to end this, once and for all. I hurled the nail file, intending to skewer his carotid artery with a final precision strike, but the abnormally strong breeze from the air conditioner must have stifled the weapon’s velocity, as it only flew a few feet before clattering to the slip-resistant tiles.
Marlene scooped it up. “Whats going on?”
Poor dear. Must be traumatized. “I saved you.”
“From who?”
“From who?” I laughed, and sank down on the edge of the bed, as the adrenaline - and just a little bit of urine - oozed out of me. “I followed you all the way to Europe, kiddo. They tried to make me eat crepes,” I added. “But I didn’t swallow them.”
“I’ve never been to Europe!” Marlene said. “But I went to Niagra Falls a few years ago with my daughter and her husband. We rode on a boat!” She peered at me. “What’s your name? Are you also a new resident?”
She was a blank slate. Hypnosis. Great. Maybe the doctors at Veed’s French hospital had drugged her too. “Never mind. I’ll take care of them later,” I crooned. “You’re safe now. Safe for us to begin our life together.” I looked her dead in the eye and turned on the charm. “If you want to repay me with sex, I left a Viagra taped to the bottom of your nightstand.”
Marlene’s shock at the suggestion puckered her up even more than her normal resting-prune face. “What?” she cried. “I’ll have you know, I’m a married woman. And my name’s not Marlene. I’m Myrtle,” Marlene said, extending a brittle hand. She leaned in close, to where I could smell the heavy lavender perfume with an underwhiff of urine. On second thought, maybe that was me. “Oh, my sweet honey bunches, you’re looking for Mar-leeeeene,” she said. “You must not have heard. Your special friend, the lady who used to live here? She’s left us, honey.”
I’ve lived through some horrific things. NAFTA. Gay marriage. The cancellation of Law and Order. None of these hit me as hard as this news. “How did you die?” I asked Marlene.
“Oh, she’s not dead. She got sick - caught the Covid - and they just moved her to Gracious Meadows. The one up in Florence, near that Japanese restaurant where they cook on the table.”
The revelations were coming thick and fast. “Let me get this straight… Ko Veed moved Marlene to Florence, South Carolina?”
“I don’t think that’s how you pronounce it,” Marlene said. “It's Co-vid.”
“Who’s that?”
Marlene looked confused. “Covid? Covid-19? Coronavirus?”
The words didn’t make sense. I fell back on my training, my interrogation skills. “What's the realationship to Ko Veed?”
Now it was Marlene’s turn to frown. “Huh?”
“They’re both Korean names,” I explained. “Are they brothers? Is Ko Ronovirus working with Ko Veed?” Marlene’s faculties must be slipping. She’d need another Trump-brand cognitive test sooner than later.
“Oh, I don’t know anything about anyone’s name,” she said. “But Francee told me about Marlene,” Marlene explained, gesturing to the other bed. “That’s why the bed opened up, so I could move in this week. I don’t believe we’ve met,” she repeated, extending a withered paw.
For the first time in my entire life, I was confused. Was this Marlene’s ghost and, if so, why was she claiming to be married and, if so, what did the bible have to say about having sex with a married ghost? There was also the ghost’s claim that she wasn’t Marlene. Now that she mentioned it, this person did look a little different. The Marlene I knew didn’t have an eye patch, and I could swear the varicose veins in her legs had changed to a different pattern. Maybe this was a body double. Veed might still be playing me. But the sun would be going down in just hours and this was a problem for another day. I sighed and offered my hand. “They call me Schott,” I said. “Ed Schott.”
Marlene sat down next to me. “Can I ask you one thing, Ed? Why are you wearing the underjammies from my closet?”
“That’s classified,” I said. Something squished in Marlene’s dressing gown as I shifted. “You mind if I wash this before I return it?”
. .--. .. .-.. --- --. ..- .
Marlene’s different somehow. Things have cooled between us. She’s become more coquettish, wants me to call her Myrtle, and claims to be married to one of the stroke boys on the third floor. And she’s definitely changed. Probably lingering trauma from the experience with Ko Veed. I may be unlucky in love, but I still sleep well knowing I’m a gallant white knight, even if I do sleep alone.
Where was I? Oh yeah, Veed’s endgame. I sharpened a toothbrush and passed that first night lying in wait for Veed to try and take me in my sleep, but the coward slipped away. Some say that he’s moved on to the McDonald’s on Wexler Boulevard, but I know he’s really back in his homeland, rebuilding the shattered remains of his criminal network. When he decides to stick his head up, I’ll be waiting to blow it clean off. As Shakespeare once wrote, a bear hibernates in the winter, but becomes lethal once spring is sprung. And let me tell you, I’m on the lookout for spring. You’re not allowed to drive if you’re legally blind, but you can still buy plenty of guns.
This round may have been a draw, but there are always more chances to settle the score. We all have enemies but, like me, America never forgets. One day we’ll drop that third nuke on Japan, to thank them for what they did to GM and the rest of Detroit.
I haven’t heard from my overseas contacts, but I’m patiently waiting for word. There are always signs, letting me know that my friends are out there. America remembers its heroes. It’s not always obvious, but they let you know in the most delightful ways. For example, the National Parks Service has a bald eagle that lives in the parking lot here. A bald eagle, just to honor me. The young kid that manages the Sunside dining room says it’s a seagull that feeds off the dumpster out back, but what the fuck does he know - the punk just got his GED, and it’s clearly gone to his head. The guy’s been stealing medication, too. I’ve been meaning to do something about that.
Where was I? Oh yeah, America. They always take care of you. And if they don’t… I will. Ed Schott, coming your way.
Ed Schott will return in: South of the Border: A Schott of Tequila
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