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The Scheme(continued) Smiling, Ronny retrieved a brochure. “It’s vacation, and you’ve got to admire the guy — when it comes to babes, he never gives up.” The brochure read: LADIES’ ONLY SUNSET TONIGHT MARCO ISLAND HILTON ROOM 111 – BEACH ACCESS HOT AND THIRSTY FROM A DAY AT THE BEACH? STOP BY FREE HILTON FOOD – FREE HILTON DRINKS LIVE ENTERTAINMENT “He must’ve been thinking this up for months,” I said. “Ordering us to only give the flyers to the best looking girls on the beach. One room to ply them with drinks; the other to…” I slammed my fist into the sand. “I’m throwing them away.” Scooping up the brochures, I stepped toward the nearest garbage can. Ronny reached out and grabbed my ankle. “Not so fast, big brother,” he said. “You’re right — in a way. College babes’ll never fall for it, but,” he raised an eyebrow and smiled that smile that scares me, “it’d be a shame to waste food and drink when there’s ladies close by who’d really appreciate the invite — AND give us a chance to teach Jimmy-boy a lesson.” He tilted his head toward the two rows of reclining chairs. One of the blue-haired ladies glanced up and smiled at me. She had no teeth. Going, going, gone. The giant red orb sizzled into the Gulf of Mexico, melting along the horizon before slowly dissolving under the waves. The night deepened and, one-by-one, pinpricks of light appeared in the velvet sky. Ronny and I sat on the dark, deserted beach, chuckling. I glanced at my watch. Green phosphorescent hands indicated the time. “You think he’s had enough?” I asked, my face sore from laughing. “Ohhhhh, yeah,” said Ronny. “They’ve been in there for over an hour.” “Kind of mean of us to suggest running out and getting — um — protection just before they arrived.” Ronny shrugged his shoulders. “Is it our fault it took so long? Our fault we couldn’t find a gas station with lubricated ones? Can’t wait to see the look on his face.” I stood and brushed the sand from my khaki shorts. “It’s time. Let’s rescue him.” As we approached the party room from the beach, waves of pulsating sound engulfed us. The patio doors were open but the vertical blinds drawn. Behind them, lights flashed and silhouettes swayed wildly. Ronny stopped and tilted an ear toward the room. “They’re all clapping in rhythm. It sounds like... a polka?” We parted the blinds and peeked inside. Jim had pushed all of the furniture in the room, including the bed, against one wall. A boom box trumpeted from the floor, while a five-foot tall, dowager-humped, wrinkled-face septuagenarian flipped the light switch off and on in rhythm to the beat of the “She’s Too Fat Polka.” The seniors had formed a dance fever gauntlet in the middle of the room. Face flushed, barrel chest jiggling, Jim high-stepped and spun one ancient female after another, while the rest cheered him on, fueled by the influence of alcohol and the remembrance of youth. One of the more adventurous ladies slipped her bra off from under her blouse and twirled enormous twin cups over her head. While I stood mesmerized by this sight, the toothless woman noticed us peering through the blinds. She tottered over, grabbed Ronny’s arm and tugged him into the dance line. While the wrinkled party goers swarmed Ronny, Jim took a breather. Chest heaving, he whispered in my ear, “Great job, guys. Best party ever. These gals — they’re a riot — and all warmed up. Did you get ‘em?” Dazed by the music and lights, I didn’t understand and stared blankly. He asked again, “The condoms? You get ‘em?” He had to be kidding. “Jim,” I said. “They’re all at least 70.” He hesitated, then wriggled his eyebrows. “You’re right, Ricky — as always. Don’t need ‘em, do I? They won’t tell — or swell.” He pushed me over to the boom box — and turned it off. It took his guests a few seconds to realize the music had stopped. Clapping his hands, he got everyone’s attention. “Ladies,” he yelled. “Are you having a good time?” A shrill cheer erupted. He beckoned Ronny to join us. Bending, he changed the CD in the boom box. A familiar grinding beat throbbed from its speakers. He rose, draped an arm around each of us, and whispered, “Payback time.” Then he shouted, “Ladies, the entertainment I promised has arrived. Get out your dollar bills and warm up your libidos — the strippers are here!” Strippers? Oh God ... glad my underwear’s clean.
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