“Hey, Virgil? How ya’ doin boychek?”

The greeting boomed out of the shadows from the back of the clubhouse bar where I’d popped in to grab a bottle of water.

“Myron, you don’t gotta yell. The young man is not deaf like us.”

That was Saul. I pegged him at 85. About the same as Myron. Nobody knew for sure. Both had come through Ellis Island when they were babies. Records of their births, if such had ever existed, got swallowed up in the chaos of that shameful place. A waitress from up in the Florida panhandle had told me their accents were part New York, part Yiddish.

I could listen to ’em talk all day and not get bored for a second. Like when I was a boy in Warsaw, North Carolina soaking up the chatter of old black men. Both sets had endured terrible adversity and somehow made it through. Always felt humbled when I was around them.

“Come on over, Virgil. The golf course’s not gonna dry up and blow away ’cause you take time to kibitz with old farts that might not live ’til midnight.”

“Don’t know, Myron, good chance you’ll deliver my eulogy,” I said as I trundled over to their table.

“You’re right,” said Saul. “Have to hit this guy in the head with an axe to get rid of him.”

“I suppose. Have to be a good axe.” That led to enough cackling that heads turned. Some smiled. More looked like they’d prefer we went someplace else.

After I plunked into a chair and got my bottle open, Myron asked, “You been here how long now?”

“Going on four months.”

“You like it? Working on the golf course.”

“All told, I like it. Harrison’s not the easiest boss I ever had.”

“Ivy League putz. Wears that goddam bow tie and those pink shirts. A snobby WASP working for a bunch of old Jews? I don’t get that.”

Myron continued his ranting while I tried not to show I shared his opinion. That’s one of the things I loved about these dudes. They didn’t hold back. If they had something to say about you or an issue or somebody else, good or bad, they shoved it out there. Vast majority of rich folks I’ve encountered don’t do that. They tiptoe around controversy. They shine you on with bullshit. Not these boys.

“Changing the subject here, Virgil. You know about this swastika shit that’s been going on?”

“I do. Turns my stomach. Assholes even spray painted a big black one on the seventh green couple nights back.”

“You think it’s the Skinheads?”

“Be my guess. If not them, some other misguided souls who need to be lead around with a rope. I grew up with my share of those types. Still got a few relatives on the list.”

“So, Virgil, Saul and I were thinking. Could be not such a bad idea if you sat in on a meeting with our security company about this.”

“You’re gonna go after redneck fools, wouldn’t hurt to have one on your side?”

“A goy with a yiddisha kup.”

“Beg pardon?”

“A gentile with the brains of a Jew.”

Thanking them for the compliment lost out to me spitting a mouthful of water across the floor.

“Should we call for a doctor?”

“Chance I’ll make it. Tell me where and when for the meeting.”

It’d been a while since I’d put on a jacket and tie, but because we were gonna have lunch in the fanciest of the three complex restaurants, I figured it wouldn’t hurt and it might help. When I walked up to the table behind the maître d’, Myron craned his head around the guy to stare at me.

“Virgil, this is a lunch, not a wedding.”

“So much for trying to look professional.”

“You look very nice. Let me introduce you to the soon to be president of our security firm, James Donaldson. His father is stepping down next month and thought it would be good to throw James into the water with our vandalism problem.”

James looked the part of an up and coming CEO. Mid thirties, tall, strong chin, piercing blue eyes, firm handshake. All that good shit. Probably wouldn’t sit in the bleachers with him drinking beer, eating pretzels, and talking about how bad the Yankees screwed up when they bought Arod.

After a little warm up chit chat, Myron got us focused on the miscreants he had labeled the “Nazi Bastards.”

“I can venture a hunch, but what are the cops doing about all this?” I asked.

“Bupkis.”

James said, “The police certainly have not been as helpful as we’d hoped.”

“They’re useless. But, James, what do you think?” asked Saul.

The sum and substance of what James came out with was the need to ramp up security by increasing the number of his rent-a cops that rolled around the complex as well as how often they did it.

As James talked, I paid less and less attention to his words; I honed in on his delivery. He sounded a lot like those preachers you see on TV. They come off sincere and articulate and all like that, but after 20 seconds I flip the channel. I faked it up pretty good, but I’d flipped the channel on James.

Hard to say what Myron and Saul were thinking. I chalked that up to years of negotiating where showing their hand wasn’t smart. When James had wrapped it up, they said they’d consider his ideas and get back to him. After dessert got ordered, the conversation turned to baseball and how the traitorous Dodgers and Giants had left New York for the greener pastures of the left coast and forced their adoring fans to adopt the hapless Mets. I was fascinated. James looked like he was fixing to leave.

After James had run off to an important meeting, Myron, Saul, and I lingered over coffee. I told ’em I probably ought to get back to the golf course lest Harrison get a knot in his shorts. They made it clear that the vandalism trumped Harrison’s concern about my whereabouts and that if he gave me any shit they would remind him of who he worked for.

“You heard what James said, Virgil. What’s your opinion?” asked Saul.

“This’ll most likely get me in trouble.”

“Pulling your punches won’t help us, Virgil.”

“Okay, I think what he proposed is about as useless as a fur lined thunder mug.”

“I like that,” chuckled Saul.

“I don’t get it.”

“Yes, you get it. Remember in the tenements when you had to schlepp down six flights to use the toilet in the basement?”

“I remember.”

“So if you should have a rush call in the middle of the night, what would you keep under the bed?”

Myron guffawed. An old lady at the next table shushed him.

“What should we do, Virgil?”

“Hum, I guess I’m surprised it didn’t come up when James was talking. But since 911, seems like there’s security cameras everywhere. Like in central London. There isn’t any part of any street that’s not covered by a camera. Pretty much the same deal over here. You know anybody who hasn’t gotten a speeding ticket from one?”

Myron and Saul sat stone faced while I jabbered on.

“What’s the deal, gentlemen? Feel like I just farted in church.”

“The reason James didn’t bring up the cameras, Virgil, is because we don’t allow them. You won’t find one on the property.”

“Didn’t know that.”

When they saw I wasn’t gonna pry, Saul said, “We got a lot of history here, especially with the older ones like Myron and me.”

I leaned forward in my chair as my throat tightened. I nodded slowly and it tightened more. As they looked at each other, I saw sadness so heavy I wanted to squeeze ’em together in a hug right there in the middle of the dining room.

“How ’bout we take a stroll outside?” I said.

“That would be good,” said Myron.

For a while after we left the restaurant, we ambled down a winding path that bordered one of the three golf courses in the community. It was getting into late October. The humidity that drenched us in August was giving way to air near tolerable for an Appalachian boy used to chilly falls and pickups sliding off roads in winter.

“The thing with the cameras,” said Saul, “How would that work if we made an exception here?”

Now we were sitting on circular benches that looked out on a lake. “First of all, the cameras wouldn’t be permanent. You stick ’em at a few strategic places long enough to catch these clowns, then you put ’em away. A little luck, they stay put away.”

As I suggested where the “strategic” places might be, both leaned forward with their elbows on their knees. Then their heads started nodding. In less than twenty minutes, we had the makings of a plan. About then a flock of honkers glided onto the lake with almost no sound at all.”

“Our winter guests are starting to arrive, Virgil,” said Saul.

“Every year Harrison kvetches about all the presents they leave on his greens.”

“We’ll, it surprises me that somebody as …”

“It’s not that funny, Virgil.”

“Full of shit as a Christmas goose?”

“It’s not that funny.”

“Then how come you both laughing?”

It didn’t take but a few days for us to get cameras set up on three greens close to the property borders as well as a few in the outer reaches of a parking lot and a few near some isolated condo units. The cameras came from a guy Myron knew in Miami.

He had sent one of his boys over to our place on the Gulf to show us how to set ’em up so they could be monitored from Saul’s unit. Little dude, about half Saul’s and Myron’s ages, but with an accent like theirs. Looked more like a jeweler than a security pro. Knew his stuff.

All of this was done without informing James. Sitting in front of the monitors in Saul’s sprawling living room, we debated whether to let him know the cameras were now up and running.

“We tell him, we don’t tell him?” asked Saul.

“I’m on the fence about that. On one hand, professional courtesy dictates we read him in. Other hand? He’s gonna be bent outa shape we didn’t plug him in from the get go …”

“So he gets pissed off. Should have come up with a better idea than putting more fat guys riding around in those fecockta three wheelers.”

“There’s that, but the fewer people know about this caper the better. I say we don’t tell him. He finds out on his own, he gets some extra points and we say we’re sorry.”

“We don’t tell him.”

Doing this thing with just the three of us was a challenge. We had to figure how to monitor the cameras and decide what to do when something worthy of a response popped up. Saul and Myron were tough and energetic for octogenarians. But we knew even I would likely nod off after staring at screens for hours.

We started our first night of surveillance about 11:00. The three of us were sitting at card tables shifting our eyes back and forth between two screens each. Not real exciting. About a half hour after midnight, boredom was setting in like a heavy fog. Then it hit me.

“I don’t want us to get too carried away here, but I may have figured a way we can make our job here a little easier. And, just possibly, more fun.”

While I pondered the scheme some more, Saul spread his hands and raised his eyebrows: “We gotta play twenty questions to find out this great idea?”

“I’m getting to it.”

“While we’re young?”

After I laid it out, Saul said, “I have to tell ya, I don’t think it’s gonna work. But if it does, I could drop dead on the spot a happy man.”

“I’m sure it’s not gonna work. I don’t give a shit. We gotta try it.”

My idea required some more equipment that had the three of us take a spin up to the outskirts of Tampa. We were headed to a store that sprawled out over three acres. It catered to an outdoors clientele, especially hunters.

We got us an old boy about my age to help us find what we needed. Looked like he’d been rode hard and put away wet a few too many times. Nonetheless, when we swore him to secrecy and told him what we had in mind, he took us right to what we needed. After we’d completed the purchase, he walked us out to the parking lot and helped us load the stuff into my truck.

As we were shaking hands, I said, “Albert, so you like our little plan?”

“I do.”

“Think it’ll work?”

“Shit no. But in the remote event it does, I’d appreciate a call so I can hear the wrap up.”

“Happy to,” I said. Saul and Myron patted him on the back. Albert gave us a big wave as we pulled out of the parking lot.

The next evening it was same time, same station. Myron and Saul were sitting back in easy chairs with the six monitors spread out in a semi-circle in front of them on little fold up TV dinner tables.

“I’m about to head out. We all straight on how this is gonna go down?”

The two of them started to giggle, which turned into full blown laughter.

“What?”

Took a minute or two for them to settle down so Saul could say, “You look like a goddam ninja.”

Now the giggles had attacked me. “That’s the whole fuckin’ idea, isn’t it?”

Both of ’em were now doubled over. Saul managed a wave and a “Go. Go. We’re all set. Leave. Before we should both have a heart attack.”

The plan we’d worked out had me crouched up in a willow tree that I could get out of in a hurry. Once I hit the ground it was no more than 150 yards to the three spots where we’d placed the cameras — the three greens, the parking lot, and the isolated condo units. Instead of a cell phone, I had a cheap but workable walkie-talkie to communicate with my team members. A cell phone would have been clearer, but cell phones leave records. No use giving the cops more ammunition than necessary to jack us up for something they should have done in the first place.

“I’m in the tree.”

“Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘over?’”

“Over.”

“That’s better.”

“You didn’t say ‘over.’”

“Oy, Myron, this is gonna be a long night.”

“Nice chattin’ with y’all. Give me a holler you see anything. Over.”

That first night, only thing that happened was I got stiff as a board up in that tree and Myron and Saul got bored to tears watching a few deer grazing on the three greens. Saul was sure he’d seen a gator, but Myron said it was just a log.

Pretty much the same deal the second night except that a turkey buzzard and I got into a pissing contest over whether he had a right to share my tree. I won the contest, but the ruckus nearly blew my cover.

The third night? That was different.

“Virgil, Virgil. We got something happening out in the parking lot,” said Saul, trying to keep his voice down to a loud whisper.

“Rock and roll. I’m out of the tree. What’re they doin’?”

“I can’t tell, but they both got shaved heads.”

“Like you figured …”

“Wait, wait. Now we can see it. They’re spraying windshields with some kind of canister.”

“I’m on it. Be back at ya when I’m sure they can’t use any weapons they mighta brung to the party.”

“Very good. Myron’s already got the whatchamacallit ready.”

“The froster?”

“Yeah, that.”

As soon as I got within fifty yards of the parking lot, I saw ‘em. Probably late teens, maybe early twenties. Shaved heads, lanky, broad shouldered. Wearing wife beaters and pants a couple sizes two large that were buckled below their asses with polka dot shorts showing above.

The way they stumbled around and giggled while they sprayed away at the cars made me think they were either drunk or high on something or both. Almost felt sorry for them, they were making it so easy for me.

I pulled out the mini bullhorn I’d brought and barked, “Freeze assholes, you’re under arrest!”

For an instant they did freeze. Then they rocketed off in just the right direction. Five seconds later there was the snap I was hoping to hear followed by a gentle wooshing sound. It looked like some giant, invisible hand had plucked them up by their belts and held them eight feet above the ground.

Now the three of us were looking up at two fools twisting and turning like a couple of bobcats in a gunny sack. The more they struggled, the more they got caught up in the net that swayed some eighteen inches above our heads.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Saul. “We understand that you are in the car painting business. When it gets light out, we would be happy to look at the samples you left of your work. Perhaps you could interest us in engaging your services. That would depend, of course, on your willingness to offer senior citizen discounts.”

“Fuck you, you Jew kike bastards. Gonna slice your shriveled asses up and cook you on a grill once we get free of this contraption.”

“Damn fellows, we’re fixing to do just the opposite with y’all.” Then I gave both a burst with the huge fire extinguisher that Myron had lugged out with him.

The howling that ensued was nothing shy of deafening.

“Isn’t that a wonderful device, fellas?” said Myron. “We call it the froster. Now that the weather has gotten cooler, we don’t use it so much. But on a hot, sticky evening in August? I gotta tell ya, you can’t beat it. Makes a new man out of you. Would you like another little sample?”

I blasted ’em again. This time, for a few extra seconds. They hurled a few more antisemitic invectives in between their screams, but now they were running out of gas.

“You want, boys, we can keep this shit up all night. So you can either shut your fuckin’ pie holes, or keep spewing out your venom. A or B. What’s it gonna be?”

As a breeze wafted in off the gulf, everything quieted down while we watched the two overgrown teenagers swinging back and forth like they were snoozing in a giant hammock. A hammock they weren’t gonna get free of. Not without out some help from me and the two old Jews they’d demeaned. One more step and we’d be done.

A week later I was sitting at a picnic table with Albert. It was a cozy park not far from the outdoor store he worked at.

“I fucking love it,” he said after a long pull on his Corona.

“About as satisfying a thing as I’ve done since … Hell, maybe since ever. And we couldn’t have pulled it off without you selling us that snare.”

“Something, isn’t it. Apparently, scientists who study animal movements in Africa use it a lot. Catch a lion or whatever. Trank the old boy, put a tiny transmitter on his ear, cut him loose, and then start tracking his ass. Pretty neat.”

“It is neat. You know we tranked those assholes before we give ‘em the tattoos, right?”

“You put the tats on their foreheads. A few Hebrew letters?”

“With some teensy words in English underneath for the translation. Gotta get real close and squint to read ’em.”

“What’s it say?”

“‘CAN’T WAIT TO GO BACK TO ISRAEL.’”

“Think they went?”

“Don’t know. Don’t think they stuck around here.”

“Probably not.”