Virgin Territory by James Lecesne

papers that are spread out in front of him. He’s a dead ringer for Doug, except for the fact that his hair is combed flat and he’s wearing a collared shirt and actual shoes.
    “Why aren’t you at work?” I ask him.
    “I’m taking Marie back to
the place
. How come
you’re
not at work?”
    “The club is closed today.”
    “Closed?”
    “Feldner is freaking out and doesn’t know what to do, so he shut it down until this thing blows over.”
    Then Doug asks, “Has your grandmother mentioned anyone lately? I mean, anyone who might be taking her out of
the place
and driving her around?”
    “Frankie Rey?” I suggest with a smirk.
    “Yeah. Right,” he replies. “And I’m having lunch with Lady Gaga.”
    Frankie Rey is Marie’s friend. She’s been talking about him on and off for years, and though I’d give my eye teeth to meet the guy, I don’t think that’s going to happen any time soon. He’s imaginary. We believe that she’s assembled Frankie Rey from the bits and pieces of people she met while traveling around the world. For example, Frankie Rey was born in the country of Colombia, and when he was eighteen he became a
ladrón de tumbas
, a grave robber. He dug for gold and precious metals buried in the graves that were centuries old, and then he sold the stuff to local dealers for a profit.
    “You’re kidding me, right?” Doug asked the first time she tried out this story on us.
    “Oh, but he hasn’t done that for ages,” she informed us.“Not since he moved to Florida and started working at the automotive place.”
    I have a theory that Marie invented Frankie Rey to make her life seem more exciting. After traveling the world, Marie is forced to spend day after day in a minimum-security holding environment for the elderly, and that must seem pretty dull by comparison. Who can blame her? Everybody deserves a Frankie Rey. Sometimes when my life in Florida feels flat-lined dull, I think,
Too bad Frankie Rey isn’t real. He’d take me out of here. We’d go to South America and open up a hotel on the beach, where Marie could live and wander around without being a menace to the community. He’d teach me how to rob a grave, and we’d make more money than Doug ever dreamed of
. Like I said, everybody deserves a Frankie Rey.
    “So what kind of trouble you up to this morning?” Doug asks me as I head out the door to meet my friends.
    “I thought maybe I’d go into town with my AK-47 and mow down everyone in sight,” I say offhandedly.
    “Sounds good,” he replies without looking up from his papers. “Just be back here in time for dinner.”

    The Food Shack is a burger-and-fries joint located not far from the golf course. It’s a popular hangout not only for the faithful of the Blessed Virgin Mary but also for the local policemen, traffic cops, rubberneckers, and the army of TV and newspaperreporters who are on top of the biggest story to hit Jupiter since Tiger Woods decided to build a house here.
    Angela is pacing back and forth, talking into her cell phone, arranging her hair, and occasionally checking herself out in various reflective surfaces. I’m late, but when she looks up and spots me walking through the door, she pats the padded seat next to the place where she’s parked her stuff.
    “Sit, sit,” Angela says. “I’ll be off the phone in two secs. It’s my mother. They still won’t let anyone onto the grounds of the golf course, and she’s thinking maybe we ought to move on from this town. You got any connections over there?”
    “Not really,” I tell her. “I’m just a caddy. I could sneak her in, though.”
    She gives me a shrug. I sit down and pretend to be listening to the conversation between Des and Crispy, who are nestled into the booth, but really I’m busy checking out Angela’s legs. Incredible to think that only a few months ago those legs couldn’t do squat, and now they’re as tanned and toned as a cheerleader’s.
    “What do
you
think?” Desirée