Camino Winds (Camino Island #2)(51)
Lindsey, of course, knew all of this. She pressed on with “It’s easy money, Vera, and we’re not asking you to do anything wrong.”
“Well, it sure smells wrong.”
“I assure you.”
“And I’m supposed to trust you? Hell, we just met. You call me out of the blue and say meet me for a biscuit.”
“We’re offering a lot more.”
“What am I supposed to do? Be a spy?”
“Something like that. The lawyers I work for are experts in the field of nursing home abuse. You’ve seen the cases.”
“I ain’t going to no courtroom, no ma’am.”
“We won’t ask you to. That’s not part of your job.”
“And so what happens if these lawyers bring all these cases to court and Glinn Valley goes bankrupt? What am I supposed to do then? Like I said, lady, there ain’t no jobs around here. They pay me minimum wage to clean bedpans and you think I like it? No, I don’t, but my kids also like to eat, now don’t they?”
Lindsey was always quick to admit defeat. She would leave and go to the next name on the list. She raised her hands in mock surrender and said, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Stark. I’ve paid you. Have a nice day.”
Vera said, “Three thousand a month for five months. That’s fifteen thousand total, in cash, more than I clear after taxes for the year. First month in advance.”
Lindsey smiled and studied her eyes. A hard life had sharpened her edges and made her nimble. Quietly, she said, “Deal.”
Vera smiled too and said, “I don’t even know your name.”
Lindsey pulled out a business card with little accurate data on it. The name was Jackie Fayard. The phone number was for a burner with a monthly plan. The law firm’s address was in downtown Louisville at a corporate registry, along with a hundred others. She said, “Don’t bother calling the firm, because I’m never there.”
“When do I get the advance?” Vera asked.
“Tomorrow, but let’s meet at the Food Center on Main, by the produce, same time.”
“I don’t shop there. That’s where the white folks go.”
“All the more reason to go there. The meeting won’t last five minutes.”
“Okay, what am I looking for?”
“Let’s start with the names of the patients with advanced dementia. Those who can’t get out of bed.”
“That’s easy.”
2.
On the other side of Flora, a colleague of Lindsey’s, one Raymond Jumper, walked into a redneck dive and took a stool at the bar. Though the WHITES ONLY signs had long since been removed, their policies were still in effect. The blacks had their honky-tonks, the whites had their beer joints, and for everyone in town the nightlife was as segregated as ever. Jumper ordered a beer and began surveying the crowd. Two large young ladies were shooting pool. One of them was his target, a Miss Brittany Bolton, age twenty-two, single, no kids, a high school graduate currently taking night classes at a community college an hour away and living with her parents. For the past two years she had worked at Serenity Home, a facility in Flora that was marketed as a “retirement village” but was nothing more than a low-end nursing home operated by a company with a long history of cutting corners.
Jumper watched them butcher the game while laughing and talking nonstop, then he bought two bottles of beer and sauntered over. He was thirty-two, divorced, and knew his way around a pool table. He offered them fresh refills and talked his way into the game. An hour later they were in a booth eating nachos and drinking a pitcher of beer, courtesy of his expense account. His story was that he was in town for a couple of days investigating an accident for a law firm out of Lexington, and he was bored and looking for someone to talk to. The motel walls were closing in, so he’d headed for the nearest honky-tonk. He fancied neither woman and was careful with his flirting. Brittany in particular seemed eager for any of his advances.
Her friend, April, had a boyfriend who kept calling. Around 9:00 p.m., she finally had to go, leaving Jumper all alone with a thick young woman he had no desire to leave with. He asked about her job and she said she worked at a terrible place, a nursing home. Jumper seemed fascinated by this and asked questions. The alcohol kicked in and Brittany rambled on about her job and how much she hated it. The nursing home was always understaffed, primarily because it paid slightly more than minimum wage to orderlies, cooks, janitors, everyone but nurses and management. Patients were neglected in more ways than she wanted to talk about. Most of them had been forgotten by their families, and while she was sympathetic, she was just sick and tired of the place. She had bigger dreams. She wanted to become a nurse in a large hospital, a real job with a future, somewhere far away from Flora, Kentucky.
Jumper explained that he did a lot of work for a law firm that specialized in nursing home neglect, and finally asked the name of her employer. They drank some more beer and it was finally time to leave, either together or separately. Jumper claimed he had a long phone call to make and begged off after swapping phone numbers.
The following day, he called Brittany at work and said he wanted to talk. They met after hours at a pizza place and he bought dinner again. After a couple of beers, he said, “Serenity has fifty facilities in the Midwest and a lousy reputation in the business.”