Free SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel by Tim Dorsey Page B
Authors: Tim Dorsey
Burnt Store Road, lined with real estate signs selling fields popular among dirt bikers.
The name of that street comes from the city’s rich history of real estate transactions. In 1855, a Seminole Indian chief called Billy Bowlegs saw land being cleared for American forts and settlements. Bowlegs was concerned that the government was about to evict his people. The government told him nonsense and kept saying, “Could you please move back a little more?” So the chief led a raid and burned down a trading post. Soon Indians had no land in the area. Bowlegs retired to Oklahoma.
Today, property is still being seized in Cape Coral. Florida has the highest foreclosure rate in the nation—one out of every thirty-two homes—and Cape Coral is among the hardest-hit cities in the state. Many causes are cited. Subprime lending, underwater mortgages, housing bubble, “What was I thinking?” Then a new reason emerged. In theory, banks don’t want foreclosures because they lose money. Then the business model changed through federal bailouts and loose regulations that allowed bad risk to be sold off to government institutions. But mostly, banks knew how easily honest people can be frightened.
Greed snowballed as only greed can. Banks began sending out notices at the first possible second under the law, then before the property was in default, then, screw it, to anyone they felt like. It’s surprising how many homeowners panicked and made disastrous decisions. Then again, maybe not. And it’s all true. The banks could get away with it because they eliminated the paper trail by enrolling in their own private electronic filing system, facilitated by politicians with fat new campaign contributions. True again. It’s why they’re called banks.
So many documents were now moving around in the shell game that there weren’t enough financial employees to verify them as required, so they just recklessly signed them.
Hilda and Vernon Rockford retired from Cedar Rapids because shoveling the driveway had lost its luster. Their Iowa home had been paid off years before from his job at the Quaker Oats mill. They rolled the sale of the house into their downsized villa in Cape Coral. Not a penny owed—their castle was free and clear. The Rockfords couldn’t have foreseen it at the time, but they were about to make headlines across the country. If you didn’t already know it actually happened, you wouldn’t believe it. The Rockfords certainly didn’t.
It was a Tuesday morning. The house had a cheerful breakfast nook overlooking one of those countless canals. The Fort Myers News-Press lay open to college basketball scores. Orange juice. Hilda brought in the mail.
“The Hawkeyes lost to Michigan State,” said Vernon.
“That’s nice.” Hilda sorted envelopes and tossed non-essentials on the counter like a blackjack dealer. AARP, free heating and air inspection, oil-change special, Stanley Steamer, a government-looking letter that was a scam, and the Saver’s Gazette newspaper with classified ads featuring used aquariums and discount treatment for diseased gums.
“The Cyclones beat Drake.”
“Why don’t the children write?”
Hilda was about to discard another official-looking envelope, because they never did any business with the bank it came from, but something made her open it.
“E-mail,” said Vernon.
“What?”
“The kids use e-mail now.”
“Look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Just read.”
Vernon pushed glasses up his nose. “Foreclosure?”
“What do we do?”
He turned to the comics. “Throw it away. It’s a mistake.”
Two weeks later: “We got another notice from the bank. What’s going on?”
“Throw it away.”
And so forth. Until they found the sheriff’s notice on their door.
HIGHWAY 27
Bass fishermen stood atop the hurricane berm skirting the southern shore of Lake Okeechobee.
“How did you sink the boat?”
“I thought the bilge plug was in. Let’s drink
The name of that street comes from the city’s rich history of real estate transactions. In 1855, a Seminole Indian chief called Billy Bowlegs saw land being cleared for American forts and settlements. Bowlegs was concerned that the government was about to evict his people. The government told him nonsense and kept saying, “Could you please move back a little more?” So the chief led a raid and burned down a trading post. Soon Indians had no land in the area. Bowlegs retired to Oklahoma.
Today, property is still being seized in Cape Coral. Florida has the highest foreclosure rate in the nation—one out of every thirty-two homes—and Cape Coral is among the hardest-hit cities in the state. Many causes are cited. Subprime lending, underwater mortgages, housing bubble, “What was I thinking?” Then a new reason emerged. In theory, banks don’t want foreclosures because they lose money. Then the business model changed through federal bailouts and loose regulations that allowed bad risk to be sold off to government institutions. But mostly, banks knew how easily honest people can be frightened.
Greed snowballed as only greed can. Banks began sending out notices at the first possible second under the law, then before the property was in default, then, screw it, to anyone they felt like. It’s surprising how many homeowners panicked and made disastrous decisions. Then again, maybe not. And it’s all true. The banks could get away with it because they eliminated the paper trail by enrolling in their own private electronic filing system, facilitated by politicians with fat new campaign contributions. True again. It’s why they’re called banks.
So many documents were now moving around in the shell game that there weren’t enough financial employees to verify them as required, so they just recklessly signed them.
Hilda and Vernon Rockford retired from Cedar Rapids because shoveling the driveway had lost its luster. Their Iowa home had been paid off years before from his job at the Quaker Oats mill. They rolled the sale of the house into their downsized villa in Cape Coral. Not a penny owed—their castle was free and clear. The Rockfords couldn’t have foreseen it at the time, but they were about to make headlines across the country. If you didn’t already know it actually happened, you wouldn’t believe it. The Rockfords certainly didn’t.
It was a Tuesday morning. The house had a cheerful breakfast nook overlooking one of those countless canals. The Fort Myers News-Press lay open to college basketball scores. Orange juice. Hilda brought in the mail.
“The Hawkeyes lost to Michigan State,” said Vernon.
“That’s nice.” Hilda sorted envelopes and tossed non-essentials on the counter like a blackjack dealer. AARP, free heating and air inspection, oil-change special, Stanley Steamer, a government-looking letter that was a scam, and the Saver’s Gazette newspaper with classified ads featuring used aquariums and discount treatment for diseased gums.
“The Cyclones beat Drake.”
“Why don’t the children write?”
Hilda was about to discard another official-looking envelope, because they never did any business with the bank it came from, but something made her open it.
“E-mail,” said Vernon.
“What?”
“The kids use e-mail now.”
“Look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Just read.”
Vernon pushed glasses up his nose. “Foreclosure?”
“What do we do?”
He turned to the comics. “Throw it away. It’s a mistake.”
Two weeks later: “We got another notice from the bank. What’s going on?”
“Throw it away.”
And so forth. Until they found the sheriff’s notice on their door.
HIGHWAY 27
Bass fishermen stood atop the hurricane berm skirting the southern shore of Lake Okeechobee.
“How did you sink the boat?”
“I thought the bilge plug was in. Let’s drink