Free Death in the Polka Dot Shoes by Marlin Fitzwater

of the school to his rusted pickup truck parked on the grass. His brother, who was only a year or two ahead of me, ran the air pump in the truck and we all got to breathe some of the air from the compressor tank. It was neat. But I did have concerns about the younger brother. Once I had seen him smoking behind school and giving some guy the finger. Not exactly a lifesaving character in my mind.
    All of these people worked with their hands, in highly commendable occupations, but they didn’t teach me anything about being a professional worker, or how money worked, or about the world of people who spent everyday in tall buildings. What were those people doing? I saw them on television. I saw their new cars and some of the houses being built on Jenkins Creek that implied wealth, but my school didn’t offer a clue. It wasn’t until high school that I began to sense a larger universe of occupations.
    I suspected that Diane Sexton came to this issue from the opposite direction. She grew up in Long Island, New York, someplace I had never visited, and went to college at Vanderbilt in Nashville. Her folks thought a little southern gentility might hone the sharp edges of her life in New York. And it did. She was a perfectly charming blend of smooth manner and raging ambition, like one of those swans with a long elegant neck that will seduce your eyes, then take a chunk out of your leg.
    As she finished circling my office, her only response was, “This is it?”
    â€œDiane,” I said, “this isn’t Simpson, Feldstein and James. It’s Ned Shannon. And it’s all mine. All me. I do it all, from the phones to the research to the briefs.”
    â€œOh brother, I’ve seen it all now,” she said. “Well, the boys at Simpson send their regards. They think you’re crazy.”
    â€œI may be Diane, but it feels good, and I’m glad to see you.”
    â€œNed, here’s the good news. Chesapeake Resorts International wants to hire you, on retainer for a thousand a month.”
    â€œWhat do they want?” I asked. “Take on the eco-freaks, challenge the Democratic party of Maryland, and clear the land for the building.”
    â€œNo, they want you to cooperate with the environmentalists. They haven’t gotten to the fighting stage yet. That will come. But CRI needs an inside guy. Someone to help them with the permits, to smooth the way with the locals.”
    â€œDo you know what you’re saying?” I asked. “The permitting process alone will take years, with meetings and fights like you can’t believe.”
    â€œAll the better,” she smirked. “That monthly retainer just keeps coming in. And besides, what about those seventy-five acres you own. This experience will show you how to do it. How to develop.”
    I let the matter stand. She paced and remarked, “You are the luckiest guy I ever met.”
    â€œYou’ve been given several million dollars in land,” Diane said. “Plan now to do something with it. Help Jimmy’s wife Martha develop her land. She probably needs the money now.”
    â€œYou’re right about that,” I replied. “I should be helping Martha. She’s the one who grabbed my brother by the collar and said, ‘let’s make something of ourselves.’ And she did it the only way it’s real, by hard work and good dreams and never losing sight of the goal. She prodded Jimmy to clean that boat up. She put everything on a computer so he knew how many crab pots he had, and where. She figured out how to get three hundred dollars a day for a three hour fishing trip, and sell those city slicker fishermen a crab cake sandwich for another ten dollars and call it a Chesapeake Deli. And then he died. Gave away the boat and half the land and left her with a baby girl besides. For crying out loud, Diane, you’re right again.”
    â€œThank you. Now go make some money.”
    But