What happened thus far: Abner and Melvin seemed to be two retired Florida Snowbirds that met every Thursday for dinner at 4:00 in the afternoon.

Loretta seemed to be watching their every move during the weekly get-togethers – taking pictures, scribbling notes, and not doing a very good job at being inconspicuous. However, things are not always as they seem. Abner and Melvin were retired espionage agents, whose careers had been reactivated in order to train the newest batch of secret agent operatives ­— such as they were.

“What did it say?” asked Abner. The rolled up newspaper he had handed off to Melvin during last Thursday’s mid-afternoon dinner contained an encrypted message about their newest assignment. It was an old-school message drop – simple but effective (gotta’ love old-school). Abner wondered how the woman from the parking lot figured into their mission.

“The woman in the brown Mercedes is our mark,” Melvin began as he scanned the menu for something that wouldn’t upset his diverticulitis. Once their cover had been blown, the duo was forced to find a new restaurant for their weekly rendezvous. Abner selected the Plaza Inn – a creative naming choice for a little eatery in one of Florida’s million (or so) shopping plazas filled with little eateries.

Melvin was very particular about his dietary choices and read through the menu several times.

“And we are her marks,” he continued to update Abner, as he pondered ordering the meatloaf. “Her assignment is to figure out what we are up to. Our assignment is the keep her from figuring out what we are up to.”

“Won’t be difficult,” mused Abner, as he let out an uncharacteristic sigh, “I miss the sophistication and intrigue of Monte Carlo.”

“From Monte Carlo to watching reruns of Monty Hall on the Game Show Network,” mumbled Melvin in agreement. “I gave up topless beaches in Rio, just to teach a bunch of snot-nosed kids how to blow their noses.

The two fell into a grouse-fest about the ineptitude of the newest recruits, how the spy business wasn’t what it used to be, and how the Rueben sandwiches and meatloaf were so much better at the old diner.

“She’s back,” whispered Abner, as he slid another rolled-up newspaper across the table toward Melvin. The brown Mercedes had pulled into the parking lot of the plaza. This time, Loretta chose to park in the shade, under the trimmed-back canopy of a live oak. Three weeks of surveillance, in a dark car, parked in the middle of a sunbaked asphalt parking lot, had taught her something – it wasn’t a lot, but it was something.

“I wonder how she found us?” pondered Melvin.

“Probably just luck,” laughed Abner. “Still, we can’t take any chances.” Again, the pair cut their meals short and tossed enough cash on the table to pay for their meals (and leave a handsome fifty-cent tip).

Abner made a casual (but hurried) exit out the rear door of the kitchen, grabbing an Idaho baking potato on the way out. Melvin exited the front door of the restaurant, acting like a dementia patient on a mission to find Waldo. With the newspaper tucked under his arm, he meandered around the shopping plaza in a covert path that slowly took him towards the Mercedes. Loretta clicked pictures, scribbled notes, and tried to remember any classroom training that would explain Melvin’s behavior. None came to mind.

Eventually, Melvin grew tired of the charade and made his way directly to the driver’s side door, tapped the tinted glass with his cane, and motioned for Loretta to lower the window. “Here’s your report, young lady,” he said, sounding officially bored. Opening the newspaper, he took a sheet of paper from inside, and handed it to the driver. “All your mistakes have been noted. Please give this to your handler. You have failed this exercise.”

Melvin turned smartly and strode away just as Abner joined up. Abner was wearing a grin like a Cheshire cat on hallucinogens.

“You shoved a potato up her tailpipe, didn’t you?” Melvin asked his compatriot.

“Yep”

“Gotta’ love old-school.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.