by Bill H Myers
“His mother's worried about his lack of direction and has been encouraging him to wean himself off of her financial support. She's told him she won't be around forever and he needs to be able to take care of himself after she's gone. She also told him he'll never find the right woman as long as he's living in his mother's house.
“So, after much encouragement, he decided to go out on his own. He heard about the success of the Wiener Girl's food truck and liked the idea of making eight hundred to a thousand a day selling food to tourists.
“He was ready to go all-in on owning a truck in Key West until he found out that getting a permit was almost impossible. But he didn't give up. He searched the web and found a truck in Saint Augustine. A taco truck with high cash flow and low overhead.
“It was profitable, had all the necessary permits and a good location. Most importantly, he had contacted the owner and she had said she would consider selling it if the price were right.
“He thought it would be a perfect fit. He'd be able to move out of his mom's home and walk into a profitable business of his own. All he needed was enough money to buy it.
“The asking price was thirty-five thousand, and that was about thirty-four thousand more than he had.
“With his job history, there wasn't a bank in Florida that would loan him the money. He had no credit, no collateral, and a spotty work history. Loan officers knew that if they expected to be paid back, they needed to deal with someone else.
“That's when things took a wrong turn. Eager to raise the money he needed, he reached out to an alternative lending source. A man named Stephan Madicof. Known on the streets as Mad Dog.
“At one time, Madicof had worked for Boris. I don't know in what capacity, but my feeling was he couldn't be trusted. To me, he was bad news, someone ready and willing to stab you in the back the first chance he got.
“Boris put up with him. At least until a valuable asset being transported by Madicof disappeared.
“He denied any wrongdoing, but Boris soon learned that Madicof had lied. He had sold the asset and kept the money himself. Boris could no longer trust him and did what he needed to do. He let him live but kicked him out of his organization.
“Madicof stayed in Key West and built an underground business, making sure to stay out of Boris's way. He knows if he were to cross Boris again, it would be harmful to his health.
“So Madicof keeps a low profile and makes his money by offering high-interest loans to people who've been turned down by the banks. People like my friend's son.
“These are the kind of loans where there's no paperwork required, just a promise to pay on time and proof of collateral equal to twice the amount being loaned. The kind of collateral that doesn't leave a paper trail. Gold, diamonds, drugs and the like.
“Anastasia's son didn't have anything he could offer, but he knew who did. His mother had a five-carat diamond ring, a twenty-carat necklace, and several gold coins from the Atocha that had been given to her husband by Mel Fisher.
“Without telling her, he offered these as collateral. He assured Madicof he could get them if they were needed.
“Madicof knew the coins were worth more than he planned to loan the man and the diamonds would be icing on the cake.
“If her son failed to make payments on time, Madicof would be sitting pretty. So he agreed to loan him fifty thousand dollars to be paid back at the rate of five thousand a month for eighteen months.
“Had her son not been in such a rush to get the money, he would have realized he was agreeing to pay back almost twice what he was borrowing. If he missed a payment, the full amount would come due, along with the collateral he had promised.
“He didn't tell his mother any of this. He just told her he'd found a business he was going to buy in Saint Augustine and he was moving there. He said he'd found a place to stay and gave her his new address.
“That was two months ago. Earlier this week, two of Madicof's collectors showed up at Anastasia's home, looking for her son. He had missed the first two payments and they were there to collect the money and the collateral.
“She told them she knew nothing about the loan or the promised collateral. When they threatened her, she mentioned she was a friend of Boris and that he wouldn't be too happy if they hurt her in any way.
“The collectors knew Boris could bring a world of hurt down on them, so they backed off but not before telling her they were going to find her son and he was going to repay the money, either in cash or blood.
“That's when she decided to tell me. She's afraid her son is in over his head and is going to get hurt. She asked me if I knew anyone who might be able to find him before the collectors do and get him out of harm's way.
“Normally, I'd ask Boris to look into this. But he's been looking for an excuse to settle things permanently with Madicof and I didn’t want him to do something in haste that might attract the wrong kind of attention.
“So I started thinking about who I could trust to find my friend's son. The first person I thought of was you. You've proved yourself by finding my daughter when she was in trouble, and you helped Boris with the computer thing.
“I believe you have the skills needed to find this guy, and I trust you to do it discreetly.
“Does this sound like something you would do for me? Find my friend's son before he gets hurt? If you're interested in taking this on, I can text you the son's photo along with his new address. I can pay whatever you want.”
I didn't want her money. I didn't need it and if Boris found out I was taking money from her, he wouldn't like it.
I wasn't going to do it to get paid. I was going to do it because she asked me to.
“I can start today. Text me the details. What's the son's name?”
Her answer made me laugh.
Chapter Five
“His name is Waldo. Waldo Raines.”
I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly. “You said Waldo, right? And my mission is to find Waldo? Like the guy in the puzzle books?”
Marissa didn't understand. “I'm not sure what you mean by puzzle books. Are they something I need to know about?”
I shook my head, even though I was on the phone and she wouldn't be able to see me do it. “No, it's not important. Just a silly game from days gone by. Text me the details and I'll be on my way.”
Before I ended the call, I asked, “Will Abby be meeting me in Saint Augustine?”
I figured she would be since she had spoken to Marissa and given her my phone number. We'd already planned to meet and this was probably the mission she had been reluctant to tell me about.
“No, Abby is not getting involved. She's too close to Boris and there's a chance she might get hurt if this thing goes south. I've haven't told her anything about it. I've got her going to Savannah to work on something else.
“You'll be doing this on your own. I've been told you prefer it that way.”
It was true that I liked working these kinds of missions solo, but with Abby it was different. She had proven herself to be a valuable asset, someone who had an uncanny ability to find missing persons. But if this was something that could get her hurt, I didn't want her along.
Marissa promised to text me all the details, including Waldo's photo and last known address. She said she was calling on a burner phone and I could use the number to let her know how things were going.
We ended the call with her telling me to be careful. She said Mad Dog's men had a tendency to hit first and ask questions later.
That was good to know. The doctor who had treated my concussion said to avoid blows to my head. I was all-in on that. I didn’t want to take a punch from anyone, anytime.
But sometimes doing your best to avoid something is the surest way to face it head-on.
Chapter Six
Because I thought I'd be driving to Saint Augustine to meet with Abby, I was already packed and ready to go. I had unhooked the RV from shore power, locked all the compartments, brought in the slides, and
secured the bathroom door so it wouldn't hit Bob when he visited his litter box.
He had been uneasy most of the morning. Pacing around, voicing his concern with pitiful meows. He had trotted up to me, put his foot on my shoe, and meowed in a way that suggested he was saying, “Not again.”
I understood why he might be feeling that way. Our last trip had not gone well. The motorhome had been destroyed and Bob went missing for more than two weeks. Out in the wild with no one to take care of him.
Since getting him back, he had stayed close to me. He didn't like it when I left for any reason and would be waiting at the door when I returned.
His two weeks trying to survive in the wild had been traumatic and he didn't want to go through it again.
I didn't blame him. I didn’t want to go through it again either.
I had replaced my destroyed motorhome with the same make and model I had before. It was a few years newer, had three slides instead of just one and a larger bed in the back.
Other than that, it was the same. Same drive train, same floor plan, and same sounds while on the road. I assured Bob it would be a safe trip and he had nothing to worry about.
But I wasn't so sure. It would be the first long trip in the replacement motorhome and the first since my concussion. The motorhome looked to be in good condition, but you never know for sure. Things could and often do go wrong. Flat tires, overheating, slides that wouldn't go in or out. The kind of problems that could leave a person stranded on the side of the road.
Then there was the question of my blurred vision. That was my biggest concern. If it happened while I was driving, I'd have to get off the road in a hurry. And that's not always easy to do in a thirty-two-foot motorhome. Especially when driving Florida's two-lane back roads where gators lived in the ditches.
But I'd promised Marissa I was going to help her, and that's what I planned to do. I plugged Waldo's last known address into the GPS, fired up the motorhome and headed out.
Eight minutes later, we were on I-75, going north in three lanes of heavy traffic. Just about everyone else was running ten miles over the speed limit. But not us. We stayed in the far right lane, making it easy for drivers in a hurry to get around the big motorhome.
I was making decent time, and if all went as planned I'd be in Saint Augustine well before dark.
But I should have known better. Things never go as planned on I-75 in Florida.
Chapter Seven
We'd gotten through Sarasota and the traffic tie-up at the University Town Center Mall without any problems. The motorhome felt good on the road, and the Ford V-10 was purring like a kitten.
But because the motorhome was new to me, I pulled off I-75 at the Ruskin rest stop and got out to make sure we weren't leaking anything. I didn't want to be dragging a brake, losing air in any of the tires or leaving a trail of sewage behind us.
A quick walk-around showed that all was well. No problems with the motorhome and I was feeling pretty good when I got back in and started it up. Bob, who had been hiding in his pillow fort in the back on my bed, came up front and joined me.
After he settled in on the passenger seat, I put the motorhome in gear and got back on I-75 heading north. It didn't take us long to get up to speed, and we were soon humming along at sixty-five. But not for long.
Thirteen miles later, about three miles south of the intersection of I-4 and I-75, all six lanes of the highway, both north and south, came to a full stop. The road had turned into a parking lot. I figured it was an accident. Probably near the Orlando exit. Undoubtedly caused by a driver in a hurry to get to the mouse kingdom.
I had checked Google maps before leaving and it showed two routes to Saint Augustine from my home base. The first was to take I-75 to I-4 and follow I-4 to I-95. That way was all interstate and, in theory, would be the fastest way to go.
But not on a Saturday. I-4 is jammed up on normal days, but on weekends, the crowds heading to Disney World and the other theme parks turn I-4 into a demolition derby. Too many cars with too many people in a hurry to get to the same places.
The second option was to stay on I-75 all the way to Ocala then get on US 301 and follow the back roads to Saint Augustine. It would take longer that way as there were a number of small towns with stoplights and speed zones that would slow your progress.
But it would be less stressful than the high-speed traffic on the interstates. That was the way I had chosen to go. If I had a blurred vision episode, the small towns would give me a place to pull over and rest. On the interstate, I'd be a sitting duck if I pulled over onto the shoulder with cars doing eighty just a few feet from my door.
As I was thinking about the route I'd be taking, traffic ahead of me started moving again. It was mostly stop and go at first as inattentive drivers slowed to take photos and videos of the wreck that had caused the traffic jam.
But after everyone put their cell phones away and started driving, we got back up to speed and made our way past the mess of I-4.
According to the GPS, we would arrive at our destination, Waldo's last known address, around seven that evening.
And we would have, had it not been for the sinkhole.
Chapter Eight
We'd almost made it to Ocala when we hit the next traffic jam. As with the first, all six lanes, north and south, had come to a full stop. Ahead of me, as far as I could see, a sea of brake lights as drivers waited for the road to clear.
After twenty minutes, no one had moved. We were all still stopped, wondering what was causing the problem.
With traffic at a standstill, I couldn't see any reason to keep the engine running. It would be a waste of fuel. I turned it off, unbuckled the seat belt and got up to stretch. Bob stood and stretched with me, chirped once, and trotted to the back bedroom. For him, it was nap time.
It had been eight hours since I'd eaten breakfast. Since it looked like we wouldn’t be moving anytime soon, and being a little hungry, I decided to do something about it. I started to open the fridge but thought maybe I should first check the news to see how long we might be stuck waiting for the traffic ahead of us to clear.
I turned on the dash radio, set it to AM and turned to News Radio FLA from Tampa. I'd listened to the station before and knew they had news and weather at the top and bottom of the hour.
It was about four minutes until five, so I didn't have to wait long to get the bad news.
The lead story was about a sinkhole that had opened up on I-75 just south of Ocala. The announcer was saying, “Folks, if you're caught up in the traffic on I-75 between exits 329 on the south and 341 on the north, you might want to pull out your pillows and get comfortable. It looks like you're going to be there for a while.
“According to Florida Department of Transportation, they've closed I-75 near there and rerouted northbound traffic. Unfortunately for those of you who have passed exit 329 but not yet reached 341, the sinkhole will be keeping you from going further.
“DOT is telling us that you'll have to sit it out until they can get their experts on site and decide what to do about the sinkhole. They say to expect a six-hour delay. Maybe more.
“Meanwhile, state police are doing their best to reroute traffic. They are telling us that cars stuck between the two exits have no option except to wait it out. They are advising drivers to stay off the shoulders as they will be used by emergency vehicles.
“For those of you between the exits, settle in. It's going to be a long night.”
I shook my head.
With the sinkhole blocking my way, it looked like I wouldn't be making it to Saint Augustine before dark. I might not even make it before sunrise the next day.
Still, being in a motorhome meant I had food to eat, a bed to sleep in, a bathroom when I needed it, and a TV to keep me informed. People stuck in cars ahead of and behind me wouldn't fare so well.
Fortunately, the weather wasn't bad. A little overcast and cool enough to survive without needing to run air conditioners. The cool weather would be
the saving grace for people stuck in their cars.
I watched the sea of brake lights ahead of me slowly go out as drivers were getting the news that we'd be stopped for a while. They were turning off their engines to conserve fuel and hoping the people in the cars next to them would be doing the same thing. No one wanted to get carbon monoxide poisoning because they were surrounded by cars at idle with their motors running.
It wasn't long before the news spread and drivers killed their engines. Almost eerily, the constant hum of thousands of tires rolling down the pavement at seventy went away, and the highway was suddenly quiet.
But not for long.
In the distance, I heard a helicopter heading in our direction. Probably a news copter from the Tampa Fox affiliate. If it were their copter, they'd soon be streaming live video to their viewers, providing wall-to-wall coverage of the sinkhole and traffic jam.
Like everyone back home, I wanted to see what this latest disaster wrought.
I turned on the TV across from the couch and tuned to the local Fox affiliate; they were the only nearby station with a copter. As I expected, they had a live view from the air with running commentary from a reporter who was in the passenger seat. He was saying, “You heard me right, I-75 is shut down north and south between exits 329 and 341. Traffic in both directions is backed up for at least thirty miles.
“From what we've been told, the sinkhole is about twelve feet wide, starting on the shoulder of the northbound side and extending to the center of the far-right lane.
“At this time, DOT is protecting the airspace above the immediate area and we can't get a close-up of the sinkhole. But from where we are, we can see thousands of cars stopped in both directions. People are starting to get out, probably trying to find out more about what is causing the hold-up. Hopefully, some will have TVs and will be able to see our live feed.”