Mango Motel

by Bill H Myers

  “That's why I'm here. To make sure I get to Waldo before Madicof's guys do. So, do you know where he is?”

  Raif picked up a beer can that was on the deck railing. He took a sip, crushed the can and dropped it into a wire basket near the front of his deck. It was nearly full of similarly crushed cans.

  He looked over at me, pointed at the basket and said, “We take recycling seriously around here. But those two goons, they didn't. They dumped their trash in Waldo's driveway. Beer cans and cigarette butts.

  “When I saw them do that, I knew it wouldn't be me who told them anything about Waldo. When they asked about him, I said that as far as I knew, he had moved out a week earlier. He didn't tell me where he was going.

  “They tried to get me to tell them more, but I didn't. I wasn't afraid of them. I’ve dealt with people like them before.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver revolver. It looked like a thirty-eight. He flipped open the cylinder and spun it, showing me that it was loaded. “When I retired from the force, I kept this. Most of the time, it's inside. But when I see someone peeping into a bedroom window, I get the gun. You never know when you might need to protect yourself.”

  He paused, and I had two questions. The first was, “So Waldo moved? You're saying he doesn't live here anymore?”

  Raif shook his head. “Before I answer that, why don't you and I take a little walk? Be a good chance to get to know each other a little better.”

  He looked over my shoulder and asked, “Where's your car? I didn't see you drive up in one.”

  I pointed behind me. “I came here in my RV this morning. Didn't plan to stay. But the manager wouldn't tell me which trailer Waldo was in unless I was a paying guest. So I gave her a month's rent and she sent me back here.”

  Raif laughed. “You're talking about the woman in the golf cart? She made you pay for a month? In cash. Am I right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, a month, in cash, upfront.”

  He shook his head. “You got played. That woman is not the manager. She's more like the assistant to the assistant park host. Her name is Ada and her real job is to drive around and make sure all the trash cans are empty and that vagrants haven't moved into any of the empty trailers.

  “The real manager lives off-site and doesn't work on Sundays. When he's not here, Ada thinks she's in charge. She tries to be the one who checks in new guests and whenever she thinks she can get away with it, she'll charge them full price, get the money in cash, and move them to a spot in the back where the real manager won't see them.

  “She'll pocket the cash and think no one's the wiser. But those of us who've been here a while know what's going on.”

  Raif didn't wait for me to ask why if everyone knew what was going on no one had reported her to the manager. Instead, he asked, “We going for a walk or not?”

  After sitting in the driver's seat of the motorhome for too many hours the previous day, a walk sounded good, especially if it meant I might get some useful information that would help me find Waldo.

  “Yeah, let's walk. Do I need to bring anything?”

  He nodded. “Bring enough cash to buy a twelve pack. Let me put this gun away and I'll meet you in front of your RV.”

  He went inside and I went back to my motorhome to get my wallet. Bob met me at the door, stretching out to his full length to show me how big he was. He meowed loudly and started to walk toward the back of the motorhome. About halfway there, he stopped, looked over his shoulder and when he saw that I wasn't following, he meowed again. This time much louder.

  I'd lived with him long enough to know what those loud meows meant. He was saying, “Check my food bowl.”

  I followed him to the bathroom, where I kept his bowls and topped them off. Then I went back up front, grabbed my wallet and sunglasses and stepped outside.

  Raif was waiting for me. He said, “See if you can keep up.”

  He took off walking at a fairly impressive pace for a man his age, and I did my best to stay close. I was hoping he'd want to talk while we walked, maybe he'd tell me more about Waldo.

  But he didn't. He just walked. Like a man on a mission.

  On my drive in earlier that morning, I had passed several convenience and liquor stores with signs saying they had cold beer. One was just across the street from Shady Haven. Nearby, there was an Irish pub. It, too, had a sign about cold beer. And if that weren't enough, there was a medical marijuana dispensary a few doors down.

  I wasn't sure which of these places Raif was heading to, so I just followed. My plan was as soon as we got the beer, I'd start asking questions. The first would be, “What was the name of the taco stand that Waldo was buying?”

  If he had told me and I had gone there on my own, things would have turned out differently. For both of us.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After not saying anything for the first ten minutes of our walk, Raif opened up and started asking me questions. He wanted to know how long I'd been on the road, whether I lived in my RV full time or not, and what I did for a living.

  I figured he was asking because he wanted to be sure I wasn't with the bad guys, so I answered honestly. I told him I'd been living in the RV full time for over a year and had traveled all over Florida in it. As for a job, I told him I was semi-retired.

  When he asked what “semi-retired” meant, I told him I'd lost my job in the corporate world and was living off my savings until I decided what to do next.

  His next question was, “You were in the military, right? I'm guessing army. Maybe doing recon?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, did two tours. How'd you know?”

  “I can tell by the way you walk. The way you answer questions. The way you talk. Even the way you dress. They're all clues to who you are.”

  He continued. “I've been around enough army guys to see a pattern. I can usually tell which ones have seen action, which ones were the leaders, and which ones were the followers.”

  He didn't tell me which pattern I fit, and I didn't ask.

  His next question was easier. “You're traveling alone, right? No one else with you?”

  I wasn't sure why he wanted to know, but it seemed to be a question a lot of people asked, especially before they got into the RV with me.

  “Yeah, it's just me. And my cat. Mango Bob.”

  Raif squinted. “You have a cat? Living in the RV with you? An ex-army guy with a cat? How's that working out?”

  I thought about it for a moment before I answered, then said, “Living with him is a lot easier than living with some of the people I've known. As long as he has food, water, and a clean litter box, he's happy.

  “I've been around people who never were happy. No matter where they were, how much they had, how great their life was, they weren't happy. Being around them made me miserable.

  “So if it came to choosing, I'd stick with the cat.”

  Raif nodded. “I know what you mean. I've got a puppy living with me. Name's Eddie. He's a Yorkie but he thinks he's a big dog, like a shepherd or mastiff. He's not afraid of anything and sometimes that gets him in trouble.

  “Me and Eddie, we usually walk twice a day. Early in the morning and again right before sunset. He'd be out walking with us right now except we've got to cross the highway and I don't want to chance it with him.

  “He's a good dog. Don't want to lose him.”

  I felt the same way about Bob. I didn't want to lose him either. I'd come very close to never seeing him again after the accident. It was a miserable time for both of us.

  Raif and I had been on the sidewalk going west from Shady Haven. We'd gone about a mile when we reached US 16. The sidewalk stopped at the intersection and I wondered which way we'd be going. Before I could ask, Raif pointed across the highway and said, “That way.”

  There was a crosswalk, but traffic was heavy, in both directions. Cars, trucks, and motorcycles. All going too fast. It would be too dangerous to try to cross until the light turned red. While we were waiting,
Raif pointed to a gas station across the street; the Pump & Munch.

  It struck me as a funny name, but it fit their business model. You could pump gas outside and then go inside to find things to munch on. Candy, donuts, and several varieties of jerky; typical convenience store fare. It wouldn't necessarily be good for you, but it would be cheap and you could wash it down with cold pop or beer from the coolers at the rear of the store.

  When the crosswalk finally told us it was safe to go, we hurried across the road and into the Pump & Munch parking lot. Being a Sunday morning, business was slow. There were a few cars pumping gas, but it didn't look like anyone was going into the store.

  When we got inside, we had the place pretty much to ourselves. The clerk behind the register, a man who might have been a Pakistani, greeted us by saying, “Raif, my good buddy. Always a pleasure to see you. What can I get for you today?”

  Raif pointed to the coolers in the back. “You know why I'm here, Babar. Cold beer. I heard you might have some.”

  The clerk, whose name was apparently Babar, laughed and said, “Yes, cold beer is one of the things we always have. We stock it special for you.”

  I followed Raif as he walked to the back of the store. He opened one of the cooler doors and grabbed a twelve-pack of Bud. He looked at me. “This work for you?”

  I nodded.

  With beer in hand, we headed to the front of the store. Raif put the cold twelve-pack on the counter and pointed to me. “Babar, this is my new friend, Walker. He's paying.”

  I nodded and reached for my wallet. But before I could get it out, a young kid, probably in his early twenties, wearing baggy pants and a dirty white T-shirt, walked in with a gun. He fired a round into the ceiling, then pointed the gun at the three of us and said, “Don't nobody do nothing stupid!”

  I didn't say anything, but I was thinking the only person doing something stupid was the kid with the gun. Trying to rob a convenience store early on a Sunday morning, when they didn't have much money in the register, wasn't the smartest thing.

  But apparently the kid hadn't thought it through. He wanted money, and maybe he figured because there wouldn't be many people in the store that early in the morning, he could get away with it.

  He waved the gun in Babar's direction. “Empty the register. Put the cash in a bag.”

  Babar looked at Raif, and he nodded his head just slightly. I was thinking Raif was telling him to just do what the kid said. Don't make trouble. Just give him the money.

  Babar got the message. He opened the register and started emptying the cash trays. While the gunman watched Babar with the money, Raif slowly reached up and pulled me a few inches away from the counter. The punk who was robbing the store saw him do it. He pointed the gun at Raif and said, “Don't try it, old man. This thing is loaded and I know how to use it.”

  Raif put both hands up in the air, palms facing the gunman, signaling he was in surrender mode. He wasn't going to do anything.

  It didn't take long for Babar to get all the money from the register and stack it up on the counter. It didn't look like much. A few tens and twenties, but mostly fives and ones. Probably not more than three hundred dollars.

  The gunman looked at the money, looked up at Babar and said, “Put it in a bag. But no funny stuff or you'll be the first to die.”

  Babar slowly reached under the counter and came up with a plastic bag. He picked up the money and started stuffing it in. When he was done, he set the bag on the counter and took a step back.

  If the kid with the gun had been smart, he would have grabbed the money and headed for the door. But smart didn't seem to be in his wheelhouse. Instead of leaving, he turned his gun on me and said, “Hand over your wallet.”

  It was still in my pocket; I hadn't had time to get it out to pay for the beer. The thing was I wanted to keep it there. I didn't want to hand it over to the kid. Or anyone else. It had my cash, credit cards and driver's license in it, and I didn't want to be on the road without them.

  So instead of reaching into my pocket, I shook my head and started to say, “Try to take it from me, see what happens.”

  Before I got the words out, he turned his attention to the gold chain with a small cross hanging from Raif's neck. He said, “I'm taking the chain, old man.”

  With the gun in his right hand, he walked over to Raif, close enough to grab the cross. Like I said earlier, Raif had gray hair. He looked to be in his early sixties and his age showed in his face. From the gunman's perspective, he looked like an easy mark. An old man who wouldn't give him any trouble.

  But he was wrong.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was over quickly.

  When the punk with the gun reached out to grab the gold chain, Raif surprised him with a snap punch to the solar plexus. The kid doubled over and, when he did, Raif grabbed his gun hand and bent it toward the ceiling until his wrist snapped.

  Howling in pain, the kid dropped the gun and bent over to catch his breath. Raif could have left him alone at that point. The kid no longer had the gun and he didn't pose an immediate threat. His attempted robbery had gone south and instead of getting money, he had gotten a broken wrist and maybe a fractured rib.

  But Raif didn't end it. He grabbed the kid by the back of his head and slammed his face down onto the counter, breaking his nose and knocking him out.

  The kid slid to the floor, still breathing but just barely.

  Raif poked him with his foot and, after hearing him groan, said, “Kid, you ain't going to die. Not yet. That might change when they get you down to the jailhouse.”

  He looked up at Babar and said, “Give me one of those zip ties you keep under the counter.”

  Babar reached under the counter and came up with a bright yellow zip tie about two feet long. After he handed it to Raif, he asked, “You want me to make the call?”

  “Yeah, call them. Tell them there is an armed robbery in progress. They'll get here quicker.”

  While Babar was on the phone with 9-1-1, Raif zip tied the kid's hands behind his back. When he was done, he reached over the counter and grabbed two empty plastic bags. He used one as a glove to pick up the kid's gun, not wanting to get his own fingerprints on it. He dropped the gun into the second bag and tied off the top. He handed it to Babar and said, “You know the drill. Hold on to this until they arrive.”

  Raif took a deep breath and said, “Walker and I will be out back. When the police get here, tell them what happened and show the video from the security cam. If they need to talk to us, tell them where we are.”

  He pointed at me. “Pay the man for the beer before we get robbed again.”

  I pulled out a twenty, dropped it on the counter and said, “Keep the change.”

  Babar slid the twenty back. “No charge. It's on the house. For services rendered.”

  I left the bill on the counter and followed Raif out the front door. We could hear sirens in the distance, it sounded like they were getting closer.

  Raif walked around to the back of the building and took a seat on a concrete bench under the branches of a gumbo limbo tree. He peeled the back off the twelve-pack and pulled out a beer.

  He opened it, took a drink and looked at me. “What are you waiting for? Have a seat. Drink with me.”

  I wasn't sure drinking a few beers right before we talked to the police was a good idea. But after the long walk and the excitement in the store, a cold beer sounded pretty good to me.

  I sat down on the bench, grabbed a beer and took a sip. I wasn't much of a beer drinker. I'd never liked the taste, but on that day, I did. My throat was dry and the cold beer gave me the relief I needed. After a few more sips, I had the courage to ask Raif a question that I was pretty sure was going to upset him.

  “Don't you think you were a little hard on the kid? After you'd broken his wrist and he dropped the gun, maybe you didn't need to slam his head down on the counter.”

  Raif nodded, took a long drink from his beer, and set it on the bench between
us. He unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt and pulled it open so I could see his chest. He pointed at a coin-sized scar and said, “I've got three of these. Bullet holes. Got them when I was too soft on a kid like the one in there.”

  The first scar was inches from his heart. A little closer and he probably wouldn't have survived.

  I nodded and said, “Tell me about it.”

  He sipped his beer and said, “This place we're sitting? It used to be Sanders grocery. A small family-owned business. Old man Sanders and his wife worked here. He made sure the shelves were stocked, she kept the books, and their son, Noah, ran the register when he wasn't in school.

  “I was a detective at the time. Wearing street clothes, no vest and in an unmarked car. A call came in over the radio saying there was a robbery in progress at Sanders. I was only three miles out so I put the blues on and headed that way.

  “When I pulled into the lot, a man, about the same age as the one we dealt with in there, came out of the store carrying a money bag in one hand and a gun in the other.

  “I got out of my car, pulled my gun and told him to drop his and put up his hands. He didn't comply. Instead, he shook his head and shrugged. I told him a second time to drop his gun and raise his hands.

  “That second time, it looked like he was going to comply. He dropped the money and started to raise his hands.

  “I thought he was giving up. But I was wrong. He still had his gun, and with his hands raised to his chest, he pointed it at me and started firing. He kept shooting until the gun was empty.

  “I was hit in three places. My right arm, my chest and just below my ear. The chest wound was the worst; I was losing blood and had a hard time breathing. I wanted to return fire, but my gun hand wouldn't work. The bullet to my arm had made it useless.

  “After the kid saw that I couldn't shoot back, he walked over, pointed his gun at my head and pulled the trigger. I thought for sure I was a goner. But nothing happened. His gun was empty.