Mango Motel

by Bill H Myers

  Looking into his eyes, I could see that the pupils were dilated. That along with his deep sleep and difficulty in waking suggested he might have taken something.

  I asked him about it. “Waldo, what did you take?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I didn’t take anything. Now leave me alone. I’m sleepy.”

  He started to lie back down, but I grabbed his arm and kept him upright. “Waldo, if you've taken something, tell me what it is. I'll need to know if we have to call 9-1-1. It might save your life.”

  He shrugged. “I took a pill to help me relax. Got it from the guy in the room next to mine at the motel. He said it wasn't dangerous. It would just help me relax. You guys were stressing me out, so I took it when you went to check the rooms.”

  I nodded. “So this guy with the pill, did he give it to you or did you have to pay for it?”

  Waldo rubbed his chin like he was trying to remember. Finally, he said, “I think I paid him ten for it. Maybe twenty.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “This guy who sold you the pill, did he tell you what it was? Can you remember if he called it something?”

  Waldo shook his head. “I can't remember. It doesn't matter. I feel fine. I'm just sleepy.”

  I looked over at Erin and asked, “What do you think? Should we call 9-1-1?”

  She looked at Waldo, checked his eyes and said, “He doesn't look that bad to me. It was probably Xanax. If it was, he'll sleep it off and be fine in a few hours.”

  Waldo nodded. “Yeah, that's what he said it was. Xanax. He said it wasn't dangerous.”

  I nodded. “Okay, let's assume that's what it was. How many did you buy, how many did you take, and how many do you have left?”

  Waldo held up one finger. “One. I just bought the one. Or maybe two, I don’t really remember. So far I’ve only taken one today. I took one last night and still have one left. So I guess it was three.”

  He was still sitting on the bed, woozy but awake. I decided to tell him about what we'd found. “The paintings in the guest rooms. They might be valuable. Maybe worth enough to pay off your loans to Madicof.”

  I thought he would be happy to hear this, but he wasn't. Instead, he said, “I’ve already checked. They're fakes. I took one to Night Shade, a pawnshop on the other side of town, and the guy there looked at it. He said it was a fake. A good one but still a fake. He offered to give me a hundred for it, so I sold it to him.

  “I told him about the others, and he said he’d pay me a hundred for each one. He even offered to come pick them up. I didn’t want him coming here, so I told him the paintings were in Daytona, in a storage building.

  “He wanted to go look at them, but I told him I had other things to do and promised I'd come back with the rest in a few days. At a hundred dollars each, I’d get a little over a thousand in cash. I could use the money to buy more jugs.”

  He mumbled something I couldn't decipher. Then his eyes rolled back and he fell onto his mattress. In a matter of seconds, he was snoring.

  I looked over at Erin. “Think we should maybe go by Night Shade? See what they're asking for the painting Waldo sold them?”

  She nodded. “Yes, we should. Then we should take one over to the Lost Art Gallery downtown. They might have someone there who can tell us if it’s authentic or not and what it’s really worth.”

  We left Waldo sleeping on his bed. I made sure the fan was blowing directly on him. Without air conditioning, the room would get warm. But being in the shade, it would be cooler than being outside.

  Erin knew where the pawnshop was, so she drove. She claimed she'd never been inside and I had no reason not to believe her.

  After going through what some would say was the bad side of town, we pulled up in front of the pawnshop. The squat block building had steel bars over the heavily tinted windows. No doubt to keep out would-be thieves. A pawnshop would be a gold mine to a burglar who knew how to get in and get out without getting shot.

  A bright yellow banner hung from the roof of the building with the word “Pawn” in a large all caps font. Below it, evenly spaced on the sign were the words, “Cash, Gold, Jewelry, Guns.” It looked like they had it pretty much covered.

  We headed for the door and saw a sign advising customers to “Unload your guns before entering.” It was probably there to remind those who had a gun to pawn to unload it before going inside. Below that sign was another one with the words, “SMILE. YOU ARE ON CAMERA.”

  Below that was a graphic of a loaded pistol the way you'd see it if it were pointed at you. Below the pistol, the words, “Shoplifters and Thieves, do not expect a warning shot.”

  It was clear that anyone planning to rob the place would be a fool or have a death wish. We weren't armed and didn't plan to shoplift, so we were good.

  Erin stepped in first, and I followed. Inside, to our right, was a long glass counter filled with guns and watches. Behind the counter, a large, heavily tattooed man with a bald head held a pistol and a cleaning rod.

  When he saw us, he put the gun down and asked, “You folks looking to pawn something?”

  Erin shook her head and said, “No, we're here because we heard you might have a painting we'd be interested in.”

  He grunted, looked over his shoulder, then back at her. “You heard we had a painting? From who? Who told you we had paintings here?”

  “A friend. Said he was in here a few days ago and saw a painting of a Florida sunset. You still have it?”

  “Yeah, we do. You want to see it?”

  Erin nodded.

  The man stood, walked over to what looked like a bank vault at the far end of the counter and pulled the six-inch-thick door open. From where we were standing, we could see several canvases stacked vertically on the middle shelf.

  The pawnshop guy flipped through them, found the one he was looking for and pulled it out. He held it up. “This the one?”

  “That's it. How much are you asking for it?”

  He turned the painting over, looked at the price tag taped to the back, and grunted. “Five thousand.”

  He started to put the painting back, but he stopped when Erin said, “I might be interested. But I need a closer look.”

  Instead of bringing the painting over to where we were standing, he said, “You want to see it? You need to come over here. I ain't bringing it to you.”

  She walked over and he held the painting up so she could see more details. When she pulled out her phone, he shook his head. “No pictures. We don't allow it. You can look all you want, but no pictures.”

  Erin shrugged. “Okay, no pictures. Do you have a certificate of authenticity?”

  The guy frowned and said, “Look, lady, if you want the painting, it's five thousand. You get what I'm holding. Nothing more.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “I don't think I'd be interested in it without the certificate. Thanks for your time.”

  She headed for the door, but just as she reached it, the pawnshop guy said, “Wait. Four thousand. Today only. You walk out without buying it and the price goes back to five.”

  Erin shook her head, opened the door and we both went out. When we got in the car, she said, “They think it's real. They wouldn't price it that way if they didn't.”

  She started the car and we headed to the Lost Art Gallery to talk to the curator.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  On the way to the gallery, I pulled up their website on my phone and it said that their curator, Victoria, was an accredited appraiser with the International Society of Appraisers with more than twenty years of experience. She sounded like the kind of person we needed to talk to.

  I called ahead and asked to speak to her. I was told she was there but not able to come to the phone at the moment. I said I'd call back.

  The gallery was in old town on St. George Street, a narrow cobblestone affair with very limited parking. We were fortunate to find a meter just a few steps from their door. Erin parked and had me grab one of the paintings from t
he back seat. I flipped through them and picked the one that had two palm trees on a rustic beach overlooking the ocean. It was signed in the lower right corner by Harold Newton.

  Going into the gallery with me carrying the painting under my arm, we were greeted at the door by a nicely dressed woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. She pointed at the painting and asked, “Are you here to consign or get it appraised?”

  Erin and I answered at the same time. “Appraised.”

  The woman nodded, picked up her phone and punched in a number. She whispered a few words, hung up, and turned to us. “Victoria will be out in a moment. Feel free to look around while you wait.”

  Still carrying the painting, I followed Erin as she walked into the gallery. Soft lighting and cool air gave it a mystical feel. The art hanging from the wall, with pinpoint lighting highlighting each piece, was impressive. Even though I don't know much about art, I thought what they had was pretty amazing. As were the prices shown on the info cards below each piece.

  After we had viewed most of the paintings, a well-dressed woman who looked to be in her late forties came over and introduced herself as Victoria. She pointed at the painting I was carrying and asked, “Is that the one you want me to appraise?”

  I nodded and held the painting up so she could see it. She leaned in, saw the artist’s signature and said, “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  She pointed to the back and said, “Follow me.”

  She led us into a separate studio and had me put the painting on a vertical easel. A ceiling-mounted light aimed directly on the easel brought out the painting’s true colors.

  Victoria put on a pair of white cotton gloves, picked up a large magnifying glass, and moved in close to see more detail. As she moved the magnifying glass across the painting, she would stop, look closer and repeat what she had said earlier. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she pulled out a camera and snapped a photo of the artist's signature. She then went to a nearby computer and pulled authenticated samples of the artist's previous works.

  When she was done, she came back to us and said, “I'm pretty sure this is a real Harold Newton. Everything checks out. The board it's painted on, the subject matter, the size, the direction of the strokes, and the signature.

  “This is just my opinion, and I would need to do more work to be sure, but I think it's real. Are you interested in selling it?”

  Erin nodded. “We might be. What do you think it's worth?”

  Victoria looked at her computer again. “One like this recently sold at auction for thirty-five hundred dollars. The one you have would probably sell close to that.

  “We would be happy to take it in on consignment if you're interested.”

  Erin took a deep breath and said, “I didn't think it would be worth that much. When I decide to sell, I'll bring it back to you.”

  Victoria thanked us for bringing it in and said we'd be welcome to return any time. She mentioned that if we found other similar pieces, she would be interested in them as well.

  When we started to leave, she said, “Please don't carry it like that. You'll damage it. Let me wrap it for you.”

  We gave her the painting and she wrapped it in what looked like tissue paper, only heavier. When she was done, she said, “Be sure to store it in a dry place, out of direct sunlight.”

  We said we would, and just as I turned to head to the door, Erin said, “We have two more in the car. Would you like to see them?”

  “Yes, please. Bring them in. Let me see what you have.”

  Erin sent me to the car to retrieve the two paintings we'd left in it. Back in the gallery, the curator examined each one and said they looked to be authentic. According to recent auctions, each one would be worth around three thousand.

  As before, she offered to take them in on consignment. Erin thought about it for a moment, then said, “Pick the one you think will do best.”

  Victoria chose the first one we had shown her, the one signed by Harold Newton. She explained the consignment process and the percentage the store would get from the selling price. She had Erin sign a contract, gave her a copy, and thanked her for bringing the paintings in.

  As we were leaving, she said, “Don't be surprised if it sells quickly. There are a lot of people who collect these Highwaymen paintings. I wish I had more.”

  I carried the two paintings we hadn't consigned back to the car. This time, I was careful when I put them in the back seat. I didn't want to damage them in any way.

  Erin started the car, pulled away from the curb and got us back out onto US One. After clearing traffic she said, “I don't think we should tell Waldo. I think we should buy all that he’ll sell us. We can rent an air-conditioned storage unit and store the paintings there.

  “It's not that I want to keep them for myself, it's just that I don't think Waldo is going to take care of them. He's already been snookered by the pawnshop. No telling what he might do next.

  “If we get them, we can make sure they don't get damaged. We can get an estimate of what they're worth and maybe figure out a way to give Waldo some cash. What do you think?”

  I didn't have to think long. She was right about Waldo. He'd hadn't proven to be the kind of person you'd want to hand over fifty thousand dollars of fine art to.

  “You're right. The best thing to do is to take the paintings somewhere they'll be safe. Let's do it.”

  We stopped at Anastasia Self Storage, rented a five-by-nine air-conditioned unit, and headed back to the Die Inn.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  When we pulled into the Die Inn parking lot, Waldo was back outside by the fountain, filling water jugs as he had been doing earlier that day. Like before, he didn't hear us coming, and it bothered me. If Mad Dog's associates were pulling into the lot instead of us, they could grab him and drag him off before he knew it.

  I needed to warn him. To make sure he understood the seriousness of his situation. Mad Dog's collectors weren't playing games.

  We got out of the car and walked over to him. When he saw us, he smiled and asked, “Did you bring me lunch?”

  Erin shook her head. “No, we didn't. But if you want, we can go get you something. But first, we need to talk.”

  She pointed to the paintings we had laid out against the wall. The ones we had retrieved from the guest rooms. “You said you needed money. Walker and I have been thinking about it, and we don't want you dealing with a pawnbroker. You said you thought you'd get a thousand for the rest of the paintings.

  “That's probably a good price. But Walker will pay you more. He can give you fifteen hundred for all of them and pay in cash. All you have to do is say, ‘Yes.’

  “If you do, we'll go get the money, bring you back lunch, and get the paintings out of your way. What do you think?”

  Waldo grinned. “I think I'm getting the better end of that deal. So yeah, you can have them all for fifteen hundred. Bring me back a Big Mac, fries and a large Coke.”

  He turned back to the fountain and began filling another jug. He still didn’t understand how being out in the open like he was would make it easier for the collection guys to find him.

  I shook my head. I’d already warned him about it, and he hadn’t changed his ways. Telling him again probably wouldn’t make any difference so I followed Erin back to the car. Inside, after she started the engine and put the air conditioning on high, she asked, “Can you come up with fifteen hundred? Or do you need me to spot you?”

  I didn't have that much cash on me, I rarely did. But I knew where to get it. I smiled at Erin and said, “Take me to the bank. I'll cash a check.”

  The bank I use has branches all over Florida, and finding one in Saint Augustine was easy. There was one just a few minutes from Waldo's place, and we got there quickly. Inside, there wasn't a line, and after looking at my ID, the teller counted out fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills. She put the money in a small white envelope, handed it to me and said, “Have a nice
day.”

  With cash in hand, we headed to McDonald's to pick up a burger and fries for Waldo. While there, I got a southern-style chicken sandwich and Erin ordered a walnut vinaigrette salad.

  When we got back to the Die Inn, Waldo was sitting in the shade in front of room number three. When he saw us, he hustled over to our car and asked, “Did you get me lunch?”

  I showed him the McDonald's bag and the large Coke. He took both, thanked us and went back to his perch in the shade.

  After pulling up two of the metal chairs that sat near the fountain, we joined him and ate our lunch. When we were done, I pulled the cash from my pocket and peeled off fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills. I handed them to Waldo and said, “Don't spend the money on anything except food and shelter. No drugs.”

  He nodded and took the cash. After recounting it, he folded it in half and put it in his back pocket. Then he stood and said, “I've got to fill ten more jugs. If I can sell them at the farmers’ market tomorrow, I'll have a five-thousand-dollar day.”

  I didn't understand what kind of new-age math he was using to come up with the five thousand number, but I didn't ask him about it. I didn't care.

  We went back to the car, opened the back doors and trunk and made room for the paintings I had just bought. Remembering what Victoria had said about being careful not to damage them, I asked Waldo if there were any old towels around that we could use.

  He said, “Check the bathrooms. You'll find towels in every one of them. I don’t know if they’re clean or not, but if you want them, you can have them.”

  Erin got the towels out of rooms one through eight and I got the rest. We'd go in, hold our breath, run to the bathroom, grab the towels, and run back out. When we were done, we had twelve. Enough for what we needed. We put one between each painting as we loaded it into the car.

  Ten minutes later, we were back at Anastasia Storage, moving the paintings from the car into the unit we had rented.