Contents
Chapter-One
Chapter-Two
Chapter-Three
Chapter-Four
Chapter-Five
Chapter-Six
Chapter-Seven
Chapter-Eight
Chapter-Nine
Chapter-Ten
Chapter-Eleven
Chapter-Twelve
Chapter-Thirteen
Chapter-Fourteen
Chapter-Fifteen
Chapter-Sixteen
Chapter-Seventeen
Chapter-Eighteen
Chapter-Nineteen
Chapter-Twenty
Chapter-Twenty One
Chapter-Twenty Two
Chapter- Twenty Three
Epilogue
GEEZER PARADISE
by R. P. Gannon
(A Senior Mystery)
Chapter One
South Florida August 2008
IF YOU'RE AN old man with lots of money, you're sexy. But if you're an old man without any money, you're just a dirty old man. I'm the latter. I'm Barney McGee, a retired newspaper reporter transplanted to South Florida in search of the Golden Years. I've been here over a year now and I'm still searching. I think money has something to do with it.
I was sitting at my small kitchen table reading the latest threats from the electric company, and wondering if I could get by using oil lamps when my phone rang. It was my next door neighbor, Willey. He was upset, something about Freddy, our lawyer. It sounded like something was wrong with Freddy, but Willey was sputtering so much I couldn't figure out what he was saying. Finally I heard him say, "Taken out in the middle of the night." That was bad news. I told Willey to come over.
I live in the Blue Orchid Mobile Home Park in Citrus Bay, Florida. It's a 55+ park. No young folks here. I call the park Geezer Paradise. Freddy was our lawyer, he had been representing the park residents in court against the park owners. The park owners wanted to sell the park to a developer. The developer, of course, wants to build high rise condos on the land. Land on the Gulf coast of Florida was selling at a premium, but if the owners sold out we would be homeless. There's no such thing as respect for the elderly anymore. As Charlie Chan would say, "When money talks, few are deaf." It was a fight we had to win, but what would we do without Freddy?
While I was waiting for Willey I went out to my carport and dumped a bag of trash into the barrel. The tiny lizards that live under the units were already cavorting on the driveway, and the heat was starting to become oppressive, even though the day was just beginning. I was wearing khaki shorts, a pullover short sleeve shirt, and flip flops, and I still felt overdressed. August is a broiler of a month in South Florida, but at least we don't have to shovel three feet of snow in January, in the biting cold like we did up north. It's a trade-off we all make . . . all except the Snowbirds that is. The snowbirds are those of us who can afford fly up north to spend the summer with relatives. I looked around at all the empty units, that's what they call the houses in a mobile home park, units. If you value your life don't ever call them trailers. There are only about fifty houses in the park that are occupied year round. Those are the people like Willey and I who can't afford to escape the summer heat. I suppose it could be worse, like if we lived in Key West. Now that's hot.
I'm originally from Massachusetts. Up there we say there are only two seasons, dead of winter and bad sledding. And that's only a slight exaggeration. I try not to tell people I'm from Massachusetts because they laugh at me.
"You have all those crazy politicians," they say. They're right of course, that's why we call the place, "The world's largest asylum."
I went inside and started a pot of coffee. A minute later Willey came crashing in. Willey's a scruffy old elf with a white beard and a mop of white hair that looks like he combs it with an eggbeater. If he stood still on your lawn your neighbors would want to know where you got the spiffy garden gnome.
"Barney," Willey said, all out of breath. "They took Freddy out in the middle of the night, dead as a doorknob. What are we going to do now?"
We were in trouble. Freddy had been our only hope. He was one of the few lawyers in Florida who hadn't retired to a seaside mansion in Naples. That was because Freddy got caught up in the stock market bubble and got wiped out. Since then he had been living with us regular folks here in the park. Freddy had been our crusader in the fight against the park owners. We were trying to stop the sale. Now we no longer had anybody to represent us in court.
I was able to calm Willey down and sat him at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee. I poured one for myself. My head was spinning. In Florida we have hurricanes, sink holes, and more than our share of tornados. It's also the lightening-strike capital of the world. Life here is precarious enough without someone trying to sell the land out from under us. Besides, we pay a hefty rent to the park owners each month, but they want the fast money. That's what keeps the old folks down here awake at night, that, and having to pee every two hours. No wonder old people are cranky.
Willey said, "I don't know what we're going to do now, Barney. Freddy was our last hope. We can't raise enough money to hire a lawyer, and none of us can afford to buy a house or even pay the rents they charge these days." I shook my head in frustration. We couldn't just pack up and move, we had nowhere to go.
"What happened to Freddy?" I asked. "Did he have a heart attack?"
"Must have been a heart attack," Willey said, as he poured about half a cup of sugar into his coffee. "He didn't look sick yesterday when I saw him, but in the middle of the night he called 911--and then he dropped the phone. You never know when your time will come . . . unless, of course, they killed him. I wouldn't put it past them." He was talking about the Flaherty Development Corp., the construction company that wanted to buy the park.
"Willey, I don't think they'd kill somebody just to make money." The words were barely out of my mouth when I realized how foolish I sounded.
"Are you kidding, Barney? They'll make millions on the deal. Flaherty would kill his own grandmother for that much money."
"Won't they have an autopsy?" I asked. "Don't they usually have one when somebody dies suddenly?" Willey looked at me like I was a particularly slow five-year-old.
"Barney, do you have any idea how many old geezers keel over every day in South Florida? Why do you think they call this place 'God's waiting room?' The cargo holds of passenger planes that leave Florida every day are filled with caskets headed up north for the dirt nap. How much do you think it would cost to autopsy every one of them?"
Great, now if I have to fly somewhere I'll be imagining sounds coming from
underneath the cabin floor. The undead trying to get out.
"So you really think they killed Freddy?" I asked.
"Like I said, Barney, I wouldn't put anything past them. Remember when they bought Crescent Park up in Palm Harbor? They went in there and tore up the landscaping so bad the place looked like Dresden after World War Two, saying they were making repairs. Then they harassed those people until they couldn't take any more, shutting off their water and electricity, telling them it was necessary to make the repairs. And when one resident started getting in their face and calling the newspapers, he suddenly disappeared. Nobody ever found out what happened to him. I think they killed him and fed him to the 'gators in the Everglades. In the end they offered the residents a few bucks to leave, and they took it. They're not what you'd call 'decent people', Barney."
Willey's cell phone rang. He took it out of his shirt pocket, opened it, and looked at the screen.
"Hi, Mary," he said. "What's going on?" He was silent for a few seconds, and then, "And he's going to do it, huh? Good. Thanks for calling. And let me know what happens, okay? Bye."
"That wa
s Mary," Willey said. "She was there last night when they took Freddy out. You know she works at the coroner's office in Tampa, don't you?" I nodded. Mary was Willey's cousin.
"She told the coroner she thought Freddy's death might have been the work of Flaherty and his crew. She told him if Freddy was killed because he was helping us, then she could be in danger, too. She had been fighting Flaherty right along with Freddy. For that matter, Barney, so had you and me. She begged the coroner to at least have a look at Freddy to see if anything looks suspicious. The coroner said he would."
That was good news, because if Freddy was murdered I would want to know about it for my own safety. John Flaherty, the owner of the construction company, was the largest and most treacherous developer in the area. He was capable of anything. His slimy deals were legendary. It was widely known that he always got what he wanted, legally or otherwise. And now he wanted our homes, or rather, the land under them.
Willey said, "You know, Barney, if we could find a way to look through Flaherty's books we might find something we could pin on him . . . , bribes maybe. He must be bribing everybody and his brother. What do you think?"
"There's no way they'll let us look through their books, Willey. Get real."
"I know they won't. Maybe we'll have to do it without their permission. Maybe break into their offices. I think that's the only way we can save our homes."
Sometimes I think Willey's elevator doesn't go all the way to the top. "Are you crazy?" I asked. I was upset, too, but Willey was going over the edge. I might not be the brightest star in the sky, but I'm smart enough to stay out of jail.
Willey rubbed his beard. "Well, I guess you could always stay in a homeless shelter when they throw you out of here."
He was exaggerating. We would still have our pensions, but we'd have to move to Tampa or Saint Pete, and live in one room, and share a common bathroom with maybe a half-dozen strangers. I didn't want to think about it. Willey asked, "Barney, what's the worst they would do to us if we got caught breaking in? We're a couple of senior citizens trying to save our homes. We've never been in trouble before. We're upstanding citizens who are rebelling against the system. The worst that would happen to us would be a slap on the wrist and a year's probation. Look at me, Barney. Do I look like a criminal to you?"
"Are you kidding? You look like a lunatic. They'd throw you into a rubber room and swallow the key."
"Do you have a better idea?" Willey asked. I didn't, but I didn't want to end up in jail, either. Willey could always plead insanity, he looks the part, but they'd throw the book at me.
"Forgetaboutit," I said. "It's a bad idea."
Chapter Two
AFTER WILLEY LEFT I went out to my Florida room to think things over. We didn't have any options. The units we live in are not easily moved. The Florida rooms have concrete foundations, and the carports are securely attached. Even if we could move them it would cost a fortune. And there was no guarantee that the park we moved into wouldn't be bought out from under us, too. We were somewhere between a rock and a hard-place.
I turned when I heard a noise. Eddie the egret was tapping at my glass door with his beak. I never should have started feeding the little moocher.
"Wait a minute, Eddie," I yelled. I went into the kitchen, chopped up half a hot dog into small pieces, and brought it out to him on a saucer. Eddie is a snowy egret, they're pure white birds with long necks, long black legs and jet black eyes. They look a lot like flamingos.
"You're a pest, Eddie," I told him, as I put the saucer down on the doorstep. I don't let him come into the house because birds have a habit of indiscriminate pooping. When the hotdog was gone Eddie lifted his long white neck and trained his beady, black eyes on me looking for more. He had a good appetite for a bird. I went back inside and chopped up the rest of the hot dog. I talked to Eddie until the heat got to me, then I told him to go mooch off somebody else.
I was going back inside when Homer Branson came shuffling by. Homer is the park's pain in the ass. Well, one of them, anyway. Homer looks to be about a hundred and ten years old, and he'd probably live another hundred years just so he could harass people. He wears a straw hat and holds his pants up under his armpits with suspenders. No matter where you go you'll always find a Homer. They're the people who are always sticking their noses into everybody else's business, even if it's something as simple as feeding a bird. And as for the birds, forgetting how to fend for themselves in the wild, why did he think they were mooching food from people anyway? Because there is no more wild. We've used it all up.
"You're not supposed to feed them you know," Homer chastised. "They won't be able to survive in the wild." There it was. The same old self-righteous claptrap. It's like they spend their lives looking for something to complain about.
"Well, I just had a hot dog left over," I said. "I didn't want to waste it."
"If the animal rights people found out about this you'd be in a lot of trouble," Homer threatened.
"Right you are, Homer. Thanks for setting me straight." Homer shuffled off up the street to harass somebody else. Earlier, when I had been out in my carport dumping the trash, I noticed a stray dog wandering through the park. With any luck that dog would find Homer and bite him on his scrawny ass. Homer could tell that to the animal rights people. They would probably give the dog a medal for hazardous duty--but then they'd have to give the poor animal a shot so it wouldn’t come down with rabies.
I was about to go back inside when I heard the tractor roar to life on the farm that boarders the park. The people in the park rave about the fresh vegetables they buy from Thomas the farmer. Thomas is Mary's cousin, too. Thomas, Willey, and Mary, are all what we call, "Crackers." That simply means their families have been here for generations. Thomas is an old geezer with a long white beard. The problem is that old tractor of his belches out clouds of blue smoke that drift across the park, and nearly chokes us all to death. Why doesn't Homer complain about that?
I went inside and sat down. I put my feet up on the coffee table, and sighed. I was worried about what Willey wanted to do. I was afraid he might try to break-in to Flaherty's offices alone and get himself into a world of trouble. I also started to wonder if it might be worth a try. Would it really give us a chance to save our homes? Maybe. Or maybe it would just be a dangerous waste of time. I didn't want to find out.
Later that evening I got a call from Willey. He wanted me to meet him at eight at Jack's Restaurant where he works as a pontoon operator. He wanted to tell me something, but he didn't want to tell me over the phone. Maybe he thought the FBI or the KGB was tuning in to his every phone call. I humored him and told him I'd be there.
Jack's is the haunt of the boating class. It sits on a small island twenty yards offshore. Willey ferries the customers to and from the island on a pontoon boat that seats twelve. There's an earthen causeway around back of the restaurant for deliveries, but it's overgrown and hard to see. Besides, it seems more exotic if the customers think they can only get there by boat.
I got there just as the hundreds of tiny white lights that were strung around the restaurant's outdoor deck were being turned on. Then the big cupola on the roof lit up, light streaming out of its windows. The place was not without charm, no wonder it was so popular. I parked in the lot and rang the bell on the dock. Seconds later I saw Willey put-putting towards me with the boat. I jumped aboard so he wouldn't have to tie up. We were the only two on board.
"I got your message," I said. "What's up?"
"There's a friend of mine I want you to meet," Willey said. "His name's Eduardo. He's a bartender here and he's been telling me an interesting story about one of his customers."
"What about his customer?" "I'll let him tell you himself," he said. We reached the restaurant's outdoor deck and Willey tied up the boat. "Grab a table," he said. "I'll be right back." The bar and restaurant were full, but there were only a few people on the outdoor deck. They were loud and having a great time. I picked a table far away from them so
we could talk. The table was near the long wharf where they tie the boats up. There were three boats I would call, yachts. The rest were runabouts.
I looked to the west. The sun was just setting over the Gulf, a bright peach glow on the horizon, and banks of pink and purple clouds overhead. Small boats with their running lights on moved up and down the Intracoastal.
Willey came back with a swarthy youth in his twenties trailing behind him.
"Barney, this is Eduardo." I stood up and shook Eduardo's hand.
"Glad to meet you, Eduardo," I said. Eduardo was wearing pointy, black patent leather shoes, tight black pants, a wide black belt with silver studs, and a large, ornate silver belt buckle. He wore his purple shirt open almost to the navel, showing off his collection of gold chains. He had a pencil thin, black mustache and three gold studs in each ear. His long, glossy, black hair was pulled back tightly to his head and tied into a ponytail in the back.
Eduardo was a grease fire waiting to happen. They sat down and Willey said, "Eduardo, tell Barney what you told me."
"Well, you know," Eduardo said, "I got this guy who comes in here almost every night. And after he gets a few drinks in him he starts crying in his beer. You know, like he's looking for somebody to listen to his problems. I used to pretend like I was listening. Then, the other night he's going on about how his boss is making him do stuff he doesn't want to do, you know? And later that night he's so shit-faced he's hanging onto the bar, and he says, 'I didn't want to hurt nobody.' I don't think he even knew I was there. It's almost like he's talking to himself. So the next time he comes in I start to listen to what he's saying. I find out he works for a big construction company called, Flaherty Construction that builds condos."
Flaherty! That caught my attention! Eduardo continued, "And this guy, he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, you know? So his boss tells him he either does what he's told to do or he'll get his ass turned over to the cops."
Why don't you tell this to the police?" I asked.
Eduardo looked uncomfortable. "I don't tell nothin' to the cops, man. I ain't no squealer. I'm just telling you because Willey wants me to."
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