Geezer Paradise

by Robert Gannon

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT DAY Willey and Oscar were improving their minds by watching a game show when the TV screen suddenly went black.

  "Damn," Willey said. "It's the picture tube. It's not worth replacing. I'll have to buy another TV. You want to come to the mall with me, Barney?"

  In my opinion there's nothing worth watching on TV except The History Channel, A&E, and The Weather Channel.

  "Why don't you forget about the TV and read more?" I asked. Willey looked at me like I had two heads.

  "Do you want to come or not?" Willey asked. "I can always take the bus."

  I could just picture Willey trying to convince a bus driver to let him carry a TV onto the bus. "Yeah, I'll go," I said. "What about Oscar?"

  "He can wait in the Jeep. We won't be there very long." We all got into my Wrangler and headed for the mall. We found a place to park in the shade, rolled the windows up halfway and locked the doors. We left Oscar with a cold bottle of water. The sun was almost down and the heat of the day was dissipating. Oscar would be alright until we got back.

  We went into the mall and found a department store that sold TVs. They had TVs with screens as big as beds, and with prices to match. Those things must throw off enough radiation to cook your eyeballs while you're watching Dancing With The Stars. It wasn't long before a salesman descended on us. He wore a checkered suit coat with checkered pants, and a comb over. Why are salesmen always fashion challenged?

  "May I help you gentlemen?"

  "Yes," Willey said. "I need a new TV." The salesman showed us the models that were within Willey's price range. Willey decide on a large portable model. When we got to the desk to write up the sale, the trouble started.

  The salesman said, "This model comes with a one year warranty. If you would like to add a year onto the warranty, it will only cost forty-five dollars."

  "Only one year?" Willey groused. "My old TV lasted twelve years. Do you think your TV will only last for a year?"

  "Of course not," the salesman said. "It should last you for many years to come."

  "Then why don't you guarantee them for many years to come?" Willey asked.

  The salesman's smile faded. "I can give you an extended warranty that will cover the set for three years for only a hundred and thirty-five dollars."

  Willey bristled, "You mean I have to pay all that money for a set that lasts only three years and one month before it conks out, and then I'm left holding the bag?" I had to agree with Willey, this warranty thing was a scam.

  "If your TVs are well made you should be able to guarantee them for at least a dozen years," Willey said.

  The salesman stiffened. "If the set was guaranteed for twelve years it would be more expensive."

  "It's already more expensive," Willey said. "Would I have to pay a thousand dollars to stretch the warranty out to cover the average lifespan of a TV?"

  The salesman's manner changed abruptly. "Just a minute, Sir," he said, with some condescension in his voice. "Let me talk to the manager." The salesman walked into the backroom. We waited for a while, but he didn't return.

  "Where did you buy you're last TV?" I asked.

  "Bought it from a second hand furniture store."

  "Why don't you do that now?" I asked.

  "That sounds like a good idea. Let's get out of here." We turned and bumped into two mall cops. One was a tall, skinny kid. The other was an older man with an unfortunate nose, and a limp. I was fairly certain the older man acquired the ruined nose while sitting on a barstool. The limp most likely came from arthritis, caused by putting wet change into his pocket. They were dressed like Canadian Mounties, but they were less than impressive.

  "Excuse us, Sirs," the kid said. "We have orders to escort you gentlemen out of the store."

  "What?" Willey said. "Escort my ass!"

  I prodded Willey in the ribs. "Let's go."

  "No," Willey protested. "First that salesman tries to cheat me and now they're throwing me out. Whatever happened to, 'The customer is always right?'"

  "It went out with the buggy whip," I said. "Now let's get out of here before this thing escalates." I took Willey by the arm and tried to lead him towards the door, but he dragged his feet.

  "Follow us, Gramps," red nose said to Willey.

  "Who are you calling gramps, you old fart?"

  The old guy put his hand on his radio. "We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way. It's up to you." He must have watched a lot of television.

  "We're leaving," I said. The old guy nodded and they walked ahead of us. When we reached the exit they watched us walk out into the mall.

  "Well, that’s a hell of a thing," Willey said. "They won't get any more of my business."

  "I don't think that will drive them into bankruptcy. Besides, what would happen if we got arrested and were brought before the same judge we had the last time we got arrested?"

  "I didn't think of that, Barney. Let's go to the second hand furniture store. Maybe we should have gone there in the first place." I agreed.

  That evening Willey called me from work. "The photo session is on for tomorrow night," he said. And I have our checks from Eduardo. But they're made out to, 'Bearer.' What does that mean?"

  "It means anybody can cash them, so don't lose them."

  "What do you think I am," Willey asked. "A moron?"

  "Do you really want me to answer that?" I hung up. At this rate we'd be rolling in money in no time. I did wonder why the checks were not made out in our names. Maybe because we were undercover agents. Is this how 007 started?

  I drove into town the next morning to pick up some high speed film. If I was going to shoot at night without a flash I would need it. I parked in the free parking lot next to the museum, and walked across the street to cash my honest to goodness spy check at the First Third Bank. Citrus Bay is a laid back little town with mostly one story buildings in the downtown area. You could cross the street there without checking on your life insurance policy first. There are a number of good restaurants, a few local bars, and some upscale shops. Not to mention a small museum and an art gallery. I guess you would call the place, quaint. The town had started out as a trading post on the coastal shipping root in the Gulf over a hundred years ago, and has retained its small town feel ever since.

  My next stop was at Sammy's Gun and Tackle shop. I had decided if the black murder car tried to run me down again I was going to fight back. Sammy had a good selection of used guns.

  "You thinking about getting a gun?" Sammy asked, as I peered into the glass gun case. Sammy is my age, and also came from up north to retire down here. In the middle of an exceptionally cold winter he loaded the contents of his shop up north into a rental truck, and relocated here in town.

  "Yeah," I said. "I've noticed that lately the old dears in the park have been stalking me. You know how they are." There are six women to every man down here and any man who's still conscious is considered to be quite a catch. "Lately they've become more aggressive. I might have to fight them off."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean." Sammy said, as he rested his beer belly on top of the glass case. "I got the same problem. Women are fighting over me, too. Dozens of 'em. Sometimes I have to beat them off with a stick. Make sure you get the hollow point ammo. It has more stopping power. You might need it to fend off some of the larger ones."

  I chose a thirty eight revolver because I knew it wouldn't jam like the semi- automatics do when the spring gets weak. The only drawback with the thirty-eight revolver is the cylinder only holds five rounds. Then you have to re-load. I figured five shots would cover most situations. I also bought a couple of boxes of hollow point ammunition. I wanted all the stopping power I could get.

  Then I drove to a supermarket to pick up a few things. I didn't bother with a shopping cart. I just grabbed a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk. As I was heading to the check-out line I passed the meat cases. The steaks caught my eye. I love a grilled steak, burnt on the outside and rare in the
middle.

  I stood there feasting my eyes until I noticed the prices. Forty-five years ago I had bought a used car for the price of two of those steaks. It was a nineteen forty-eight Chevy with a hairline crack in the block. It wasn't much of a crack, just a damp spot on the side of the engine block. It was illegal sell a car with a cracked block, so I got it cheap from a friend. Every few months I would pour a glass of water into the radiator and it ran like a champ. I drove it for three years and only got rid of it when I bought a newer car. Of course, that was back when coffee was ten cents a cup, too. It was a different time.

  I stood there shaking my head trying to make sense of it. There was a tall kid in a long, white coat putting more steaks out. I couldn't believe people were buying them at those prices. I asked the kid where the loan office was.

  "Huh?" he said.

  "Don't you have a loan office so people can float a loan to buy a steak?" I smiled at him and waited for him to get the joke, but he just stared at me, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down.

  "We don't have a loan office, Sir."

  "That's a shame. I was looking forward to a nice juicy steak tonight." I smiled at the kid and walked away. I was afraid I might cause his brain to burn out if I said any more. I passed a display of green bananas. I had to smile. I knew they would sit there until they turned yellow, and then they would sell. Eighty year olds don't buy green bananas.

  I headed to the check-out lines. I picked the shortest line and got on the tail end of it. There was a sweet little blue haired, older lady in front of me. She was talking politics with the woman in front of her. I had to smile. The poor dears try hard but they just can't seem to grasp politics.

  "I'm voting for that nice young man who's going to bring us change," the blue haired lady said to the woman in front of her.

  "Me, too," the woman in front said. I think he's just so nice." They were talking about the coming presidential election. I didn't want to vote for either candidate, simply because I couldn't figure out which one would do the least amount of damage. I once heard an example of the difference between Democrats and Republicans that I thought was fairly accurate.

  It goes like this: "If your car broke down and you were stuck on the side of the road and a Democrat came along, he would probably stop and try to get your car started. But as he tried to get your car started, he would probably, accidently set it on fire.

  If a Republican came along he would know how to start your car, but he wouldn't want to stop, because he wouldn't want to be late for Baggy Pants Night at the country club."

  Being in a talkative mood I had to stick my nose into the conversation. I leaned in close to the blue haired lady and said, "Excuse me ladies, I couldn't help but overhear, and I just wanted to tell you that your candidate has planned a whole list of new social programs that will cost the taxpayers hundreds of millions of dollars. That's probably not a good idea with the economy being what it is." I smiled. "I just wanted to let you know."

  I had done my good deed for the day. Women don't always understand politics. Sometimes you have to help them out. The two ladies started whispering to each other. They were probably saying how smart I was, and how nice of me to give them advice. I beamed.

  Then they turned and looked at me like I was something the cat dragged out from under the sofa. They whispered to each other again. The lady in front got out of line and walked over to a man standing in front of the registers wearing a sport coat and a tie. He was smiling and overseeing the cashiers. He had to be the manager. The lady talked to the manager, and then she and the manager turned and looked at me. The manager's smile collapsed. He walked over to me.

  "Excuse me, Sir," he said. "But I have to ask you to leave the store."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Why do I have to leave?" I asked.

  "Because you're being disruptive."

  "I wasn't being disruptive," I said. "I was just informing the ladies of some of the facts about the election."

  'Yes," the manager said. "She told me what you said, and I won't tolerate hate speech in my store."

  "Huh?"

  "Either leave or I'll call the police," he said.

  I decided to leave. The blue haired lady caught me with a swift kick to the shin as I walked by. "Save your filthy talk for the barroom," she said.

  I hobbled out the door and made it to the Wrangler. It wasn't a political race anymore--it was a Jihad. I wondered what the mood of the country would be when November finally rolled around. I was glad I had a gun.

  I had to drive a mile out of my way to pick up the bread and milk. I stopped at another supermarket and went inside to get what I needed. There were no blue haired ladies in site.

  I picked up the bread and milk and I was starting to feel a little hungry so I stopped at the deli.

  A retired old gent named, Ralph, that’s what his name tag said, asked me what I'd like.

  "I'll have a large turkey sub," I said. "Nothing on it. Just the meat and the bread."

  Ralph couldn't quite grasp that. "I'm sorry Sir, but I can't execute that order," he said.

  I realized then that I was dealing with a retired military man.

  Ralph said, "I need a foundation upon which to build the sandwich." He had absorbed the training and he wasn't going to deviate from the program.

  "That's alright," I said. "It's the way I like it. Just take the usual amount of turkey and put it into a sub roll. That will be fine."

  Ralph was becoming disoriented. He had come from a world where an order was an order, and not to execute it exactly could mean demotion. Ralph went to work, but he was uncertain. He cut open the sub roll and stared at it. His left hand reached for the lettuce, then stopped, and went for the turkey. He put the usual amount of it onto the sub roll. He stood there looking forlornly at the sad excuse for a sandwich. It had no foundation at all. He reached for the turkey again and put on another handful.

  I said, "Ahh . . ." I wanted to tell him he didn't have to do that, but Ralph ignored me. Ralph was on a mission. It still didn't look right to Ralph, so he added another handful of turkey.

  Then Ralph turned to me and said, "You get one additional choice of meat, free of charge."

  My mouth dropped open, "Huh?" Ralph waited patiently. "Ham," I said.

  Ralph added a large handful of ham to the already bulging sandwich. Then he stood back and smiled at his creation. He had executed his orders. The sub sat proudly on the butcher block counter. "How's that," Ralph asked.

  "It's ahhh . . . it's fine," I said. Ralph wrapped it with pride, and put a sticker on it with the regular price of a large turkey sub.

  Ralph handed it to me. "There you are," he said, a big smile on his face.

  "Thank you," I said. The sandwich weighed about three pounds. I headed for the checkout. I thought for sure somebody would question the price and Ralph would be in trouble, but nobody noticed. I figured it would take about three days to eat the whole sandwich. I decided I wouldn't buy any more sandwiches at that deli if Ralph was on duty. One more of Ralph's sandwiches would bankrupt the store. We already had a lot of empty storefronts. No sense adding another.

  I gassed up the Wrangler and made one more stop at Page's Camera Shop and bought a roll of high speed film for the camera. I was ready for tonight's job at Ransom's.

  I hoped Senator Buckland was photogenic

  Chapter Eight

  WILLEY AND I spent the afternoon in my carport waiting for the sun to go down.

  "What about Oscar?" I asked Willey. "What are we going to do with him tonight?"

  "We'll take him with us," Willey said. "He won't be any trouble." I wasn't too sure about that, but I let it go.

  It was almost seven-thirty and the sun was low on the horizon when Willey said, "I'll go get Oscar and we'll get going. We should be there early in case they make the payoff earlier than eight thirty." He was back in a few minutes with Oscar in tow. I rubbed Oscar's little head and we put him in the back seat. As we neared the front entra
nce of the park I was marveling at the park's sign, a Blue Orchid on a white background, under the words, "The Blue Orchid." And below that, "Mobile Home Park."

  "Look, Barney," Willey said, pointing. There were wooden stakes driven into the ground and spray painted with day-glow orange paint.

  "Damn," I said. "They're already surveying for the sale. They're not wasting any time, are they?"

  Willey said, "After we get these pictures tonight, those stakes will be pulled up and the sale will come to a grinding halt." We drove in silence the rest of the way. Both of us lost in our thoughts. We went down 19 South to largo and made our way to Ransom's Restaurant. It was just getting dark as we pulled into the front parking lot. The function room was on the first floor on the right side of the restaurant. A driveway off the front parking lot wound around the right side of the restaurant to the function room parking lot. There were a lot of good sized bushes on the strip of land between the parking lots that would give us plenty of cover.

  "When the lawyer and Senator Buckland come out we'll get the pictures we need," I said. We sat in the Wrangler and waited. At eight-twenty it was starting to get dark. We went to hide in the bushes. I had the camera and Willey had Oscar by the hand. We were afraid if we left him in the Wrangler he might get bored and raise a ruckus. The lawyer's Lincoln was parked facing the bushes where we were hiding.

  We didn't have long to wait. The lawyer and the Senator came out the side door and got into the Lincoln.

  "That's Snydely, the lawyer that threatened us," Willey said. I nodded. The spotlights on the building threw enough light that I would have no trouble getting good shots, even without a flash. I was ready.

  Snydely and Buckland talked for a while inside the car, then Snydely reached into his inside coat pocket. I got a good shot of Buckland watching in anticipation. Snydely pulled out the envelope--another perfect shot. The camera whirred as it pulled up each new frame. Buckland reached out and took the envelope in his hand, another shot. Then he slid the envelope into his inside coat pocket--still another perfect shot. That was it. We had what we needed and it had gone smoothly. I smiled and got ready for one last shot as they went back inside.