Geezer Paradise

by Robert Gannon

  "We're going to get thrown out of here," Snydely said. "We should have left the monkey in the car."

  "We should have left you in the car," I said.

  "Yeah," Willey added. "With all the windows rolled up tight." We looked around, and yes, all the people were wearing pastels. We weren't. And Oscar didn't even come close. They were a dour lot. It looked like there had been a convention of undertakers in town, and they had forgotten to go home. Some of them looked like they hadn't smiled since Calvin Coolidge was in office.

  One thing I noticed was they didn't look their age. They had the money and the time to take good care of themselves. I have a theory about rich people. My old Auntie told me about this. She said rich people rub themselves all over with thousand dollar bills, and it keeps them looking young. You might come down with a case of ringworm from doing that, but ringworm can be cured with a month or so of treatment. I looked at the people around us a little closer. I didn't see any signs of ring worm.

  A waitress came over with menus. She was a cute little kid. Her hair was a dubious shade of red. She did a double take when she saw Oscar. "Well lookee here," she said. "And what's your name little feller?" I knew immediately she was from out of town.

  "His name's Oscar," I said.

  "Oscar, you're the handsomest man we've had in here all day," she gushed. Oscar gave her his award winning smile. We all ordered--a salad with no dressing and a bottle of bottled water for Oscar. The sun was getting low in the sky.

  Willey said, "Looks like we're going to cross the Alley in the dark." Rte. 75 runs from the west coast at Naples, across the Everglades, to the East coast at Miami. The locals call it Alligator Alley.

  Snydely looked concerned. "What's wrong with crossing it at night?"

  "Well," Willey said. "They don't call it Alligator Alley for nothing. You see, alligators are cold blooded lizards, and at night the Everglades cools down. Then the gators head for the nearest source of heat--that would be the road. The sun heats up the road all day long and the road retains its heat at night. So at night the cars end up running over them.

  Now Snydely looked alarmed. "Can't the people see the alligators on the road?" he asked.

  Willey said, "Most people think alligators are green, but they're really black. It's damn hard to see them when they're lying on the road at night."

  Willey turned to me. "And you know, Barney, that little Wrangler of yours is top heavy. It has a narrow wheel base and a high center of gravity. So if we do hit an alligator we'll probably roll over. And with that canvas top of yours, we'll get smeared all over the road.

  "But there's one good thing," Willey added. "The emergency crew will have an easy time of it, because when they get there with the baskets to pick up the pieces, there won't be any pieces. The gators will have taken care of that."

  I looked around for a mirror. I wanted to see if I looked as green as Snydely. Willey was grinning from ear to ear. I had to remember to strangle him when I had the time.

  We hit Alligator alley just as the sun was setting. A canal ran alongside the road. The canals were formed when they dredged up the soil from the swamp to build up the road bed. The canals made a perfect playground for the alligators. We caught sight of a few in the fading light--and yes, they were black. They looked like they were made of rubber. We drove straight East, no bends in the road, no hills. Just a sea of saw grass on both sides with a few tree islands, called hammocks, in the distance. The setting sun turned the saw grass a flaming red. It was like driving into a postcard. Soon the postcard sank into darkness, and all we could see was the road ahead. There was no one behind us and only occasionally did a car pass us from the opposite direction.

  Shortly after dark the bugs came out. Not just mosquitoes, but also flying beetles, moths, dragonflies, and other unnamed niceties. We had to close the windows and depend on the Wrangler's vents to keep us cool.

  One by one, and sometimes two or three at a time, the bugs hit the windshield and exploded. I turned on the windshield wipers, but only managed to spread the bug guts across the windshield. I pushed on the windshield washer but it only thinned out the bug goo a little. I had to use the washer three times to clear the windshield, and that was only where the wipers reached. The bug assault continued and so did the window cleaning, until the fluid ran out. Then I was forced from sixty-five miles an hour to twenty-five just so we wouldn't go hurtling off the road into the canal.

  Snydely was in the back seat with Oscar. "Snydely, pass us a few bottles of that spring water," I said. Snydely passed them to us.

  I said, "Willey, open your window and try to pour some water across the windshield. I'll try from my side." We rolled our windows down enough to get our arms through, and tried to pour the water where it was needed. Most of it went where it wasn't needed. We rolled up the windows and swatted at the bugs that had flown in. I had to pull over to the side of the road. I shut off the engine and the sounds of the swamp came through loud and clear. There were screeches, grunts, growls, groans, and bellows, coming at us through the hot swampy night.

  Willey said, "One of us has to get out and fill the washer reservoir with water.

  "No, Willey," I said. "Both of us have to get out and do it." I turned to Snydely. "Snydely, hand me that case of water." Snydely reached behind the back seat, grabbed the water, and handed it to me.

  I handed the water to Willey. "You open the bottles and hand them to me and I'll pour. Okay, let's go." We opened our doors and stepped out into a bug festival. We pulled the hood releases, lifted the hood, and propped it up. I flipped the cap off the fluid reservoir. Willey opened the bottles, handed them to me, and I poured. It was slow going considering the bugs, but soon we were ready to travel again. We closed and latched the hood and jumped back inside.

  Willey said, "I hope we don't have to do that again before we get out of this swamp." I agreed, and cleared the windshield. We started off again and drove hour after hour through the lonely wilderness. We had to make two more stops for reservoir refills before we came into civilization. We turned south at the Forty Mile Bend, and headed down toward Miami.

  The Pine Hammock Motel was right where Eduardo said it would be, about a mile from Miami center. We parked and Willey and I went into the office. The inside of the office was last furnished in the early fifties, all plastic and wood paneling. A withered old man about in his eighties sat behind the desk. He gave us an ancient smile. His hearing aid was dangling from his ear, and his toupee was askew. His glasses looked like recycled Coke bottles. Sometimes I think if South Florida had a contest to find the oldest resident, everybody would win--including me and Willey. Although it does make you feel younger, being around all these geriatrics . . . until your arthritis acts up, and then you fit right in.

  "You gentlemen must be Mister Calvin and Mister Briggs," the old man said. Those were the names Eduardo had booked the room under.

  "Yes," I said. "That's us."

  The old guy put his hand up to his ear and said, "What did you say?" Willey reached over and caught the swinging hearing aid. He handed it to the desk clerk.

  "Where the hell was that?" the ancient clerk asked. "I've been looking for that all day."

  Each part of the country has its own ambiance. In Los Angeles you'll see winos standing on the corner drinking out of brown paper bags. They'll be wearing dirty T-shirts with holes in them, but their hair will be frosted. They're waiting to be discovered. In Florida you'll see people standing on the corner hoping they won't pee their pants before they can find a restroom.

  We signed the register under our phony names. We had left Snydely and Oscar out in the Wrangler. The old guy turned and took a key from the board behind him. Been waitin' for you fellers. I was about ready to give up on ya." He handed me the key.

  "We got a late start," I said just to make conversation.

  "You're paid up for two days. Hope you enjoy your stay." We thanked him and went back outside. I had parked out of view of the office. We didn't want anybody
to see Snydely, or Oscar, for that matter. Our unit was around back. Perfect, that way the desk clerk wouldn't see us coming and going.

  The room looked like the office--fifties furniture. There were two single beds and two of what they call day beds. We unpacked our backpacks and put our stuff into the two small chests of drawers.

  It was getting on to eight o'clock and we were getting hungry again. "How about getting some sandwiches?" I asked. Everybody liked the idea. Two ham and cheese, a meatball sub without sauce for Oscar, and a steak and mushroom for me--two Cokes, white milk for Oscar, and a root beer.

  "Be right back," I said, and went out to find a sub shop. I didn't want to ask directions from the old guy at the desk, so I drove out of the parking lot and turned left toward Miami. I found a sub shop about a quarter mile away--Caesars Pizza & subs. I pulled into the parking lot and went inside. Caesar was a large man with a dark complexion, a bushy mustache, and a gun in a shoulder holster. I guessed he had been robbed a few times. I ordered the sandwiches and went to the cooler for the drinks. Caesar was wrapping the sandwiches when a large dark skinned woman came out of the kitchen and started screaming at Caesar in Spanish. She had a gun strapped on her hip. Caesar screamed back at her in Spanish, and she went back into the kitchen.

  Caesar shook his head and handed me the bag. "That will be twenty-four, twenty-five." Just then the woman came out of the kitchen again. This time she carried a large knife. She started screaming again and threw the knife at Caesar. Caesar ducked. I was on the floor. The knife stuck into the wall just above Caesar's head.

  "Ay, carumba," he screamed, and went off into another tirade in Spanish. I put two tens and a five down on the counter, grabbed the bag of sandwiches and drinks, and got out of there. I didn't want to be a witness to any trouble. I was pulling out of the parking lot when I heard gunshots. I goosed the gas and flew like a thief into the blue velvet Florida night. I hoped I had gotten the drinks right, I didn't want to have to go back there again.

  Around nine the next morning we went out looking for a coffee shop. We didn't have to get Snydely to the deposition until ten. We drove by Caesar's Subs & Pizza. There was a black wreath on the door, right above the closed sign. I wondered if the wreath was for Caesar, or the woman--or both. We stopped for coffee and donuts and a half-hour later we drove into downtown Miami.

  Miami was a lot like New York, but with palm trees, a lot hotter, and cleaner--but the traffic was just as bad. Willey was the navigator, reading Eduardo's directions and looking for street signs, while I was busy trying not to get hit by the worst drivers I had ever seen--and I was from Boston. We finally arrived at the address Eduardo had given us. It was a ten story glass building with a guard station at the entrance to the underground garage. I pulled up to the guard station and said, "We're here for a deposition for Mister Snydely." The guard asked for I D's. We handed him our licenses. He looked us over and did a double take when he saw Oscar.

  "Family pet," I said.

  He nodded and wrote down our license plate on a clipboard. "Go down and around to the back of the garage," he said. "Park near the elevators and go up to the second floor. They'll take it from there." We thanked him and he lifted the gate arm to let us in. We parked and hid our guns under the seat.

  "Be a good boy, Oscar, until we get back," I said. We got onto the elevator. When the elevator doors opened on the second floor we were face to face with two armed guards. They asked our names and we had to show our licenses again.

  I saw Hattie the bookkeeper from the nursing home, sitting in the hallway. She must have been there for a deposition, too. She looked much better than the last time I saw her, almost pretty. I waved, and she smiled and waved back. They told Willey and me to come back in about an hour. The guards took Snydely down the hall. He looked like a man going to the gallows.

  Willey and I found our way back to the Wrangler. Oscar was waiting patiently. I took him in tow and we all walked back to the guard station. The guard told us we could leave the Wrangler there until we were ready to leave. Then we went off to see Miami. There was a little café with an outdoor seating area across the street. We went to the crosswalk, crossed, and walked back to the café.

  Somebody said, "Look, it's the Mayor." They were referring to Oscar. Must have been an unpopular mayor. We took a table near the street and sat under a large, sun blocking, umbrella. There were a few floor fans that moved the air, and it was comfortable, despite the broiling heat. We sat and watched the traffic race by. I noticed the men were wearing guayaberas, those white, pleated shirts that Cuban men wear outside of their pants. They couldn't hide the bulge at the small of the back, where their guns were holstered. The women, I guessed, carried their guns in their purses.

  The waitress came over and gave us menus. She was a young Latina with smiling eyes. She ogled Oscar a bit and took our orders. Willey ordered a café con leche. I ordered a coffee with cream for myself and a bottle of water for Oscar. When the waitress left, I asked Willey, "What was that you ordered?"

  Willey said, "I ordered coffee with cream same as you, only I ordered in Spanish."

  "When did you learn to speak Spanish?"

  "I'm a man of the world," Willey said.

  I said, "Well, with your hair dyed dark brown like that you look Spanish, and I think you ordered yourself a Cuban coffee. That stuff will curl your hair."

  "I like strong coffee," Willey said. "Besides, my hair is already curly." The waitress came back with our drinks. I noticed that Willey's cup was smaller than mine, and his coffee was the color of mud. Willey poured all his cream into his coffee. It didn't help much. He took a sip and his eyes got wide.

  "Yikes," he said. "If I drink this I'll be awake for three days." I took his coffee and poured it into a nearby potted palm. Then I poured half of my coffee into his cup.

  "Thanks," Willey said.

  "You're welcome, Jose."

  We left the restaurant and started to walk. We turned off the main street and soon we came to an area of single family homes. They were big, expensive houses in an area that seemed tranquil and safe--then a car exploded at the curb. The blast shook us. A ball of black smoke and flames rose up into the air. We stood there with our mouths open. Oscar was hiding behind me.

  A man showed up behind us. He must have come out of one of the nearby houses. "Don't pay any attention to that," he said. "It happens all the time. It's just one drug lord blowing up another drug lord's car."

  "It happens all the time?" I asked?"

  "Yeah, it's safer if you walk down the middle of the street. But watch out for the cars. They drive like maniacs." As he walked away I noticed the shoulder holster he was wearing.

  A man with a dark complexion came running down the street screaming something in Spanish. He stood in front of the burning car and shook his fists . . . the drug lord. I was amazed at the way he was dressed, exactly the way Eduardo was dressed the first time I saw him at Frank's, right down to the gold chains.

  "You know what they call Miami now?" Willey asked. When I didn't answer, he said, "They call it six gun city, because you see women with kids in the supermarkets and they have a six gun strapped to their hip."

  I said, "I think we should go back to get Snydely now." We turned around and made tracks out of there. We were early getting back and had to wait fifteen minutes for Snydely to appear.

  Snydely was an ashen color when they gave him back to us.

  "How did it go?" I asked.

  "Don't ask," he said. "Do you two still have your guns?"

  "Sure, they're in the Wrangler," Willey said.

  "I hope you know how to use them because I have a feeling Senator Buckland is going to know about this before we get back to the house. If he doesn't know about it already."

  "You think the FBI will rat you out?" I asked.

  "I think Buckland has connections," Snydely said. "If he was able to trace you through your cell phone records he'll also know when they're ready to prosecute him, and who will be test
ifying. Just keep your eyes open." We all piled into the Wrangler and hit the road. We were going back to the safe house in Palm Harbor. We turned left and headed back towards Alligator Alley. We needed gas so I pulled into a gas station. It was self service. I had just gotten out and removed the gas cap when a red Cadillac came wheeling in behind us. I saw right away it was Stevens behind the wheel. I pulled my gun out of my pocket and yelled for Willey. Stevens came to a screeching halt behind us, threw his car door open, and fell out flat on his face--gun in hand. He still had his left arm in a sling. Mary got him good. When he looked up he saw me and Willey pointing our guns at him. As drunk as he was he still had enough sense to drop his gun. I scooped it up and stuck it into my waistband.

  "I'm going to kill you two," he said with slurred speech.

  "Sure you are," Willey said. "Right after we turn you over to the cops."

  Willey took out his cell phone and called Eduardo. He told Eduardo where we were, and Eduardo told us to hold on to Stevens until the FBI showed up. We propped Stevens up against the fender of his car. A few minutes later a police car pulled into the lot. Before the cops could get out, an unmarked car pulled in alongside them. Two men in suits got out and talked to them. The cruiser pulled out and the agents came over to us. One was a short, young Cuban, the other one was an older man who looked like he was ready for retirement.

  The Cuban agent said, "I see you've captured Stevens."

  "It wasn't hard," I said. "He's legless. He said he was going to kill us." I handed him Stevens' gun. "The only way he could kill us would be to breathe on us," I said. The agent chuckled. They cuffed Stevens and poured him into the backseat. We watched them drive off. I looked over at Snydely, he was shaking. There was a Diner nearby. I said, "Willey, try to get some coffee and a little food into Snydely while I finish gassing up. I'll wait for you at the pump." After Stevens' attack I didn't want to leave the car out of my site. They knew where we were. Stevens probably was waiting for Snydely to show up. Willey went off to the Diner with Snydely. Snydely was walking stiff legged.