by Dan Ames
“Why don’t you make your Mom happy and go to one of those meetings?” I said. “Might do you some good.”
He started singing again and I left, walked back to the Maverick, and fired it up. I scrolled through my phone until I found the song Molly’s Chambers. I played it through the car’s sound system, the irresistible beat pounding like a freight train as I cruised down the A1A, the ocean off to my left.
“Molly’s Chambers gonna blow your mind…”
9
The cop stopped me.
Actually, the sight of the cop stopped me.
No, I wasn’t speeding. And no, the cop didn’t pounce on my tail and try to goad me into speeding so he could give me a ticket.
This was an entirely different kind of traffic stop.
A filthy camper had been pulled over on Swinton, just west of downtown Delray Beach. It was in the part of town that started to get closer to the freeway, which meant the neighborhood got worse.
In some cases, a lot worse.
The cop was standing, hand on hip, talking to two weird-looking guys, both wearing camouflage and sporting long beards.
There was a parking spot available and I slid the Maverick into it, and then watched.
Officer Paula Barbieri was a looker, even in dark blue polyester pants and shirt. She had dark hair she usually kept short, but now it pulled back in a pony tail and looked a little longer than normal. Her parents were Colombian and she had darker skin, with fiery black eyes.
Ordinarily, you might think a guy like me would go out and see if the officer needed assistance.
Nuh-uh.
If anyone needed help, it would be the two clowns in the dirty camper if they tried to mess with Officer Barbieri.
And mess they did.
The guy on her left came in at her to get in her face and she did a beautiful leg sweep, brought him down on his face where it met the concrete sidewalk. It sounded like someone threw a Christmas ham off a high roof.
The second guy stood frozen, which was the right move.
Barbieri cuffed the first guy and then told the second guy to get on the ground, which he did.
Her next move would be to call for back-up, which I saw her do, leaning her head down to speak into her radio. And then she would clear the camper.
That would be the tricky part.
Now, I was tempted to help, but I stayed put.
Which was a good thing. Because when Officer Barbieri went in the camper, a gnarly-looking black guy with a gun came out the back. For a moment, I thought he was going to circle around and try to shoot her, which would have meant that it was time for me to get involved.
Instead, he jumped out and ran right toward me.
Now, I’m no hero. Never have been, never will be. But something about the sight of a man running down the street with a gun, about to go right past me, just didn’t sit well.
The Maverick is an old car. Built with heavy steel, back when no one even pretended to care about fuel economy. Plus, it’s a two-door. So the one big driver’s door actually weighs quite a bit and packs a fairly good blow when it’s flung open as hard as possible, as I did just then.
The door slammed into the man’s solar plexus and dropped him in his tracks. I had followed the door on its way open and stepped on the man’s wrist, grinding my foot into his bone. The gun clattered to the asphalt and I kicked it away with my foot.
That’s how Officer Paula Barbieri found us.
She walked up to me and stopped.
Rolled her eyes.
“Wade Carver, fastest car door in the West,” she said.
A glance at my door showed me there wasn’t even a mark from the fleeing suspect. But I pretended there was.
“Will your department cover that?” I asked.
“Are you nuts?” she replied. “We have to buy our own Kevlar vests, for Christ’s sake. I can’t expense a taco.”
Another squad car arrived and Barbieri cuffed the guy on the ground.
“A threesome,” I pointed out.
“You wish,” she answered.
“Drinks tonight? That coconut martini you like at Sidu?”
She thought about it.
“Lemme see how the paperwork goes,” she finally said.
It would have been nice to hear a little more enthusiasm.
10
As far as I could tell from my online research, there was only one Narcotics Anonymous meeting in Delray Beach, and it was held in a giant room at the rear of a strip mall, with nothing on the door to indicate it was a meeting place for substance abusers.
Nearby there was a hair styling boutique, a pizza place and a shoe store. That made sense to me. Once you got free of drugs you’d probably want a fresh haircut, some pizza, and a new pair of shoes.
Once, a few years back, I went with a former client of mine to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, to help her put her life back together again. It had reminded me a lot of church. It opened with some readings, then there was a lecture in the middle, and then another reading at the end.
Inside, the place was about what I expected. Mostly cheap plastic chairs scattered around, a few tables, and some inspirational quotes on the wall. There was an old-school coffee urn at the back of the room, along with a sink and a jar of sugar.
I sat down at the back of the room and waited.
It was an interesting parade of humanity that soon began to pass before me. All ages, all genders, all ethnicities. Some looked like they had just finished up a bender, others like they’d been clean for years and now successful.
What I really wanted to see was a guy in tiny, tight orange shorts. Like a male Hooters waitress.
No such man appeared.
By the time most of the seats were filled, a wiry little black woman brought the meeting to order and read some announcements, before people took turns reading from a book. And then the main speaker told his story about hitting bottom, and eventually finding a way out. They read some more, and then the meeting finished with people passing a donation basket. I added a few bucks.
Mostly, I kept watching the door, hoping to see the Candyman.
But he never showed.
A few of the people stayed behind while the others shuffled out, firing up cigarettes before they were even out the door.
Eventually, the wiry black lady was alone at the front and I approached her.
“Good meeting,” I said.
She looked up at me. “They’re all good as long as people show up. I haven’t seen you here before, have I?”
“Nope, first time,” I said.
“Well, I’m glad you came,” she said.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Donna.”
“I’m Wade.”
We shook hands. “I tried this meeting out because a buddy of mine highly recommended him. They call him the Candyman, he wears orange shorts all the time. You’ve probably seen him around.”
“You mean James?” she asked.
“Yep, that’s him.”
“No it’s not,” she snapped at me. “That was a test and you failed miserably. You’re a cop. Trying to bullshit me because you assume I’m a drug addict and probably brain-addled. Get your punk ass away from me before I knock your teeth out.”
She looked like she meant it.
I retreated and joined the others at a little outdoor area where most of them were chain-smoking.
“Man, you don’t mess with Donna,” a guy said to me.
He looked like Jimmy Buffet without any hit songs, restaurants, or money.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
“If you see Candy, tell him I need to talk to him,” beat-up Jimmy Buffet said.
“He told me to meet him here,” I said, going with the same lie even though it hadn’t worked the last time. “But he was a no-show, obviously. I’m kinda pissed at him.”
“My guess is he’s down at the Oasis,” my new friend offered.
“Is that a bar?”
/> “Nah, it’s a housing complex that looks the other way, if you know what I mean. I think they call themselves a treatment facility, but it’s not. It’s a non-stop party is what it is, but you can get your shit messed up down there.”
“And it’s called the Oasis?”
“Yeah, funny isn’t it?”
“Hilarious.”
Downtrodden Jimmy Buffet peered up at me from bloodshot blue eyes. “You a cop? You sort of look like a cop.”
“Nah. I’m a fashion designer. I pay Candy to wear my shorts I designed. Sort of like a celebrity endorsement.”
Jimmy Buffet’s less fortunate twin shook his head in disappointment.
“Not so sure that’s very good advertising,” he said.
11
Greek food never held much appeal for me until I discovered Zorba’s. A place about a mile from my condo, with outdoor seating, a kitchen where people are always cursing at each other, and some damn fine food. Plus, you were allowed to bring in your own booze.
It was lunch, so I didn’t show up with any hooch. Instead, I ordered a gyro salad from a waitress that continued to intrigue me. She was older than me, with honey-colored hair, a roundish pretty face and a great smile. She had perfect teeth and a fine body. Plus, she had that look. That one that says there’s a lot more there than you might first suspect.
As I ate, my phone buzzed with incoming text messages.
From my client, Margaret Hornor.
She was looking for updates, and I figured she wasn’t talking about our connection on Tinder.
I tapped out a message: Following up on a few leads. Will call you tomorrow.
After that text message was sent I went back to Tinder to look at Margaret’s profile, but it looked like she had “Unmatched” us.
Suddenly, I felt the presence of someone hovering.
I looked up, and the waitress was looking at my phone. Probably at the Tinder logo.
“How is your salad?” she asked me.
“Delicious, thank you.”
“How is your dating going?” she said, lifting her cute little chin at my phone.
“Not good, I keep looking for you but haven’t come across your profile.”
A smirk.
“I’m right here. Why are you looking there?” She had a little bit of an accent, and I could tell that English wasn’t her first language. But she had learned it well.
“You’re working, I didn’t want to bother you,” I offered. Pretty lame, really.
“Keep looking, maybe you’ll find me,” she said. “You need more water?”
She splashed some water into my glass before I could answer.
It seemed like a good time to put the phone away, so I slid it into my pocket, and proceeded to demolish my salad.
When I was done and she brought my check, I asked her name.
“Sofia. What’s yours?”
“Wade.”
She flashed me a dynamite smile.
“Please come back,” she said. “I would love to have you.”
Sofia left, making me wonder if a) her command of the language wasn’t that great and her last statement was just awkward, b) she had full command of the language and meant exactly what she said or c) I really had to get out more.
My instinct’s vote was clear.
C.
12
The Oasis was anything but.
No big shocker there.
From the dirty sign out front, to the two shabby guys sitting on the curb near the complex’s front office, to the general sense of a Soviet-era work camp, the Oasis had seen better days.
If it had ever seen any good days at all.
The Maverick’s powerful engine growled at the homeless-looking guys as we passed them and I parked in a spot that featured a curb with the word visitor barely visible.
I got out, locked up the car and heard the sound of The Offspring. Pretty Fly (For A White Guy).
Hmm. That song was a hit in the late nineties. It made me wonder if a junkie had gotten hooked on drugs back then and never moved on. Stunted both mentally, physically and perhaps worst of all, musically.
“Hey man, can you spare five bucks for the bus so I can get to my job?”
One of the homeless guys had worked up the guts to hit me up for money, but when I turned and he got a really good look at me, he kind of shuffled back to his spot on the curb.
There were eyes on me, all right.
A few windows here and there failed to fully camouflage the faces staring out. Lookouts? Worried about vice cops, probably. Maybe a few stoned, looking out at the day’s sky like it was a tapestry of wonder and intrigue. Once the drugs wore off, the sun would be nothing more than the source of oppression and cruelty, sending them in search of chemical relief.
Inside, it smelled like piss and stale cigarette smoke.
There was a little office ahead and to the left. On the wall to my right was a bulletin board, mostly empty except for a calendar which was six months behind. On the wall to my left was a Jefferson Airplane concert poster, torn through the center so the two halves hung crookedly.
The floor was dirty linoleum, and I followed a vague trail of foot traffic to the office where I found a woman probably in her seventies, with bright white hair piled on top of her head. She had a bright orange face, either burned from the beach, a tanning booth or spray-on tan. The effect was that she looked like a slice of carrot cake with a flower of frosting on top.
“I’ll be honest, I’m not interested in renting one of these spectacular units,” I said. “Although I do love the name. The Oasis. Reminds me of that Garth Brooks song.”
“Fill out the form,” she said to me, ignoring my opening gambit. “Don’t lie, because we’ll check.”
“What do I get for filling out the form? Or is it a surprise?”
She looked up at me with tired eyes. Even her eyes look sunburned.
“You a comedian? There’s been no one funny in this world since Lenny Bruce died,” she said. “And you don’t look like Lenny Bruce.”
“No, I run all of the Florida Hooters restaurants and I’m looking for Charles, also known as the Candyman. We’re going to hire him as the first male waitress. The publicity will be huge and he can make some easy cash. Maybe help him with his rent here, which I’ve heard he’s very far behind on.”
Naturally, I was improvising. Just throwing out some vague guesses but judging by the expression of the Carrot Cake Lady, I wasn’t far off.
“Oh yeah, you mean the weirdo in 11. Yeah, he’s almost always out by the pool is all I can tell you,” she said, snapping her chewing gum. “Had to chase them out of there the other day. We get all kinds here but when the Haitians show up, you know they’re up to no good. They’ll steal your socks while you’re wearing your shoes. Maybe even sacrifice a chicken or cut up a goat. They love goats, did you know that?”
It came out of her like a torrent.
“No, didn’t know that about the goats.”
“Yeah, well, some of ‘em smell like goats, too. I really need to get a new job, I heard the Cracker Barrel up the street is hiring. The gift shop, you know, not the restaurant part.”
“You’d be great there,” I said, backing out of the office. “I’m heading over to the pool.”
She pointed a big red finger to the right.
“It’s over there,” she said. “Just past the workout room no one uses.”
“Ah, thank you.”
Carrot Cake was right. The workout room looked like a storage closet where someone had put an exercise bike from 1970 and a lone pair of dumbbells. Five pounds each. The carpet looked filthy and someone had knocked over a bag of garbage.
I began to brace myself for what I might find at the pool.
Happily, I walked down the hallway and through a pair of double glass doors and I was outside. Fresh air. Tinged with chlorine.
There was a circular fence around the pool with a gate that had been knocked off its support posts and was j
ammed open.
To my left, I saw the Maverick surrounded by a few Oasis residents, checking it out. Through the gate, I arrived on the pool deck and saw a skinny black girl stretched out in a lounge chair, and next to her, a flabby white guy in bright orange shorts.
He was looking at me through a pair of Elvis-style sunglasses. Suddenly, he sat upright, jumped to his feet.
And ran.
13
For a brief moment, I watched with bemused detachment as the Candyman tried, and failed miserably, to execute an athletic endeavor.
He was pasty-white, flabby with no muscles whatsoever, wearing tight orange shorts and flip flops.
It was like watching a viral video, but it was live.
The Candyman flip-flopped his way to the fence, tripped over a pool chair and tried to vault the fence.
Only one leg managed to get over and he screamed as a stray flange ripped a jagged furrow into the bottom of fleshy white thigh. He kind of hung in the balance, part of his body in the dirt on the other side of the fence, one leg and a flip flop raised in the air.
His legs were spread wide providing a view no one, least of all me, wanted to see.
It was easy to cross the pool deck, use a small table as a stepping stool and hop over the fence. I looked down at the Candyman.
He wasn’t crying, but he was close to it. His foot was stuck in the fence and his Elvis sunglasses were askew.
“Let me guess, you ran track in college as a high hurdler,” I offered.
“What do you want? I don’t have anything on me!” he said. His voice was high-pitched and panicked. He was older than I thought, seeing him up close. Probably in his forties. His skin was dry and lined and he had bad teeth. Yellow and crooked.
All the hallmarks of a meth user.
“No kidding you don’t have anything on you. Put some clothes on for Christ’s sake,” I said. “Here’s a free tip: the amount of exposed body should match the level of physical attractiveness. You’re in severe violation, pal.”