Seminole Bend

by Tom Hansen

  Seminole Bend

  Seminole Bend

  A NOVEL

  Tom Hansen

  Seminole Bend is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Some locations, businesses and organizations are real, but are used only to support the fictitious nature of this novel. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Tom Hansen

  All rights reserved.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is prohibited. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please write to the following address:

  Cultural Unity Publishing

  4106 N. St. Elias

  Mesa, AZ 85215

  Cultural Unity Publishing is a division of Educational Video Training Concepts, LLC.

  ISBN-13: 978-1539607182

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  For my wife, Meg,

  my children, Marc, Luke and Shea,

  and my daughter-in-law Jeanne:

  You are why I enjoy life!

  PROLOGUE

  Seminole Bend, Florida

  H istory is inflexible, unchangeable and impossible to destroy. However, in March of 1982, the president of the United States rewrote the rules of history.

  My name is William “Billy” Gorman and I was born on a dairy ranch in southern Florida on January 22, 1971. Yep, you heard me right, a dairy ranch in Florida. Sorry to ruin your image of palm trees, orange juice and Coppertoned beach bums sipping pina coladas out of coconut shells, but just a mere forty miles west of the Atlantic coast is some of the finest milk this side of Wisconsin!

  Let me start by asking you to pardon my English, which wasn’t the best back in the good old days of elementary school. Hate to say it, but it still ain’t. Then again, most of the folks I grew up with around here didn’t really care much about vocabulary and phonics as long as they got their point across.

  My fifth grade teacher, Miss Norma Foss, cared, and she insisted that all of her students learn a new word each day – one that had at least three syllables. Okay, you probably won’t guess it, so I’ll just come right out and say it. I was in love with Miss Foss, so just to impress my gorgeous teacher, I took her up on that three syllable challenge and in front of the whole class I spitted it out like she did when she taught us new words.

  “Sumptuous. Miss Foss is sumptuous. Sumptuous.” My first three syllable word was pretty darn good; wouldn’t you say? Well, Miss Foss turned all red in the face and I had to stay in at recess and scrape gum from underneath the desks.

  I was born to Marvin and Maxine Gorman during the folly of the Vietnam War and the struggle for civil rights. I entered this world on the night Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In debuted on TV, but I never made it to Gregorson General Hospital where most babies in Seminole Bend were born. Instead, I took my first breath of our earthly atmosphere on the passenger seat of Daddy’s Ford Pickup truck. Mama said she was having contractions, but thought it was from giggling and snorting while watching Laugh-In. Then, I kicked her a good one from inside her belly and she screamed at Daddy to get her to the hospital. We never even made it to the end of the gravel driveway. Now this is where it gets a bit fuzzy, depending on who’s telling the story. Let’s just say Daddy was Mama’s midwife and leave it at that!

  Mama said I survived Kiddy Kare preschool because of my good looks. Unfortunately, when I got to fifth grade, Mr. Rambert, the principal of Seminole Bend Elementary, couldn’t see the beauty I possessed. On the ride home from my suspension for putting a King snake down Mickey Patton’s britches, Mama offered maternal comfort by telling me that I was a normal, active eleven-year-old boy. But at the dinner table that night, my older brother, Kenny, called me a “rambunctious meddling brat.” When I went back to my room, I sounded out those words the best I could and wrote them on a piece of paper, but I had to wait out my suspension torture on the ranch before I could return to school and ask Miss Foss what they meant. Meanwhile, Daddy told Kenny that I had a bundle of youthful energy wrapped around my heart and he needed him to be a positive role model for me. I didn’t know exactly what that meant either, but I always looked up to my big brother and wanted to be just like him.

  Principal Rambert said he was doing me a favor by keeping my home prison term to just two days. Had the King snake been a Coral snake, I’d be telling you this story up on Death Row at Raiford prison. But, getting up at four in the morning to do chores with Daddy was purely rancorous, which was another three syllable word I learned from Miss Foss. Then, having to do homework with Mama until sundown was just plain cruel. My sentence was way beyond the limits of reasonableness and worse than a felony conviction! No recess, gym class or chocolate milk breaks! I was sure thrilled for dinner to start even if I had to put up with Kenny messing with my head.

  Bobby Joe Plank and me was best buddies, and we were looking forward to being proud graduates of Seminole Bend Elementary School. One night I dreamt that Principal Rambert praised me on the gymnasium’s loudspeaker: “And now, walking on the stage to accept the award for Most Rambunctious Graduate, the one, the only, Billy Gorman!”

  Just in case you were wondering, squeezing cow udders in blistering hot Florida was not a pleasurable way to grow up. Especially in the summer months when afternoon downpours and burning sunshine found a way to keep my shirts soaking wet and me downright stinky. But Daddy insisted that good Southern boys like me and Kenny had to make an honest living and always remember to put things in proper order: God, family, school and chores. But shoot if it didn’t seem like even God answered to chores around the Gorman house!

  One night back in January of 1982, Daddy was mad at our neighbor, Roy Jackson, who had tons of money and paid people to do his chores for him. Well, Daddy used some choice words and Mama told me later he had let his spirituality slip for a moment. Daddy’s motor mouth brother, Uncle Johnny, had joined us for another one of Mama’s magnificent meals. Kenny and me could see that a little bit of anxiety had been escaping from Daddy’s normally calm and collective manner when he told us he couldn’t imagine how Mr. Jackson got out of another open and shut case of unlawful ignorance.

  “Doing at least 107 in a fifty-five zone, he was! Caused Clem Riker to slam on his tractor’s brakes sending a load of hay bales all over Highway 441! I mean how could Deputy Willy Banks not give him a ticket for speeding or reckless driving or for just being a high falootin cocky son of a bitch?!”

  Mama told Daddy to watch his mouth.

  Willy was a good cop, big and tough like the ones you see in the movies, with biceps bigger than my two legs put together, and he could run faster than a thoroughbred galloping around the track at Hialeah. My friend Jesse Dagos said he once saw Willy wrestling an alligator that had decided to sun himself five feet from the dog pen that housed Willy’s pit bull, Clyde. Old Clyde wasn’t afraid of no gator, and he dang near dug himself through a hole under the fence just to let the web-footed monster know that his dog pen wasn’t no beach for ugly reptiles! Willy got there just as the old gator woke up and started licking his chops and moving in on the canine lunch. Willy dove headfirst at the eight-foot reptile’s elongated face and clamped its jaws shut with his bionic arms. He literally dragged the tail-slapping gator about a hundred yards to the pond behind his house and tossed him in with very little effort. The stunned ruler of the swamp quickly submerged into the black water and swam away, no doubt embarrassed to be seen by those he ruled over, especially the laughing egrets.

  Anyway, Willy h
ad hidden the sheriff’s squad car perfectly in the sunken ditch behind two fat palmetto bushes and fingered the trigger of his fancy new radar gun. He had already nailed a Mustang and a Cutlass and even a beat up Plymouth Duster. Then Roy zoomed by, blowing dust and gravel onto Willy’s windshield. Roy had zipped pass the dawdle-driving farmers and the gray-haired, slow-moving Yankee snow birds who were bumper to bumper on the two-lane highway, and forced oncoming traffic to take evasive action. By the way, Uncle Johnny said them damn snow birds would be the end of him because they drive half the speed of their age and can’t see five feet beyond their front fender! Course, Mama told Johnny that swearing ain’t allowed in the Gorman home. But Daddy’s little brother never did listen to her, especially when it came to cussing at those old fools from Pennsylvania who swap their snow shovels for fishing poles every winter.

  Okay, I got off track there a little bit. So, after school was out, my buddy Bobby Joe Plank was selling strawberry Kool-Aid alongside the road when Willy finally caught up with Roy’s Corvette about ten miles down from the ditch he’d been hiding in. Willy stopped Mr. Jackson right smack dab in front of Bobby Joe’s orange crate table. Bobby Joe pretended not to listen to all the squabbling, but being only eleven-years-old with a whole bunch of curiosity dancing around in his head, well, not listening was no easy task. I asked him if Willy clamped the handcuffs around Roy’s wrists and hauled him off to the county jail, but Bobby Joe said nothing happened! At least nothing juicy to gossip about around Seminole Bend County. No ticket, no warning, nothing!

  Daddy was pissed off about Roy breaking the sound barrier with his Vette and Willy letting him off scot-free. Yep, a bit a jealously no doubt came into play here. You see, Daddy got up before the sun every morning to milk our herd of dairy cows and wasn’t finished with farm business until well after dinnertime. Meanwhile, Roy Jackson had twenty-something hired hands to work his enormous ranch while he flaunted his money and power all around the county. Roy had a deep voice that portrayed a strong man, but he ate enough southern fried chicken and cornbread to keep a well-rounded gut and one wide old ass to boot. He was a pompous, self-centered, Southern son-of-a-bitch and everyone knew it!

  My bro’ Kenny is living proof. He was a helluva basketball player for the Seminole Bend High School Warriors. He was one of two token white kids on a team that consisted of seven African-Americans and a Seminole Indian, who, by the way, was affectionately known as Leaping Chief. Kenny was a lights-out shooter, which is why Coach Berry kept him.

  But Kenny wasn’t a starter. Kenny’s only other white-skinned counterpart was Jimmy Jackson, the oldest son of the infamous pompous ass, Roy Jackson. Kenny had cleaned Jimmy’s clock in every game of one-on-one they ever played in practice. Coach Berry knew Kenny was better, but refused to start him in place of Jimmy.

  Roy once poked Coach Berry in the chest with his finger and told him, “By God, that white flunky Gormon kid ain’t playing before Jimmy, ya hear me?!” Then, Roy told Coach that there would be hell to pay if Jimmy didn’t get a basketball scholarship to the University of Florida. Roy made sure none of the colored boys played more minutes than Jimmy, either. Coach Berry was rewarded with a new color TV and a Lazy Boy recliner for his efforts, but no paper trail could ever prove it. Strangely, after threatening the coach, Roy bought all the black kids and Leaping Chief new leather Nikes. More hush money, I guess. But I never could understand why Jimmy Jackson needed a basketball scholarship, because heck, Roy could buy the Florida Gator team and every house in Gainesville if they was for sale!

  Then there was Jimmy Jackson’s younger sister, Jenny. She was drop dead gorgeous. Her sandy blond hair was drawn slightly back from her perfect dimples and her blue eyes matched that of the Florida skies. Jenny was a sophomore cheerleader for the basketball and football teams. However, she was the first and only sophomore to cheer on the varsity squad. Back when Jenny was selected by unscrupulous judges who would gladly accept cold hard cash under the table, my daddy just shook his head in jealous disgust. Plain and simple, it was another example of Roy’s fat old money belt getting in the way of fairness and integrity. Mama told Daddy that just maybe Jenny Jackson was good enough to cheer varsity and he shouldn’t make no snap judgments. Daddy said that was bunk, so Mama got mad and walked away.

  Deputy Willy Banks’ nephew, Tyrone, was the sophomore center on the Warrior basketball team. Tyrone was known in these parts for dunking the ball so hard that many a glass backboard was shattered. In fact, one night nobody in Clewiston dared guard him, so he thunder-smashed two backboards into millions of miniscule glass fragments. Took two hours just to replace both glass boards with the tin ones that hung from the side walls of the gym. They finished the game with just one referee because the other whistle blower got glass in his eye and had to be sent over to the local hospital.

  Roy Jackson didn’t much like Tyrone Banks, even though he knew Tyrone’s court skills could help the Warrior team win a championship. He was riled because Tyrone had the hots for Jenny. Seemed Jenny would come home after games and talk and talk and talk about Tyrone and his basketball dominance. Then one night, Jenny didn’t get back to the Jackson ranch until about one-thirty in the morning, and instead of catching a ride with a cheerleader friend like she told her daddy she was going to do, Roy saw Tyrone’s rusty Volkswagen Beetle hustle backwards down the long driveway. Roy didn’t get outside in time to shoot poor old Tyrone, but he did grab Jenny by the arm and placed her rather ungracefully down on the couch in the living room. Jenny had been hoping that her daddy was sleeping when she got home. Not a chance. Jenny told her daddy that she only caught a ride with Tyrone because he just so happened to be heading this way. Jenny said Tyrone told her he was driving down to Nubbin Slough for some night fishing, practicing up on catching the biggest crappie so he could win the $500 award during the Speckled Perch Festival in nearby Okeechobee. Her normal ride, Connie Lou, a senior cheerleader, left the party at the north side beach of Lake Okeechobee early, and Tyrone just wanted to be a nice fella and offer Jenny a ride home. Roy Jackson didn’t buy it, and Jenny was grounded for life, or maybe longer.

  So, going back to that Saturday morning in January of 1982 over by the Kool-Aid stand, Bobby Joe heard Roy Jackson tell Deputy Willy Banks to make sure his nephew, Tyrone, stayed away from his daughter or he’d have his badge. Because he had orders from Sheriff Al Bonty to back off of Roy Jackson at all costs, there was not much Willy could say or do. Give him a ticket for excessive speed or reckless driving? Haul him in for threatening a police officer? Willy wanted to extract Roy’s head from his shoulders and toss it in the pond in back of his house as a little dessert for the gator, but he knew better. It wasn’t just Willy’s career on the line . . . it was his life.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Jackson Brothers

  1940s and 1950s

  R ay Jackson was two years older than his brother Roy, but they were best friends. Mammy and Pappy Jackson owned a used car lot in Pahokee, Florida, a small town of about 4,000 hard-working, but low income folks on the eastern banks of Lake Okeechobee. All four of the Jackson’s lived in a one-bedroom trailer that doubled as the sales office. To makes ends meet, Mammy and Pappy opened the store seven days a week and told little Ray and Roy to play elsewhere during business hours.

  The boys began their life of crime at an early age, five and seven to be exact, when to pass time they stole bubble gum from Kuppa’s Convenience Store so they could read the cartoons wrapped inside. They enjoyed cartoons so much that they elevated their plunder to Dell comic books. A few years later, as Ray and Roy were moving into the age of adolescence, Playboy hit the newsstands and the boys would steal several copies and sell them to their wide-eyed pubescent pals. The crime spree continued until Ray was caught his junior year in high school by Pappy as he tried to steal a Pontiac sedan right off his father’s own car lot. Ray planned to sell it to Betty Wills over in Clewiston, a young lady he happened to run in to while they both were burglarizing Jake’s Standard Oi
l gas station in Belle Glade one night. Pappy kicked Ray out of the trailer and told him never to come back. Roy packed a bag and left home with his older brother.

  Ray and Roy hitchhiked to Cocoa Beach and enrolled in Causeway High School by forging their parents’ names on the registration documents. They built a hut made from palm fronds on Cape Canaveral and went to school using a stolen Harley Davidson motorcycle. Instead of completing homework assignments, their nights were spent robbing stores and burglarizing homes.

  Ray’s first of many murders began after Principal Loughten, an ex-congressman from Florida and a single man in his late forties, told Ray after school one day that his grades were not sufficient for him to graduate with his class. By that time, Ray and Roy had raided every pawn shop in central Florida and had a collection of guns and weapons that would rival most police stations. Later on the same night that Ray was told of his academic fate, Principal Loughten was snoring soundly in his bed. Moments later, his face was smothered by a foam pillow and blasted into eternity from a sawed off double barrel shotgun.

  When teachers and staff heard the news of their principal’s murder the next morning and were grieving together with bereaved students in the gym, Ray Jackson was forging out a new permanent record in Loughten’s office. His F’s had miraculously transformed into A’s, and he added his name to the list of honor students who would be wearing gold tassels the night of graduation.

  But Ray struck gold when he found an old piece of stationery from Principal Loughten’s days in congress next to stationery he used as a Cocoa Beach Causeway school administrator. Using the stationery with United States Congress emblazed on top, Ray typed out a letter of recommendation to the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. After falsifying Principal Loughten’s signature once more, he left the office and joined his mourning classmates. One week after graduation, Ray purchased a mailbox in the local post office, then mailed a letter of application to the Naval Academy with a copy of his falsified transcript and Principal Loughten’s recommendation enclosed in the envelope. Three weeks later, Ray was accepted into the Naval Academy’s Officer Training Program. It was there where he met Oliver Harfield.