by Tom Hansen
“Well, good luck snagging him, Coach, and good luck on a winning season. A championship year ahead, what do you think?”
Woods pointed to the embroidery on Lew’s shirt pocket and said, “As long as we don’t have to mess with Penn State, we should do just fine.”
The men shook hands again and Coach Woods went back to his booth. The waitress brought the credit card slip and Lew signed it, adding a big tip. Lew and Phil waved at Coach Woods and the Gormon’s as they exited Angler’s Delight and headed back to the airboat.
Sitting on a stool in the bar at the back of the restaurant, unnoticed by everyone except the bartender who was serving up shots of Southern Comfort to the angry- looking man, Roy Jackson stared intensely at the Gormon table. He was plotting how to put an end to the Florida Gators’ newest recruit.
CHAPTER 31
Tuesday, March 9, 1982
1:30 p.m.
A bout a quarter mile upriver from Angler’s Delight was a manmade tributary that dumped into the Kissimmee. Mangrove tree roots extended out into the river and disguised the nine-foot-wide entrance, making it look like swampy backwater instead of an entrance to a canal. To get through the thick shrubs, someone sitting in the bow had to separate the brush and push it off to the side while the boat gently floated in. Usually that was done with the front passenger’s arms and an oar, and that passenger had scabby scratches for a few days. Many times the boat captain gave a shove from the stern then ducked his head, lest he took a branch to the eyeball.
Phil Bennett learned from his bloody mistakes and had a better idea. He rigged a protective shield for the airboat that would guard his weathered face from the arms of nature, otherwise known as tree branches. Phil put the shield to good use as he’d been up the canal to where it entered the golf course property many times. He was lured there by cash, plain and simple. Phil knew that at the edge of the golf course sat a pond covered with tropical reeds, lily pads and Titleist’s. Once a month he went up there with a long pole attached to a fine mesh net and sifted out a paint bucket worth of golf balls. He usually earned about $50 at the Saturday swap meet peddling those little buggers.
Phil told Lew to lift up the four-foot square plywood plank that was lying on the floorboard and slip it in the manmade slots that he had welded onto the aluminum base for just these occasions. The plywood was an inch thick, plenty strong enough for pushing aside the shrubbery, and wide enough to cover the front passenger and driver, too. That is, if his arms were long enough to grab the throttle while reaching backwards.
“Now duck down behind the shield, Lew. Keep your arms tucked in, too.”
When Lew was safely sheltered behind the new bulkhead, Phil crawled on the floorboard behind him and reached back to the steering handle. He guided the airboat straight at the canal, then reached for the throttle and gave the big fan just enough gas to delicately penetrate the bushy area. The shrubs at the entrance had been moved so many times that they offered little resistance, and eight feet later the canal opened up into a boulevard of scrub pines, cypress trees and brown reeds. The irrigation canal made a beeline northward to the horizon, and after laying the bulkhead shield back on the floorboard, Phil climbed into the pilot’s seat and opened up the engine full blast.
As Lew checked out the swampy surroundings, he understood why the townsfolks were puzzled at the dredging of a canal through wetlands. It made no sense. Water was abundant in all directions and could easily be channeled to irrigate fairways, greens and lawns of the golf course residents. He turned around in the boat and put up a hand, signaling Phil to stop. Phil slowed the engine and then killed it.
“What’s up, Lew? Peaceful country, huh?” stated Phil rhetorically.
“Yep, sure is. Is that one of those sonar fish finders next to you by any chance?” asked Lew.
“Dang tooting it is. I can find schools of fish easier than those pro bass guys! Why, you want to do some fishing right here? I thought you were in a hurry to get up to your boy’s place.”
“Yes I am Phil, and no, I’m not interested in fishing right now. I’m just curious as to the depth of this irrigation canal.”
“Why’s that?”
“Something’s not right about this ditch. I can’t place it, but it doesn’t make sense. So I was just wondering what the depth was.”
“I can turn on this thingamajig, but it ain’t always perfect. Lots of wiggles and lines show up on the screen.” Lew flipped the switch and waited for a few minutes to warm up the meter. Seconds later the screen read a depth of thirty-three feet.
“Says it’s thirty-three feet, Phil. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Well, why would an irrigation canal need to be thirty-three feet deep? Most irrigation ditches I’ve seen are shallower than they are wide.”
“Don’t know. Hmm, does make you think.” Phil scratched his forehead.
“Who’d you say owns this land, Phil? You know, the man who supposedly paid off my son so his kid could play hoops.”
“Not sure he really did that, Lew, just rumors you know,” replied Phil, still embarrassed that he even mentioned it. “Anyway, his name is Roy Jackson. Not liked much around these parts. Can afford to buy damn near anything his heart desires, he can.”
“Including millions of dollars to dredge a needless thirty-three-foot deep irrigation canal for fifteen miles?” retorted Lew shaking his head. “He must be involved in something more than breeding Brahman cattle.”
“That’s what most people round here think, Lew, but no one can seem to prove anything. Mind if I head up to the golf course now?”
“Sure thing, sorry about holding you up,” responded Lew.
A short time later the airboat reached the golf course property line. Phil shut off the airboat’s loud engine and started up an electric trolling motor attached to the stern. With minimal wake to ensure the folks teeing off weren’t disturbed, he quietly maneuvered the winding canal as it snaked through the course. Approaching a widespread pond that was an ominous water trap for the fifth hole duffers who sailed their balls over the green, Phil noticed a small dock with a canoe roped up next to it. He cautiously jockeyed the airboat to the opposite side where Lew hopped out and wrapped the mooring line to a steel cleat on the sturdy pier.
The dock led to the backyard of a two-story, Spanish Mission estate home hidden behind a smattering of Laurel Oak and Mahogany trees. The house had a plantation look with six white marble columns, a never-ending porch with aged antebellum furniture and a red brick façade with a rich antique texture. Whoever lived here paid more in real estate taxes than most folks in Seminole Bend earned in a year. Lew and Phil both hoped the security system wasn’t of the canine variety.
The Saint Augustine grass that covered the backyard was damp, spongy and needed a haircut. Thinking the Dobermans would be released any second now, Lew and Phil huddled nervously close to each other, searching in all directions as they plodded uphill to the porch. Had they not been middle-aged men with graying sideburns and wrinkled, sweaty foreheads, they probably would have held hands so the boogeyman wouldn’t eat them.
“Disculpe, señor y señor. Esto es propiedad privada!”
Miguel, a groundskeeper, was running towards Lew and Phil with one hand above his head motioning them to stop and the other hand grasping a steel blade by his waist. They froze and stared at the blade. Death by Doberman or death by slash . . . neither sounded appealing.
“Okay, okay,” shouted Phil at the skinny Hispanic man in the worn down blue jeans, muddy canvas Converse tennis shoes, and sweaty teal and orange t-shirt with a faded emblem of the Miami Dolphins on it. “We were just about to leave.”
As they turned to head back to the airboat, Miguel stopped running, peered at Phil and said, “Señor Bennett? You Señor Bennett?”
Phil and Lew both turned back around, glancing first at Miguel’s face, then down to the blade he held in his left hand. It was then they saw the blade was from a lawn mower.
Miguel noticed the
men staring at the blade and he realized why they looked so frightened. He lifted the blade up slightly and said, “Sorry, sorry. Lawn mower blade. I sharpen blade so I can mow yard.” He tossed it on the ground. Miguel’s command of the English language was marginal, but Lew and Phil got the message. Needless to say, they were relieved. There was still a chance their bodies would walk out of here with their heads attached. Phil looked closely and pondered who the gardener could be. He recognized the face, but couldn’t place his name.
“Sorry, I know you but I can’t remember your name,” said Phil. “Where have we met?”
“My name is Miguel. Mi amigo Pancho and me, we fish in river at your place year ago. You give free ride on lake with airboat.” Miguel smiled and moved close with his arms spread wide ready to hug Phil, but Phil reached out and shook his hand first. The grass clippings on Miguel would just have to remain stuck to the perspiration that was serving as an ocean for the Miami Dolphin.
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” said Phil. “I felt bad you boys weren’t catching any fish so I thought we could have some fun. Anchored and did a little swimming, too, ‘til we saw those gator snouts coming our way.”
“Si, si! Fun, yes! What you here for?” asked Miguel, trying his best to speak English.
“We’re looking for Coach Berry’s home. The basketball coach and his wife lived out here somewhere. You happen to know where?”
“Si, yes. But coach and wife killed in car accident and no one home,” replied Miguel.
“Yes, we know that. My friend here, his name is Lew, and, well he is Coach Berry’s dad. He’s never been to his son’s house because it’s new and Coach had just moved there. He just wants to take a look.”
“Okay, si, okay,” said Miguel, pointing back toward the estate and motioning beyond the property. “Coach’s house, it is across street. On hole siete, no, sorry, mean hole seven. Can’t get there by water, so leave boat and walk. Come, come, I show you.”
Miguel started towards the side of the estate home and waved for Lew and Phil to follow. He wanted to settle up with Phil for the kindness he had showed him and Pancho last year, so he walked the men across the front yard and to the street.
“Can’t see from here. Go down path and you come to house.” Miguel pointed at a long, cobblestone driveway that began underneath a brick archway which led to who knows where. A redwood fence connected to the archway was supposedly meant to delineate the property line. A sign on the fence read Private Property, No Trespassing. There was no indication as to who occupied the home, just a fancy black mailbox with the reflective street number emblazed on the side. Lew and Phil sauntered down the meandering driveway until they reached the house, a spacious two-story, charming European wood frame design with elegant, seamless connectivity to the large pool in the back. The landscaping was consistently sub-tropical, dotted with Queen palms, palmettos and hibiscus shrubs. You couldn’t see the seventh fairway, but you knew where it was from the sounds of projectiles slicing through tree branches and newfangled cussing linguistics echoed simultaneously by the duffers who launched the dimpled warheads.
Lew placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “My son didn’t buy this home on his coaching salary. Ain’t no way, Phil.”
“Yes, I see what you’re saying. Strange, huh?”
They walked up to the massive oak front door and tried the latch. It was locked, which surprised neither of them. Lew expected entering the home to be a challenge. They walked around the house to the pool and found a fifty-pound plastic bucket of chlorine tablets lying next to a decorative wooden shed that housed the pump, filter, gas heater and a variety of pool supplies. The bucket hadn’t been opened, so the fifty-pound capacity was still intact. Lew grabbed the wobbly grip strap and headed towards the sliding glass door on the patio. A small decal next to the handle warned that Buttress Home Security was monitoring the Berry’s estate. Chances were that no one had paid Buttress since Brett and Sheryl’s death, thus the protection service had ended. At least that’s what Lew was hoping. He guessed right.
Tossing the bucket at the reinforced glass did no damage. So together, Lew and Phil tilted the container, stepped back from the door about twenty feet, then strutted awkwardly but quickly and rammed the bottom of the bucket hard into the glass, shattering it into large, jagged shards. Their momentum carried them headfirst into the family room where they lied scraped and stunned on the ceramic tile floor.
Seconds later, as Lew and Phil were rising, being careful not to step on the sharp pieces of tempered glass, they heard noises directly above them. Something had been slammed shut, a door or a dresser perhaps, followed by the sounds of footsteps scuttling down a hallway. Lew and Phil paused a moment and looked up at the ceiling, then nodded at each other and ran towards the staircase that led to the upper floor. At the base of the steps they realized they had no weapon or way of protecting themselves, so Lew ran to the nearby fireplace and grabbed a brass poker. Side-by-side they slowly ascended the stairs, leading with the pointed end of the metal rod. The sounds had ended. They peeked their heads in unison around the corner and saw an open window at the end of a long hallway and dashed to it. Both men glanced towards the yard and saw the unknown intruder wearing a full-length raincoat with the hood up and tied tightly around the head. The person was limping briskly towards the seventh fairway carrying a container the size of a shoebox.
“Damn, it’s a good fifteen foot drop out of this here window, Lew,” exclaimed Phil as he looked down at the grass below and then to the trespasser who was now out of sight. “I don’t think we’re gonna catch him. Better call the cops.”
“Hold on, Phil. We just busted up the patio door. I’m not in the mood right now to explain how or why we did that. Even though the property is my son’s, it’s still breaking and entering. I think we need to check out the house quickly and then just get out of here.”
“Miguel over yonder where we docked the boat saw us and knows me. If cops come investigating, we’re screwed!”
“We need to take that chance now, Phil. We can deny it later and they would have to prove we were the ones who smashed the glass. And being it was my son’s house, I can probably talk my way out of it. Come on, let’s take a quick look around and go.”
Lew dropped the fireplace poker and the men walked into the master bedroom where they had heard the intruder’s footsteps from the first floor. The drawers to a dresser next to the bed were closed, but a framed picture was lying on the floor facedown. Most likely it fell when the person slammed the drawer shut. The protective cover over the print was made of plastic, thus it was still intact, but the edge of the wooden frame had split and the casing was ruined. Phil picked it up and flipped it around as Lew glanced over his shoulder.
“Who are those boys with Brett?” asked Lew as he looked at the picture of his son standing in the middle with his arms around three players. The boys were in uniform dripping with sweat and were standing in the high school gymnasium. The crowd of people in the background were frozen in time hugging and slapping hands, obviously celebrating some sort of victory.
“See the sign on the wall. Says Beat Sebring. Must be after that game a few weeks ago. It was the last game before they beat Martin Park, you know the game where, well, you know.” Phil dropped his head down, not wanting to look at Lew. Lew nodded and patted his new friend on the back.
“It’s okay, Phil. I know, Martin Park was Brett’s last game. So who are the boys he’s with?”
Phil looked up empathetically at Lew and said, “That’s Kenny Gormon, Tyrone Banks and Jimmy Jackson. Kenny’s the young man we saw in the restaurant earlier today with Coach Woods. Tyrone is the nephew of that sheriff’s deputy I was telling you about. And Jimmy Jackson is Roy Jackson’s son, ya know, the guy who owns the golf course.”
Lew stood up and paced slowly around the room. There were framed pictures of Brett and Sheryl everywhere he looked. All were photos of a young couple clearly in love. In the top drawer of the nightstand wa
s a Polaroid instant picture of a very pregnant Sheryl lying on the beach stretching her bikini to the limit. It was apparently hidden in the nightstand for private enjoyment only, unlike the others that were displayed prominently to be appreciated by all. Lew put the picture back in the drawer and closed it. His eyes were watering once again.
“Mind if you take me back to your shop to get my car, Phil? I think I’ve seen all I care to see right now. I want to get over to the sheriff’s department to talk to that deputy before I head back to Miami. You said his name was Willy Banks, I think?”
“Sure thing, Lew, and yep, his name is Willy Banks.”
Lew and Phil secured the upstairs hallway window, then swept up the shards in the family room and tossed them in the trash can by the garage. A refrigerator-sized cardboard box had been unfolded and placed on the floor of the garage to soak up any oil that might leak from a car parked above it. They took the cardboard and covered up the patio door frame using duct tape to keep it in place. Barring any more trespassers, the home would be left as is until the Berry’s estate had been probated. At this point, that could be quite some time in the future. The FBI had placed a legal hold on administering the assets until they had completed their case.
Lew and Phil strode back down Brett’s long driveway, crossed the street and snuck along the shrubbed edge of the Spanish Mission estate’s property line to the airboat. Moments later they fired up the engine, reversed course and headed back down the water route they had come in by. The noise angered both the golfers and residents who were enjoying drinks on their patios. From the guest room window at the top floor of his estate home, Oliver Harfield watched them depart. When they were out of view, he picked up the phone next to the bed and dialed a number.
Oliver was a man of few words and he only needed four to let the person on the other end of the receiver know there was a problem.
“We may have trouble,” said Oliver simply. But he needed seven words to solve the problem: “You need to take care of it.”