by Tom Hansen
“Lew Berry. I’m his father.”
The security guard wrote down Lew’s name and time of arrival in the column next to Brett’s name. Had he checked the restrictions list as he was required to do, the guard would have noticed that no visitors were allowed to Brett Berry’s estate without permission from Sheriff Al Bonty. But if he took the time to check that list, he would have missed Micheal Ray Richardson’s three-point swish from the top of the key to tie the game back up.
“Yes sir, that was big time! That kid from Montana is clutch!” The security guard waved Lew in without looking at him.
Lew drove around the dark asphalt streets that wound around the estate homes. The only time he had been here was earlier in the afternoon, but he had arrived by boat. The dim street lighting was practically useless and the homes themselves were set back from the road and obscured by foliage. When he was about to give up and head back to Seminole Bend, Lew noticed the brick archway and cobblestone driveway that was unquestionably the entryway to his son’s house. He parked the Trans Am just off the road, right in front of Brett’s Private Property sign. As Lew was about to lock the door he paused as he glanced at the envelope lying on the passenger side seat. Not really knowing why, he opened the door and grabbed the pictures that Abby had given him. He locked the door and crossed the street.
Oliver Harfield’s mansion was too big to hide behind trees, so the rich owner hadn’t bothered to even try. A thick layer of lush, green Saint Augustine grass ran from the street to his front door, a distance of a hundred yards or so. The driveway was made of white brick and curved near the entrance to the estate so those arriving by limos or other luxury vehicles could simply continue around the circle without shifting into reverse. Good thing, too, because backing up may have resulted in destroying the newly planted cypress trees that lined the driveway. Oliver had returned recently from a vacation in Italy and he decided his Florida mansion needed a little taste of Tuscany.
The Harfield property line was separated from neighbors by a neatly trimmed row of podocarpus shrubs accented with allamanda bushes that ran from the street all the way to the canal. Near the dock, the shrubbery branched off and formed a rectangular box that neatly hid the utility shed from sight. Lew ducked and treaded softly alongside the natural barrier until he reached the shed. On the side facing the water, a small pushout casement window was open and a light shown inside. Lew peeked through the window and saw Miguel, or was it Pancho, sitting at a card table reading a book. Deciding he had a fifty-fifty chance at picking the right name, he reached up, tapped on the glass and whispered, “Hey, Miguel. Miguel, over here.”
Miguel jolted from his seat and jumped back to the wall opposite the window. He had never had a visitor and this could only be trouble. The only entry into the shed was by a roll up door that he never locked while he was in it. Next to the door was a rake. He dashed over and picked it up, then rolled up the door and held the rake like a baseball bat.
“Quien esta ahi!” shouted Miguel, looking at the corner of the shed but afraid to go any further. Lew stepped around the edge and stopped in his tracks when he saw Miguel ready to swing the rake.
Lew raised his hands high in the air. “Hold on, son! It’s me. I met you earlier today with Phil Bennett, remember?”
With the rake ready to strike, Miguel leaned in to get a closer look at the intruder’s face. “Si, yes, you with Señor Bennett. I remember.” He laid the rake against the side of the shed. “Why you come back?”
“Do you know a deputy sheriff named Willy Banks?”
“No, sir. Por que?”
Lew pulled out the envelope with the photos from his jacket pocket and held the bunch up for Miguel to see. “Can I show you a picture of him?”
“Si, entra, por favor.” Miguel pointed at the shed door.
Lew followed Miguel inside the combo utility shed and home. Half of the space was taken up by yard maintenance tools, a well-used riding mower and a non-motorized reel mower. The other half of the shed was what Miguel called home: a folding card table with one chair, a portable cot with a pillow and thin blanket, and a small dresser with multiple scratches. On top of the dresser was an old AM-FM transistor radio, Miguel’s only form of entertainment besides the book he was reading. Lew noticed the book was The Family of Pascual Duarte, written in Spanish by Camilo Jose Cela. By the looks of the torn cover and ripped pages, Miguel most likely found it in someone’s trash. Lew was appalled that someone so rich couldn’t provide better living quarters for his groundskeeper.
Miguel had survived three scorching, humid Florida summers without air conditioning in this shed and was just happy to have a job. He drank water from the garden hose and used a portable Coleman cooking stove behind the shed to fry up the fish he caught in the canal. On the nights the fish weren’t biting, Miguel sautéed earthworms with carrots and butter, a delectable meal rich in protein! Cleaning the one plate and one fork he owned, along with the two t-shirts, two pair of underwear and pair of faded Levi’s was done during his daytime break. The canal was his washing machine, sink, fresh fish market and latrine all combined into one.
Miguel motioned to the cot and said, “Sit, por favor.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stand,” answered Lew graciously. “Here is a picture of Willy Banks fishing down at Nubbin Slough. Do you recognize him?” He handed the three pictures over to Miguel. Miguel studied them closely.
“Sorry, no,” replied Miguel. “Don’t think I know him.”
Lew decided to sit down on the cot. He wasn’t sure what to do next. After a few moments of awkward silence, he stood up and placed the rest of the pictures on the card table so he could take the wallet out of his pants pocket. He reached into a hidden compartment behind his driver’s license, unfolded a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Miguel.
Miguel’s face looked puzzled and he didn’t know the English language well enough to ask what Lew was doing. He opened his hand to receive the money and a wide grin appeared. “Gracias, gracias. Thank you, thank you!”
“Bienvenido, Miguel. My Spanish isn’t the best but I’m very happy to help you out. We just met, but I can tell you are a good man.”
Miguel bowed his head several times to show his gratitude. That’s when he noticed the other pictures that Lew had placed on the card table next to the three of Willy Banks. He stopped bowing and picked one up.
“Señor, where you get pictures of my amigo, Pancho?” He flipped through the eight photos of his friend at Quick Stuff.
“Those are pictures of your friend?” asked a very confused Lew Berry. “Is this your fishing buddy? The one you were with at Bennett’s Airboat Palace?”
“Si, yes. Pancho,” replied Miguel. He pointed to the picture. “He at Quick Stuff in the picture. Eats breakfast there before work.”
“Where does he work?”
“Picks oranges near Fort Pierce. Stop at Quick Stuff each morning on way.”
“What time does he stop at Quick Stuff?” asked Lew.
Miguel shrugged his shoulders and said politely, “No understand. Sorry.”
Lew was trying to extract the correct Spanish words from deep within his gray matter, but he had last taken Spanish as a senior in high school and the extraction was difficult. He failed the course his junior year and his mother forced him to take it again and pass or no playing football.
“Uh, que hora at Quick Stuff?” asked Lew while pointing to his watch.
Now Miguel understood and responded, “Early. Six or seven in morning.”
Miguel handed Lew the photos of Pancho, and Lew scooped up the remaining pictures and placed them back in the envelope. He thanked Miguel several times and then departed back along the hedge to his rented Trans Am. A few minutes later he was back at the security guard’s hut.
“Who won?” Lew asked the security guard.
“McKale tossed in a baby hook at the buzzer. Celtics won in third overtime.” The security guard logged Lew’s exit time and waved at him. It was eleven o’clock. The
Suns and Lakers were just getting started at the Forum in LA.
CHAPTER 34
Wednesday, March 10, 1982
12:10 a.m.
L ew drove around Seminole Bend until he located Quick Stuff, the twenty-four-hour convenience store that catered to the rancid coffee-by-day and malt liquor-by-night crowds. Actually, you could find rancid coffee day or night at Quick Stuff. What wasn’t sold stayed in the glass pot until it was sold, perhaps a day or two later. The store owner made sure the pot was cleaned out each winter. Nice of him. Cellophane wrapped sandwiches that hadn’t sold by the expiration date at Dixie Food and Drug were sent over to Quick Stuff at a deeply discounted wholesale rate. The various shades of bologna hoagies decorated the cooler better than Christmas ornaments.
Lew decided to park the car in the lot, as far away from the security lighting and the store as possible, and try to catch up on some needed sleep. He wanted to be there when the migrant’s van pulled in. Lunch at Angler’s Delight had been his last meal, so he walked into Quick Stuff and bought a package of Little Debbie donuts and a Yahoo for dinner. Healthy eating had eluded Lew his entire life. He wasn’t about to start now.
At 6:20 a.m., a rusty, one-ton Chevy cargo van rolled into the parking lot. The raucous noise from the muffler that was partially dragging on the road awakened Lew abruptly. He looked in the rear view mirror and watched as fifteen Latino men hurried into the store. Lew grabbed the photos and walked over to the van, waiting for the workers to exit the store with their Hostess Twinkies and liter bottles of Coke. It was too expensive for each migrant to buy their own individual bottles, so they pitched in for the big size and passed it around on the way to the coast.
Minutes later the men came out of Quick Stuff laughing and chatting with each other. They obviously enjoyed the brotherhood of migrant workers. Lew took out the clearest photo of Pancho and waited for a group of four men to approach him while he stood at the side door to the van.
“Hello fellas,” greeted Lew with a smile. He handed a picture to the nearest worker. “This man’s name is Pancho. Do you know him?” They all glanced at each other and nodded to Lew.
“Yes sir,” said the migrant worker who was holding the picture. “Pancho works with us.” The group looked around the lot and towards the store. “Don’t see him here today. Probably out fishing again.” The men looked at each other and chuckled.
Lew handed the three prints of Willy Banks fishing at Nubbin Slough to the group of workers. “How about this man? Ever see him?”
Seeing the picture of Pancho and then the one of Willy Banks caught the attention of the group’s spokesman. “Can’t see too well cuz the man’s so far away, but maybe that’s that big ass black guy that Pancho claims to have saved a few weeks back!” The migrants high-fived each other amid loud laughter. “Pancho be bragging he freed some dude from being eaten by a gator.”
“You’re saying this guy Pancho saved the life of this man fishing?”
“Si yes. That’s what he say alright.”
That would certainly confirm Abby’s story about her brother being in an airboat accident and being saved by a Mexican man who strangely disappeared afterwards. Could it possibly be a coincidence that this cowboy dude, Danny Martin, took spy-like pictures of both Willy and Pancho without knowing that the two were connected somehow? “Doubtful,” thought Lew.
Lew still wasn’t sure Pancho or Willy had any information about his son’s death and daughter-in-law’s kidnapping, but now he was curious why Brett’s picture was in the cowboy’s pack of photos with the others. He needed some answers. Finding Pancho may be next to impossible, but Willy Banks is a sheriff’s deputy and public servant and Lew wasn’t leaving Seminole Bend without speaking to him. Lew thanked the migrant workers as they loaded up the van. They were packed like sardines, sitting cross-legged on the metal floor for the forty-five-minute ride to Fort Pierce.
Lew reached into his pocket and pulled out the address Abby had written on a note pad. She said Willy would head off to work before noon, so Lew decided to try and catch him at home before he left. Abby would be back at BoldMart, hopefully with the books all straightened out and the boss happy. He decided to drop off the photos on the way to Willy’s house even though he was plenty of hours ahead of the four o’clock deadline she had imposed. Lew was ready with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift when he paused momentarily. He wanted to take one more look at the picture of Brett with Tyrone and the other players on the bench. He flipped through the prints until he found the photo, then stared at it until teardrops once again rolled down his cheeks. He dearly missed his son.
Lew wiped his cheeks on his shirtsleeve and determined that he needed to regain his composure before seeing Abby. He went into Quick Stuff and bought a small cup of stale coffee to wash down the last Little Debbie leftover from dinner, and off he went. Lew had barely pulled out of the Quick Stuff parking lot when he slammed on his brakes and sat motionless in the middle of the highway. A blurred image passed through his fatigued mind and he made a swift U-turn, completely oblivious to the traffic coming from both directions that swerved into the ditch to avoid the maniac in the Trans Am. With a little luck, the highly torqued V-8 engine would have Lew back at the Seminole Bend Golf Course Estates in a few short minutes.
CHAPTER 35
Wednesday, March 10, 1982
7:30 a.m.
T he security guard working the entrance to the Estates was not the NBA aficionado of the previous night. Lew would have to come up with a new plan. If push came to shove, he still had three more folded up Benjamin Franklin’s tucked neatly into a hidden compartment of his wallet. That could very likely be a couple of week’s wages for the security guard.
The new security guard was a well-groomed young man still in his teens and trying desperately to grow some dark hair on his upper lip. Lew figured him to be either a high school dropout wanting to turn his life around, or the son of a wealthy Seminole Bend Golf Course Estate owner waiting out the years to become the CEO of his dad’s company. Lew was hoping he was a dropout.
The young man put down his orange juice on the counter and the glass window slid open. That was a good sign. It was early morning and the guard wasn’t drinking coffee. The insalubrious consequences of caffeine had not infiltrated his youthful mind and Lew was confident the jolt he himself received from the corroded Quick Stuff java would be enough to persuade the innocent young fella to let him enter the Estates.
“May I help you sir?” smiled the security guard.
“Ah, yes you can son,” grinned Lew back at the window. “I was here visiting last evening and forgot my camera. I’m heading back home to Pennsylvania and just wanted to pick it up on my way to the airport. If you check the sign in sheet, I was here around eleven. Name’s Lew Berry.”
The boy pulled off the clipboard that was hanging on a nail and glanced at the names of visitors from last night. Sure enough, Lew Berry had logged in and out. There was no need for him to check the restricted list because that should have been done by the night guard.
“Okay, Mr. Berry. According to the vehicle make and license plate, I see you’re driving the same car. I’ll go ahead and sign you in. Have a nice day!”
“Thank you young man,” said Lew. “I’ll be out in no time flat.” Lew entered the gate and tried to remember how he found his son’s place last night. It was much easier in the daylight.
* * * * *
The cardboard covering the patio door had been removed and was lying against the stucco wall a few feet away. Someone was either inside the house now or had been inside the house since the time Lew and Phil left yesterday. Lew went back to his rental car and grabbed the crowbar from the trunk. He wasn’t going to take any chances.
Lew quietly entered the house through the broken glass and crept into the family room. Under the paddle fan, he stopped, looked around and listened for sounds. Nothing. He found the first picture he was looking for on the fireplace mantel. He remo
ved the photo from the frame and headed towards the stairs.
Lew froze as he entered the master bedroom on the second floor. The king size mattress was lying upside down next to the box spring, every drawer was open and all the clothes in the closet had been ripped off the hangars and were lying in piles on the floor. Whoever broke in was in a hurry and seemed to be looking for something specific.
The next picture Lew was looking for was right where Phil put it yesterday. Encased in a chipped wooden frame, it was a picture of the celebration in the gym after the Warriors beat Sebring. It had been lying on the floor when they first came into the bedroom, but Phil placed it on the window sill after showing it to Lew. Lew again took the photo out of the frame and put that and the print from the fireplace temporarily on top of the dresser, then went to the nightstand drawer to get the picture he wanted most - the Polaroid shot of Sheryl pregnant on the beach. It was gone.
“Why would an intruder want a Polaroid picture?” whispered Lew to himself. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Lew checked every shelf and drawer in the bedroom, closet and master bathroom, but couldn’t find the other item he was trying to find. There was no jewelry box anywhere in sight. He remembered seeing something the size of a shoebox tucked into the trespasser’s arms yesterday as he and Phil gawped from the hallway window where the intruder had jumped and ran out on to the golf course. Lew surmised that the burglar made off with Sheryl’s jewelry and most likely had returned to find more valuables. But still, why snatch the Polaroid from the nightstand?
Knowing his fingerprints were everywhere, Lew elected to clean up the bedroom mess to avoid raising suspicions to law enforcement personnel who would return once the estate was released from FBI possession and could finally be probated. He lifted the mattress back on the box spring, hung up the clothes and shut all the drawers. Lew grabbed the two pictures he had removed from the frames and exited the master bedroom. He moved about the house, scanning each room from top to bottom, arranging items as he went along. Everything was back to neat and tidy, except for one thing: the patio door needed to be fixed. Miguel’s handyman skills appeared to be quite admirable and Lew speculated as to the Mexican man’s ability to replace a patio door. Might as well find out, seeing his new friend was right next door and could certainly use some extra cash.