by Tom Corcoran
“Can I ask one question?” I said.
“Anytime you need to, Alex.”
“This building at 23 Beeson Way. What do we expect to see after dark?”
“You won’t believe this, with my expertise in numbers,” he said, “but I’ve never been able to remember that address. Here you are, knowing it after reading it once. Anyway, I want you to see the campus in its worst light. You’ll appreciate it more in the morning. I also want to pick up my mail and check a couple of things.”
We were eastbound on State Route 70. I saw I-75 a short distance ahead and feared his weird lecture might never stop. This had become far more complicated than the cushy gig I envisioned while boarding the King Air in Key West.
Beeson passed the cluster of gas stations, motels and convenience stores near the Interstate, drove under and a quarter-mile beyond the big highway, then turned right onto a multi-lane service road. We went southward, hooked back toward I-75, then south again. A minute later he pulled to the roadside, put the Escape into Park but left the motor running. It took me a few seconds to realize that we had stopped in front of 23 Beeson Way, complete with night crime lighting. The two-lane roadway was illuminated with orange-colored sodium-vapor lamps, while more intense blue-green mercury-vapor lights lighted Beeson’s property. My eyes saw a toxic blend of bad apricots and two-year-old butter.
I reassessed my opinion of the photography in Beeson’s promo folder. His bland building had been made to look attractive, which it was not. That may have had a lot to do with its failure rate. The prospective tenants had felt taken, as much as I felt conned by Justin Beeson’s fancy offer. Thinking farther, however, if he had warned me of the drudgery, for which he would pay well, I might have agreed, if only to get off the island for a couple of days.
“This dump was supposed to be my early retirement,” he said. “I figured I’d build a square-footage monster and sell the air inside of it, like selling apartments. Thanks to people in New York who didn’t have to worry about risk, the economy went into the tank, and I owned expensive air. I tried to turn it into a car museum. I threw that party and nobody came.”
I wanted to escape the Ford. A bright bulb lighted my brain.
“I’ve learned in this type of work that security sells,” I said. “Tenants like sunsets and they’ll tell you so, but they buy into safety. I can take some photos right now that will capture the location’s after-dark visibility.”
“Worth a try,” he said. “I have a Maglite under the seat. Let me walk ahead so you don’t fall in a ditch. Or step on a snake.”
I keep a Mini-Mag in my camera kit, but I didn’t want “the boss” to feel useless. I said, “Great, but I have to ask a favor. No conversation while I’m working.”
“Can do,” said Beeson. “I’ve been talking your ears off for twenty minutes.”
No shit.
“Matter of fact,” he said, “I’ve got two calls I need to make. Take my Maglite and go to it, and I’ll park and go inside…”
“The photos might look better without your vehicle in front of the building.”
“Not a problem,” said Beeson. “I’ll sit here and use my cell.”
One advantage of shooting digital is knowing within seconds whether you got the shot. My bonus was not having to compensate for the artificial color cast of the crime lights. Ugliness, just then, was what I wanted to show. I opened my tripod, set it in a corner of the building’s parking area and took my time. With Beeson in his SUV, not tempted to direct me, I had plenty of latitude in my shot selections. I went for angles that showed available paved space, ground-level windows and the main entrance. I played the lighting, the lines of the building.
While the images fit my concept, I felt an odd sense of isolation while I worked. The sodium- and mercury-vapor lights suggested a high-crime area, and the sound track was the high-pitched whine of truck tires on the highway. I saw shapes but no horizon, ground-level movement but no stars. I worked more quickly and damn near got artsy until my cell vibrated in my pocket. It was Wiley Fecko, and the screen said that I had missed seven calls and three messages.
I glanced at the SUV, saw Beeson’s raised arm, the silhouette of a man talking on his phone.
“Bad time, Wiley,” I said. “I’m out of the Keys for a day or so, taking pictures. Please be quick.”
“You pay your money,” he said, “you get a daily summary. Full-service business.”
“I can give you thirty seconds.”
“Ocilla Ramirez is a no-hit Google. Even her first name gets no hits. It sounds Hispanic but we searched the hell out of it, and it came up only as a town in south Georgia. The electric, garbage and gas bills for 490 Crawford Street on Big Coppitt are paid in cash right on time every month by a short man who speaks a non-Cuban, non-Mexican Spanish. The one guess I’ve heard is Guatemalan.”
“That makes Crawford a sub-lease,” I said. “Maybe Ocilla lives in town. Hell, she could be living in another state by now.”
“We’ll get on that tomorrow,” said Wiley. “Have I gone past my thirty seconds?”
“Take another thirty,” I said. “This is good info.”
“Okay, the condo at The Tideline is owned by a big Canadian holding company called Branchdale Corporation. The occupants, as you thought, are Mr. and Mrs. Emerson Caldwell. The mortgage payments and condo dues are seven months in arrears. Last year’s property taxes haven’t been paid, but they’re not overdue yet.”
“That makes me wonder if Ocilla was supposed to take care of those things,” I said. “Maybe she was pocketing the money.”
“We’ll put that on our list, too,” said Wiley. “Meanwhile, Caldwell made news in the Keys ten years ago when he was suspected of bilking an investor group. This was long before Madoff, but the term “Ponzi scheme” showed up in one news release. After about four days of bad press he proved that the deal was legitimate and no one lost money. The scam rumors were traced to a former business partner, also Canadian, now deceased.”
“Where does that leave us?” I said.
“Here’s the thing, Mr. Rutledge,” said Fecko. “One of Caldwell’s early investors was your friend, Sheriff Chicken Neck Liska.”
“Oh, shit.”
“We thought you might say that.”
I dropped a few money shots into the bank but my creativity ran dry. I couldn’t show the structure’s proximity to the highway until morning, anyway. And I was sure to see a few more photogenic angles in daylight or, in this case, favorable shadows.
Beeson saw me hang the camera around my neck and collapse the tripod’s legs. He drove into the lot, picked me up then rolled fifty yards to the main entrance.
“I won’t be five minutes,” he said. “Come on in for a preview, but please forgive the access control system.”
In spite of the crime lights, I chose to keep my camera bag with me. Following him up a short walkway, I looked around, saw two video cameras aimed toward the entry alcove. The one on the swivel mount was easy to spot. The other, set into an architectural detail, was visible if you had sharp eyes and were smart enough to look. But not many B&E practitioners play on the upper slope of the IQ curve.
Grimacing, Beeson summoned his memorized list. He began by inserting a thick electronic key, then waved a magnetic smart card toward a sensor. He was prompted to enter a five-digit PIN. “They hooked me for the whole package,” he said. “We had to integrate the ID devices with the video imaging, make it ADA compliant and allow for emergency egress, their term for getting out in a fire. Inside it will also catch you tailgating my authorization.”
“Not sure what that means,” I said.
“That’s when two people enter on a single okay. Your legs will trip the infrared if I don’t enter a special buffering code. The system goes haywire if someone is pulling a suitcase on wheels.”
“This is what it takes to please high-end tenants?” I said.
“You bet it does, out here by the lonesome highway. They’re security-con
scious. It blows their socks off.”
“Like the first brochure in that package you sent me?”
“Right…” he said, “but that’s a good point. With no tenants, high- or low-end, I probably should re-think the whole installation.”
“Does it run all the time?”
“Only after sunset these days,” said Beeson. “I had to disable the daytime codes to please my real estate broker and his three salespeople.”
“Who monitors the video?”
“Nobody,” he said. “It gets stored for seventy-two hours, then erased unless we have an unauthorized entry attempt during that time. You want to hear the pisser? There’s an almost identical installation at the back of the building. That one runs twenty-four-seven. This whole setup cost me as much as the roof.”
I wanted to ask, but he interrupted my thought with the answer.
“Yes,” He added. “I signed a damned lease agreement. “
The door emitted an electronic click. Beeson entered one more PIN and we were inside. He led me down a hallway past modest beige and gray offices on the left, each with twin windows to the front. Off to our right, a huge single room held an array of work cubicles. Cheap fixtures, commercial-use carpeting and fluorescents prevailed, as if someone had ordered the sterile furnishings out of a catalog. Or sight-unseen off the Internet.
I sensed that the space would not be photo-friendly.
“I know,” said Beeson. “It looks like more than a full day’s work.
It looks like far less, I thought.
“Our helpers can shift those cubes to different arrangements,” he said. “We can emphasize fabric colors, drop-downs, modular height, lighting, privacy and corner offices.”
“Flexibility,” I said, already bored shitless.
“Yep,” he said. “That big room doesn’t exist for its beauty. It’s there to generate revenue.” In a lowered tone he added, “For someone. Speaking of which…”
He stepped into the last office on the left, flipped on the ceiling lights. With a key on his pocket ring, he unlocked the top drawer of his desk. He lifted out a notebook-sized checkbook and began to write.
“Let’s call this your sixty percent up front, but if your bill runs higher, for any reason, you’ll get no argument from me.” He handed me a check for $1,500 then locked up the checkbook, flipped off the lights and led the way out of the office.
Bordering the maze of cubicles, the hall turned to the right and ended at a steel door that Beeson opened with his passcard. “These were the shipping and receiving bays in our first incarnation,” he said.
The workshop smelled of anti-freeze, axle grease, stale gas and Go-Jo soap. Just inside the doorway a young man in a vintage Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and oil-stained Levi’s sat at a parts bench. He appeared to be rebuilding a hefty carburetor. Beeson introduced him as Edwin Torres.
I guessed that Torres was in his late-twenties. He nodded and wiggled his right hand as if to say, “I’m too greasy to shake hands.” He had a tattoo on the left side of his neck that resembled a hitchhiker’s thumb. I had to wonder if Edwin needed the skin art to solicit a ride back to prison. Then I reminded myself to hold back on my judgment of his appearance. The guy was working for Beeson. He could be a family man, a normal fellow.
“How are things?” said Beeson.
As if he knew he wasn’t to answer, Torres returned to his task. Another young man, face-up on a flat mechanic’s creeper, rolled out from under a 1955 Chevy two-door 150 with a shaved hood and American Racing wheels. “Smooth as can be,” he said.
I looked back to Torres. He nodded in agreement but kept his eyes on his work and said nothing.
Beeson introduced me to Luke Tharpe, a man with a choirboy face, probably in his early twenties. He also gave me a wave in lieu of a handshake. His hair style, with its part to starboard and wave above his forehead, was straight from a 1940s Norman Rockwell painting. He wore royal blue coveralls, a gray T-shirt and greasy sneakers, and came off as the spokesman for the pair. When he stood to chat with Beeson, I thought that he and Torres might be the two slimmest men in Florida.
“There is one thing,” said Tharpe. He and Beeson began to discuss re-chromed trim and bumper guards that hadn’t been delivered on time. I walked away to let the men talk business without me.
“Two minutes,”Beeson half-shouted to me. “I’m hungry, too.”
The rear interior section of the building was partitioned under a maze of trusses and high storage bins. The rear wall had a glassed-in security access cube, less fancy than the one out front. It appeared to be a bother and a foolish expense next to three roll-up galvanized steel garage doors.
In the section given to the failed museum, old gas station signs and framed showroom placards hung on walls and partitions. One sign promoted the aftermarket installation of seat belts. Model cars, chrome fender badges and vintage brochures were arranged in glass-topped display cases. Three cars were pushed up against one wall. A ‘66 Mustang fastback that someone had turned into an imitation Candyapple Red Shelby GT-350H with gold stripes. The Nightmist Blue ‘67 fastback Mustang that Beeson and I had discussed on New Year’s Eve. And a green ‘54 Ford Customline V-8 coupe with whitewalls, vinyl seat covers and small hub caps. Three fine cars and four antique gas pumps, all pushed aside like old ashtrays. The checkered-flag motif flooring was covered with the kind of file storage boxes you buy from Office Depot. The proud display had gone to seed.
My phone buzzed again in my pocket. I couldn’t answer, but stole a look. Dubbie Tanner trying to get through.
From thirty feet away I heard Beeson bark, “Fuck him. We’ll buy our manifolds from someone else.”
I turned to look. He was walking toward me.
“That was my grandmother’s car.” He pointed at the ‘54 Ford. “Original Highland Green. It survived her driving right up to the day she died, bless her soul, even while the DMV was trying to revoke her license. They claimed she didn’t sit high enough to see over the dashboard. These, however…” He stepped behind another partition and I followed. “This is Amanda’s stable. My ex-wife likes attention.”
Along the opposite wall sat a red Mini Cooper convertible, a white Mercedes-Benz SLK300 roadster, and a silver BMW 335 convertible. A trio of showroom fresh Draw-Attention specials.
Beeson called out to Luke Tharpe. “How are we so blessed? All three are here?”
Luke walked over and explained that he had come in the day before and found the Benz outside, as if it had been dropped off. He had moved it inside to its regular spot. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but somewhere in his explanation he used the word, “ostensibly.” His vocabulary didn’t match his clothing.
Beeson and I?left the way we had entered. The Cubicle Wasteland turned me off even more the second time through. On the upside, some buyer might see the huge open-plan room as an inviting challenge. My view was that no photo of mine, no matter how artistic, could beautify the workplace.
As we passed back through the security “man trap” to the parking lot, I had to wonder why Beeson, with his expensive classic and modern cars needing shelter and maintenance, was so anxious to sell their oversized garage? If the building sold, what would he do with them all?
I saw the place as promise of a tough and boring day ahead of me.
I would be correct. I would also be wrong.
6.
Beeson drove south on I-75, west into Sarasota and south on Orange Avenue. During that time two thoughts played inside my mind. One was the quick attitude shift the man had displayed inside his failed museum. He had vehemently cussed a supplier and ten seconds later, in a respectful, wistful tone, expressed fondness for his late grandmother and her ‘54 Ford. That ability to transform himself so abruptly would shade my opinion of the man from that point on.
We entered a pleasant area of tall trees and lovely homes tragically devalued by its concrete speed bumps, obnoxious traffic calming mounds announced by reflective pavement paint that read, “Hump.�
� It was a part of town similar to many in America where anyone on foot and not wearing jogging clothes is under suspicion. A mile farther, under mature, leafy trees, Beeson turned right into Cormorant Lane.
“You can’t tell because of the privacy walls,” he said, “but we’re only 200 feet from salt water.”
I asked if he kept a boat at the house.
“My pristine 2011 Sea Ray 350 Sundancer with the custom-built teak interior is owned by my ex-wife these days,” he said. “With fuel prices through the roof, it’s everything I could wish for her. Of course, indirectly, I pay that gas bill too.”
Beeson’s home looked new, Mediterranean, with arches and high ceilings, lighted landscaping worth more than my home in Key West. He parked to the left side of his three-wide driveway, grabbed his satchel, we got out. He unlocked a tall gate next to the garage and led me down a flagstone path to a private entrance to the guest house. The small bungalow was a masterpiece of indirect lighting. Its king-size bed looked like ivory-toned high-thread-count heaven. Six fat pillows rested against a stout, solid wood headboard. Dave Brubeck jazz came from speakers I couldn’t see.
“Drop your bags and wash up.” He pointed through the French door to a window on the far side of the lighted pool. “Please join us for drinks and supper when you’re ready.”
“I’ll need to make one or two calls,” I said.
“Take your time.” He pushed open the French door, left it ajar and strode across his pool deck toward the kitchen door. The bungalow door closed slowly until the last inch or so then snapped shut automatically.
Another call had come through during our drive back into town. I sat in a leather chair, practically sank to China. Fred Liska’s message said, “There was something I meant to mention this afternoon, and I didn’t do it. For that I apologize, and I would rather not discuss it on the phone. Please call when you can. Maybe we can sit on your peaceful porch again and chill out.”